CHAPTER III: THE HOUSEMAID
The worst thing about housemaids is their restlessness. Their passion for traveling about from one room to another becomes at last a sort of nervous disease. I have already described my discomfort in the constant traffic of Elizabeth Tique’s small house, and the excellent plans I made to ensure solitude and peace in my own. But does anyone suppose for a moment that one single-handed mistress can check the migratory instincts of a full-grown housemaid, any more than she could impede the perpetual silent passage of a tortoise from the artichoke bed to the hot-house and round by the rhododendrons?
I worked hard at the problem for some years. When we are young and hopeful it is quite easy to imagine that we are altering the facts of Nature. We talk glibly about our schemes for reforming drunkards, of thelikelihood of the British working man becoming interested in art, and so on. In the same way I saw no difficulty then in the idea of persuading a housemaid to finish one room at a time. I spoke very nicely about it at first. I said:
“Clara, I wish that you would begin one room at a time and then finish it, instead of going about doing little bits of things in each. It makes you so ubiquitous.”
“I beg pardon, m’m?”
“So here, there, and everywhere,” I explained. “Of course it is very nice to have you so active, but now, for instance, why couldn’t you finish my sitting-room or my bedroom? I don’t mind which, so long as I could have somewhere to write. You chased me about this morning as if I were a hen that wanted to sit at the wrong time. You know I hate having my legs dusted.”
“I was going to do the windows, m’m, as soon as you went out.”
“But, Clara, you know quite well that if I went out I should find you in the first shopI went to, polishing the grocer’s nose or something—”
“Beg pardon, m’m?”
It was useless to explain further. I made a schedule of work for Clara in which each portion of her day was mapped out in such a way that she would be continuously in one place for at least an hour at a time. I might as well have made a time-table for the weather. I have heard that there are mistresses who make schedules for their servants and get them followed: but whether these people achieve their results by hypnotism or force I do not know. I have been able now and again to arrest the disease in Clara for a short time, but I do not believe that there is any permanent cure for ubiquity in housemaids.
Another infirmity to which all of them are subject is morning blindness. When I go to bed at night my sitting-room is often far from tidy. I leave, perhaps, a thimble, scissors, a cherished pen, sheets of manuscript, some books, and a parcel or two on the table.By the time Clara has made her mouse-like exit next morning my table is as clear as a baby’s conscience. I hunt about muttering bad words for some minutes and then ring the bell. But no, Clara has seen nothing. She never puts anything away: perhaps master has had them——
“Yes, Clara,” I reply sarcastically, “I have no doubt that your master is at this moment playing ‘hunt the thimble’ in his office and cutting out paper boats with my scissors and manuscript. As for my book, probably the cat has taken it back to the library to be changed.”
Clara becomes huffy, and says she “hasn’t an idea, ’m sure.”
“I know you haven’t,” say I, “I don’t want you to have ideas. I want you to have eyesight, and a memory, and a little self-control. Why cannot you leave things where they are? Or, if you must put something away, why not those crumbs under the table or those empty envelopes or the mouldy paste that I used last week?”
I have heard of kittens being blind for some days after birth, but it is my own discovery that housemaids are blind for some hours after they get up.
I do not know how it is, but I get more tired of my own face and the housemaid’s than of anything else on earth. Probably no criminal feels more imprisoned with his warder than a woman can feel shut up in her own house with one or two servants; and she is so much the worse off that there is no free future to look forward to. A very unusual touch of sympathy occurs in a modern play where the writer makes his heroine retire to an empty room to have a bad headache in peace. Before she has had time to crumble into a comfortable ruin on the sofa, there is a knock at the door and in comes a housemaid armed with a tin and some little fidgety bits of rag to “polish the taps in Miss Iris’s bathroom.”
The public would surely be touched if they realised the fact that there is often no spot in her own house where the daughterof woman may lay a tear unobserved. Some women do not want to cry; they have nothing to fear from Sarah Ann. But to those who do, this constant espionage becomes a positive torture.
There are few things that I envy men so much as their leisure for getting on with their work. They have offices, studies, studios, in which they spend weary hours in a nerve-racking pursuit of guineas, or the appropriate word, or an elusive idea, but they are generally doing one thing at a time. They are not harassed by incessant irruptions from other workers bursting with irrelevant information about their underclothing or the state of the weather, nor are they pestered with foolish conundrums about weights and measures and the kind of subjects that “Old Moore’s Almanac” deals with so willingly. It is always possible to slam one’s door and lock it, but who really feels comfortable under the stigma of peculiarity? The comment which follows unusual conduct is in itself a violation of privacy, and so far frombeing alone, the offender is merely isolated the better to be observed.
I do not mind ordering things—it isn’t that; nor do I mind thinking about them—thinking quite hard. It is “seeing about” them that turns my blood to vitriol and my heart to dynamite.
Is a general in command of forces expected to see that his subalterns put on their clothes right side out? When he orders a charge does he find his men seated facing their horses’ tails? Does the captain of a ship put out to sea only to be told when he has crossed the Bar that “the wheel has come off in the mate’s ’and,” and that there is no more grease for the engines? And yet I believe that is the kind of thing that would happen if a mistress and her servants started out to discover America.
It is rarely that a servant in a small house considers herself responsible for anything. It is thought discreditable to the mistress alone if the house is dirty and the meals badly served; and yet she has seldomthe skill or the leisure to give point to her criticisms by setting a working example to those under her orders.
And the poor creature must learn so many trades. It is not enough that I strain my brains to bursting-point in order to think out new forms of nourishment for James, but I must learn the anatomy and the personal habits of the creatures he devours, conduct post-mortem examinations to discover whether they died too soon or not soon enough, whether they had eaten too much or not eaten enough, taken too much exercise or led too sedentary a life. I must be perpetually on the look-out to circumvent the countless ruses which Satan suggests to half a dozen intelligent tradesmen. I must know exactly in what combination the things I have bought will best amalgamate in James’s inside, and I must then somehow convey my knowledge through the tough skull of my cook. When at last I have got both food and ideas safely lodged in her keeping I must find the dish on whichshe is to serve it, and, worst of all, besiege her incessantly with alarm clocks and gongs to ensure its appearance at the right time.
When the meal is sent up only half of my work is done. I have to keep an eye on the tools with which James is to eat it, otherwise they are liable to be blunt, sticky, or placed crookedly on the table. After this James eats his dinner in peace, whilst I make a mental note of Clara’s personal habits, her flowers to praise, or her weeds to blame, and either or both to loathe; her elaborate elegancies of manner, or the fact that she always forgets to hand the sauce before she goes back to stand on one leg by the sideboard and listen to our conversation. I have stopped that now and told her not to wait, which means that she goes off to the bedrooms between the courses and does not hear the bell.
I can hear the efficient female say scornfully that I should get servants who know their business; but she forgets that if she or I do not have to train our striped geesein the sweat of our brows it means that some other mother of a family has done it—or perished in the attempt—and that Sarah Ann has left to “better herself.” Also one of the most efficient characteristics of the efficient female is her powerful fascination for servants of the clockwork-mouse type whom I abhor. Their machinery has been made by people with different tastes from my own, and when I have found the key and wound them up they begin folding table-napkins into wine-glasses with horrid dexterity, or they play a sort of suburban Halma called “ladies first” when they hand the courses.
Clara’s migratory instincts, her ubiquitousness, and her morning blindness were a constant annoyance to me, yet I look lovingly back upon them now over the heads of a succession of young persons, all of whom had occupied positions of trust in the houses of the semi-educated. When Clara left me in order to marry a traveller in sewing machines I acquired a wonderful insight intothe habits of the public dignitaries in our neighbourhood. I learned that the Mayoress of Pond never grudged the expense of paper mats under the fruit and preferred her sandwiches tied with pink ribbon. That Lady Knight believed in putting out Sir Donald’s clothes herself in the evening, and that it was not customary in the houses of the commercially great to clean the silver more than once a week “unless there was company.”
I once asked one of these Belles Brummells whether it was better form not to wash before dinner unless for a party of eight, and she replied gravely that it was a matter of taste, and did I wish hot water; she had no objection to bringing it.
Note.—I read this part aloud to the efficient female and she says that was not what she meant.