1913

All rights reserved

CONTENTS

Page
CHAPTERI.MARTHA[1]
II.THE COOK[13]
III.THE HOUSEMAID[25]
IV.TRADESMEN[36]
V.THE DINNER PARTY[43]
VI.THE JOB GARDENER[52]
VII.THE DOCTOR[61]
VIII.CHILDREN[74]
IX.THE SCHOOLROOM[92]
X.THE CHARWOMAN[102]
XI.HUSBANDS[111]
XII.CHRISTMAS[127]
XIII.THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR[140]
XIV.HOUSE-MOVING[150]
XV.SHOPPING IN LONDON[164]
XVI.THE COUNTRY HOUSE[174]
XVII.THE BUTLER[183]
XVIII.THE DRESSMAKER[193]
XIX.THE LADY’S MAID[205]
XX.RELATIONS-IN-LAW[214]
XXI.GENIUS[225]
XXII.CHARITY[235]
XXIII.FOREIGN TRAVEL[248]

CHAPTER I: MARTHA

This book ought by rights to have borne Ruth’s name on the cover instead of mine. Of the fifty years I have lived the first twenty were scattered and lost. The remaining thirty were gathered as they came, and threaded on a wire which formed them into a serviceable chain; that wire was Ruth. She has now broken off and formed other ties, therefore the years that remain will probably be scattered like the first, for there can be no second Ruth. It may be, even, that I shall be driven to spend my declining days in an hotel. Meantime I have a record of experiences common to many Marthas.

When I decided on the title it happened to be Ruth’s day out. I had intended, as a matter of course, to submit the name to her, and then, suddenly, a wave of mutiny swept over me.

“The book at least shall be mine,” I said to myself. “Ruth has taken possession of my house, my tradespeople, my children, and, what was dearer still, my leisure. What little freedom I have enjoyed has been procured by a wearisome amount of guile, but my pen is still my own and shall remain in my possession.”

It is true that David would never have burst into immortal song had it not been for his persecutors who goaded him to lament yet his works are published under his name and not under that of the Bulls of Bashan. Therefore I call this the Book of Martha and not of Ruth.

When I married, thirty years ago, I desired to lead a simpler life than is led by most people. So many women seem to me like parasites living on the combined labour of husband and servants. My friend Elizabeth Tique, with whom I often stayed, kept a cook, three maids, and an odd man, and these wretches somehow contrived to fill every inch of the small house and garden. It was almost impossible to go into any room without finding some one aggravatingly dressed in spotted cotton, rustling along with either a damp cloth or a carpet-sweeper or a tray laden with food. On one occasion, I remember, I went to my bedroom to write letters, having left one of the cotton-backs clearing away the breakfast, and the other, she of the damp cloth, in possession of the drawing-room. By some marvellous sleight of foot they both contrived to reach my room before me, and were busily engaged there when I arrived.