An Afternoon Grievance

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

I HAVE no teapot in my soul. If I were a man and a citizen, this would not matter; but, being a woman, it matters vitally. It means that I have no love for the pantry shelves or the things on them, that I loathe a chafing-dish, and that when my friends drop in, casually, about five o’clock, I have not the power of concocting, in the intervals of light and airy conversation, a cup of amber tea to be served with cheery smiles and a lemon. These things ought not so to be in a Christian country. Having been born in a Christian country, — a privilege to which I am. indebted for most of what I am, as I am reminded from time to time in church and prayer-meeting, — I ought to live up to the condition in life to which I have been called. I ought to dote on home, and I ought to be able to evolve a cup of tea and a wafer out of my inner consciousness, at a moment’s notice, — which, alas, I cannot. There is a moral tagging along somewhere after this subject. I do not know just what it is; but I know that it strikes deep into the roots of being.

I cannot tell when my unregenerate state set in. I was not always thus. I recall a time when I played dishes on the window-sill and made “Sally Lunns ” out of a yellow covered receipt book. It was a very disreputable receipt book, printed on thin paper, and full of indigestion, given away at the drug store to wondering schoolchildren and treasured by me for my delectable window-sill. The Sally Lunns, I admit, were chosen chiefly for their picturesque name, and for the stimulus it furnished to the higher imagination; they were doubtless of a deadly nature. But the delight I took in them and the airs and graces and flourishes that went to their composition would seem to indicate that I was not, at that period of my career, at least, an unsexed female. Somewhere, sometime, unawares, the fatal thing crept upon me.

There were signs of it in early maidenhood. I know the signs were there, because I had a sister in whom they were absent. She was always passing things. If an innocent company assembled in our parlor of an evening, this sister would slip quietly away and would presently return bearing in her hands food products, which she distributed to the waiting crowd. Sometimes it was a pan of apples, red and shining, from the cellar, and sometimes cookies; and once, I remember, it was crackers and water. But it seemed to be the idea — the idea of having something passed — that counted. The thing passed was immaterial, a mere device for setting in motion the wheels of conversation; and between nibbles flights of wit were essayed prodigious in their import. Our parties were always a success, thanks to the presence of a born hostess. The teapot on her hearth sang always gently ; and not the least and most unimportant member of the company but felt that it was good to be there. One touch of nature makes the world akin. And in the matter of chewing there is small choice of souls. I have seen a lumpish young man, with a look of dressed-up desperation in his face, changed, in the twinkling of an eye, into an intelligent human being, chewing complacently with the best of them. This I have seen. But this, alas, I have not brought to pass myself. It never occurred to me to pass anything. I could only look on with the rest, in dumb admiration of one who did not have to struggle for acts of social grace, one in whose soul they sprang ready born from a simple, gracious wish to please. I did once, out of the depths of my being, in my sister’s absence, evolve the idea of passing something. But my imagination refused to rise higher than crackers, and when I went to look the bag was empty. So I did not pass them. The crucial moment went by. I have sometimes wondered since whether, if there had been but a handful of crackers in that mocking paper bag, things might not have turned out differently. I like to fancy that I too might be a gentle, gracious hostess, permeating my assemblies with the fragrant scent of tea, and moulding public opinion on olives. But it was not to be.

With wondering gaze I saw the apples passed and wit and conversation begin to flow. But I never caught the secret. “They also serve who only stand and wait, ” perhaps — I have sometimes fancied that Mrs. Milton might have given a different version of the affair. I have a suspicion that she had the knack of passing things. That kind of woman is always passing things, with her husband sitting placidly by and composing poems: “Serene I fold my hands and wait,” or “They also serve who only stand and wait, ” and think that they have contributed their share to the sum total of happiness. Perhaps they have. Their wives think so, — gentle creatures, — and give them tea to drink when their arduous work is done.

The teapot soul is not a product of any one land or clime or race. Wherever woman is found it shines serene. There is one who dwells in my mind, a born Frenchwoman, exiled in early life to the shores of Boston, but retaining ever in her soul a delicate fragrance of social grace. Her sons have become distinguished scientists; her daughters have taken to themselves husbands of the land; and the gatherings in Madame’s little parlor are unique. It has sometimes been my good fortune to be present at these gatherings, and to watch the tact of Madame in holding together the diverse elements of her household and in permeating the whole with a sense of well-being and joy. She is not an intellectual woman, and she certainly is not beautiful. Yet stalwart, gray-haired men seek her like a sibyl. Long observation has led me to a conviction — Madame belongs to the Order of the Teapot. There you have the secret. And much good will it do you! For unless you too are born with a teapot in your soul, not all the knowledge of Bryn Mawr nor the beauty of the Gibson girl will avail you. Your parties will be cold; and if men think you clever it will be only to wish that you were not. I have a picture of Madame, on a Sunday afternoon, in old Duxbury, stealing silently around the corner of the house, under her big sun hat, while her sons and her sons-in-law lounged and laughed and smoked on the grass under the elm by the door. When she reappeared she bore in her small hands a plate heaped with cake and pie and doughnuts and cookies, — goodies foraged from the boarding-house pantry. Shouts of joy greeted her,— dinner being exactly one hour past by the clock. She was hailed as a saving angel. Her sons and her sons-in-law fell upon the plate and devoured it to the last crumb. If you want to hear them talk, mention casually in their presence the name of Madame, their mother. Then will springs of eloquence be unlocked. They will tell you of her remarkable powers, and of her infinite tact and patience and sagacity, and of what she has done for them. But they will not speak of the plate of pie and cake and doughnuts and cookies. It is hardly worth mentioning — unless one thinks so.

It is only when the teapot rises to the dignity of an art symbol that its full significance is seen. I have a friend who dotes on cooking as a poet dotes on his lines. Her soul floats in tea as naturally and as gracefully as the swan upon its native lake. There are doubtless other similes that might be used; but these will serve to give a faint picture of my idea. Cooking to her is not a trade, nor a science, nor a task, but a divine art. Her approach to the pantry is a triumphal progress, and her glance as it sweeps the shelves for possibilities and suggestions is full of shining delight. Everything in sight is doomed. With salad bowl and fork and spoon, with salt and pepper and oil and vinegar, with a few scraps of nothing and an onion, she will concoct a dish for the gods. To the uninitiated these things are not so. One may talk learnedly of salads. The receipt books are filled with lore on the subject. But the true salad maker knows that it can only be mixed — like a poem — under the fine frenzy of inspiration. To me a potato is a potato and a bean is a bean and an onion is an onion, and the sight of these respectable vegetables, reposing each on its separate dish, does not awaken in my soul the divine fire of composition. I have no promptings to make a poem of the potato and the bean and the onion, and serve it on a lettuce leaf, fresh and curly, for the delectation of my friends. Alas and alas, that I have not! I would that it were otherwise. When I think of these things, I would that I had never been born, or that the teapot had never been born, or that other and more gifted women had never been born with the fatal and beautiful and eclipsing teapot shining in their souls.