Mrs. Porne quite glowed with exultation, but her husband gently suggested that the newness of the broom was visibly uppermost, and that such palpable perfections were probably accompanied by some drawbacks. But he liked her looks, he admitted, and the cooking would cover a multitude of sins.
On this they rested, while the week went by. It was a full week, and a short one. Mrs. Porne, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a little in her sewing and made some conscience-tormenting calls.
When Thursday night came around she was simply running over with information to give her husband.
“Such a talk as I have had with Miss Bell! She is so queer! But she’s nice too, and it’s all reasonable enough, what she says. You know she’s studied this thing all out, and she knows about it — statistics and things. I was astonished till I found she used to teach school. Just think of it! And to be willing to work out! She certainly does her work beautiful, but — it doesn’t seem like having a servant at all. I feel as if I — boarded with her!”
“Why she seemed to me very modest and unpresuming,” put in Mr. Porne.
“O yes, she never presumes. But I mean the capable way she manages — I don’t have to tell her one thing, nor to oversee, nor criticize. I spoke of it and she said, ‘If I didn’t understand the business I should have no right to undertake it.”
“That’s a new point of view, isn’t it?” asked her husband. “Don’t they usually make you teach them their trade and charge for the privilege?”
“Yes, of course they do. But then she does have her disadvantages — as you said.”
“Does she? What are they?”
“Why she’s so — rigid. I’ll read you her — I don’t know what to call it. She’s written out a definite proposition as to her staying with us, and I want you to study it, it’s the queerest thing I ever saw.”
The document was somewhat novel. A clear statement of the hours of labor required in the position, the quality and amount of the different kinds of work; the terms on which she was willing to undertake it, and all prefaced by a few remarks on the status of household labor which made Mr. Porne open his eyes.
Thus Miss Bell; “The ordinary rate for labor in this state, unskilled labor of the ordinary sort, is $2.00 a day. This is in return for the simplest exertion of brute force, under constant supervision and direction, and involving no serious risk to the employer.”
“Household labor calls for the practice of several distinct crafts, and, to be properly done, requires thorough training and experience. Its performer is not only in a position of confidence, as necessarily entrusted with the care of the employer’s goods and with knowledge of the most intimate family relations; but the work itself, in maintaining the life and health of the members of the household, is of most vital importance.
“In consideration of existing economic conditions, however, I am willing to undertake these intricate and responsible duties for a seven day week at less wages than are given the street-digger, for $1.50 a day.”
“Good gracious, my dear!” said Mr. Porne, laying down the paper, “This young woman does appreciate her business! And we’re to be let off easy at $45.00 a month, are we.”
“And feel under obligations at that!” answered his wife. “But you read ahead. It is most instructive. We shall have to ask her to read a paper for the Club!”
“‘In further consideration of the conditions of the time, I am willing to accept part payment in board and lodging instead of cash. Such accommodations as are usually offered with this position may be rated at $17.00 a month.’”
“O come now, don’t we board her any better than that?”
“That’s what I thought, and I asked her about it, and she explained that she could get a room as good for a dollar and a-half a week — she had actually made inquiries in this very town! And she could; really a better room, better furnished, that is, and service with it. You know I’ve always meant to get the girl’s room fixed more prettily, but usually they don’t seem to mind. And as to food — you see she knows all about the cost of things, and the materials she consumes are really not more than two dollars and a half a week, if they are that. She even made some figures for me to prove it — see.”
Mr. Porne had to laugh.
“Breakfast. Coffee at thirty-five cents per pound, one cup, one cent. Oatmeal at fourteen cents per package, one bowl, one cent. Bread at five cents per loaf, two slices, one-half cent. Butter at forty cents per pound, one piece, one and a-half cents. Oranges at thirty cents per dozen, one, three cents. Milk at eight cents per quart, on oatmeal, one cent. Meat or fish or egg, average five cents. Total — thirteen cents.”
“There! And she showed me dinner and lunch the same way. I had no idea food, just the material, cost so little. It’s the labor, she says that makes it cost even in the cheapest restaurant.”
“I see,” said Mr. Porne. “And in the case of the domestic servant we furnish the materials and she furnishes the labor. She cooks her own food and waits on herself — naturally it wouldn’t come high. What does she make it?”
‘Food, average per day.............$0.35
Room, $1.50 per w’k, ave. per day.....22
——
.57
Total, per month... $17.10
$1.50 per day, per month... $45.00
“‘Remaining payable in cash, $28.00.’ Do I still live! But my dear Ellie, that’s only what an ordinary first-class cook charges, out here, without all this fuss!”
“I know it, Ned, but you know we think it’s awful, and we’re always telling about their getting their board and lodging clear — as if we gave’em that out of the goodness of our hearts!”
“Exactly, my dear. And this amazing and arithmetical young woman makes us feel as if we were giving her wampum instead of money — mere primitive barter of ancient days in return for her twentieth century services! How does she do her work — that’s the main question.”
“I never saw anyone do it better, or quicker, or easier. That is, I thought it was easy till she brought me this paper. Just read about her work, and you’ll feel as if we ought to pay her all your salary.”
Mr. Porne read:
“Labor performed, average ten hours a day, as follows: Preparation of food materials, care of fires, cooking, table service, and cleaning of dishes, utensils, towels, stove, etc., per meal — breakfast two hours, dinner three hours, supper or lunch one hour — six hours per day for food service. Daily chamber work and dusting, etc., one and one-half hours per day. Weekly cleaning for house of nine rooms, with halls, stairs, closets, porches, steps, walks, etc., sweeping, dusting, washing windows, mopping, scouring, etc., averaging two hours per day. Door service, waiting on tradesmen, and extras one-half hour per day. Total ten hours per day.”
“That sounds well. Does it take that much time every day?”
“Yes, indeed! It would take me twenty!” she answered. “You know the week I was here alone I never did half she does. Of course I had Baby, but then I didn’t do the things. I guess when it doesn’t take so long they just don’t do what ought to be done. For she is quick, awfully quick about her work. And she’s thorough. I suppose it ought to be done that way — but I never had one before.”
“She keeps mighty fresh and bright-looking after these herculean labors.”
“Yes, but then she rests! Her ten hours are from six-thirty a.m., when she goes into the kitchen as regularly as a cuckoo clock, to eight-thirty p.m. when she is all through and her kitchen looks like a — well it’s as clean and orderly as if no one was ever in it.”
“Ten hours — that’s fourteen.”
“I know it, but she takes out four. She claims time to eat her meals.”
“Preposterous!”
“Half an hour apiece, and half an hour in the morning to rest — and two in the afternoon. Anyway she is out, two hours every afternoon, riding in the electric cars!”
“That don’t look like a very hard job. Her day laborer doesn’t get two
hours off every afternoon to take excursions into the country!”
“No, I know that, but he doesn’t begin so early, nor stop so late. She does her square ten hours work, and I suppose one has a right to time off.”
“You seem dubious about that, my dear.”
“Yes, that’s just where it’s awkward. I’m used to girls being in all the time, excepting their day out. You see I can’t leave baby, nor always take him — and it interferes with my freedom afternoons.”
“Well — can’t you arrange with her somehow?”
“See if you can. She says she will only give ten hours of time for a dollar and a half a day — tisn’t but fifteen cents an hour — I have to pay a woman twenty that comes in. And if she is to give up her chance of sunlight and fresh air she wants me to pay her extra — by the hour. Or she says, if I prefer, she would take four hours every other day — and so be at home half the time. I said it was difficult to arrange — with baby, and she was very sympathetic and nice, but she won’t alter her plans.”
“Let her go, and get a less exacting servant.”
“But — she does her work so well! And it saves a lot, really. She knows all about marketing and things, and plans the meals so as to have things lap, and it’s a comfort to have her in the house and feel so safe and sure everything will be done right.”
“Well, it’s your province, my dear. I don’t profess to advise. But I assure you I appreciate the table, and the cleanness of everything, and the rested look in your eyes, dear girl!”
She slipped her hand into his affectionately. “It does make a difference,” she said. “I could get a girl for $20.00 and save nearly $2.60 a week — but you know what they are!”
“I do indeed,” he admitted fervently. “It’s worth the money to have this thing done so well. I think she’s right about the wages. Better keep her.”
“O — she’ll only agree to stay six months even at this rate!”
“Well — keep her six months and be thankful. I thought she was too good to last!”
They looked over the offered contract again. It closed with:
“This agreement to hold for six months from date if mutually satisfactory. In case of disagreement two weeks’ notice is to be given on either side, or two weeks’ wages if preferred by the employer.” It was dated, and signed “Miss D. C. Bell.”
And with inward amusement and great display of penmanship they added “Mrs. Isabel J. Porne,” and the contract was made.
CHAPTER VI. THE CYNOSURE.
It’s a singular thing that the commonest place
Is the hardest to properly fill;
That the labor imposed on a full half the race
Is so seldom performed with good will —
To say nothing of knowledge or skill!
What we ask of all women, we stare at in one,
And tribute of wonderment bring;
If this task of the million is once fitly done
We all hold our hands up and sing!
It’s really a singular thing!
Isabel Porne was a cautious woman, and made no acclaim over her new acquisition until its value was proven. Her husband also bided his time; and when congratulated on his improved appearance and air of contentment, merely vouchsafed that his wife had a new girl who could cook.
To himself he boasted that he had a new wife who could love — so cheerful and gay grew Mrs. Porne in the changed atmosphere of her home.
“It is remarkable, Edgar,” she said, dilating repeatedly on the peculiar quality of their good fortune. “It’s not only good cooking, and good waiting, and a clean house — cleaner than I ever saw one before; and it’s not only the quietness, and regularity and economy — why the bills have gone down more than a third!”
“Yes — even I noticed that,” he agreed.
“But what I enjoy the most is the atmosphere,” she continued. “When I have to do the work, the house is a perfect nightmare to me!” She leaned forward from her low stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and regarded him intently.
“Edgar! You know I love you. And I love my baby — I’m no unfeeling monster! But I can tell you frankly that if I’d had any idea of what housework was like I’d never have given up architecture to try it.”
“Lucky for me you hadn’t!” said he fondly. “I know it’s been hard for you, little girl. I never meant that you should give up architecture — that’s a business a woman could carry on at home I thought, the designing part anyway. There’s your ‘drawing-room’ and all your things—”
“Yes,” she said, with reminiscent bitterness, “there they are — and there they might have stayed, untouched — if Miss Bell hadn’t come!”
“Makes you call her “Miss Bell” all the time, does she?”
Mrs. Porne laughed. “Yes. I hated it at first, but she asked if I could give her any real reason why the cook should be called by her first name more than the seamstress or governess. I tried to say that it was shorter, but she smiled and said that in this case it was longer! — Her name is Diantha — I’ve seen it on letters. And it is one syllable longer. Anyhow I’ve got used to Miss Bell now.”
“She gets letters often?”
“Yes — very often — from Topolaya where she came from. I’m afraid she’s engaged.” Mrs. Porne sighed ruefully.
“I don’t doubt it!” said Mr. Porne. “That would account for her six months’ arrangement! Well, my dear — make hay while the sun shines!”
“I do!” she boasted. “Whole stacks! I’ve had a seamstress in, and got all my clothes in order and the baby’s. We’ve had lot of dinner-parties and teas as you know — all my “social obligations” are cleared off! We’ve had your mother for a visit, and mine’s coming now — and I wasn’t afraid to have either of them! There’s no fault to be found with my housekeeping now! And there are two things better than that — yes, three.”
“The best thing is to see you look so young and handsome and happy again,” said her husband, with a kiss.
“Yes — that’s one. Another is that now I feel so easy and lighthearted I can love you and baby — as — as I do! Only when I’m tired and discouraged I can’t put my hand on it somehow.”
He nodded sympathetically. “I know, dear,” he said. “I feel that way myself — sometimes. What’s the other?”
“Why that’s best of all!” she cried triumphantly. “I can Work again! When Baby’s asleep I get hours at a time; and even when he’s awake I’ve fixed a place where he can play — and I can draw and plan — just as I used to — better than I used to!”
“And that is even more to you than loving?” he asked in a quiet inquiring voice.
“It’s more because it means both!” She leaned to him, glowing, “Don’t you see? First I had the work and loved it. Then you came — and I loved you — better! Then Baby came and I loved him — best? I don’t know — you and baby are all one somehow.”
There was a brief interim and then she drew back, blushing richly. “Now stop — I want to explain. When the housework got to be such a nightmare — and I looked forward to a whole lifetime of it and no improvement; then I just ached for my work — and couldn’t do it! And then — why sometimes dear, I just wanted to run away! Actually! From both of you! — you see, I spent five years studying — I was a real architect — and it did hurt to see it go. And now — O now I’ve got It and You too, darling! And the Baby! — O I’m so happy!”
“Thanks to the Providential Miss Bell,” said he. “If she’ll stay I’ll pay her anything!”
The months went by.
Peace, order, comfort, cleanliness and economy reigned in the Porne household, and the lady of the house blossomed into richer beauty and happiness; her contentment marred only by a sense of flying time.
Miss Bell fulfilled her carefully specified engagement to the letter; rested her peaceful hour in the morning; walked and rode in the afternoon; familiarized herself with the length and breadth of the town; and visited
continuously among the servants of the neighborhood, establishing a large and friendly acquaintance. If she wore rubber gloves about the rough work, she paid for them herself; and she washed and ironed her simple and pretty costumes herself — with the result that they stayed pretty for surprising periods.
She wrote letters long and loving, to Ross daily; to her mother twice a week; and by the help of her sister’s authority succeeded in maintaining a fairly competent servant in her deserted place.
“Father was bound he wouldn’t,” her sister wrote her; “but I stood right up to him, I can now I’m married! — and Gerald too — that he’d no right to take it out of mother even if he was mad with you. He made a fuss about your paying for the girl — but that was only showing off — he couldn’t pay for her just now — that’s certain. And she does very well — a good strong girl, and quite devoted to mother.” And then she scolded furiously about her sister’s “working out.”
Diantha knew just how hard it was for her mother. She had faced all sides of the question before deciding.
“Your mother misses you badly, of course,” Ross wrote her. “I go in as often as I can and cheer her up a bit. It’s not just the work — she misses you. By the way — so do I.” He expressed his views on her new employment.
Diantha used to cry over her letters quite often. But she would put them away, dry her eyes, and work on at the plans she was maturing, with grim courage. “It’s hard on them now,” she would say to herself. “Its hard on me — some. But we’ll all be better off because of it, and not only us — but everybody!”
Meanwhile the happy and unhappy households of the fair town buzzed in comment and grew green with envy.
In social circles and church circles and club circles, as also in domestic circles, it was noised abroad that Mrs. Edgar Porne had “solved the servant question.” News of this marvel of efficiency and propriety was discussed in every household, and not only so but in barber-shops and other downtown meeting places mentioned. Servants gathered it at dinner-tables; and Diantha, much amused, regathered it from her new friends among the servants.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 7