полная версия

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

BRIDGET AS SHE WAS, AND BRIDGET AS SHE IS

A SQUARE, solid form, innocent of corsets; a thick, dark "stuff" – dress, raised high above ankles which are shaped for use; stout leather shoes; hands red and gloveless; a bonnet of obsolete shape and trimmings; a face round as the moon, from which the rich red blood, made of potatoes and pure air, seems ready to burst; great, honest eyes, always downcast when addressed by those whom the old country styles "superiors." Such is Bridget when she first steps from the deck of the good ship "Maria," at Castle Garden.

Bridget goes to a "place." The pert house-maid titters when she appears, square and wholesome, like a human cow. Bridget's ears catch the word "greenhorn," and "she might as well be a grandmother as to be only seventeen." Bridget looks furtively at the smart, though cheap dress of the chambermaid, with its inevitable flimsy ruffled skirt and tinsel buttons, and then at her despised "best dress," which she has been wont to keep so tidy for Sundays and holidays. She looks at the thin, paper-soled gaiters of the critical housemaid, and then at her stout, dew-defying brogans. She looks at her own thick masses of hair, fastened up with only one idea – to keep it out of the way – and then at the housemaid's elaborate parlor-imitation of puff and braid and curl. The view subdues her. She is for the first time ashamed of her own thick natural tresses. She looks at her peony-red cheeks, and contrasts them with the sickly but "genteel" pallor of the housemaid's, and gradually it dawns upon her why they whispered "greenhorn" when she stepped into the kitchen that first day. But the housemaid, overpowering as she is to Bridget, suffers a total eclipse when the lady of the house sweeps past, in full dress. Bridget looks – marvels, adores, and vows to imitate. That hair! Those jewels! That long, trailing silk skirt and embroidered petticoat! Did anybody ever? Could Bridget in any way herself reach such perfection? She blushes to think that only last night in her home-sickness she actually longed to milk once more the old red cow in the cherished barn-yard. How ridiculous! She doubts whether that sumptuous lady ever saw a cow. The idea that she – Bridget – had been contented all her life to have only cows look at her! By the way – why should that curly-headed grocer-boy talk so much to the housemaid, when he brings parcels, and never to her? A light dawns on her dormant brain. She will fix her hair the way to catch grocer-boys. She too will have a ruffled skirt to drag through the gutter, though she may never own any underclothes. She will have some brass ear-rings and bracelets and things, and some paper-soled boots, with her very first wages; and as to her bonnet, it is true, she can afford only one for market and for "mass;" for rain and shine; for heat and for cold; but by St. Patrick, it shall be a fourteen-dollar "dress-hat," anyhow, though she may never own a pair of India-rubbers, or a flannel petticoat, or a pocket-handkerchief, or an umbrella. Just as if this wasn't a "free country?" Just as if that spiteful housemaid was going to have all the grocer-boys to herself? Bridget will see about that! Her eyes are a pretty blue; and as to her hair, it is at least her own; yes, ma'am; no "rats" will be necessary for her; that will save something.

And so the brogans, and the dark "stuff" – dress, and the thick stockings, and shawl, come to grief; and in two months' time flash is written all over Bridget, from the crown of her showy hat to the tips of her crucified toes, squeezed into narrow, paper-soled, fashionable, high-heeled gaiters. And as to her "superiors," gracious goodness! America is not Ireland, nor England either, I'd have you to know. You had better just mention that word in Bridget's hearing now, and see what will come of it!

Stealing is a rough, out-and-out word, generally most obnoxious to those, who are in the daily and hourly practice of it. Now domestics too often consider that everything that drops upon the carpet is their personal property, from a common pin to a pair of diamond ear-rings. "I found it on the floor," is considered by them sufficient excuse when detected in any felonious appropriation.

Now the laws of gravitation being fixed, this view of the case is rather startling to mistresses; particularly as childish fingers will pull at belts till buckles and clasps drop off; at chains till trinkets are dissevered; at hair till ornamental combs or head pins tumble out; at fingers till rings slip off on sofas or chairs.

When dropped, "has Bridget seen them?" No! though she may have swept the room ten minutes after. No!– though you are sure of having them on when you came into that room, and of not having them on when you left. No! – Bridget confronts you sturdily – No! You bite your lips and pocket the loss, with the pleasant recollection that the missing article was a gift from some dear, perhaps dead friend. Once in a while, to be sure, you may be fortunate enough, by making a sudden and successful foray among her goods and chattels, to seize the lost treasure; but as a general rule, you may as well turn your thoughts upon some less irritating subject. According to Bridget's code, it is not "stealing," constantly to use your thread, needles, spools, silk, tape, thimble and scissors, unlimitedly, to make or mend her own clothes. Is it not just so much saved from her pocket, toward the purchase of a brass breast-pin, or a flashy dress-bonnet? India-rubbers and umbrellas, too, being merely useful articles, she cannot be expected to provide them for her own use; therefore yours, one after another, travel off in new and unknown directions, until you are quite weary of providing substitutes. Occasionally, your spangled opera-fan spends an evening out, where you yourself never had the felicity of an introduction; or – your gloves take a short journey, and return as travellers are apt to do, in rather a soiled and dilapidated condition. As to cologne and perfumes of all kinds, pomade and hair-pins, they disappear like dew before the rising sun. "Where all the pins go" is also no longer a mystery. Of course "real ladies" never notice these little thefts; but accept them in the light of Bridget's perquisites, only too thankful if she leaves to them the private and unshared use of their head-brush and tooth-brush. To sum up the whole thing, there would seem to be only two ways at present of getting along with servants. One is to be deaf, dumb and blind to everything that is out of the way; or else to live in a state of perpetual warfare with their general shortcomings. A man's ultimatum is, "just step into an Intelligence Office and get another." Alas! what this "getting another" implies, with all its initiatory vexations, is known only to the mistress of the house. To make the moon-struck master of it comprehend that his wife cannot at once, upon the entrance of a bran new Bridget, dismiss dull care, would take more breath than most mothers of young and rising families are able to spare.

Then again, if there is anything calculated to "rile" the mistress of a family, it is this common rejoinder of domestics to any attempt to regulate the household work. "When I lived with Mrs. Smith I did thus and so." Will they never be made to understand, be they English, Irish, German, or Yankee, that Mrs. Smith's way of managing her family affairs can have no possible connection with Mrs. Jones's plans for the same. That, on the contrary, Mrs. Jones does not care a d – ime what hour of the day Mrs Smith breakfasts, dines, or sups; what days she goes out, or stays in; or in what manner she has her washing, clear-starching and cooking done. In short, that it is not only totally irrelevant to the subject to mention her, but a nuisance and an irritation. Can Betty, or Sally, or Bridget ever comprehend that, when they engaged to work for Mrs. Jones, they were not engaged to work according to Mrs. Smith's programme, or their own, or that of any mistress who has ever existed since Eve, who, blessed be her name, lived on grapes and things that involved no servants. And can any phrenologist inform us whether a kitchen-bump exists, which, if patiently manipulated for a series of months, might in time convey the idea, that while roast-beef, done to leather, may be palatable to Mrs. Smith, rare beef may be equally palatable to Mrs. Jones? Also, if by any elaborate and painstaking process of instruction, Sally, or Bridget, or Betty might be taught, that the hours for meals in different families may be allowed to vary, according to the different tastes and occupations of each, and that without endangering the Constitution of the United States. In short, that it is about time that the kitchen-traditions, with which domestics usually swathe themselves round, like so many mummies, were abolished; and every family-tub be allowed quietly to repose on its own independent bottom.

We often wonder how Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith would fancy it, should Tom Tiddler, their clerk, answer their orders by informing them gratuitously of the manner in which the firm of Jenkins & Co. conducted their mercantile business; and how they would stand being harrowed within an inch of their lives while busily taking an account of stock, by any such irrelevant nonsense.

Also: I would respectfully submit whether the petty, every-day irritations over which Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith smoke themselves stupid, or explode in naughty words, should not, in the case of Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Smith, be allowed some other escape-valve than that of the "Woman's Guide Book's" —sweet smile.

The other day, in running my eye over a daily paper, I read this advertisement: "A genteel girl wishes a situation as chambermaid." Now if there is one word in the English language that I hate more than another, it is the word genteel. No matter where, or how, or to whom, or by whom it is applied, my very soul sickens at it. It is the universal and never-failing indorser of every sham ever foisted upon disgusted human nature. From the "genteel" cabbage-scented boarding-house, where tobacco emasculated young men "feed," and mindless, be-flounced, cheap jewel-ried married and unmarried women smile sweetly on them, to the seventh-rate dry-goods store in some obscure street, whose clerk sells only the most "genteel" goods at a shilling per yard; to the "genteel" school-girl who, owning one greasy silk dress, imagines that she understands her geography better in that attire than in a quiet, clean, modest "de laine;" to the "genteel" shop-girl who, pitiably destitute of comfortable underclothes, yet always owns a "dress hat," and swings about the last showy fashion in trimming, on some cheap fabric; to the "genteel" cook who goes to market with her hair dressed as near as may be like her mistress, fastening it up with a brassy imitation of her gold comb; to the "genteel" seminary for young ladies, who ride to school in a carriage with liveried servants, their papa having formerly been one himself.

But a "genteel" chambermaid! Now, why should this patrician creature seek such a prosaic, vulgar occupation? Could she be aware that chambermaids must wield brooms, and dust-pans, and scrubbing-brushes, and handle pokers, and shovel, and tongs, and ashes. That they may even be asked to stand at the wash-tub, and be seen by the neighbors in the disgraceful occupation of hanging out clothes. That they may occasionally have to answer the door-bell in an apron, and usher finely-dressed ladies into the parlor; or be asked to take a baby out for an airing, and be stamped at once by the public as a person who "works for a living." How can a "genteel" chambermaid calmly contemplate such degradation, least of all perform such duties faithfully and well? Would not any sensible lady, wishing a chambermaid, see at once that the thing was impossible? Would she not know that she might ring her bell till the wire gave out, before this "genteel" young woman would think it expedient to answer it till she was ready? And when she sent her up stairs to tidy her chamber, would she not be sure that this "genteel" creature would probably spend the time in trying on her mistress' last new opera-hat before the toilet-glass? And if she sent her out on an errand, involving even a moderately sized bundle, would not this "genteel" young woman probably take a circuitous route through back streets to hide her ignominy?

Heavens! what a relief it is to see people self-poised and satisfied with their honest occupations, making no attempt to veneer them over with a thin polish of gentility. Such I am happy to say there still are, in humble circumstances, notwithstanding the bad example constantly set them by the moneyed class in our country, who are servilely and snobbishly bent on aping all the aristocratic absurdities of the old country. "Genteel!" Faugh! even the detestable expression-word "FUST-rate" is music to my ears after it.

After all, I am not sure that my sympathies are not enlisted much more strongly on the side of servants than of their mistresses, who at any moment can show them the door at their capricious will, without a passport to any other place of shelter. Their lot is often at best a hard one; – the best wages being a very inadequate equivalent for the great gulf which, in many cases, separates the servant from her employer as effectually, as if her woman's nature had no need of human love and human sympathy; as if she did not often bear her secret burden of sorrow with a heroism, which should cause a blush on the cheek of her who sits with folded hands in the parlor, all neglectful of woman's mission to her dependent sister. They who have listened vainly for kind words know how much they may lighten toil. They who have shut up in their aching hearts the grief which no friendly look or tone has ever unlocked, know how it will fester and rankle. They who have felt every ounce of their flesh taxed unrelentingly day by day to the utmost, with no approving "well done" to lighten slumber when the heavy yoke is nightly cast down, know what is servitude of soul, as well as body.

I could wish that mistresses oftener thought of this; oftener sat down in the gloomy, underground kitchen or basement, and inquired after the absent mother, or brother, or sister, in the old country; oftener placed in the toil-hardened hand the book or paper, or pamphlet, to shorten the tedious evening in the comfortless kitchen, while the merry laugh in which the servant has no share, resounds from the cheerful parlor above.

I do not forget that there are bad servants, as that there are unfeeling, inhuman mistresses who make them. I know that some are wasteful and improvident; and I know, from experience, that there are cases where the sympathy and kindness I speak of are repaid with ingratitude; but these are exceptional cases; and think how much hard usage from the world such an one must have received, ere all her sweet and womanly feelings could be thus blunted. I must think that a humane mistress generally makes a good servant. I know that some of the servants of the present day dress ridiculously above their station, – so does often the mistress; and why is a poor, unenlightened girl more reproachable, for spending the wages of a month on a flimsy, gaudy bonnet, or dress, than is her employer, for trailing a seventy-five or one hundred dollar robe through ferryboats and omnibuses, while her grocer and milliner dun in vain for their bills?

Let the reform in this and other respects begin in the parlor. Our mothers and grandmothers were not always changing servants. They did not disdain to lend a helping hand, when a press of work, or company, made the burden of servitude too heavy. A headache in the kitchen, to them, meant the same as a headache in the parlor, and, God be thanked, a heart-ache too. The soul of a servant was of as much account as that of her mistress; her creed was respected, and no elaborate dinner came between her and the church-door. How can you expect such unfaltering, unswerving devotion to your interests, when you so wholly ignore theirs? – when you spur and goad them on like beasts of burden, and with as little thought for their human wants and needs? No wonder if you have poor service – eye-service. I would like to see you do better in their place. Lift up the cloud, and let the sun shine through into their underground homes, if it is not a mockery to use the word home. We exact too much – we give too little, – too little sympathy – too little kindness – too little encouragement. "Love thy neighbor as thyself" would settle it all. You don't do it – I don't do it, though I try to. Human laws may require only of the mistress that she pay her servant's wages punctually; God's law requires much more – let conscience be its interpreter; – then, and not till then, we shall have good servants.

I suppose the most jealous fault-finders on this subject will concede that mistresses themselves are not quite perfect; of course, they have often real causes of irritation and vexation apart from the kitchen, which, we are afraid, do not dispose them to look leniently upon any additional trouble there. A "flare up" with Betty or Bridget, is apt to be the last drop in the bucket, the last feather in the balance. But, unfortunately, it is not taken into account that Betty and Bridget, being human, may have their little world of hopes and joys, fears and sorrows, quite disconnected with your gridiron, and dustpan, and ash-barrel. They also have heads and backs to ache, and hearts too, though this may not always be taken into the account, by employers, who, satisfied with punctually paying the stipulated wages when due, and getting as much as possible out of them as an equivalent, consider their duty ended. Some day your dinner is over or under cooked; that day Bridget received a letter from the "old country" with a "black seal." She did not come to you with her trouble; why should she? when she might have been a mere machine for any sympathetic word or look that has ever passed from your woman's heart or eyes to hers. All you know is that your dinner is overcooked, and a sharp rebuke follows, and from the fulness of a tried spirit an "impertinent" answer comes, and you show Bridget the door, preaching a sermon on the neglectfulness and insolence of servants. Had you been the mistress you should have been, Bridget would naturally have come to you with her trouble, and you would willingly have excused at such a time any little oversight in her duty to you, even though on that day you "had company to dinner." Take another case. On some day in the week, when the heaviest family labor falls due, your girl whose province it is to accomplish it, rises with an aching head, or limbs, as you sometimes do yourself, and as you do not, she rises from bed all the same as if she were well. As you have no use for your lips in the kitchen, save to give an order, and no eyes, save to look after defects of economy or carefulness, you do not see her languid eyes, or ask the cause of any apparent dilatoriness; you simply "hurry up" things generally, and go up stairs. Now, suppose you had kindly asked the girl if she felt quite well, and finding she did not, offered to lift from her aching shoulders that day's burden; suppose that? why, ten to one, it would have done her more good than could any doctor who ever took a degree, and the poor thing, under its inspiration, might actually have staggered through the day's work, had you been so cruel as to allow her.

I wish mistresses would sometimes ask themselves how long, under the depressing conditions and circumstances of servitude above alluded to, they could render faithful conscientious labor? Feeling that doing well, there was no word of praise; and that doing ill, there was no excuse or palliation; that falling sick or disabled, from over work or natural causes, there was no sympathy, but only nervous anxiety for a speedy substitute.

Again. Many mistresses utterly object to "a beau" in the kitchen. Now could anything be more unnatural and absurd than this? though, of course, there should be limitations as to late hours. Marriage, with many of these domestics, is the heaven of rest and independence to which they look forward; and even if they are to work quite as hard "for a living," as a poor man's wife, as they have for you, they may possibly have, as wives – heaven help them – a little love to sweeten it; and surely no wife or mother should shut her heart utterly to this view of the case. As to the girl's "bettering herself," let her take the chances, if she chooses, as you have. Possibly, some lady who reads this may say, oh, all this talk about servants is nonsense. I've often petted girls till I have spoiled them, and it is of no use. Very true, madam, "petting" is of no use; but it is of use to treat them at all times kindly, and humanely, and above all things justly, as we – women – in their places, should wish to be treated ourselves. It is of use to make a little sunshine in those gloomy kitchens, by a kind good night, or good morning, or some such recognition of their presence, other than a desire to be waited upon. It is of use, when they are sick or down-hearted, to turn to, not from them. All this can be done, and not "spoil" them. And how much better, even as far as yourself is concerned, to feel that their service is that of love and good-will, instead of mere "eye-service." A lady once asked a servant for her references. There was more justice and less "impertinence," than appears at the first blush, in her reply, "and where are yours, ma'am?"