Читать книгу General Impressions - Edmée Elizabeth Monica Dashwood - Страница 19

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First General Impression, that the inventor of a Noiseless typewriter ought to make a fortune. Humiliating conviction of one's own significance—amounting, indeed, to invisibility—in the eyes of painted and efficient young persons.

VOICE (abruptly). Can I direct you?

A VERY APOLOGETIC LADY. Well—I'm looking, really, for a Kitchen-maid.

General Impression that the Apologetic Lady is more fool than knave. She is conducted pityingly to a suave black-satin woman sitting at a large desk.

THE BLACK-SATIN WOMAN (discouragingly). Yes?

THE V. A. LADY. Well, I know it's not easy to find them, of course, but I—well, as a matter of fact, I'm really looking for a kitchen-maid.

THE B.-S. WOMAN. Town or Country?

THE V. A. LADY. Oh, London.

The V. A. Lady revives a little, as she says this, evidently feeling that it's a point in her favour.

"We don't do London here. Miss Dalrymple! Take Madam to the Bureau for Town Situations."

Madam follows Miss Dalrymple to another desk, presided over by auburn hair and a pince-nez.

THE PINCE-NEZ. For London? (Suspiciously) Not suburbs, is it?

V. A. LADY. Oh no. Nothing like that. Eaton Terrace.

THE PINCE-NEZ. Ah! Right off the bus route, isn't it?

General Impression that the V. A. Lady has been shown up as an impostor, and that Eaton Terrace is a poor address to boast about, anyway.

THE PINCE-NEZ. Did you want a kitchen-maid? They're very difficult to get, you know.

THE V. A. LADY (faintly). I'm offering good wages.

THE P.-N. (sharply). What do you call good wages, Madam?

THE V. A. LADY (temporizing). Well, what would you suggest yourself?

THE P.-N. (evincing an iron determination not to help her in any way). Quite impossible to say, Madam. What have you been giving?

THE V. A. LADY. Well, the last girl had thirty-four.

The Pince-Nez lady shuts up the ledger with an air of finality and sketches a pitying smile. General Impression that the Apologetic Lady had better go, before worse befalls.

THE V. A. LADY (hysterically). But I would go to forty. (The Pince-Nez maintains a brassy silence.) Or even forty-two. Perhaps—if she was experienced—I might say forty-five. (Slight symptoms of relenting on the part of the Pince-Nez lady and the ledger. Negotiations resumed.)

In another Department an interview is progressing between a Mother and a candidate for the post of Nursery Governess, who has described herself on paper as young, bright, and willing, but gives rather the impression of being elderly, depressed, and unwilling to the point of stubbornness.

THE MOTHER. It's really not at all a hard place, especially for anyone who likes the country. The children are out a great deal. I like them to walk for an hour or two every day at least, in all weathers, and in-between-times you could just run about and play with them, don't you know—the three boys are very active and the little girls rather tomboys—and of course we mustn't neglect the lessons. I want the boys thoroughly well grounded for school, and they all do callisthenics, and those nice eurhythmics, you know, and then I should like you to teach them all five music, and drawing for the three eldest. Oh, and needlework for the girls. Then, of course, there's just the mending, and I always ask my governess to make the baby's little things. You see, you have the evenings quite to yourself. I'm afraid I'm out a good deal myself, but the children will keep you quite lively, you know. They're never still, which I always think is such a good sign.

THE N. G. (who has applied unavailingly for seven posts in the last five days and knows that she can't pay for her lodgings any longer). And what salary are you offering?

THE MOTHER (airily). Forty to fifty—but as you haven't got any French——

THE N. G. (hastily). I'm quite ready to take forty-five——

General Impression that she has bitten off a good deal more than she can chew, but is lucky to have got the chance.

At the Desk of the Presiding Deity—enthroned behind glass.

THE P. D. Anything to-day?

A CLERK. That woman we sent to Lady Poker is leaving.

THE P. D. (unmoved). Ah, they've found out she drinks, then. Send her name to the gentleman in Belgrave Square who's offering eighty, and you might let those American Ladies have it, and anybody else who's offering over eighty. That'll keep them quiet for a bit. No applications from permanent cooks, I suppose?

THE CLERK. Not one.

THE P. D. Then answer this letter from Curzon Street and say we're giving the lady's name and requirements to some first-class cooks, and that she ought to hear from them in a few days.

Business proceeds briskly. General Impression that the whole question of Domestic Employment is in a rather parlous condition, and that it ought to be looked into.