Household Papers and Stories

I

WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH HER? OR, THE WOMAN QUESTION

“Well, what will you do with her?” said I to my wife.

My wife had just come down from an interview with a pale, faded-looking young woman in rusty black attire, who had called upon me on the very common supposition that I was an editor of the “Atlantic Monthly.”

By the by, this is a mistake that brings me, Christopher Crowfield, many letters that do not belong to me, and which might with equal pertinency be addressed, “To the Man in the Moon.” Yet these letters often make my heart ache, – they speak so of people who strive and sorrow and want help; and it is hard to be called on in plaintive tones for help which you know it is perfectly impossible for you to give.

For instance, you get a letter in a delicate hand, setting forth the old distress, – she is poor, and she has looking to her for support those that are poorer and more helpless than herself: she has tried sewing, but can make little at it; tried teaching, but cannot now get a school, – all places being filled, and more than filled; at last has tried literature, and written some little things, of which she sends you a modest specimen, and wants your opinion whether she can gain her living by writing. You run over the articles, and perceive at a glance that there is no kind of hope or use in her trying to do anything at literature; and then you ask yourself mentally, “What is to be done with her? What can she do?”

Such was the application that had come to me this morning, – only, instead of by note, it came, as I have said, in the person of the applicant, a thin, delicate, consumptive-looking being, wearing that rusty mourning which speaks sadly at once of heart bereavement and material poverty.

My usual course is to turn such cases over to Mrs. Crowfield; and it is to be confessed that this worthy woman spends a large portion of her time, and wears out an extraordinary amount of shoe-leather, in performing the duties of a self-constituted intelligence office. Talk of giving money to the poor! what is that, compared to giving sympathy, thought, time, taking their burdens upon you, sharing their perplexities? They who are able to buy off every application at the door of their heart with a five or ten dollar bill are those who free themselves at least expense.

My wife had communicated to our friend, in the gentlest tones and in the blandest manner, that her poor little pieces, however interesting to her own household circle, had nothing in them wherewith to enable her to make her way in the thronged and crowded thoroughfare of letters, – that they had no more strength or adaptation to win bread for her than a broken-winged butterfly to draw a plough; and it took some resolution in the background of her tenderness to make the poor applicant entirely certain of this. In cases like this, absolute certainty is the very greatest, the only true kindness.

It was grievous, my wife said, to see the discouraged shade which passed over her thin, tremulous features when this certainty forced itself upon her. It is hard, when sinking in the waves, to see the frail bush at which the hand clutches uprooted; hard, when alone in the crowded thoroughfare of travel, to have one’s last bank-note declared a counterfeit. I knew I should not be able to see her face, under the shade of this disappointment; and so, coward that I was, I turned this trouble, where I have turned so many others, upon my wife.

“Well, what shall we do with her?” said I.

“I really don’t know,” said my wife musingly.

“Do you think we could get that school in Taunton for her?”

“Impossible; Mr. Herbert told me he had already twelve applicants for it.”

“Couldn’t you get her plain sewing? Is she handy with her needle?”

“She has tried that, but it brings on a pain in her side, and cough; and the doctor has told her it will not do for her to confine herself.”

“How is her handwriting? Does she write a good hand?”

“Only passable.”

“Because,” said I, “I was thinking if I could get Steele and Simpson to give her law papers to copy.”

“They have more copyists than they need now; and, in fact, this woman does not write the sort of hand at all that would enable her to get on as a copyist.”

“Well,” said I, turning uneasily in my chair, and at last hitting on a bright masculine expedient, “I’ll tell you what must be done. She must get married.”

“My dear,” said my wife, “marrying for a living is the very hardest way a woman can take to get it. Even marrying for love often turns out badly enough. Witness poor Jane.”

Jane was one of the large number of people whom it seemed my wife’s fortune to carry through life on her back. She was a pretty, smiling, pleasing daughter of Erin, who had been in our family originally as nursery-maid. I had been greatly pleased in watching a little idyllic affair growing up between her and a joyous, good-natured young Irishman, to whom at last we married her. Mike soon after, however, took to drinking and unsteady courses; and the result has been to Jane only a yearly baby, with poor health and no money.

“In fact,” said my wife, “if Jane had only kept single, she could have made her own way well enough, and might have now been in good health and had a pretty sum in the savings bank. As it is, I must carry not only her, but her three children, on my back.”

“You ought to drop her, my dear. You really ought not to burden yourself with other people’s affairs as you do,” said I inconsistently.

“How can I drop her? Can I help knowing that she is poor and suffering? And if I drop her, who will take her up?”

Now there is a way of getting rid of cases of this kind, spoken of in a quaint old book, which occurred strongly to me at this moment: —

“If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, ‘Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled,’ notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body, what doth it profit?”

I must confess, notwithstanding the strong point of the closing question, I looked with an evil eye of longing on this very easy way of disposing of such cases. A few sympathizing words, a few expressions of hope that I did not feel, a line written to turn the case into somebody else’s hands, – any expedient, in fact, to hide the longing eyes and imploring hands from my sight, – was what my carnal nature at this moment greatly craved.

“Besides,” said my wife, resuming the thread of her thoughts in regard to the subject just now before us, “as to marriage, it’s out of the question at present for this poor child; for the man she loved and would have married lies low in one of the graves before Richmond. It’s a sad story, – one of a thousand like it. She brightened for a few moments, and looked almost handsome, when she spoke of his bravery and goodness. Her father and lover have both died in this war. Her only brother has returned from it a broken-down cripple, and she has him and her poor old mother to care for, and so she seeks work. I told her to come again to-morrow, and I would look about for her a little to-day.”

“Let me see, how many are now down on your list to be looked about for, Mrs. Crowfield? – some twelve or thirteen, are there not? You’ve got Tom’s sister disposed of finally, I hope, – that’s a comfort!”

“Well, I’m sorry to say she came back on my hands yesterday,” said my wife patiently. “She is a foolish young thing, and said she didn’t like living out in the country. I’m sorry, because the Morrises are an excellent family, and she might have had a life home there, if she had only been steady, and chosen to behave herself properly. But yesterday I found her back on her mother’s hands again; and the poor woman told me that the dear child never could bear to be separated from her, and that she hadn’t the heart to send her back.”

“And in short,” said I, “she gave you notice that you must provide for Miss O’Connor in some more agreeable way. Cross that name off your list, at any rate. That woman and girl need a few hard raps in the school of experience before you can do anything for them.”

“I think I shall,” said my long-suffering wife; “but it’s a pity to see a young thing put in the direct road to ruin.”

“It is one of the inevitables,” said I, “and we must save our strength for those that are willing to help themselves.”

“What’s all this talk about?” said Bob, coming in upon us rather brusquely.

“Oh, as usual, the old question,” said I, – “‘What’s to be done with her?’”

“Well,” said Bob, “it’s exactly what I’ve come to talk with mother about. Since she keeps a distressed women’s agency office, I’ve come to consult her about Marianne. That woman will die before six months are out, a victim to high civilization and the Paddies. There we are, twelve miles out from Boston, in a country villa so convenient that every part of it might almost do its own work, – everything arranged in the most convenient, contiguous, self-adjusting, self-acting, patent-right, perfective manner, – and yet I tell you Marianne will die of that house. It will yet be recorded on her tombstone, ‘Died of conveniences.’ For myself, what I languish for is a log-cabin, with a bed in one corner, a trundle-bed underneath for the children, a fireplace only six feet off, a table, four chairs, one kettle, a coffee-pot, and a tin baker, – that’s all. I lived deliciously in an establishment of this kind last summer, when I was up at Lake Superior; and I am convinced, if I could move Marianne into it at once, that she would become a healthy and a happy woman. Her life is smothered out of her with comforts; we have too many rooms, too many carpets, too many vases and knick-knacks, too much china and silver; she has too many laces and dresses and bonnets; the children all have too many clothes: in fact, to put it scripturally, our riches are corrupted, our garments are moth-eaten, our gold and our silver is cankered, and, in short, Marianne is sick in bed, and I have come to the agency office for distressed women to take you out to attend to her.

“The fact is,” continued Bob, “that since our cook married, and Alice went to California, there seems to be no possibility of putting our domestic cabinet upon any permanent basis. The number of female persons that have been through our house, and the ravages they have wrought on it for the last six months, pass belief. I had yesterday a bill of sixty dollars’ plumbing to pay for damages of various kinds which had had to be repaired in our very convenient water-works; and the blame of each particular one had been bandied like a shuttlecock among our three household divinities. Biddy privately assured my wife that Kate was in the habit of emptying dustpans of rubbish into the main drain from the chambers, and washing any little extra bits down through the bowls; and, in fact, when one of the bathing-room bowls had overflowed so as to damage the frescoes below, my wife, with great delicacy and precaution, interrogated Kate as to whether she had followed her instructions in the care of the water-pipes. Of course she protested the most immaculate care and circumspection. ‘Sure, and she knew how careful one ought to be, and wasn’t of the likes of thim as wouldn’t mind what throuble they made, – like Biddy, who would throw trash and hair in the pipes, and niver listen to her tellin’; sure, and hadn’t she broken the pipes in the kitchen, and lost the stoppers, as it was a shame to see in a Christian house?’ Ann, the third girl, being privately questioned, blamed Biddy on Monday, and Kate on Tuesday; on Wednesday, however, she exonerated both; but on Thursday, being in a high quarrel with both, she departed, accusing them severally, not only of all the evil practices aforesaid, but of lying and stealing, and all other miscellaneous wickednesses that came to hand. Whereat the two thus accused rushed in, bewailing themselves and cursing Ann in alternate strophes, averring that she had given the baby laudanum, and, taking it out riding, had stopped for hours with it in a filthy lane where the scarlet fever was said to be rife, – in short, made so fearful a picture that Marianne gave up the child’s life at once, and has taken to her bed. I have endeavored all I could to quiet her, by telling her that the scarlet fever story was probably an extemporaneous work of fiction, got up to gratify the Hibernian anger at Ann; and that it wasn’t in the least worth while to believe one thing more than another from the fact that any of the tribe said it. But she refuses to be comforted, and is so Utopian as to lie there crying, ‘Oh, if I only could get one that I could trust, – one that would really speak the truth to me, – one that I might know really went where she said she went, and really did as she said she did!’ To have to live so, she says, and bring up little children with those she can’t trust out of her sight, whose word is good for nothing, – to feel that her beautiful house and her lovely things are all going to rack and ruin, and she can’t take care of them, and can’t see where or when or how the mischief is done, – in short, the poor child talks as women do who are violently attacked with housekeeping fever tending to congestion of the brain. She actually yesterday told me that she wished, on the whole, she never had got married, which I take to be the most positive indication of mental alienation.”

“Here,” said I, “we behold at this moment two women dying for the want of what they can mutually give one another, – each having a supply of what the other needs, but held back by certain invisible cobwebs, slight but strong, from coming to each other’s assistance. Marianne has money enough, but she wants a helper in her family, such as all her money has been hitherto unable to buy; and here, close at hand, is a woman who wants home shelter, healthy, varied, active, cheerful labor, with nourishing food, kind care, and good wages. What hinders these women from rushing to the help of one another, just as two drops of water on a leaf rush together and make one? Nothing but a miserable prejudice, – but a prejudice so strong that women will starve in any other mode of life rather than accept competency and comfort in this.”

“You don’t mean,” said my wife, “to propose that our protégée should go to Marianne as a servant?”

“I do say it would be the best thing for her to do, – the only opening that I see, and a very good one, too, it is. Just look at it. Her bare living at this moment cannot cost her less than five or six dollars a week, – everything at the present time is so very dear in the city. Now by what possible calling open to her capacity can she pay her board and washing, fuel and lights, and clear a hundred and some odd dollars a year? She could not do it as a district school teacher; she certainly cannot, with her feeble health, do it by plain sewing; she could not do it as a copyist. A robust woman might go into a factory and earn more; but factory work is unintermitted, twelve hours daily, week in and out, in the same movement, in close air, amid the clatter of machinery; and a person delicately organized soon sinks under it. It takes a stolid, enduring temperament to bear factory labor. Now look at Marianne’s house and family, and see what is insured to your protégée there.

“In the first place, a home, – a neat, quiet chamber, quite as good as she has probably been accustomed to, – the very best of food, served in a pleasant, light, airy kitchen, which is one of the most agreeable rooms in the house, and the table and table service quite equal to those of most farmers and mechanics. Then her daily tasks would be light and varied, – some sweeping, some dusting, the washing and dressing of children, the care of their rooms and the nursery, – all of it the most healthful, the most natural work of a woman, – work alternating with rest, and diverting thought from painful subjects by its variety, and, what is more, a kind of work in which a good Christian woman might have satisfaction, as feeling herself useful in the highest and best way; for the child’s nurse, if she be a pious, well-educated woman, may make the whole course of nursery life an education in goodness. Then, what is far different from any other modes of gaining a livelihood, a woman in this capacity can make and feel herself really and truly beloved. The hearts of little children are easily gained, and their love is real and warm, and no true woman can become the object of it without feeling her own life made brighter. Again, she would have in Marianne a sincere, warm-hearted friend, who would care for her tenderly, respect her sorrows, shelter her feelings, be considerate of her wants, and in every way aid her in the cause she has most at heart, – the succor of her family. There are many ways besides her wages in which she would infallibly be assisted by Marianne, so that the probability would be that she could send her little salary almost untouched to those for whose support she was toiling, – all this on her part.”