полная версия

Fern Fanny
Folly as It Flies; Hit at by Fanny Fern

THOUGHTS ON SOME EVERY DAY TOPICS

WOMEN boarders are often called troublesome; but it must be remembered that all a man wants of his room is to sleep and dress in, but it is a woman's home; and alas! often all she has. She would not be a woman did she not desire to make it tidy and habitable. This – her landlady contracts to do. The fruitless ringings for fresh-water, towels, coal, lights and a clean carpet – and she is not allowed to go down stairs after them herself – are not unknown to any woman who has worn life out in boarding-houses. It is not, as I remarked, in the nature of a woman to be comfortable in Babel; nor does its owner fancy a cloud of dust, raised in the middle of the day, upon her nicely smoothed hair, or clean collar, because the chambermaid has an appointment with John, the waiter, in the entry, or because she enjoys lolling out the front window on her elbows an hour in every room she is "righting," instead of attending promptly to her business, and getting through with it.

Now, man is by nature an unclean animal. I doubt if he would ever wash his face, were there no women about who would refuse to kiss him if he didn't. Well —he clears a hole in the middle of his room, and gets ready for breakfast; which he swallows, and then bolts through the front-door, (dining down town,) not to return again till evening. What possible difference, then, does it make to him, whether his bed be made, and his room swept at ten o'clock in the morning, or four in the afternoon? His home is in the restaurant, in the store, in the street, anywhere and everywhere, that temptation and inclination may lead him; four walls don't bound his vision. He can afford to be philosophical about brooms and dust-pans.

But let Biddy take them into his counting-room. Let him stand round on one leg while she – having moved his desk and displaced his ledgers and papers, preparatory to a sweep – runs out into the street half an hour, under pretence of getting a broom, to gossip with an acquaintance. Let him, getting impatient, sit down in the midst of the hub-bub, and drawing up his inkstand, commence writing. Let Biddie re-enter, just as he gets under way, with a frisk of that wretched, long-handled duster, which tosses on more dust than she ever takes off. Let him rise again and make way for her, and then – let her bob off again – after a little water, and stay another half hour, – and all the while the merciless clock ticking on, and the perspiration standing on his forehead at this unnecessary waste of his time and temper, and the work he hasn't done, and let Biddy repeat this in that counting-room, to that man, every morning in the year, (365 mornings). How long do you suppose he would stand that?

Well, that's just what women in boarding-houses have to put up with. That's why they are troublesome. That's why they can't help it. That's why landladies like men who live everywhere but in their rooms, and who, provided their mattress is not put in their washbowl, and the ends of their cigars are not broken by the landlady's little boy, give her carte blanche as to dirt and other luxuries.

On the other hand I acknowledge that a man-boarder eats four times as much as a woman, and often keeps his landlady waiting weeks to have her bill paid, if indeed he ever pays it. Then he tumbles up stairs at midnight in an oblivious condition, thumping against all the doors as he goes, frightening the single women into fits, and waking up hapless babies, to drain the last drop of the milk of motherly kindness? Then he brings his comrades home to dinner or to tea, and expects his poor struggling landlady to omit all mention of the same when she makes out her bill? Then, notwithstanding this, he sniffs at the eggs, cracks stale jokes on the chickens; rails at the beef, looks daggers into the coffee-cup, and holds his supercilious nose when the butter is too near; and by many other gentlemanly tokens shows the poor widow, whose husband once would not let the wind blow roughly on her, that he will grind her and her children down to the last fraction, that he may spend it on cigars and drinks, while the gray hairs gather thickly on her temples, and she goes to sleep every night with a "God help me," on her lips.

It is a self-evident fact, that all women are not ladies, in the best sense of the word; i. e. by virtue of behavior, not dress; no doubt landladies as well as others have often discovered this. It is very easy to tell "a lady" by the standard of behavior. Ten women shall get into an omnibus, and though we never saw one of them before, we shall select you the true lady. She does not titter when a gentleman, handing up her fare, knocks off his hat, or pitches it awry over his nose; nor does she receive her "change," after this inconvenient act of gallantry, in grim silence. She wears no flowered brocade there to be trodden under foot, nor ball-room jewelry, nor rose-tinted gloves; but the lace frill round her face is scrupulously fresh, and the strings under her chin have evidently been handled only by dainty fingers. She makes no parade of a watch, if she wears one; nor does she draw off her dark, neatly-fitting glove to display ostentatious rings. Still we notice, nestling in the straw beneath us, such a trig little boot, not paper-soled, but of an anti-consumption thickness; the bonnet upon her head is plain, simply trimmed, for your true lady never wears full-dress in an omnibus. She is quite as civil to the poorest as to the richest person who sits beside her, and equally regardful of their rights. If she attracts attention, it is by the unconscious grace of her person and manner, not by the ostentation of her dress. We are quite sorry when she pulls the strap and disappears. We saw a lady do a very pretty thing the other morning. Our omnibus was nearly full of ladies, going down town, when quite an elderly man slowly mounted the steps, and clambered in, taking a seat by the door. The lady next him, observing him take out his fare, smilingly extended her hand to the venerable man, passed the money up to the driver, and returned the change. It was a little thing, but, oh, how lovely! more particularly, as the old man's hat was shabby, his coat seedy, and he had every mark of poverty about him. That woman will make a good wife, said we, and we had half a mind to ask her address, for the benefit of some young man; only that we reflected that unless her virtues were backed by "a fortune," they might possibly go a-begging.

The "term" lady has been so misused, that I like better the old-fashioned term, woman. I sometimes think the influence of a good woman greater than that of a good man. There are so many avenues to the human heart left open to her gentle approach, which would be instantly barred up at the sound of rougher footsteps. One may tell anything to a good woman. In her presence pride sleeps or is disarmed. The old child-feeling comes back upon the world-weary man, and he knows not why he has reposed the unsought confidence which has so lightened his heart. Why he goes forth again ashamed that one so feeble is so much mightier. Why he could doubt and despair where she can trust and wait. Why he could fly from the foe for whose approach she so courageously tarries. Why he thinks of the dagger, or pistol, or poisoned cup, while she, accepting the fierce blast of misfortune, meekly bows her head till the whirlwind be overpast, – believing, hoping, knowing that God's bright smile of sunshine will break through at last.

The world-weary man looks on with wonder, reverencing yet not comprehending. How can he comprehend? He who stands in his pride, with his panting soul uncovered, in the scorching Zahara of Reason, and then complains that no dew falls, no showers descend, no buds, blossoms, or fruit cheer him. How can he who faces with folded arms and defiant attitude, comprehend the twining love-clasp and satisfied heart-rest which come only of love? Thank God, woman is not too proud to take what she so much needs. That she does not wait to comprehend the Infinite before she can love. That she does not plant her foot, and refuse to stir, till her guide tells her why he is leading her by this path instead of that; and though every foot-print be marked with her heart's blood, she does not relax her grasp or doubt his faith.

Well may her glance, her touch, the rustle of her garments even, have power to soothe and bless; well may the soft touch of such upon brows knotted with the world's strife bring coolness and peace. Oh, woman, be strong-minded as you will, if only you be pure and gentle-hearted.

While on the Woman Question I wish to say that my sympathies have always been strongly enlisted for female teachers. Of all who go fainting by the roadside of life, heart-sore and heart-weary, none are more utterly so than the majority of our female teachers. A male-teacher is, generally, able to overawe the misgoverned young girls committed to his charge; or, if he is not, his tougher organization precludes the possibility of that exquisite degree of torture which she endures from it. The female teacher must withdraw to her room when the day's toil is over, quivering often with nervous excitement, worn out, body and spirit, with the struggle for daily bread, hungering more for sympathy and a kind word than for that; taking to her dreams the rude superciliousness of pupils, spoiled to her hand; the only answer possible to whom has been the burning blush of degradation, the suppressed tear or sob.

I shall be told that there are teachers who abuse their trust – mercenary, ungrateful, impervious to any moral considerations. Of course, in all professions there are those who are better out than in it. Plenty who are trying to regulate delicate microscopic springs with an iron crowbar. Teaching is not exempt from its bunglers and charlatans; but, outside of this, there is the long, pale-cheeked procession of female teachers, stretching out feeble hands from the jostling crowd, trembling lest by some unintentional oversight of theirs they lose the approbation of employers, and with it their means of subsistence; bearing patiently the petty insults of willfulness, of selfishness, of arrogance, all uncomplainingly, day by day, week by week, month by month, as the slow years roll on; nor, is there any help for this, as many young people are at present educated; when a teacher, though often possessed of double the native refinement of the taught, is considered by them merely as an upper servant, to be quizzed, to be cheated, to be tormented, at every possible opportunity; and with all her earnest and conscientious endeavors, to be held responsible for the consequences of natural dullness and premeditated sloth; and all for the grudging permission to keep soul and body together. Many may think this an overdrawn picture. Would that it were!

Not long since, a young girl apologized to her private lady-teacher, for the necessary postponement of several lessons, on account of illness. With much feeling the teacher answered: "Do not mention it, I beg. That is nothing. That is unavoidable. Meantime, you are always respectful to me, always kind, always polite. You never hurt my feelings, mademoiselle. Some of my pupils are so rude, so insolent; it is very hard to teach such." Comment is unnecessary. How "hard" it must be for a gentle, refined and educated woman to endure these things, my readers can judge.

If any young girl should read this who has hitherto supposed that money gave her the power to treat with disrespect such a person; that money could remunerate her for the agony she made her endure, let her remember that money sometimes takes to itself wings, and that there may come a time when, seeking her daily bread, she too may hunger for the respectful appreciation she now so heedlessly withholds.

We believe it is generally admitted that a woman of even average acquirements can write a better letter than a man. We think there are two good reasons for this. First, they are not above narrating the little things which bring up a person or a scene more vividly to the mind than anything else. They write naturally, as they talk; while a man takes his pen too often in the mood in which he would mount a platform to address his "fellow-citizens," using big words, and stiltified language. Hence a man's letters are for the most part stiff and uninteresting. Commend us to a woman's letter when information about home matters, or any other matters, is really needed. In making these remarks, we do not forget a sentimental class of female letter-writers; they are the exceptions, and any one who has patience, may read their wordy, idea-less effusions. We cannot. Still every one of us must remember, when absent, letters from some female member of the family, which were worth more than all that the collected male intellect of the household could furnish. You, and you, and you – have them now we dare say, stained by time and perhaps tears, yet still precious above rubies.

There are sometimes women who develop a smart business capability worthy of a man; but as a general thing there are few people who speak approbatively of such a woman. No matter how isolated or destitute her condition, the majority would consider it more "feminine," would she unobtrusively gather up her thimble, and, retiring into some out-of-the-way-place, gradually scoop out her coffin with it, than to develop the smart turn for business which would lift her at once out of her troubles; and which, in a man so situated, would be applauded as exceedingly praiseworthy. The most curious part of it is, that they who are loudest in their abhorrence of this "unfeminine" trait, are they who are the most intolerant of dependent female relatives. "Anywhere out of the world," would be their reply, if applied to by the latter for a straw for the drowning. "Do something for yourself," is their advice in general terms; but, above all, you are to "do it quietly," unobtrusively; in other words, die as soon as you like on sixpence a day, but don't trouble us! Of such cold-blooded comfort, in sight of a new-made grave, might well be born "the smart business woman." And, in truth, so it often is. Hands that never toiled before, grow rough with labor; eyes that have been tearless for long, happy years, drop agony over the slow lagging hours; feet that have been tenderly led and cared for, stumble as best they may in the new, rough path of self-denial. But out of this bitterness groweth sweetness. No crust so tough as the grudged bread of dependence. Blessed be the "smart business woman" who, in a self-sustained crisis like this, after having through much tribulation reached the goal, is able to look back on the weary track and see the sweet flower of faith and trust in her kind still blooming.

A good honest soul once said that "all she wanted, when she got to Heaven, was to put on a clean apron and sit still." After all, the idea is more profound than funny. There are times in every housekeeper's life when this would be the embodiment of Paradise. When the head throbs with planning, contriving, and directing; when every bone aches in the attempt to carry the programme into successful execution; when, after having done one's best to draw to a focus all the infinitesimal cob-web threads of careful management, some new emergency is born of every last attempt, till every nerve and muscle cries out, with the old woman, for Heaven and a clean apron! Of course, after a period of carefree rest, this earth seems after all a very nice place to stay in; but while the fit lasts, no victim of unsuccessful love, or of sea-sickness, is more truly deserving of that which neither ever get —heartfelt pity. It is well that is not the prevailing feeling, else how could we all toil and moil, as we do, day after day, for six feet of earth to engulf it all at last! It is well that to painstaking mothers and delving fathers, earth seems so real. Were it not so, the wheels of this world would stick fast, of course.

The men would hang themselves because there are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, and every morning of all these days, they must button their shirt-wristbands. The women would think of nine children and one at the breast, and every one to be worried through the measles, scarlet fever, chicken-pox, and whooping-cough; while Bridget and Betty would incontinently drown themselves at the never-ending succession of breakfasts, dinners and suppers, to be gobbled up by people constantly ringing the bell for "more." Heaven and a clean apron! the idea is delicious. Let us hope the old woman got it.

Speaking of Bridget and Betty, let me ask the women who read this one question. How do you treat your household servants? "None of my business." But it is yours; and for fear you should forget it, I take the liberty to call your attention to it. Are they overworked? underpaid? indifferently fed? Do you ever give them a holiday? Do you ever lend them a book to read of a leisure evening? Do you ever give them a leisure evening? Do you care for them when they are sick? Do you remember that they, like yourself, have fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, toward whom a good word or kind action from you, might be the pivot upon which their whole life should turn, for good or evil, joy or sorrow? Perhaps some young girl among them, dependent and oppressed, despondent and discouraged, to whose side you might step, and to whose heart you might bring that delicious joy, the sense of protection, for the want of which so many despairing feet turn astray forever.

None of my business? Make it yours, then: for a woman's heart beats in your kitchen, – over your wash-tub, – over your ironing-table, – down in your cellar, – up in your garret. A kind word is such a little thing to you – so much to her. Your cup is so full to overflowing, —hers often so empty, so tasteless. And kindness so wings the feet of Duty. Think of it.

There is one thing that puzzles me about our women who live in the country; as a general thing they might as well, it seems to us, be without feet, for all the use they make of them, out of doors. We cannot but think they make a mistake in tackling up old Dobbin to convey them a mile, or a mile and a half, as the case may be, to the village store, for any little articles of home consumption. Why not array themselves in thick shoes fit for rough roads, and stir the blood by a little healthful exercise? We do not believe, how active soever their indoor occupations may be, that they can ever entirely supersede this necessity for out-door exercise. We have often marvelled, when chance has thrown us among them for a few days, at their slavish subserviency to horse-flesh on every trifling occasion. They seem to regard the city visitor's preference for walking, as a sort of lunacy, harmless perhaps, but pitiable. They see "no object," in going over the threshold "just for a walk." Well – every one to their taste – notwithstanding the currents of "fresh air" always to be had by every one who lives inside a country house, we would not, voluntarily, surrender the privilege of snuffing it outside, and snuffing it on foot, too. This is our advice to both the country and the city wife.

Wife! There are no four letters in the language expressive of so much that is holy and sweet. Wife! that is a word claimable only by one. A man can have but one wife, in a Christian community! That is her proud, undisputed, indisputable, title. Let her hold on to it.

The other day we overheard this exclamation. That his wife! and a long sigh, and ominous shake of the head followed it. The object of this commiseration had "a genius" for a husband. Crowds of worshippers had he – male and female, known and unknown, declared and silent. According to them, he never opened his mouth without scattering word-pearls. All were desirous to know him; some because they really admired his talent; many because it made them of consequence to be his friends. Presents of all kinds were laid at his feet and just enough enemies had he to convince the most skeptical that he had made a success in the world.

And that was his wife! Good gracious! That little, plain, unpretending, quiet body, with not even a "stylish" air to recommend her! It was awful. Why?– didn't she love him? Oh, yes; how could she help it? Was she not a good mother to his children? Oh, yes. Was she not a careful, orderly housekeeper? Oh, yes. Was she not sensible and well-informed, and able to take a creditable place as conversationalist at his table and fireside? Oh, yes all of that; but he should have had an elegant, talented, brilliant wife. No he shouldn't. He has just the wife he wants. A practical, common-sense woman, proud of her husband in her own demonstrative way. Smiling quietly at the world's estimate of the unostentatious virtues, which make his home a pattern of neatness, order and comfort. Smiling quietly, as the conscious possessor of his heart could afford to do, at the meddling short-sightedness which would displace her "brilliant, talented woman," whom ten to one, even had she good sense with her brilliancy he never would like half as well, because God has endowed few men with magnanimity enough to rejoice in those qualities which make a wife – like her husband – resourceful and self-reliant. No – no, my friends, let them alone. What affair is it of yours, if they themselves are content? Ah – but we won't believe they are content. We persist in pitying him. We could pick out twenty splendid women with whom he would be better mated. Very like – my dear madame; – and yourself, first of the twenty, no doubt! Pshaw! leave him with his patient, quiet, unobtrusive, sensible, good, little, homely wife. "A male genius" – my sentimental friend – likes a good dinner – plenty of kicking room – and a wife who, if she differs from him in opinion, won't say so.