This is written, as the scientific people say, from observations taken on the spot. One day I spent an hour in watching Mrs. Fennel at her work, and an hour in watching Mr. Fennel at his. Being in a humorous as well as a scientific frame of mind, I played they were my specimens, and that the matter under consideration really did belong to some branch of science, unknown, of course, to a country schoolmaster. I copy from my note-book:—
“Time, forenoon; place, kitchen.
“Fly, my pencil, fly, like Mrs. Fennel’s feet! Dinner is getting. It seems now as if every moment were a crisis. What’s that she is dropping into hot water? Oh! turnip, sliced and peeled. Meat, pudding, potatoes, squash, beans, &c., require, I see, different lengths of time in the cooking. But they must be on the table at twelve o’clock, done just right; some of them mashed, and all of them hot. Think of the calculation necessary to bring this about! Meanwhile, in the intervals of lifting the pot-lid, Gussy’s new suit is being ‘cut out of old.’ And here, again, calculation—that is, mind—is required in cutting the cloth to advantage.
“Now Mrs. Fennel drops down to take a long breath. ‘How much sugar must be put into this gooseberry pie?’ Martha asks. ‘Rising one cupful.’ Now a little girl comes of an errand: ‘Mother wants you to write down how to make corn-starch gruel. Bobby’s sick.’ Mrs. Fennel writes directions. Now she is ironing. Why not wait till after dinner? Oh, to be sure! ‘We must iron while we have a fire.’ Now Gussy rushes in pell-mell to ask if when he carries Emma’s gooseberries for her because she asked him to, and then stubs his toe, and spills ’em, he ought to pick ’em up? Now comes Emma, to say that Gussy tried to stub his toe, because she picked more gooseberries than he did when he went. Mrs. Fennel adjusts the quarrel; preaches a sermon on envy, truth, and brotherly love; informs Gussy what Malaga is famous for; tries on his jacket (telling a story to make him stand still); catches up a rent in Emma’s dress; trades with a tin-peddler (mind again); and through all this keeps her eye on the cook-stove; drops things into hot water; forks things out of hot water; contrives places for saucepans, spiders; runs round with a long-handled spoon, now with a knife, stirring, mashing, seasoning, tasting, till at last the moment arrives, and the men-folks arrive, and the grand crisis of the day is at its climax. But oh the flurry and excitement of the last fifteen minutes! the watching the clock, the looking in at the oven, the disappointment when things that should have risen have fallen! As if this did not happen in life always!”
The second hour gave less striking results. I found Mr. Fennel planing and grooving boards. His movements were distinguished by an entire calmness. There was no hurry, no excitement, to keep his mind on the snap every moment; no grand climax for which boards, laths, shingles, nails, and clapboards must be got ready, let come what would. “Too monotonous,” the notes read, “to be of any special interest.” Had he dropped his plane for a trowel, the trowel for a paint-brush, paint-brush for a whitewash-brush, whitewash-brush for a hod of bricks, or been called upon to slack lime, mix paint, or to give directions for building a hen-house, the proceedings in the work-shop would no doubt have been as entertaining as those in the kitchen. But, as far as hinderances were concerned, Mr. Fennel might have shoved that plane till doomsday, and with a temper smooth and even as his own boards.
Since that time I have observed carefully other men and other women at their work; and thus far my observations show that the average mother of a family requires and uses, in the performance of her daily duties, higher qualities of mind than does the average father of a family in the performance of his. Indeed, the more closely I observe, the more amazed am I at the skill, tact, energy, insight, foresight, judgment, ability, genius, I may almost say, so often displayed by the former.
Well, and what then? Why, then the question arises, “Is woman, in the present condition of things, making the best use of all these high qualities?” This question is not suggested by the fact of her giving herself up so entirely to her family. Oh, no! most emphatically no. Children must have their mother. She belongs to them. The best a woman has, the best an arch-angel has, is none too good for the children. No: the question is suggested, partly by the “observations” I have been making, and partly by the recollection of Mrs. Melendy’s remark, that the “three meals take about all day.” I am glad the sewing-circle meets here this week; for, by attending to the conversation, I may learn upon what subjects the minds of at least some fifteen or twenty women chiefly dwell.
Another question, and a startling one too, is this: “If woman ever has a chance properly to develop these remarkable qualities of mind, what is going to become of the mental superiority of the dominant sex?”
No more, no more! My brain is confused, my soul disquieted within me. Whoever would be tranquil, let him not investigate.