I thought, and said at the time, that Mammy and he had better give each other
up, as it was n't likely to be convenient for them ever to live together again.
I wish now I 'd insisted on it, and married Mammy to somebody else; but I was
foolish and indulgent, and did n't want to insist. I told Mammy at the time that
she must n't ever expect to see him more than once or twice in her life again,
for the air of father's place does n't agree with my health, and I can't go
there; and I advised her to take up with somebody else; but no--she would n't.
Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots, that everybody don't see as I
do.
Oph.
Has she children?
Mar.
Yes; she has two.
Oph.
I suppose she feels the separation from them?
Mar.
Well, of course, I could n't bring them. They were little, dirty things--I could
n't have them about; and, besides, they took up too much of her time; but I
believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort of sulkiness about this. She won't
marry anybody else; and I do believe now, though she knows how necessary she is
to me, and how feeble my health is, she would go back to her husband to-morrow,
if she only could. I do, indeed; they are just so selfish, now, the best of
them!
St. C. [Dryly.]
It 's distressing to reflect upon.
Mar.
Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me. I wish some of your northern servants
could look at her closets of dresses--silks and muslins, and one real linen
cambric, she has hanging there. I've worked sometimes whole afternoons, trimming
her caps, and getting her ready to go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know
what it is. She never was whipped in her whole life. She has her strong coffee
or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It's abominable, to be sure; but
St. Clare will have high life below stairs, and they, every one of them, live
just as they please. The fact is, our servants are over-indulged. I suppose it
is partly our fault that they are selfish, and act like spoiled children; but
I've talked to St. Clare till I am tired.
St. C.
And I, too.
[EVA goes to her mother, and puts her arms round her neck.] Mar.
Well, Marie, what now?
Eva.
Mamma, could n't I take care of you one night--just one? I know I should n't
make you nervous, and I should n't sleep. I often lie awake nights, thinking----
Mar.
O, nonsense, child--nonsense! You are such a strange child!
Eva.
But may I, mamma? I think that Mammy is n't well. She told me her head ached all
the time, lately.
Mar.
O, that 's just one of Mammy's fidgets! Mammy is just like all the rest of
them--makes such a fuss about every little headache or finger-ache; it 'll never
do to encourage it--never! I 'm principled about this matter;-- [To MISS
OPHELIA] you 'll find the necessity of it. If you encourage servants in giving
way to every little disagreeable feeling, and complaining of every little
ailment, you 'll have your hands full. I never complain myself; nobody knows
what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do.
[MISS OPHELIA looks amazed, and ST. CLARE breaks out laughing.] Mar. [Putting
her handkerchief to her eyes.]
St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my ill-health. I only
hope the day won't come when he 'll remember it.
St. C.
Come, Eva, I'll take you down street with me.
[Exit ST. CLARE and EVA.] Mar.
Now, that's just like St. Clare! He never realizes, never can, and never will,
what I suffer, and have, for years. If I was one of the complaining sort, or
ever made any fuss about my ailments, there would be some reason for it. Men do
get tired, naturally, of a complaining wife. But I've kept things to myself, and
borne, and borne, till St. Clare has got in the way of thinking I can bear
anything. But it 's no use talking, cousin. Well, here are the keys of the linen
closet, and I hope you 'll never let Jane or Rosa get hold of 'em or touch 'em.
And I hope you 'll be very particular about the way they fold the pillow-cases;
I believe I 'm foolishly particular, but I really have had a nervous headache
for a week, from the way those girls fold pillow-cases, if they are not looked
to. There 's two or three kinds of sheeting--you 'll observe them; I think it
important to keep each kind by itself. And here are the keys of the store-room;
you 'll find Dinah always will be running after them--I dare say she has half
the things out in the kitchen now. Dinah 's a first-rate cook, and so she rules
with a rod of iron--she knows her importance. She will insist on having
everything she wants in the kitchen, and calling every five minutes for
something; it tires me to death. But, then, what can one do? O!--there are the
keys of some trunks of clothing in the blue chamber; they 'll have to be hung
out and aired, I suppose. Dear knows what a state you 'll find them in; my poor
head has n't allowed me to do anything these three months; and Rosa and Jane
have always insisted on making one excuse or another to go to them. I s hould
n't wonder if half the things had been worn out. And as to marketing, and all
that, you must ask St. Clare; I 'm sure I don't know how that 's to be arranged.
And now--O dear me! how my head does ache!--but--well--I believe I 've told you
everything; so that, when my next sick turn comes on, you 'll be able to go
forward entirely without consulting me; only about Eva--she requires watching.
Oph.
She seems to be a good child, very; I never saw a better child.
Mar.
Eva 's peculiar. There are things about her so singular; she is n't like me,
now, a particle.
Oph. [Aside.]
I hope she is n't.
Mar.
Eva always was disposed to be with servants; and I think that well enough with
some children. Now, I always played with father's little negroes--it never did
me any harm. But Eva, somehow, always seems to put herself on an equality with
every creature that comes near her. It 's a strange thing about the child. I
never have been able to break her of it. St. Clare, I believe, encourages her in
it. The fact is, St. Clare indulges every creature under this roof but his own
wife.
Oph. [Coughs.]
Hem! ahem!
Mar.
Now, there's no way with servants, but to put them down, and keep them down. It
was always natural to me, from a child. Eva is enough to spoil a whole
house-full. What she will do when she comes to keep house herself, I'm sure I
don't know. I hold to being kind to servants--I always am; but you must make 'em
know their place. Eva never does; there's no getting into the child's head the
first beginning of an idea what a servant's place is! You heard her offering to
take care of me nights, to let Mammy sleep! That's just a specimen of the way
the child would be doing all the time, if she was left to herself.
Oph.
Well, I suppose you
think your servants are human creatures, and ought to have
some rest when they are tired?
Mar.
Certainly, of course I 'm very particular in letting them have everything that
comes convenient--anything that does n't put one at all out of the way, you
know. Mammy can make up her sleep some time or other; there's no difficulty
about that. She 's the sleepiest concern that ever I saw. Sewing, standing, or
sitting, that creature will go to sleep, and sleep anywhere and everywhere. No
danger but Mammy gets sleep enough. But this treating servants as if they were
exotic flowers, or china vases, is really ridiculous.
You see, Cousin Ophelia, I don't often speak of myself. It isn't my habit; 't is
n't agreeable to me. In fact, I have n't strength to do it. But there are points
where St. Clare and I differ. St. Clare never understood me--never appreciated
me. I think it lies at the root of all my ill health. St. Clare means well, I am
bound to believe; but men are constitutionally selfish and inconsiderate to
woman. That, at least, is my impression.
Oph.
Where 's my knitting? O--here 't is.
[Knits energetically.] Mar.
You see, I brought my own property and servants into the connection, when I
married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled to manage them my own way. St.
Clare had his fortune and his servants, and I 'm well enough content he should
manage them his way; but St. Clare will be interfering. He has wild, extravagant
notions about things, particularly about the treatment of servants. He really
does act as if he set his servants before me, and before himself, too; for he
lets them make him all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a finger. Now, about
some things, St. Clare is really frightful--he frightens me--good-natured as he
looks, in general. Now, he has set down his foot that, come what will, there
shall not be a blow struck in this house, except what he or I strike; and he
does it in a way that I really dare not cross him. Well, you may see what that
leads to; for St. Clare would n't raise his hand, if every one of them walked
over him, and I--you see how cruel it would be to require me to make the
exertion. Now, you know these servants are nothing but grown-up children.
Oph.
I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that I don't!
Mar.
Well, but you will have to know something, and know it to your cost, if you stay
here. You don't know what a provoking, stupid, careless, unreasonable, childish,
ungrateful set of wretches they are. You don't know, and you can't, the daily,
hourly trials that beset a housekeeper from them, everywhere and every way. But
it 's no use to talk to St. Clare. He talks the strangest stuff. He says we have
made them what they are, and ought to bear with them. He says their faults are
He says we should n't do any better, in their place; just as if one could reason
from them to us, you know!
Oph.
Don't you believe that the Lord made them of one blood with us?
Mar.
No, indeed, not I! A pretty story, truly! They are a degraded race.
Oph.
Don't you think they 've got immortal souls?
Mar. [Yawning.]
O, well, that, of course--nobody doubts that. But as to putting them on any sort
of equality with us, you know, as if we could be compared, why, it 's
impossible! Now, St. Clare really h as talked to me as if keeping Mammy from her
husband was like keeping me from mine. There's no comparing in this way. Mammy
could n't have the feelings that I should. It 's a different thing altogether--
of course, it is; and yet St. Clare pretends not to see it. And just as if Mammy
could love her little, dirty babies as I love Eva! Yet St. Clare once really and
soberly tried to persuade me that it was my duty, with my weak health, and all I
suffer, to let Mammy go back, and take somebody else in her place! That was a
little too much even for me to bear. I don't often show my feelings, I make it a
principle to endure everything in silence; it 's a wife's hard lot, and I bear
it. But I did break out, that time, so that he has never alluded to the subject
since. But I know by his looks, and little things that he says, that he thinks
so as much as ever; and it 's so trying, so provoking!
Oph. [Rattling her needles.]
Hem! ahem!
Mar.
So, you just see what you've got to manage. A household without any rule; where
servants have it all their own way, do what they please, and have what they
please, except so far as I, with my feeble health, have kept up government.
Oph.
And how 's that?
Mar.
Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other places, to be flogged.l
That 's the only way. If I was n't such a poor, feeble piece, I believe I should
manage with twice the energy that St. Clare does.
Oph.
And how does St. Clare contrive to manage? You say he never strikes a blow.
Mar.
Well, men have a more commanding way, you know; it is easier for them. Besides,
if you ever looked full in his eye, it 's peculiar--that eye--and if he speaks
decidedly, there 's a kind of flash. I 'm afraid of it, myself; and the servants
know they must mind. I could n't do as much by a regular storm and scolding as
St. Clare can by one turn of his eye, if once he is in earnest. O, there 's no
trouble about St. Clare! that 's the reason he's no more feeling for me. But you
'll find, when you come to manage, that there's no getting along without
severity--they are so bad, so deceitful, so lazy!
Enter ST. CLARE. St. Clare.
The old tune! What an awful account these wicked creatures will have to settle,
at last, especially for being lazy! You see, cousin, it 's wholly inexcusable in
them, in the light of the example that Marie and I set them, this laziness.
Mar.
Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad.
St. C.
Am I now? Why, I thought I was talking good, quite remarkably for me. I try to
enforce your remarks, Marie, always.
Mar.
You know you mean no such thing, St. Clare.
St. C.
O, I must have been mistaken, then! Thank you, my dear, for setting me right.
Mar.
You do really try to be provoking.
St. C.
O, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have just had a long quarrel with
'Dolph, which has fatigued me excessively; so, pray be agreeable, now, and let a
fellow repose in the light of your smile.
Mar.
What 's the matter about 'Dolph? That fellow's impudence has been growing to a
point that is perfectly intolerable to me. I only wish I had the undisputed
management of him a while. I 'd bring him down!
St. C.
What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual acuteness and good sense. As to
'Dolph, the case is this: that he has so long been engaged in imitating my
graces and perfections, that he has at last really mistaken himself for his
master, and I have been obliged to give him a little insight into his mistake.
Mar.
How?
St. C.
Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that I preferred to keep
some of my clothes for my own personal wearing; also, I put his magnificence
upon an allowance of cologne-water, and actually was so cruel as to restrict him
to one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs. 'Dolph was particularly huffy about
it, and I had to talk to him like a father to bring him round.
Mar.
O! St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your servants? It 's abominable,
the way you indulge them!
St. C.
Why, after all, what 's the harm of the poor dog's wanting to be like his
master? and if I have n't brought him up any better than to find his chief good
in cologne and cambric handkerchiefs, why should n't I give them to him?
Oph.
And why have n't you brought him up better?
St. C.
Too much trouble; laziness, cousin, laziness--which ruins more souls than you
can shake a stick at. If it were n't for laziness, I should have been a perfect
angel, myself. I 'm inclined to think that laziness is what your old Dr.
Botherem, up in Vermont, used to call "the essence of moral evil." It 's an
awful consideration, certainly.
Oph.
I think you slaveholders have an awful responsbility upon you. I would n't have
it for a thousand worlds. You ought to educate your slaves, and treat them like
reasonable creatures, like immortal creatures, th at you 've got to stand before
the bar of God with. That 's my mind.
St. C.
O! come, come, what do you know about us? [Goes to the piano, and plays and
sings.] Well, now, cousin, you 've given us a good talk, and done your duty; on
the whole, I think the better of you for it. I make no manner of doubt that you
threw a very diamond of truth at me, though you see it hit me so directly in the
face, that it was n't exactly appreciated at first.
Mar.
For my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk. I 'm sure, if anybody
does more for servants than we do, I 'd like to know who; and it don't do 'em a
bit good--not a particle; they get worse and worse. As to talking to them, or
anything like that, I 'm sure I have talked till I was tired and hoarse, telling
them their duty, and all that; and I 'm sure they can go to church when they
like, though they don't understand a word of the sermon, more than so many pigs;
so it is n't of any great use for them to go, as I see; but they do go, and so
they have every chance; but, as I said before, they are a degraded race, and
always will be, and there isn't any help for them; you can't make anything of
them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia, I 've tried, and you have n't; I was
born and bred among them, and I know. [ST. CLARE whistles a tune.] St. Clare, I
wish you would n't whistle; it makes my head worse.
St. C.
I won't. Is there anything else you would n't wish me to do?
Mar.
I wish you would have some kind of sympathy for my trials; you never have any
feeling for me.
St. C.
My dear accusing angel!
Mar.
It 's provoking to be talked to in that way.
St. C.
Then how will you be talked to? I 'll talk to order--any way you 'll mention,
only to give satisfaction.
[A laugh heard below in the court.] Oph.
What is it? [Rising and coming to the window.] As I live! if there an't Eva,
sitting in Uncle Tom's lap! Eugh! there, she 's hanging a wreath of roses round
his neck!
Eva. [Below, laughing.]
O, Tom, you look so funny!
Oph.
How can you let her?
St. C.
Why not?
Oph.
Why, I don't know, it seems so dreadful!
St. C.
You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large dog, even if he was
black; but a creature that can think, and reason, and feel, and is immortal, you
shudder at; confess it, cousin. I know the feeling among some of you northerners
well enough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in our not having it; but
custom with us does what Christianity ought to do--obliterates the feeling of
personal prejudice. I have often noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger
this was with you than with us. You loathe them as you would a snake or a toad,
yet you are indignant at their wrongs. You would not have them abused; but you