Someone has said that a dressing-sack is only a Mother Hubbard with a
college education. Accepting this statement as a great truth, one is
inclined to wonder whether education has improved the Mother Hubbard,
since another clever person has characterised a college as "a place
where pebbles are polished and diamonds are dimmed!"
The bond of relationship between the two is not at first apparent, yet
there are subtle ties of kinship between the two. If we take a Hubbard
and cut it off at the hips, we have only a dressing-sack with a yoke.
The dressing-sack, however, cannot be walked on, even when the wearer
is stooping, and in this respect it has the advantage of the other; it
is also supposed to fit in the back, but it never does.
Doubtless in the wise economy of the universe, where every weed has
its function, even this garment has its place--else it would not be.
Possibly one may take a nap, or arrange one's crown of glory to better
advantage in a "boudoir negligee," or an invalid may be thus tempted
to think of breakfast. Indeed, the habit is apt to begin during
illness, when a friend presents the ailing lady with a dainty affair
of silk and lace which inclines the suffering soul to frivolities.
Presently she sits up, takes notice, and plans more garments of the
sort, so that after she fully recovers all the world may see these
becoming things!
The worst of the habit is that all the world does see. Fancy runs riot
with one pattern, a sewing-machine, and all the remnants a single
purse can compass. The lady with a kindly feeling for colour browses
along the bargain counter and speedily acquires a rainbow for her own.
Each morning she assumes a different phase, and, at the end of the
week, one's recollection of her is lost in a kaleidoscopic whirl.
Red, now--is anything prettier than red? And how the men admire it!
Does not the dark lady build wisely who dons a red dressing-sack on a
cold morning, that her husband may carry a bright bit of colour to the
office in his fond memories of home?
A book with a red cover, a red cushion, crimson draperies, and scarlet
ribbons, are all notoriously pleasing to monsieur--why not a red
dressing-sack?
If questioned, monsieur does not know why, yet gradually his passion
for red will wane, then fail. Later in the game, he will be affronted
by the colour, even as the gentleman cow in the pasture. It is not the
colour, dear madame, but the shiftless garment, which has wrought this
change.
There are few who dare to assume pink, for one must have a complexion
of peaches and cream, delicately powdered at that, before the rosy
hues are becoming. Yet, the sallow lady, with streaks of grey in her
hair, crow's feet around her eyes, and little time tracks registered
all over her face, will put on a pink dressing-sack when she gets
ready for breakfast. She would scream with horror at the thought of a
pink and white organdie gown, made over rosy taffeta, but the kimono
is another story.
Green dressing-sacks are not often seen, but more's the pity, for in
the grand array of colour nothing should be lacking, and the wearers
of these garments never seem to stop to think whether or not they are
becoming. What could be more cheerful on a cloudy morning than a
flannel negligee of the blessed shade of green consecrated to the
observance of the seventeenth of March?
It looks as well as many things which are commonly welded into
dressing-sacks; then why this invidious distinction?
When we approach blue in our dressing-sack rainbow, speech becomes
pitifully weak. Ancient maidens and matrons, with olive skins,
proudly assume a turquoise negligee. Blue flannel, with cascades of
white lace--could anything be more attractive? It has only one
rival--the garment of lavender eiderdown flannel, the button-holes
stitched with black yarn, which the elderly widow too often puts on
when the tide of her grief has turned.
The combination of black with any shade of purple is well fitted to
produce grief, even as the cutting of an onion will bring tears. Could
the dear departed see his relict in the morning, with lavender
eiderdown environment, he would appreciate his mercies as never
before.
The speaking shades of yellow and orange are much affected by German
ladies for dressing-sacks, and also for the knitted tippets which our
Teutonic friends wear, in and out of the house, from October to July.
Canary yellow is delicate and becoming to most, but it is German taste
to wear orange.
At first, perhaps, with a sense of the fitness of things, the negligee
is worn only in one's own room. She says: "It's so comfortable!"
There are degrees in comfort, varying from the easy, perfect fit of
one's own skin to a party gown which dazzles envious observers, and
why is the adjective reserved for the educated but abbreviated Mother
Hubbard?
"The apparel oft proclaims the man," and even more is woman dependent
upon her clothes for physical, moral, and intellectual support. An
uncorseted body will soon make its influence felt upon the mind. The
steel-and-whalebone spine which properly reinforces all feminine
vertebra is literally the backbone of a woman's self-respect.
Would the iceman or the janitor hesitate to "talk back" to the
uncorseted lady in a pink dressing-sack?--Hardly!
But confront the erring man with a quiet, dignified woman in a crisp
shirt-waist and a clean collar--verily he will think twice before he
ventures an excuse for his failings.
The iceman and the grocery boy see more dressing-sacks than most
others, for they are privileged to approach the back doors of
residences, and to hold conversations with the lady of the house,
after the departure of him whose duty and pleasure it is to pay for
the remnants. And in the lower strata they are known by their clothes.
"Fifty pounds for the red dressing-sack," says the iceman to his
helper, "and a hundred for the blue. Step lively now!"
And how should madame know that her order for a steak, a peck of
potatoes, and two lemons, is registered in the grocery boy's book
under the laconic title, "Pink"?
* * * * *
After breakfast, when she sits down to read the paper and make her
plans for the day, the insidious dressing-sack gets in its deadly
work.
"I won't dress," she thinks, "until I get ready to go out." After
luncheon, she is too tired to go out, and too nearly dead to dress.
Friends come in, perhaps, and say: "Oh, how comfortable you look!
Isn't that a dear kimono?" Madame plumes herself with conscious pride,
for indeed it is a dear kimono, and already she sees herself with a
reputation for "exquisite negligee."
The clock strikes six, and presently the lord of the manor comes home
to be fed. "I'm dreadfully sorry, dear, you should find me looking
so," says the lady of his heart, "but I just haven't felt well enough
to dress. You don't mind, do you?"
The dear, good, subdued soul says he is far from minding, and dinner
is like breakfast as far as dressing-sacks go.
Perhaps, in the far depths of his nature, the man wonders why it was
that, in the halcyon days of courtship, he never beheld his beloved in
the midst of a gunny--no, a dressing-sack. Of course, then, she didn't
have to keep house, and didn't have so many cares to tire her. Poor
little thing! Perhaps she isn't well!
Isn't she? Let another woman telephone that she has tickets for the
matinee, and behold the transformation! Within certain limits and
barring severe headaches, a woman is always well enough to do what she
wants to do--and no more.
As the habit creeps upon its victim, she loses sight of the fact
that there are other clothes. If she has a golf cape, she may venture
to go to the letter-box or even to market in her favourite garment.
After a while, when the habit is firmly fixed, a woman will wear a
dressing-sack all the time--that is, some women will, except on rare
and festive occasions. Sometimes in self-defence, she will say that
her husband loves soft, fluffy feminine things, and can't bear to see
her in a tailor-made outfit. This is why she wears the "soft fluffy
things," which, with her, always mean dressing-sacks, all the time he
is away from home, as well as when he is there.
It is a mooted question whether shiftlessness causes dressing-sacks,
or dressing-sacks cause shiftlessness, but there is no doubt about the
loving association of the two. The woman who has nothing to do, and
not even a shadow of a purpose in life, will enshrine her helpless
back in a dressing-sack. She can't wear corsets, because, forsooth,
they "hurt" her. She can't sit at the piano, because it's hard on her
back. She can't walk, because she "isn't strong enough." She can't
sew, because it makes a pain between her shoulders, and indeed why
should she sew when she has plenty of dressing-sacks?
This type of woman always boards, _if she can_, or has plenty of
servants at her command, and, in either case, her mind is free to
dwell upon her troubles.
First, there is her own weak physical condition. Just wait until she
tells you about the last pain she had. She doesn't feel like dressing
for dinner, but she will try to wash her face, if you will excuse her!
When she returns, she has plucked up enough energy to change her
dressing-sack!
The only cure for the habit is a violent measure which few indeed are
brave enough to adopt. Make a bonfire of the offensive garments, dear
lady; then stay away from the remnant counters, and after a while you
will become immune.
Nothing is done in a negligee of this sort which cannot be done
equally well in a shirt-waist, crisp and clean, with a collar and
belt.
There is a popular delusion to the effect that household tasks
require slipshod garments and unkempt hair, but let the frowsy ones
contemplate the trained nurse in her spotless uniform, with her snowy
cap and apron and her shining hair. Let the doubtful ones go to a
cooking school, and see a neat young woman, in a blue gingham gown and
a white apron, prepare an eight-course dinner and emerge spotless from
the ordeal. We get from life, in most cases, exactly what we put into
it. The world is a mirror which gives us smiles or frowns, as we
ourselves may choose. The woman who faces the world in a shirt-waist
will get shirt-waist appreciation, while for the dressing-sack there
is only a slipshod reward.