The flowers bow their dainty heads,
And see in the shining stream
A vision of sky and silver clouds,
As bright as a fairy's dream.
The great trees nod their sleepy boughs,
The song birds come and go,
And all day long, to the waving ferns
The south wind whispers low.
All day among the blossoms sweet,
The laughing sunbeams play,
And down the stream, in rose-leaf boats
The fairies sail away.
One Woman's Solution of the
Servant Problem
Being a professional woman, my requirements in the way of a housemaid
were rather special. While at times I can superintend my small
household, and direct my domestic affairs, there are long periods
during which I must have absolute quiet, untroubled by door bell,
telephone, or the remnants of roast beef.
There are two of us, in a modern six room apartment, in a city where
the servant problem has forced a large and ever-increasing percentage
of the population into small flats. We have late breakfasts, late
dinners, a great deal of company, and an amount of washing, both house
and personal, which is best described as "unholy."
Five or six people often drop in informally, and unexpectedly, for
the evening, which means, of course, a midnight "spread," and an
enormous pile of dishes to be washed in the morning. There are,
however, some advantages connected with the situation. We have a
laundress besides the maid; we have a twelve-o'clock breakfast on
Sunday instead of a dinner, getting the cold lunch ourselves in the
evening, thus giving the girl a long afternoon and evening; and we are
away from home a great deal, often staying weeks at a time.
The eternal "good wages to right party" of the advertisements was our
inducement also, but, apparently, there were no "right parties!"
The previous incumbent, having departed in a fit of temper at half an
hour's notice, and left me, so to speak, "in the air," with dinner
guests on the horizon a day ahead, I betook myself to an intelligence
office, where, strangely enough, there seems to be no intelligence,
and grasped the first chance of relief.
Nothing more unpromising could possibly be imagined. The new maid was
sad, ugly of countenance, far from strong physically, and in every way
hopeless and depressing. She listened, unemotionally, to my glowing
description of the situation. Finally she said, "Ay tank Ay try it."
She came, looked us over, worked a part of a week, and announced that
she couldn't stay. "Ay can't feel like home here," she said. "Ay am
not satisfied."
She had been in her last place for three years, and left because "my's
lady, she go to Europe." I persuaded her to try it for a while longer,
and gave her an extra afternoon or two off, realising that she must be
homesick.
After keeping us on tenter-hooks for two weeks, she sent for her
trunk. I discovered that she was a fine laundress, carefully washing
and ironing the things which were too fine to go into the regular
wash; a most excellent cook, her kitchen and pantry were at all times
immaculate; she had no followers, and few friends; meals were ready
on the stroke of the hour, and she had the gift of management.
Offset to this was a furious temper, an atmosphere of gloom and
depression which permeated the house and made us feel funereal,
impertinence of a quality difficult to endure, and the callous,
unfeeling, almost inhuman characteristics which often belong in a high
degree to the Swedes.
For weeks I debated with myself whether or not I could stand it to
have her in the house. I have spent an hour on my own back porch, when
I should have been at work, because I was afraid to pass through the
room which she happened to be cleaning. Times without number, a crisp
muffin, or a pot of perfect coffee, has made me postpone speaking the
fateful words which would have separated us. She sighed and groaned
and wept at her work, worried about it, and was a fiend incarnate if
either of us was five minutes late for dinner. We often hurried
through the evening meal so as to leave her free for her evening out,
even though I had long since told her not to wash the dishes after
dinner, but to pile them neatly in the sink and leave them until
morning.
Before long, however, the strictly human side of the problem began to
interest me. I had cherished lifelong theories in regard to the
brotherhood of man and the uplifting power of personal influence. I
had at times been tempted to try settlement work, and here I had a
settlement subject in my own kitchen.
There was not a suggestion of fault with the girl's work. She kept her
part of the contract, and did it well; but across the wall between us,
she glared at--and hated--me.
But, deliberately, I set to work in defence of my theory. I ignored
the impertinence, and seemingly did not hear the crash of dishes and
the banging of doors. When it came to an issue, I said calmly, though
my soul quaked within me: "You are not here to tell me what you will
do and what you won't. You are here to carry out my orders, and when
you cannot, it is time for you to go."
If she asked me a question about her work which I could not answer
offhand, I secretly consulted a standard cook-book, and later gave her
the desired information airily. I taught her to cook many of the
things which I could cook well, and imbued her with a sort of sneaking
respect for my knowledge. Throughout, I treated her with the perfect
courtesy which one lady accords to another, ignoring the impertinence.
I took pains to say "please" and "thank you." Many a time I bit my
lips tightly against my own rising rage, and afterward in calmness
recognised a superior opportunity for self-discipline.
For three or four months, while the beautiful theory wavered in the
balance, we fought--not outwardly, but beneath the surface. Daily, I
meditated a summary discharge, dissuaded only by an immaculate house
and perfectly cooked breakfasts and dinners. I still cherished a
lingering belief in personal influence, in spite of the wall which
reared itself between us.
A small grey kitten, with wobbly legs and an infantile mew, made the
first breach in the wall. She took care of it, loved it, petted it,
and began to smile semi-occasionally. She, too, said "please" and
"thank you." My husband suggested that we order ten kittens, but I let
the good work go on with one, for the time being. Gradually, I learned
that the immovable exterior was the natural protection against an
abnormal sensitiveness both to praise and blame. Besides the cat, she
had two other "weak spots"--an unswerving devotion to a widowed sister
with two children, whom she partially supported, and a love for
flowers almost pathetic.
As I could, without seeming to make a point of it, I sent things to
the sister and the children--partially worn curtains, bits of ribbons,
little toys, and the like. I made her room as pretty and dainty as my
own, though the furnishings were not so expensive, and gave her a
potted plant in a brass jar. When flowers were sent to me, I gave her
a few for the vase in her room. She began to say "we" instead of
"you." She spoke of "our" spoons, or "our" table linen. She asked,
what shall "we" do about this or that? what shall "we" have for
dinner? instead of "what do _you_ want?" She began to laugh when she
played with the kitten, and even to sing at her work.
When she did well, I praised her, as I had all along, but instead of
saying, "Iss dat so?" when I remarked that the muffins were delicious
or the dessert a great success, her face began to light up, and a
smile take the place of the impersonal comment. The furious temper
began to wane, or, at least, to be under better control. Guests
occasionally inquired, "What have you done to that maid of yours?"
Five times we have left her, for one or two months at a time, on full
salary, with unlimited credit at the grocery, and with from fifty to
one hundred dollars in cash. During the intervals we heard nothing
from her. We have returned each time to an immaculate house, a
smiling maid, a perfectly cooked and nicely served meal, and an
account correct to a penny, with vouchers to show for it, of the sum
with which she had been intrusted.
I noticed each time a vast pride in the fact that she had been so
trusted, and from this developed a gratifying loyalty to the
establishment. I had told her once to ask her sister and children to
spend the day with her while we were gone. It seems that the children
were noisy, and the lady in the apartment below us came up to object.
An altercation ensued, ending with a threat from the lady downstairs
to "tell Mrs. M. when she came home." Annie told me herself, with
flashing eyes and shaking hands. I said, calmly: "The children must
have been noisy, or she would not have complained. You are used to
them, and besides it would sound worse downstairs than up here. But it
doesn't amount to anything, for I had told you you could have the
children here, and if I hadn't been able to trust you I wouldn't have
left you." Thus the troubled waters were calmed.
The crucial test of her qualities came when I entered upon a long
period of exhaustive effort. The first day, we both had a hard time,
as her highly specialised Baptist conscience would not permit her to
say I was "not at home," when I was merely writing a book. After she
thoroughly understood that I was not to be disturbed unless the house
took fire, further quiet being insured by disconnecting the doorbell
and muffling the telephone, things went swimmingly.
"Annie," I said, "I want you to run this house until I get through
with my book. Here is a hundred dollars to start with. Don't let
anybody disturb me." She took it with a smile, and a cheerful "all
right."
From that moment to the end, I had even less care than I should have
had in a well-equipped hotel. Not a sound penetrated my solitude. If
I went out for a drink of water, she did not speak to me. We had
delicious dinners and dainty breakfasts which might have waited for
us, but we never waited a moment for them. She paid herself regularly
every Monday morning, kept all receipts, sent out my husband's
laundry, kept a strict list of it, mended our clothes, managed our
household as economically as I myself could have done it, and, best of
all, insured me from any sort of interruption with a sort of fierce
loyalty which is beyond any money value.
Once I overheard a colloquy at my front door, which was briefly and
decisively terminated thus: "Ay already tell you dat you _not see
her_! She says to me, 'Annie, you keep dose peoples off from me,' and
Ay _keep dem off_!" I never have known what dear friend was thus
turned away from my inhospitable door.
Fully appreciating my blessings, the night I finished my work I went
into the kitchen with a crisp, new, five-dollar bill. "Annie," I said,
"here is a little extra money for you. You've been so nice about the
house while I've been busy."
She opened her eyes wide, and stared. "You don't have to do dat," she
said.
"I know I don't," I laughed, "but I like to do it."
"You don't have to do dat," she repeated. "Ay like to do de
housekeeping."
"I know," I said again, "and I like to do this. You've done lots of
things for me you didn't have to do. Why shouldn't I do something for
you?"
At that she took it, offering me a rough wet hand, which I took
gravely. "Tank you," she said, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
"You've earned it," I assured her, "and you deserve it, and I'm very
glad I can give it to you."
From that hour she has been welded to me in a bond which I fondly hope
is indestructible. She laughs and sings at her work, pets her beloved
kitten, and diffuses through my six rooms the atmosphere of good
cheer. She "looks after me," anticipates my wishes, and dedicates to
me a continual loyal service which has no equivalent in dollars and
cents. She asked me, hesitatingly, if she might not get some one to
fill her place for three months while she went back to Sweden. I
didn't like the idea, but I recognised her well-defined right.
"Ay not go," she said, "if you not want me to. Ay tell my sister dat
I want to stay wid Mrs. M. until she send me away."
I knew she would have to go some time before she settled down to
perpetual residence in an alien land, so I bade her God-speed. She
secured the substitute and instructed her, arranged the matter of
wages, and vouched for her honesty, but not for her work.
Before she left the city, I found that the substitute was hopelessly
incompetent and stupid. When Annie came to say "good-bye" to me, I
told her about the new girl. She broke down and wept. "Ay sorry Ay try
to go," she sobbed. "Ay tell my sister dere iss nobody what can take
care of Mrs. M. lak Ay do!"
I was quite willing to agree with her, but I managed to dry her tears.
Discovering that she expected to spend two nights in a day coach, and
remembering one dreadful night when I could get no berth, I gave her
the money for a sleeping-car ticket both ways, as a farewell gift. The
tears broke forth afresh. "You been so good to me and to my sister,"
she sobbed. "Ay can't never forget dat!"
"Cheer up," I answered, wiping the mist from my own eyes. "Go on, and
have the best time you ever had in your life, and don't worry about
me--I'll get along somehow. And if you need money while you are away,
write to me, and I'll send you whatever you need. We'll fix it up
afterward."
Once again she looked at me, with the strangest look I have ever seen
on the human face.
"Tank you," she said slowly. "Dere iss not many ladies would say dat."
"Perhaps not," I replied, "but, remember, Annie, I can trust you."
"Yes," she cried, her face illumined as by some great inward light,
"you can trust me!"