The Greatest Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Charlotte Perkins Gilman
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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