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- 5. Planetary Climates AndrewIngersoll Digital Instant Download Author(s): AndrewIngersoll ISBN(s): 9781400848232, 1400848237 Edition: Course Book File Details: PDF, 2.37 MB Year: 2013 Language: english
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- 7. chapter ii Princeton Primersin Climate David Archer, The Global Carbon Cycle Geoffrey K. Vallis, Climate and the Oceans Shawn J. Marshall, The Cryosphere David Randall, Atmosphere, Clouds, and Climate David Schimel, Climate and Ecosystems Michael Bender, Paleoclimate Andrew P. Ingersoll, Planetary Climates
- 8. iii princeton university pressPrinceton & Oxford Planetary Climates Andrew P. Ingersoll
- 9. Copyright © 2013by Princeton University Press Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540 In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, 6 Oxford Street, Wood- stock, Oxfordshire OX20 1TW press.princeton.edu All Rights Reserved ISBN 978-0-691-14504-4 ISBN (pbk.) 978-0-691-14505-1 Library of Congress Control Number: 2013939167 British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available This book has been composed in Minion Pro and Aviner LT Std This book is printed on recycled paper Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 FPO (FSC logo here)
- 10. Contents 1 Introduction: TheDiversity of Planetary Climates 1 2 Venus: Atmospheric Evolution 7 3 Venus: Energy Transport and Winds 26 4 Mars: Long-Term Climate Change 74 5 Mars: The Present Era 92 6 Titan, Moons, and Small Planets 111 7 Jupiter the Gas Giant 136 8 Jupiter Winds and Weather 162 9 Saturn 202 10 Uranus, Neptune, and Exoplanets 223 11 Conclusion 240 Glossary 247 Notes 257 Further Reading 271 Index 273
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- 14. 1 Introduction: The Diversityof Planetary Climates Climate is the average weather—long-term properties of the atmosphere like temperature, wind, cloudiness, and precipitation, and properties of the sur- face like snow, glaciers, rivers, and oceans. Earth has a wide range of climates, but the range among the planets is much greater. Studying the climates of other planets helps us understand the basic physical processes in a larger context. One learns which factors are important in setting the climate and how they interact. Earth is the only planet with water in all three phases— solid, liquid, and gas. Mars has plenty of water, but it’s al- most all locked up in the polar caps as ice. There’s a small amount of water vapor in its atmosphere but no stand- ing bodies of liquid water. Venus has a small amount of water vapor in its atmosphere, but the Venus surface is hot enough to melt lead and is too hot for solid or liquid water. Thus by human standards, Venus is too hot and Mars is too cold. The classic “habitable zone,” where Earth resides and life evolved, lies in between. Things get strange in the outer solar system. Titan, a moon of Saturn, has rivers and lakes, but they’re made of methane, which we know as natural gas. The giant
- 15. chapter 1 2 planets haveno solid or liquid surfaces, so you would need a balloon or an airplane to visit them. The climates there range from terribly cold at the tops of the clouds to scorching hot in the gaseous interiors, with warm, wet, rainy layers in between. Some of the moons in the outer solar system have oceans of liquid water beneath their icy crusts. The solar system’s habitable zone could be an archipelago that includes these icy moons, but the crusts could be tens of kilometers thick. Their subsurface oceans are beyond the scope of this book. The diversity of planetary climates is huge, but the basic ingredients are the same—the five elements H, O, C, N, and S. A fundamental difference is the rela- tive abundance of hydrogen and oxygen. In the inner solar system—Earth, Mars, and Venus—the elements are combined into compounds like oxygen (O2 ), carbon dioxide (CO2 ), nitrogen (N2 ), sulfur dioxide (SO2 ), and water (H2 O). In the outer solar system—Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune—the elements are combined into compounds like methane (CH4 ), ammonia (NH3 ), hy- drogen sulfide (H2 S), and water. Saturn’s moon Titan has an atmosphere of nitrogen and methane, and Jupiter’s moon Io has an atmosphere of sulfur dioxide. The com- position of a planetary atmosphere has a profound effect on its climate, yet many of the processes that control the composition are poorly understood. The underlying physical processes are the same as well. Temperature is a crucial variable, and it is largely but not entirely controlled by distance to the Sun. The temperature of the planet adjusts to maintain thermal
- 16. Diversit y ofPl anetary Climates 3 equilibrium—to keep the amount of outgoing infrared radiation equal to the amount of absorbed sunlight. Clouds and ice reflect sunlight, leading to cooler tem- peratures, but clouds also block outgoing infrared radia- tion, leading to warmer temperatures down below. Many gases like water vapor, carbon dioxide, methane, am- monia, and sulfur dioxide do the same. They are called greenhouse gases, although an actual greenhouse traps the warm air inside by blocking the wind outside. An atmosphere has nothing outside, just space, so the green- house gases trap heat by blocking the infrared radiation to space. Venus has clouds of sulfuric acid and a massive carbon dioxide atmosphere that together reflect 75% of the incident sunlight. Yet enough sunlight reaches the surface, and enough of the outgoing radiation is blocked, to make the surface of Venus hotter than any other sur- face in the solar system. Gases like nitrogen (N2 ) and oxygen (O2 ) do not block infrared radiation and are not significant contributors to the greenhouse effect. The wind speeds on other planets defy intuition. At high altitudes on Venus, the winds blow two or three times faster than the jet streams of Earth, which blow at hurricane force although they usually don’t touch the ground. In fact, Earth has the slowest winds of any planet in the solar system. Paradoxically, wind speed seems to increase with distance from the Sun. Jupiter has jet streams that blow three times faster than those on Earth, and Neptune has jet streams that blow ten times faster. The weather is otherworldly. At least it is unlike what we are used to on Earth. Mars has two kinds of
- 17. chapter 1 4 clouds—water andcarbon dioxide. And Jupiter has three kinds—water, ammonia, and a compound of ammonia and hydrogen sulfide. Mars has dust storms that occa- sionally enshroud the planet. Jupiter and Saturn have no oceans and no solid surfaces, but they have lightning storms and rain clouds that dwarf the largest thunder- storms on Earth. Saturn stores its energy for decades and then erupts into a giant thunderstorm that sends out a tail that wraps around the planet. Many of these processes are not well understood. Our Earth-based experience has proved inadequate to prepare us for the climates we have discovered on other planets. The planets have surprised us, and scientists often emerge from a planetary encounter with more questions than answers. But surprises tell us something new, and new questions lead to new approaches and greater understanding. If we knew what we would find every time a spacecraft visited a planet, then we wouldn’t be learning anything. In the chapters that follow, we will see how much we know and don’t know about climate, using the planets to provide a broader context than what we experience on Earth. We will visit the planets in order of distance from the Sun, starting with Venus and ending with planets around other stars. Most planets get one or two chapters. Usually the first chapter is more descriptive—what the planet is like and how it got that way. The second chapter is more mechanistic—describing the physical processes that control the present climate of that planet. The chapters are augmented by sections called boxes, which contain
- 18. Diversit y ofPl anetary Climates 5 equations and constitute a brief textbook-type introduc- tion to climate science. Chapter 2 is about the greenhouse effect and climate evolution, for which Venus is the prime example. Chap- ter 3 is about basic physical processes like convection, radiation, Hadley cells, and the accompanying winds, with Venus as the laboratory. Mars illustrates the “faint young Sun paradox,” in which evidence of ancient rivers (chapter 4) contradicts results from astronomy that the Sun’s output in the first billion years of the solar system was 70% of its current value. Mars also allows us to talk about the fundamental physical processes of conden- sation and evaporation (chapter 5), since exchanges of water vapor and CO2 between the atmosphere and polar ice determine the climate of Mars. Titan allows us to study a hydrologic cycle in which the working fluid is not water (sections 6.1–6.3). Titan is an evolving atmo- sphere, close to the lower size limit of objects that can retain a sizeable atmosphere over geologic time (section 6.4). Below this limit, the atmospheres are tenuous and transient (section 6.5). Jupiter is almost a cooled-down piece of the Sun, but the departures from solar composition tell a crucial story about how the solar system formed (chapter 7). The giant planetsarelaboratoriesforstudyingtheeffectofplanetary rotation on climate (chapter 8), including the high-speed jet streams and storms that last for centuries. Chapter 9 is about Saturn, a close relative of Jupiter, although the dif- ferences are substantial and hard to understand. Uranus spins on its side, which allows us to compare sunlight
- 19. chapter 1 6 and rotationfor their effects on weather patterns (sec- tion 10.1). Neptune has the strongest winds of any planet (section 10.2), and we speculate about why this might be. The field of exoplanets— planets around other stars (sec- tion 10.3) is full of new discoveries, and we only give a brief introduction to this rapidly expanding field. This book was written for a variety of readers. One is an undergraduate science major or a nonspecialist scientist who knows little about planets or climate. This reader will learn a lot about the planets and something about the fun- damental physical processes that control climate. We go fairly deep into the physical processes, but the emphasis is on intuitive understanding. We touch on convection, ra- diation, atmospheric escape, evaporation, condensation, atmospheric chemistry, and the dynamics of rotating flu- ids. There are good textbooks and popular science books on planetary science1,2,3,4 and there are multiauthored specialized books about individual planets.5,6,7,8,9 There are also good textbooks on atmospheric science.10,11,12,13 Therefore another potential reader is a student of atmo- spheric science who has learned the relevant equations and wants to step back and think about the fundamental processes in a broader planetary context. Finally, there are the climate specialists and planetary specialists who want to know about the mysteries and unsolved problems in planetary climate. Such readers might solve some of the many mysteries about planetary climates and thereby help us understand climate in general.
- 20. 2 Venus: Atmospheric Evolution 2.1 Earth’sSister Planet Gone Wrong Until the beginning of the space age, Venus5 was considered Earth’s sister planet. In terms of size, mass, and distance from the Sun, it is the most Earth-like planet, and people assumed it had an Earth-like climate—a humid at- mosphere, liquid water, and warm temperatures beneath its clouds, which were supposed to be made of condensed water. This benign picture came apart in the 1960s when radio telescopes14 peering through the clouds measured brightness temperatures close to 700 K. Also in the 1960s, the angular distribution of reflected sunlight —the exis- tence of a rainbow in the clouds—revealed that they were made of sulfuric acid droplets.15 The Soviet Venera probes showed that the atmosphere was a massive reservoir of carbon dioxide, exceeding the reservoir of limestone rocks on Earth. The U.S. Pioneer Venus radar images showed a moderately cratered volcanic landscape with no trace of plate tectonics. We now know that Venus mostly has an Earth-like inventory of volatiles—the basic ingredients of atmo- spheres and oceans—but with one glaring exception,
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- 22. CHAPTER VII FEMALES OFTHE SPECIES The family at Sutton House comprised Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, both under thirty-five, their only child a boy eight years old, and his tutor, a young college man. The place was very beautiful. The house, Southern colonial, was large and dignified without being showy. The park and gardens surrounding it contained eleven acres—at least the chauffeur, who brought me from the station, so informed me. Certainly they were ample and perfectly kept. The trees were noticeably handsome, all of them indigenous. Though an unusually elaborate establishment for America, it was not an imitation. Perhaps its most striking feature was that it did not suggest England or any other foreign country. It looked to be just what it was—the country home of a well-bred American family of large fortune. The American atmosphere was so distinct that—watching the house as we approached along the wide drive, I had a subconscious expectation of seeing an old negro, immaculately dressed, make his appearance. He didn’t come. Nor when we passed near the stables and garage was there any sound of laughing or singing. At the side entrance I was met by the housekeeper, an Englishwoman. There were fifteen servants besides the men in the stables, in the garage, and the gardeners. Every one of them foreigners. “Why will Americans persist in surrounding themselves with indifferent foreign ‘help’ when they might have the best servants and most loyal Americans, for the asking?” was the question that I asked myself that night after my arrival at the Sutton House, and I am still asking it.
- 23. I have knownmany foreign servants. Even the best of them was not so good as a competent negro would have been in the same place. I am a Southerner born and bred among negroes. Besides, I am descended from a long line of slave-owning ancestors. I do not believe that Abraham Lincoln himself was a more loyal American than the present-day descendants of the people he fought to free. Yet in spite of their excellent qualities, their loyalty, we turn them down. Just let an American family get a little money, and the first thing they do in the way of display is to secure as many “help” as their pocketbook will permit. Being foreigners, all the servants at Sutton House were, of course, “help.” Even the French maid spoke of herself as “Madame’s porsonal help,” and even the fact that she received sixty dollars a month in wages, her laundry, a room to herself, and all the clothes that her mistress did not care to wear the second time did not prevent her from disloyalty. A negro girl would have given better service than this woman and never have permitted her mistress to be criticised in her presence. Under my direction there were five chambermaids, a scrubwoman, and a man for cleaning. The man was a Swede and the maids all Irish. My wages were forty dollars a month with laundry and a room to myself. Because I chanced to take the fancy of the housekeeper I took all my meals with her instead of with the other servants. Had it been otherwise I would have heard more back-stairs gossip than I did. Certainly I heard enough to make me know that, excepting the housekeeper, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Sutton had a friend among their “help.” Unlike the horde of foreigners who have usurped their rightful places, negro servants are loyal to their employers. A negro, as a rule, has too much self-esteem to belittle the person from whom he takes wages. Sutton House was crowded with guests every week-end, but from Monday noon to Friday afternoon Mrs. Sutton was generally alone with her little son and his tutor. Mr. Sutton usually returned to the city with the first of his guests to leave Monday morning, and seldom made his appearance before Saturday afternoon. He stood well in
- 24. his profession, wasa hard worker, and might have been devoted to his home had the distance between his office and Sutton House admitted of his spending his nights there. Mrs. Sutton, so I learned from the housekeeper, was an only child of wealthy parents—the darling of her old father, who had insisted on humoring every whim. It being her whim to come to Sutton House before her husband’s business permitted him to leave town, the family had moved out. Compared with the department store, the premium station, and the Sea Foam Hotel this position was a holiday among perfect surroundings. It is true that week-ends every servant had as much as he or she could properly do. The rest of the time the chambermaids finished their work before ten o’clock. After that I arranged for them to go off, leaving two on watch until lunch-time. At lunch the watch changed, and again at seven, their dinner-hour. This last watch remained on until ten, which was supposed to be the family bedtime. All that was required of them was to sit, one on each bedroom floor, and be ready to respond promptly when called. While on watch I encouraged, or at least I tried to encourage, these girls to read, to sew, or do any quiet handiwork. So far as I saw, it was effort thrown away. Not one of the five ever darned her stockings—of course they all wore silk stockings, also silk underwear. Indeed, I believe three out of the five boasted that she never wore anything besides silk except when she was on duty. Instead of employing her mind or her fingers, one and all of the five would sit gazing out the nearest window and resort to all sorts of tricks to go to the servants’ quarters. Judging by these women, and the thousands of other men and women of the same race, I am convinced that what we are pleased to call “wonderful Irish imagination” is the result of idleness—air-castle building. They are the most gorgeous of liars. Each and every one of the maids at Sutton House claimed to be direct descendants of an Irish king. One of them assured me that if she had her “rights” she would be living in a palace and never have to “turn her hand”—the Princess Royal of Ireland. Each one of them had so many saints in her family that I used to wonder how she kept
- 25. track of themall. Needless to say, they were inveterate churchgoers. Such weird ideas as they attributed to their priest! “Father Hallahan said we were not to abuse the Germans,” one of them told the Italian scrubwoman. “The Germans are good friends to the Irish.” This failing to impress the scrubwoman, the Princess Royal gave additional information. “Yes, and the order came straight from Rome,” said she, with a defiant toss of her nappy-looking head. This so aroused the little Italian woman that she damned the Germans and she damned the Irish, but most of all she damned Rome. I have never seen a more furious human being. How she rolled out Italian swear words! Her husband was in the Italian army and she was struggling to keep their little home together and their children at school. Her father, her brother, and two of her husband’s brothers had been killed in the war. She came to me with tears streaming over her face. When she had turned over her mop and pail to me she fell on her knees, and, burying her face in her apron, knelt beside the bathtub, rocking her body back and forth and sobbing. The Princess Royal and her sister German sympathizer took the next train to Philadelphia. They were replaced by two Swedes, quiet, hard-working girls. The middle of my second week the housekeeper told me that Mrs. Sutton wished me to go out with her that evening after dinner. Heretofore the housekeeper had accompanied her on these evening automobile trips. Now the old woman complained of feeling unwell and I was to take her place. The car that evening was a fast roadster with three seats. I sat on the back seat. After a run of about an hour we stopped at a country inn. Mrs. Sutton told me that I might either come in or remain in the car. It was a lovely evening during the last of May. Sure that our stop would be only for a few minutes, I decided to remain in the car; Mrs. Sutton followed by the chauffeur, a young Italian with good legs, entered the inn. After waiting in the car for more than a half-hour, and feeling cramped from sitting so long, I got out and strolled
- 26. around the grounds.Finally, prompted by a desire to kill time, I stepped up on the piazza and looked in through a window. Mrs. Sutton and the chauffeur were having supper together. By a casual observer they might easily have been mistaken for lovers. After their meal they joined the dancers. More than an hour later they returned to the car in which I had resumed my seat about fifteen minutes earlier. It was well past two o’clock when we finally returned to Sutton House. The next morning I got up soon after sunrise and sat at the window of my room. There had been a warm shower during the earlier hours, and the gardens and grove looked like Paradise—the perfectly kept lawns, the flowers just beginning to give a touch of color here and there, the great trees with their young leaves softly green and glistening. And over all a clear blue sky, through which floated banks of wonderful white clouds that looked as though they might have been freshly washed by the angels. Young summer, like a spirit, walked. With all this peace and beauty around me I sat and dreamed. At first it was not a pleasant dream though it concerned a new combination—a discovery that, as a rule, thrills a writer. In my dream I questioned if in place of time-worn love-affairs between masters and serving-maids, we writers of realism would have to depict mistresses courting straight-legged chauffeurs. The idea was too repulsive. In spite of the scene witnessed the night before, the tears of the doll-baby young woman at the publishing house and other whispered hints, I refused to believe it. Even though such a diseased condition was creeping in I was sure it would be wiped out by the World War before it had time to take root. The thought of the war caused my dreams to change. I had my first vision of America, perhaps the world, as it would be after the terrible conflict in which my country had just entered. After it—for surely good must come of so great a disaster—there would be no idle, untrained women to menace human progress. In America we would have neither human cooties nor human drudges; all such inhuman creatures wiped out by the war, we would become a nation
- 27. of workers, strugglingto carry out the ideals of the founders of our country. During breakfast I notified the housekeeper that I must leave at the end of the week. She remonstrated vigorously. When her offer to increase my wages failed to move me she confided to me her plan for my promotion. She, it appeared, had been the nursery-governess of Mrs. Sutton, had remained in the family, and when her former pupil married had taken charge of her new home as housekeeper. Now, the old woman continued, having saved enough to keep her comfortable, she wished to spend her last days among her own people in England. I was to take her position as housekeeper. Even that did not cause me to change my mind. I told her that I must go and not later than the end of that week. Along toward the middle of the morning Mrs. Sutton’s French maid came to me. Madame wished to see me in her bedroom at once. On entering Mrs. Sutton’s room, a fable told me by Booger when I was a very small child flashed into my mind. Booger was a young negro who served my father’s family in the double capacity of stable-boy and my nurse. Born during that period when the fortunes of the people of the Southern States were at lowest ebb, resulting from our Civil War, I did not share the advantage of being nursed by the “Mammy” adored by my older sisters and brothers. So far as I know, my father’s stable-boy was my only nurse. And so far as I have been able to learn, nobody knows why I bestowed on him the name of Booger. To the rest of the world he was Peter. “The Lord God done made Miss Rose white,” according to Booger. “But yerly one mornin’ whilst Marse Adam was a-walkin’ in the Gyarden of Eden he done kotch Miss Rose when she was a-turnin’ back her clothes an’ washin’ of her face. Miss Rose was so ’shamed that she turned red. She’s been red ever sence.” Mrs. Sutton, lying among her pillows, with the morning’s mail scattered over the silken coverlet of her bed, reminded me of a half- opened white rose caught at her toilet and blushing a shell-pink. She was more beautiful than any flower in her garden. Her wide blue
- 28. eyes were thecolor of the sky into which I had gazed at sunrise, and as fathomless. Who can fathom the soul of a flippant woman? When I refused her offer to raise my wages she told me of the housekeeper’s plan for my promotion. When that failed she acted like a spoiled child. She wished to know my reason for leaving, she insisted on knowing, she must know. Looking at her—she seemed hardly more than a girl—I wondered if it might not be a kindness to give her the reason for my sudden departure. Though of course I had never intended to remain long enough to inherit the housekeeper’s position, I had expected to stay three weeks, perhaps four, and give one week’s notice before leaving. Now I determined to tell her my reason for changing my plans—a reason within itself sufficient to cause any conscientious servant to quit her employ. I crossed to the foot of her bed and she smiled up at me. “You really wish to know my reason?” I asked, speaking seriously. She nodded, and, smiling, showed a flash of her perfect teeth. “It is because I don’t care to appear as a witness in a divorce case in which the co-respondent is your husband’s hired servant, your chauffeur.” She stared at me dumfounded. When she understood her face flamed crimson. Then she sprang up in bed and reached out to ring for her maid. “You must not do that,” I told her, and I stepped between the head of her bed and the electric buttons. “You may call your housekeeper but not that Frenchwoman.” “How dare you!” she cried, and her manner was so commonly melodramatic that I almost smiled. “I know the servants in your house better than you know them yourself,” I told her, still holding my position. “And I shall do my best to protect you from yourself.” “Protect me!” she sneered. “You, my husband’s detective! Yes, that’s who you are. My husband got you out here to watch me. You —you sneak!” I let her talk until she wore herself out. When she again tried to ring for her maid I rang for the housekeeper.
- 29. The housekeeper came.Honest old soul! On these evening trips when she acted as chaperon they had gone in a touring-car. When they stopped at a road-house she had always remained comfortably dozing in the tonneau. “I shall take you straight to your mother, Mildred,” the housekeeper informed Mrs. Sutton, when I had explained the situation. And I realized that she had gone back twenty years, and was again the governess threatening her spoiled charge. “Your mother will know what to do with you.” Feeling in honor bound to clear Mr. Sutton of the suspicion of employing a detective I reminded his wife in the housekeeper’s presence that no person who had entered her home in such a capacity would have given so candid a reason for leaving. The old woman swept the suspicion aside with a wave of her hand. Mr. Sutton was a gentleman, she assured me. There should be no scandal, for Mildred’s mother knew how to manage her daughter. While I was packing my few belongings the housekeeper came to my room. She would always be grateful to me, she said, for ringing for her and not allowing Mildred to call the “French fool.” Then she offered to give me a letter of recommendation and I accepted it. When paying the wages due me she included my railroad ticket back to New York City. Not once did she ask me to hold my tongue. On returning to New York I learned that Mrs. Tompkins had ordered Alice home; the hat-trimming season being over, Mrs. Wilkins was preparing to resume her duties in the linen-room of the Coney Island hotel; and the little organist had already gone to Maine to spend the summer with her mother and sisters. The restaurant- keeper, having been mysteriously robbed of all his trousers excepting the pair he was wearing, declared to me his intention to “get out.” The reporter was shortly to take up his suit-case and walk, and the gentleman of many shoes and walking-sticks greeted me with the information that he had purchased a water-front estate on the Sound. It would seem that I should have been eagerly preparing to write the story of Polly Preston. Certainly I would never be able to incorporate in one novel all the material I had already accumulated.
- 30. Yet I neverwas farther from wishing to begin a book. It may have been the general unrest caused by the war. Even now I can give no explanation for my mental condition at that time. So, instead of returning to my own field, I set out the following morning to get a new job. Having secured all previous positions through the help-wanted columns of the newspapers, I now determined to try employment agencies. My plan was to register at an agency making a specialty of supplying domestic servants, pay the required fee, and leave my three letters of recommendation. These three letters! One, as stated, was given me by the housekeeper of Sutton House. The other two I had used getting in at Sea Foam—one written by Alice from her Washington City address, the other written by myself in my own proper person. In it I had stated that Emily Porter had been for twenty years in the service of my mother, and since my mother’s death she had been in my employ. After the writers of these letters were communicated with I expected, in course of time, to get the refusal of a position in a private family—as waitress, second girl, or chambermaid. That was as I expected the matter to develop. What happened? Within five minutes after I entered the agency, before I had paid my fee or handed in my letters, two women were bidding for my services. Both were expensively gowned, both lived in a quasi-fashionable suburb of New York, and both wished me to come to her at once as second maid, the difference between the two being that one had children and the other dogs. I elected the one with children. Instead of her waiting and investigating my references she insisted on my accompanying her back home, giving me three hours to meet her at the railroad- station. When I saw her house I understood her hurry. Chaos! Dirty chaos at that. The cook, Irish, of course, told me that five maids had come and gone during the two previous weeks. The house had fifteen rooms, two baths, a large cellar, two wide porches, and two wider piazzas. There was a lot of shrubbery on the place and several long brick walks. In the family there was a young- lady daughter, the mother, the only son, two younger daughters, the
- 31. father, and alittle girl of six. I name them in the order of their relative importance. The little girl, the mother once explained in the presence of the child, was a mistake. On the birth of her son, having decided that four children were enough, she determined to have no more—hence the difference of ten years between her son and little Mistake. Had these people been content to live in a house of eight rooms, and do their own work with the assistance of a woman to do the laundry and the heavier cooking, they would have, in all human probability, been a happy family. They were good-natured, good- looking, and with sufficient traces of good breeding to have made them attractive. During the seven days that I remained with them I never got to my room, which was in the garret and shared by the cook, before nine o’clock at night. How I did work! I did everything from firing the furnace to running ribbons in the underwear of the marriageable daughter. For upward of two years it had been the chief ambition of the family to marry off this eldest girl. When I came on the scene it had become, so they all thought, a vital necessity. And I, succumbing to the atmosphere around me, did my best to help along the match. The mother explained to me that if they could only announce the engagement of this daughter the maiden aunt, for whom she was named, would see to it that she had a proper wedding and also pay the family debts. The idea that these three grown girls, the youngest being past eighteen, might work and earn their own living never seemed to enter their mother’s head. The fact that they did not work, did not know how to do anything more useful than to play tennis and golf, she proclaimed from the housetops. Sad to relate, it was the literal truth. So far as I could learn, neither of them had ever done so much as make a bed, dust a room, or mend a garment. I never knew them to pick up a magazine, a book, or a sofa-pillow, though they knew how to scatter them broadcast. No, indeed, it was beneath their dignity to do anything to keep their home comfortable or clean, yet they boasted of skill at tennis and their golf score.
- 32. What a sillyun-American idea it is that knocking a ball across country is more ennobling than doing anything that tends to make a home comfortable and happy! Will anybody deny that it takes more sense to cook or serve a good dinner than it does to play a good game of golf? Now I am not decrying the game of golf. Indeed, it appeals to me as a very good way to get elderly and delicate persons, who take no interest in nature, to exercise in the fresh air. For a person who cares for wild or growing things golf is impossible. I cannot imagine Theodore Roosevelt wishing to become expert at golf. I can imagine the number of balls he would have lost while watching a bird, investigating a gopher hole, or studying a plant. Besides, I have for a good many years had a pet theory—why Colonel Roosevelt did not cultivate the game of golf. May he not have felt sure that he could learn nothing from persons met on the links—rich idlers, men who have “made their pile,” always hidebound conservatives and their hangers-on? We all know that the most popular of our Presidents was interested in workers in every field— eager to learn their opinion, to get their point of view. Was he ever known to show interest in the mind processes of an idler? Yet, in spite of the so recent example of this most typical American, mothers and fathers, American men and women, persist in bringing their children up with the Old World prejudice against useful work. They may spend any amount of time and energy on any work provided it is silly and useless, but let it only become useful and at once it becomes a stigma, a disgrace. And so it was with this family. The three girls could all play a little on the piano and sing a little with their kitten voices. Each was ardently certain that she could drive an automobile if only her father could be induced to buy one—poor silent, care-worn, overworked father! He loved his wife and was very fond of his children, yet I think he used to dread to come home and at the same time be afraid not to come. When I told the cook of my intention to leave at the end of my first week she called me a fool. She urged me to follow her example
- 33. and stick itout long enough to have something worth going to court about. The mother and three daughters felt ill used when I announced my departure. The eldest daughter remarked that she really didn’t see what more a second girl would want—nobody ever interfered with me, they let me have my own way. Her mother told me that I really must wait until Saturday. Her husband never gave her money for the servants except on Saturdays—it was then Tuesday. She gave me the use of the family commutation ticket with the understanding that I was to deliver little Mistake to her maiden aunt. That enabled me to truthfully assure Alice and the hat-trimmer that the experience had not cost me anything even though I had received no wages. This time Alice said that instead of my looking like I had been buried and dug up I looked as if I had been buried and had to scratch my way out. Mrs. Wilkins agreed with her. The next day was the end of our partnership. Alice, obeying her mother, returned to her home. I accompanied her to the train, and received as much advice as could be packed into fifteen minutes by a fast talker. Though candor forces me to admit that most of it flowed out of one ear as fast as it was driven into the other, a few pieces did reach my brain and so lodged in the meshes of my memory. One of these lodgments was an earnest request that I forsake the help-wanted column and confine myself to reputable employment agencies. And Alice emphasized reputable. Earlier in the winter, following Alice’s advice, I had tried an agency which made a specialty of placing college graduates. I had registered, paid my dollar, and been told they would communicate with me as soon as anything along my line turned up. Now, on my way back to the rooming-house, after watching Alice get aboard the train for Washington City, I called again at this agency and reminded them of my application. Much to my surprise, I learned that I was an unskilled worker in my own line. Because I had never been a proofreader, sat in an editorial chair, nor taught a class in story-writing I was unskilled. Neither my college degree nor the fact that I had published several novels amounted to a row of pins. H’m, I thought, why did you go to
- 34. the trouble ofchanging your name and otherwise sailing under false colors? As an unskilled worker you are really in the class to which you belong. From this agency I went to a “placement bureau,” the annex of a semiphilanthropic organization whose specialty is “reduced gentlewomen.” Here the charge was fifty cents for registration. When it came my turn to be interviewed by the overdressed woman in charge, she earnestly advised me to take a secretarial course at a particular school. She gave me her personal card to the head of this school and assured me that she had more demands for graduates from this school than she could possibly fill that season. As I had overheard her give the same advice to three other women I was not very much impressed. However, as I had come there for advice I decided to see how far hers would take me. At the school I learned that the shortest course was for six months, and the lowest price was one hundred dollars. The head of the school smilingly informed me that as I might not have to study English a reduction, perhaps ten dollars, might be arranged for. Returning to the “placement bureau,” I applied to the same overdressed individual for part-time work that would give me my maintenance while I was studying to become a secretary. She gave me cards of introduction to the matron of two institutions.
- 35. CHAPTER VIII ST. ROSE’SHOME FOR GIRLS Mrs. Bossman, the matron of St. Rose’s Home for Girls, which I reached after a railroad journey of several hours, received me with great cordiality. She was very much in need of a secretary, she said, and, while not able to pay a salary, would be glad to give me a comfortable room with my board and laundry. I promised to move in, bag and baggage, the following morning immediately after breakfast. At our first interview she impressed me so favorably that I failed to notice either the thinness of her lips or the color of her eyes. On my return the following morning she again greeted me with great cordiality. And even as I accepted her extended hand the color and expression of her eyes, and the thinness of her lips were revealed to me as though by a blaze of light. With this realization there flashed across my memory a remark of the late Mrs. Jefferson Davis. I had been to the opera—“Faust” with a wonderful caste, Eames and the two de Reski. On my return I went into Mrs. Davis’ bedroom —I was spending the winter in New York under her chaperonage—to tell her about it. She was sitting up in bed reading, and laying her book aside she listened attentively to my praise of Marguerite and Faust, and my criticism of Mephisto. Then I boldly declared: “Only a tall, thin man, intensely brunette, should attempt to play the devil.” “A tall, thin, dark man?” Mrs. Davis questioned, shaking her head. Then she took off her spectacles and wiped them. “No, my dear. No. My idea of the devil is a beautiful blonde woman with childishly
- 36. innocent blue eyesand thin lips. Yes, the devil is a woman. I’m sure of it. Only a woman of the type I describe will conceive, plan, and perpetrate a deed of supremest cruelty and selfishness. I never trust a blonde woman.” What queer ideas old women have! As if the color of a person’s eyes and hair really had anything to do with the quality of their heart. Then there popped into my mind a lawyer, a member of the New York City bar in good standing, who had gravely cautioned me against trusting a man who “ran-down” his shoes. Evidently queerness was not limited to old women. But a woman with the intelligence of the widow of the President of the Confederacy—the thousands of persons she had met and known during her eighty years—might not her judgment be of value? All of these thoughts raced through my consciousness during the brief instant that Mrs. Bossman clasped my hand. Vexed by what seemed to me my own trivial mind, I was pleased by her suggestion to take me to my room. Such a charming room it proved to be! On the second floor and immediately over the main entrance to St. Rose. It was tastefully furnished and spotlessly clean. At the end facing the door there was a broad double window festooned by ivy that looked into the green feathery foliage of a giant elm. Gratified by my exclamation of pleased surprise, Mrs. Bossman told me that she had selected the room because it was next her own and convenient to the bathroom, shared by herself and Miss Pugh, the assistant matron. Miss Pugh, she explained, was an old friend whom she had induced to give up her former position in a large foundling asylum to come to St. Rose. She, Miss Pugh, was a wonderful disciplinarian, and as chockful of ideas as an egg with meat. With her as her assistant, and me as her secretary, Mrs. Bossman declared that she felt her success assured. She had been in charge of St. Rose, I then learned, less than two months. Previous to coming there she had, for many years, been at the head of a reformatory. Chatting about odds and ends, Mrs. Bossman waited while I removed my coat and hat, and brushed my hair a bit. Just as I
- 37. turned away fromthe mirror there was a quick rap on the door, and without waiting for a reply in stepped a little woman whose head reminded me sharply of a hickory-nut doll. “My dear!” she cried, grabbing hold of my hand. “Three educated women!” She indicated herself, Mrs. Bossman, and me. “We can stand against the world.” Just what call we would have to stand against the world I did not understand. Being ready to do my best as secretary to the matron of St. Rose, I graciously accepted her greeting and the compliments that appeared to belong to it. Walking between the two I passed down the broad stairs and into the private office of the head of the institution. Confidently expecting to spend the summer in this charming place I glanced about the room that was to be my headquarters. Like every part of the house that I had seen, this room was spotlessly clean and furnished tastefully. Sprays of ivy moved by the breeze peeked in at the two broad windows that, opening on the street, were shaded from the direct rays of the sun by the low-sweeping limbs of the elm. From the windows my eyes travelled to the walls. I met the gaze of several bewhiskered gentlemen of solemn countenance in clerical garb and black frames. My secretarial duties, as then outlined to me, would consume about two hours each morning, excepting Sundays. Once I had finished this daily stint my time was to be my own to do with as I preferred. “Only,” Mrs. Bossman added smilingly, “Miss Pugh and I both hope that you will spend at least a few evenings with us in my private sitting-room.” Why did Mrs. Davis’ caution against blonde women keep bobbing up in my mind? Ah, why indeed! Being in my room when the lunch-bell sounded, I was a fraction of a minute late entering the dining-room. A woman whom I had never seen met me and introduced herself as the housekeeper. She gave me as my permanent place a chair at a long table about which there were already seated eighteen women.
- 38. When I hadtaken my chair the housekeeper took her seat and introduced me to the other women. As each name was called the owner would glance up at me, nod her head, and then drop her eyes back to her plate of soup. Never a smile, not one word. The soup finished, while they waited for the next course I noticed that three or four women spoke to their next neighbors, always so low that they seemed to whisper. Was this the effect of the presence of a stranger? I wondered. If so it was up to me to break the ice. Selecting for my first attack a handsome woman with red hair, who sat just across the table from me, I inquired in what capacity she was connected with St. Rose. She was the “mother” of a cottage, she informed me. All present excepting the housekeeper, the seamstress, and myself were either cottage mothers or their assistants. Yes, they took all their meals in the dining-room. The children ate in their cottages—that is, excepting the large girls serving us. They took their meals in the kitchen with the cook. By a persistent effort, addressing directly first one woman and then another, I succeeded in arousing quite a buzz of conversation. Suddenly silence. Even sentences already begun broke off half uttered, as though the tongues had become suddenly paralyzed. Puzzled, I glanced around the table. The eyes of every woman, even the housekeeper, were fastened on her plate; more puzzled, I glanced around the room. Mrs. Bossman and Miss Pugh had entered and were taking their seats at a small table near the door. After this the women seated at the long table opened their lips only for food. At the small table the matron and her assistant conversed in subdued tones. After making two or three remarks in the hope of reviving the conversation I gave up. Judging by their faces, I might as well have tried to make myself entertaining at a table of deaf-mutes. So to the end of the meal— depressed and depressing silence. After lunch, on my expressing a wish to be made useful, the assistant matron invited me to go with her to one of the cottages. This “mother” was having her afternoon off.
- 39. Much to mysurprise I found that the attractiveness of St. Rose did not extend beyond the building occupied by the matron and her immediate staff. Desolate is the only word that adequately describes the cottage to which Miss Pugh conducted me. Never a picture on the walls, not a flower, nor a book. Bare walls of a forlorn dingy tint, and dingier floors. Even the bewhiskered gentlemen in their black frames would have been an improvement. There were thirty-odd little girls in this cottage ranging in age from five to thirteen years. The supper, which was served by the older girls under the supervision of the assistant matron, consisted of canned salmon, bread cut in hunks, and sweet milk. The tables were bare, unpainted, and as dingy as the floors. Indeed they looked to be a piece of the floor. The crockery was of the cheapest, nicked and sticky, and there were no napkins. Since that day I have visited many tenement homes. I have been in the homes of New York City’s poorest. In none of them did I find less attempt made to humanize the unlovely sordid surroundings. Even in the home of the drunken Irish mother, who had sold every stick of furniture excepting a broken table and the mattress she and her children huddled on, I saw a picture of the Virgin. St. Rose’s Home for Girls was conducted by a church claiming to follow the teachings of Him who said: “Suffer the little children to come unto Me.” On my remarking to one of the older girls that they all took such dainty helpings, she explained that each child had to clean its plate. That was the rule, now, she said. This seemed such a good rule that I told the table, in a way I imagined to be humorous, that Mr. Hoover would be glad to know how much they were helping him. Though they knew all about Mr. Hoover there was no smile, and I noticed that two of the older girls exchanged glances and lifted their eyebrows. A minute or so later a slight disturbance at a table behind me attracted my attention. The assistant matron was standing over a little girl, forcing her to eat food left on her plate at lunch, and using her forefinger in the operation. It was the longest and boniest forefinger I had ever seen. And that plate of cold spaghetti was
- 40. about as appetizingas some of the messes dished up to the waitresses at the Hotel Sea Foam. Now, I belong to a family noted for good health and perfect digestion. So much so that humorous friends declare we can, one and all, digest flint rocks. Yet I do not believe that I could have swallowed, much less digested, that mass of cold, sloppy, bluish spaghetti. The victim of this economic tyranny was a delicate little girl of about six years. Her cheeks were colorless, her lips were almost as white, and there were dark circles about her eyes. Glancing around my eyes took in the sordid unloveliness of the whole scene—and the little children with meekly bowed heads, forcing down food which I could see few if any relished. A lump rose in my throat, and a mist obscured my sight. How could any woman! How could Miss Pugh! She was not a blonde. As though feeling my stare the assistant matron relinquished her hold on the girl’s shoulder, and straightening up, faced me. “This is Mrs. Bossman’s order,” she said. “She found it a most satisfactory disciplinary measure in her reformatory work. You knew she had been in that work, didn’t you?” “Ah?” I replied, as my estimate of Mrs. Jefferson Davis’ judgment bounded upward. Living to be eighty has its compensations. Perhaps in time I may learn to distrust men who do not tread squarely on their heels. At dinner that evening the talk was more general than it had been at lunch. The entrance of Mrs. Bossman and Miss Pugh resulted in the same frosty atmosphere. Determined not to finish my meal staring at my plate while I shovelled down food, I fired question after question at the woman with red hair. Amused, and I believe not a little encouraged by my daring, she finally took hold and kept her end of the conversation going. During the balance of that meal we kept up a steady flow of talk, back and forth, across the table. Not another woman said a word. Even the matron and her assistant stopped whispering to each other. As I now recall it, that conversation included the heavens, the earth,
- 41. and the watersunder the earth. As we were leaving, the red-haired woman slipped her hand through my arm and whispered: “Come over to my cottage to-morrow when you finish your work. I’d like you to see my children. I have forty little girls.” It was after eleven o’clock the next day when I joined her. Her older girls were at school, and the little tots were playing in a sand- pile in the yard. She, seated on an upturned soap-box under the trees, was making tatting. Chatting with her I learned that she was Miss Jessup, and had an orphaned niece and nephew dependent on her. Having been a saleswoman in Chicago for years, she had, at length, broken away and come to New York, firm in her faith of “bettering” herself. “The stores were turnin’ off salespeople instead of takin’ ’em on,” she told me, speaking of her efforts to get a position in New York. “I was ’most on my uppers when I heard about this place. The pay ain’t so bad, and I just love children. Mrs. Bossman is new, you know. I don’t know how long she’ll keep me, but as long as she does”—her jaw squared—“I’m goin’ to see to it that my forty gets a square deal.” “Among so many I suppose there must be some of the mothers who do not understand the children in their care,” I questioned, with the same object that a fisherman throws out a baited hook. “No, they’re all right,” she assured me positively. “There isn’t one of them who doesn’t do her best with her cottage. An’ things ain’t as easy for us as it used to be, neither.” Here she glanced around, including the overlooking windows of her own cottage. Then she added: “Mrs. Bossman believes in what she calls lovin’ discipline. She got Miss Pugh here to carry out the discipline.” “Who carries out the loving?” She flashed a quick smile at me. She was an attractive woman. In spite of her grammar I believe she sprang from educated people. “Mrs. Bossman,” she replied. “Yes, she really does try. You watch the back yard this afternoon after the girls come from school. You’ll see Mrs. Bossman walkin’ around with one of the older girls—the girl’s arm around her waist.” “Mrs. Bossman’s waist?” I asked, incredulous.
- 42. “Mrs. Bossman isholdin’ it there. Sometimes she has to hold real hard.” She chuckled. “It’s odd what some folks don’t know. You can buy the love of a man or a woman—that is if you have their price. But you can’t buy the love of a child nor a dog. I know, for I’m one of a large family, and I was brought up in the country. I know children and I know dogs.” After lunch the assistant matron claimed my services. And her manner was such that if by chance I had lost my memory I would have been sure that she had a right to dispose of my time. Conducting me to a cottage of which the mother was taking her afternoon off, she left me in charge. It being a rainy day the children were forced to remain indoors. And I was surprised to find them so easily entertained, or, I should say, that they entertained themselves. Those who did not devote the time to their dolls had some quiet game which they played alone or with one or two others. By and by, noticing how each child seemed trying to crouch within herself, or huddled against her neighbor, I realized they must be cold —it being a chilly afternoon. When I proposed a romping game, something to warm them all up, they exchanged glances and shook their heads. Then one of the older girls, taking her stand close beside my chair, explained: “We used to play lovely games—blindman’s buff, base, and a lot of others that Mrs. Hoskins taught us, but”—she shrugged her shoulders—“Miss Bossman said we made too much noise, and——” A little girl seated nearer the door reached over and gave the speaker’s apron a sharp pull, at the same time motioning with her head toward the door. Instantly the child who had been talking to me slipped back to her seat on the floor and picked up her doll. For a moment there was profound silence. Though every one of the little people appeared to be intent on her own play, I felt sure that even the littlest tot was holding her breath. There was a faint rustle—something on the other side of the closed door had moved. The children exchanged glances but made no sound. “Wouldn’t you like me to tie your doll’s sash?” I asked the littlest tot.
- 43. She was standingby the arm of my chair, her doll’s face downward on my knee, when glancing up I found Miss Pugh entering the door. Of course she was smiling. Women of her type smile even when brushing their teeth. She explained that when “rushing” by she had dropped in to see how I was getting along. At the word “rush” I again saw the older girls exchange glances—children are not so blind as many of their elders imagine. Being in a rush the assistant matron could remain only a few minutes. The little folks took her going as calmly as they had her entrance. When supper-time came the older girls whose turn it was to prepare the meal, went about their task without any reminder from me. After setting the tables and drawing up the food from the kitchen on the dumb-waiter, they announced that supper was served. When the others came trooping in they seated the little ones and helped them put on their bibs. Then, after whispering among themselves, one—perhaps the oldest—called my attention to a plate of cold food, and pointed out the little girl who had failed to eat it at lunch. Without a word I took the plate and emptied it into the garbage- bucket. For a moment there was not a sound, not a movement. Then all eyes turned and stared at me. Then they stared at each other. A little girl chuckled and rapped softly on the table with her spoon. The next instant every little girl was chuckling and beating softly on the table with her spoon. It was a subdued demonstration. Every one of these little people understood just what had happened. Also they realized that something unpleasant might happen if it were found out. Late that afternoon I learned that my room was to be changed— from the cheerful surroundings of the building in which the matron lived to the dingy desolation of the cottage in which I had spent that afternoon. This information was not given me by either the matron or her assistant. I was told by the girl who was to change with me. She had come to St. Rose, so she explained, for the purpose of training for an institutional worker, and had been helping Mrs.
- 44. Hoskins, for whomI had substituted that afternoon. She didn’t like it, and neither did I. After supper Mrs. Bossman smilingly informed me that I had managed the children so charmingly that she had decided to change me to that cottage. She was sure I would be of great assistance to the mother, so much more useful to St. Rose. It really did seem a pity, she went on, to waste my genius for managing children—yes, it was nothing short of genius—on her small correspondence. Glad to be thrown more closely with the children, and sincerely wishing to be of use to the institution, I agreed to the change. Though conscious that several of the workers had watched us closely during Mrs. Bossman’s explanation, I did not dream that any of them excepting, perhaps, the girl was interested. On going to my room with the intention of packing and being ready to move to the cottage the first thing in the morning, I found Miss Jessup waiting for me. Her face was pale, and I noticed for the first time that her mouth had a very stern expression. “Did you come here to take Mrs. Hoskins’ job?” she demanded as soon as the door closed behind me. “Mrs. Hoskins!” I exclaimed, so surprised that for a moment my memory failed me. “Who on earth is Mrs. Hoskins?” Her mouth became more stern. “The mother whose place you took this afternoon. You never met her because she won’t take her meals here. She takes ’em with the children—eats with ’em same as she would with her own. She got the idea that it makes the children feel more like home, havin’ her eat at the table with ’em. There ain’t no doubt about it givin’ ’em better manners, though Mrs. Bossman says it’s not good discipline.” Miss Jessup then assured me that Mrs. Hoskins was the best mother at St. Rose. She was a widow and had lost her husband and two children before she was thirty. Ever since, for more than twenty years, she had been mothering motherless girls at St. Rose. The children under her care were the best trained, received the highest marks in their school, both in deportment and studies, and they were, one and all, devoted to their “mother.”
- 45. But Mrs. Hoskinshad not co-operated as cordially in carrying out Mrs. Bossman’s theories as that lady wished. One of these theories was forcing a child to eat all food left on its plate at the previous meal. She also objected to the children doing all the housework. She thought some work too heavy even for the older girls. Mrs. Bossman intended, according to Miss Jessup, to have me act as Mrs. Hoskins’ assistant for a couple of weeks, or as long as it might take for me to learn the ropes. Then she would discharge Mrs. Hoskins and install me as “mother.” “I ain’t sayin’ you wouldn’t make a good mother,” Miss Jessup wound up. “I dunno but what I believe you would make a first-class one. What I aims at is to get you to wait. I’ll be movin’ on soon— goin’ back to Chicago. If you would wait and take my cottage. I don’t want to see Mrs. Hoskins turned out. It would break her heart. That’s a fact. None of us wants her turned out. I’ll go at the end of the month if—if you want me to.” “May the Lord love you, woman!” I exclaimed, more moved than I cared to show. “I don’t want either Mrs. Hoskins’ job or yours. I wouldn’t have either as a gracious gift.” “What you goin’ to do? You’ve got to move into her cottage in the mornin’. When the time comes—when Mrs. Bossman discharges Mrs. Hoskins——” “She’ll never discharge her on my account,” I interrupted. “As for what I am going to do—how I’m going to get out of it, I haven’t the slightest idea. But you let me sleep on it—you’ll know in the morning.” The next morning when I went down to breakfast I took my bag with me. After the meal, the matron not having made her appearance, I bade her assistant good-by. Beyond saying that Mrs. Bossman’s methods did not appeal to me a statement seemed unnecessary.
- 46. CHAPTER IX RODMAN HALL:CHILDREN’S HOME Back again on the now deserted top floor of the rooming-house, I turned once more to the help-wanted column. An advertisement about which Alice and I had often speculated during the winter caught my eye: “A philanthropic institution for children is in need of the services of a gentlewoman. One who prefers the life of a comfortable home with refined surroundings to a large salary.” Though well along toward the middle of the day I decided to try my luck. Calling up an address mentioned in the advertisement, it did not greatly surprise me to learn that the institution was Rodman House. I had long been acquainted, through the newspapers, with this institution. In all these “write-ups” the statement that the children in the home were surrounded and cared for exclusively by women of education and refinement was always conspicuously emphasized. To the wages, fifteen dollars a month, I did not give a second thought. Having bought a pair of new shoes with some of my earnings at Sutton House, I felt quite independent of money. To tell the truth so deep was my sympathy for the class of children cared for in the Rodman Hall, I would gladly have given my services. Also, I had met Mrs. Howard, who was the life and soul of the work. Familiar as I was with her long and persistent struggles to put the institution on a sound financial basis, I held her in high esteem. Speaking to her over the telephone, I told her exactly who I was, and stated honestly my reasons for wishing the position—my
- 47. sympathy with herplans, and my desire to be closely associated with the children for the sake of my work as a writer. She was even more persistent than Mrs. Bossman in urging me to come at once—that afternoon. Confident that I had found a place in which it would be greatly to my advantage to remain the entire summer, I hurried back to the rooming-house and dived once more into the business of packing. Such an accumulation! Being the last of those who had spent the past seven months on the top floor, my neighbors on leaving had presented me with everything he or she did not think worth while taking with them, yet considered too good to be thrown away—the Press was continually cautioning persons against waste of any sort, while every man, woman, and child throughout the country appeared to be rushing around gathering all conceivable articles to send to Belgium. Perhaps my neighbors thought of me as the Belgium of that top floor. They acted like it. Mrs. Wilkins gave me a new Panama hat, the brim of which had been cut by a careless trimmer. “They was throwin’ it in the trash-box when I seen ’em,” she explained, on presenting the rescued head-covering to me. “All you have to do is to line the brim, turn it up on the side or behind or before—whichever way most becomes you in the face—and fix the trimmin’ so the cut won’t show. It’ll look as good as a twenty-five- dollar hat when you get through.” On the strength of having given me such an expensive hat she asked me to keep her cooking utensils and breadbox. And as an eleventh-hour reminder, hung her winter coat and furs in my tiny little wardrobe—all to be kept until she “found time” to send for them. Alice, of course, left behind all the household equipments gathered by the two of us. One of her winter hats, being too large to pack in her trunk, and not considered of sufficient value or becomingness to warrant a special shipment, also fell to my lot. And along with it a gas-lamp, a camp-stool, two writing-desk sets, a soiled Indian blanket—all Christmas presents.
- 48. The little organistlikewise bequeathed to me a number of Christmas presents, along with her books and sheet-music too ragged to pack. The restaurant owner gave me a metal flask containing about a pint of whiskey, about which he declared: “’Tain’t the kind a man would drink—not twice if he knew it. But I thought, being a lady, you might like to have it around.” Needless to state I thanked him graciously. Just as I did the reporter when he carted in twenty odd books, a file of daily newspapers, two sofa-pillows, and a moth-eaten slumber-robe. The books, sofa-pillows and the robe had been sent him at that season of the year when the world goes mad on the subject of giving—give wisely if they know how and have the money, but give they must. A few days after the newspaperman’s departure a bamboo walking-cane with a wabbly head, a silk umbrella minus one rib, and a grease-paint outfit was presented to me by the man in the front skylight room. “I used to belong to the profession,” he told me, explaining the paints. “Now that I am a promoter I don’t need it. And this umbrella —one of the ribs is broken—but it’s silk—heavy silk. I saved it to have it mended. One of the companies of which I’m a director cut a melon the other day, so I don’t need to use a mended umbrella.” As I was still playing the part of Polly Preston my trunks were in storage. As a first step toward packing my collection of remembrances I hurried to Third Avenue, and after considerable searching among the groceries I finally discovered three suitable boxes. Persuasion supplemented by a one-dollar bill induced the owner to allow his errand boy to take them to the rooming-house in his hand-cart. Of course the errand boy got an additional quarter of a dollar. In the smallest of the three boxes I packed my precious new shoes and the other articles to be taken to Rodman Hall. But turn and twist and pound as I might and did, I could not cram all the objects to which I had fallen heir into the two large boxes. With many explanations I presented the overflow to Molly, the negro maid. Leaving the house the next morning I saw them, the box of
- 49. greasepaint and allthe rest, in the garbage-can at the foot of the front steps. Evidently Molly had not been receiving private communications from either Brand Whitlock or Mr. Hoover. How comfortable it must be not to carry the woes of the world on your shoulders! After the hot and dusty streets of New York Rodman Hall, reached after a considerable run by the Subway, seemed a bit of heaven. Seated back from the country road and among the trees the large house, which was of some dark shade almost the color of the trunks of the trees, appeared to have grown there—not built in the usual way. There was no lawn, the trees were not overlarge and did not impress one as having been carefully planted or pruned. Like the house they appeared to have just grown there and to have enjoyed the process. Even the gravel on the wide driveway that curved from the public road to the front door had the look of being to that spot born. And though the dash of color to the left of the house, a little behind, was made by a crimson rambler, there was no suggestion of the artificial. It was a comfortably homey place without a suggestion of institution. I congratulated myself on having found such a place in which to spend the summer—surrounded by children of the particular class cared for in the Rodman Hall. Mrs. Howard received me pleasantly and while showing me over the house she explained the work and recounted the incident that had led her to undertake the care of this type of defective children. Though having read the same thing in the “write-ups” of the Rodman Hall I was pleased to have it authenticated. Out on the grounds she pointed out, with considerable pride an adjoining tract of land which she said contained sixteen acres, and which she had just purchased for the institution. That afternoon one of the institution’s employees invited me to use her typewriter to write a letter home, notifying my family of my change of address. While doing this we carried on quite a conversation. With considerable gusto she informed me that she had been for years private secretary to a Mr. Johnson Bascom, a high official of a large banking corporation. So confidential had been her
- 50. relations with herchief, she proudly assured me, that as soon as the “now famous investigation” was mooted he sent her abroad. “It’s not every girl that’s spent a year in Europe,” she told me, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “And I stopped at the best hotels, too —had all my expenses paid, and my salary besides.” “Then you could have given valuable testimony?” I asked. “I certainly could’ve done that, and they knew it, too,” she boasted. “You were not afraid to take their money?” “I should say not. They were not giving me more than my absence was worth to them. My friends tell me I was a fool not to have made them pay me more—when you are young you haven’t got much sense. I thought if I could spend a year abroad I’d be IT.” “Odd variety of IT to be second in command of an institution for young children!” was my mental comment, and I turned back to pecking on her typewriter. That evening after eight o’clock I passed through the pantry on my way to the village to mail my letter. The man who was washing dishes, work that I would have to do the next day, was still hard at work. He told me that it would be more than an hour before he would finish. Overtaking one of the attendants also on her way to the village, and finding her a companionable woman, I joined her. During our walk she told me that our fellow workers had looked me over, and decided that I “might” remain two days. That nettled me a bit, and I assured her of my intention to remain several weeks, perhaps the entire summer. She inquired if Mrs. Howard had given me the schedule of my work. It so happened that an assistant had handed me two typed pages just as I was leaving to mail my letters. Though at first sight it did seem formidable I felt sure that by a little systematizing it would be well within my strength. Indeed my faith in Mrs. Howard was such that I resented the suggestion that she would overtax any worker. Turning the conversation I soon learned that my companion was the widow of a well-known college professor. She had been
- 51. “enticed,” she said,by an advertisement similar to the one I had answered. “I did try to be careful,” she assured me, “because giving up the little I had in the way of a home meant so much to me. Once before I had been tricked by a woman. This time, to make sure that everything was all right, I came out to Rodman Hall and talked with Mrs. Howard. The place is so beautiful and that woman talked so fair I felt sure that I had found a comfortable home with congenial work for the balance of my life.” She shook her head, was silent for a few seconds, then added: “If I could I would leave to-morrow. As it is I’ve just got to stick it out until I get money enough to pay my way back to the West to my people.” “But the other women!” I remonstrated, convinced that the woman was exaggerating conditions. “Surely refined, educated women——” “Educated!” she scoffed. “Excepting Miss —— (naming the woman with whom I had talked) I don’t believe a one of them can do more than write her name. They are all foreigners. Do you know who she is?” Admitting unwillingly that this woman had told me of having been the secretary of a man mixed up in some financial scandal, I added: “But surely you don’t imagine that Mrs. Howard knows.” “Don’t imagine she knows! I know she knows,” the clergyman’s widow declared. “That woman is one of Mrs. Howard’s standbys. Being an educated woman and fairly presentable, Mrs. Howard pushes her forward on any and all occasions. Did Mrs. Howard introduce you to any of the nurses?” I shook my head. “Of course not. She wants to keep up as long as possible her idea about the children being cared for by gentlewomen!” The scorn with which she pronounced gentlewomen! “The nurses are regular Irish biddies, every one of them.” Much to my surprise on returning from the village a few minutes before nine I discovered that the sheets had been taken off my bed. They were not in the room. As everybody in the house appeared to be asleep and I did not care to awaken them, sleeping without
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