# Sheila and Others/Concerning Catherine

CONCERNING CATHERINE
WHEN I mention Catherine to outsiders, I call her the housekeeper. No one with a sense of humor could construe her into a "maid." She is of the square-rigged, ponderous type with a much-lamented leaning towards what she calls "fleshiness." Being convinced that early indulgence in porridge conduced to this undesired amplitude, she now eschews all cereals, breakfasting on more substantial substitutes with a preference for bacon. She has a suspicion too, that water makes people fat, and so confines herself to tea and coffee with a liberal allowance of cream, feeling sorry for herself sometimes on account of the privation. She suffers from the misfortune of looking about ten years older than she really is, though relentless time has already brought her along to the shady side of thirty-five. She veers slightly from side to side as she walks, planting her square-toed boot down firmly, as indeed, she has need to.
​English, Scotch, Irish and Scandinavian we have suffered more or less hopefully and ungladly in turn. Catherine is plain Canadian. She was born on a farm in Ontario, and has a disposition to regard milk, butter and eggs as staples of diet instead of luxurious accessories. She has a conservative mind toward new ideas. They seem to her superfluous and peace-disturbing. She loves the settled track, the well-worn ruts of dailiness. She resented the introduction of the fireless-cooker, and looked upon the electric-washer as an unnecessary and dangerous complication to life. She is inhospitable to any delicately-veiled allusions to the duty of Canadian kitchens in time of war. There are, of course, a few exceptions. Rice is one; she prefers its use as a vegetable instead of potatoes. She likes canned tomatoes for the same reason, better than fresh. It saves peeling. There are a few points such as these where Catherine's mentality works, but in the main it is impervious.
Besides being voluminous and square-rigged, so to speak, Catherine carries out in other details the illusion of uncompromising austerity. The firm line of her close-shut lips is like unto a visible bar of conscience at which ​you stand accused with every probability of guilt. But Catherine, like George Eliot's little Hettie, has inherited a cast of countenance with which her nature doesn't tally, for there is in her somewhere a belying "soft spot," a point of timidity and self-distrust which makes her a pawn in the big game, never a mover of pawns. Yet this weakness, while it may account for the subordinate nature of her rôle, undoubtedly contributes to her value in that rôle, for Catherine never obtrudes her own opinion, or has any superfluous accretion of obstinacy to work off on you. On the contrary, her plasticity and deference to others goes farther to keep the domestic wheels running smoothly than many more outstanding virtues might.
Catherine has another good point. She seldom commits herself to words. When she does she never misses fire. Her incisive, and closely pruned vocabulary would be invaluable to a literary craftsman. When I asked her how she liked the new blend of tea (with more than a dash of the doubtful Nippon variety in it) that an over-zealous grocer had insisted on our trying, Catherine's lips came together decisively as she said that it tasted to her "kind ​o' wild like." And when the new bread was on trial at the family board and we were all trying to ignore a suspicion of moistness, Catherine settled its fate with one laconic stab. It was too gummy for her.
The seeming brilliant idea occurred to me last fall, on economical thoughts intent, of having the best bed-room rug reduced and made over for the room next in order of merit. A somewhat oily gentleman, whose specialty appears to be the rehabilitation of discouraged floor-coverings, appeared on the scene and entered into my plan with enthusiasm. He said it could be done without a doubt and the pattern so successfully carried along that the most observant eye would not detect the spots where the worn places had been removed. This cheered me, of course, and I told him to go ahead, acceding to his estimate for this artistic transformation in spite of the generosity to himself it so plainly evidenced. I was still in the glow of my capital idea when the rug came back, and tried to gloss over certain peculiarities it revealed when laid. "What do you think of the rug, Catherine?" I asked by way of conversation and hoping for encouragement.
But Catherine is addicted to the truth. She ​never softens it. She has not moved in fashionable circles. She speaks her mind with clearness and precision. She swept her eye over that unfortunate venture of mine, with the air of one who yields to no blandishments and said oracularly, "Looks sort o'chewed-up lookin' to me."
I suspect Catherine of a prejudice against the war. We all have one, of course, but with most of us it is localized, while with her it is more or less diffused. It is in its domestic aspects that Catherine's prejudice is most apparent. She doesn't like saving bread-crusts and being particular about another egg or two when it comes to the pudding. She is of a generous habit herself, and left-overs give her dormant imagination no upward lift. She probably thinks the Food Controller unreasonable. I am humbly thankful if she doesn't too openly include me. I am aware of a distinct line of thus far and no farther, with Catherine, and that it runs on the kitchen side of the garbage can, but I have no eagerness to cross it. I am thankful for my mercies as they stand.
But Catherine's idiosyncrasies are dimmed in the light of her human quality which after ​all is the ultimate test and virtue. She is a blessing undisguised. She never loses her temper no matter how hard the East winds may blow. She has no "nerves," or only rudimentary ones, she is conscientious in her work (to which our restored Apostle spoons bear lamented testimony, every vestige of antiquity having been removed during one of her unexpected polishing orgies) and is ever ready with the personal touch which, like somebody's cocoa, is so grateful and comforting. She will "carry on" In some fashion if left to her own devices, though her imagination has a settled bias in favor of rice-pudding for the sweet-course if I happen to be detained downtown or otherwise detached from my legitimate duties of life.
And she is invariable with the rising-bell. These are great points. However thin the ice over which she skates with regard to the rising-bell she has never yet gone actually through. The Professor's Early Class is an institution for which Catherine entertains profound respect—a sentiment indeed, shared by the entire household—and it is no doubt an aid in helping her to walk the straight and narrow path. Breakfast is never a minute late, though ​there have been times when there was not more than the fourth of a minute's leeway. I have refrained from making observation on this fact to Catherine, partly in deference to her age. Were she younger, considerations relative to the formative effect upon character undoubtedly would have laid a constraining reflection upon me and an unwelcome task.
But though Catherine suits us, the fact cannot wholly be blinked that we do not suit her. Not that she is aware of it. I have every reason to believe that she regards herself as one in clover, and far be it from me to undeceive her. The ideal place for Catherine would be one where there were children a-plenty, hearty roystering ways and the daily ups and downs of busy, brimming family-life. She needs to be teased and depended on. She has a vast capacity for being depended on. It gets but little exercise in our staid, over-intellectualized household, where there are no incontinent appetites to be appeased at unlawful hours, nobody to "track in" and be apologetic and forgiven.
Catherine has not profited by Browning's high advice. Care does not irk her or doubt fret. No welcomed rebuff turns earth's ​smoothness rough to her. I regret it, but I see no remedy. If I turned her loose, she would probably gravitate into another professorial domain where her ease and well-being would be as carefully ministered to as with us, if not more so. Besides, Catherine never heard of Browning and does not know she fails to toe the philosophical mark. She does not court difficulties for their educational value, or ever contrast "The petty Done with the Undone Vast," and I own to the ignominy of an ethical standard so low as to be glad she does not.
I once tried to get better acquainted with Catherine. I donned a large flowered kitchen-apron I have, and devoted an afternoon to culinary pursuits. We got on real friendly terms. Catherine asked me if I knew whether the lady who lives next door but one was her husband's second wife or not. She seemed disappointed when I told her I didn't know but I thought not. I saw she was scenting a romance in the seeming disparity of their ages. She next reverted to one of our numerous household retainers, a new-made widower, who has recently gone into business for himself. The leading events of his life were reviewed in turn, the lingering illness of his de​ceased wife dwelt on with realistic details, his regret at her loss, as evinced by the way he "took on," and the prospective chances for again "settling." I perceived that Catherine's mind was hungering for the raw materials of romance in which our household is singularly deficient. The Curate's intentions had evidently been a theme of some private speculation on her part, but here again, I was obliged to be a dampener of her hopes, for it is evident to all but the most determined optimist that the Curate has no intentions.
St. Valentine's day brought Catherine a post-card, highly glazed, and colored, representing a jovial, not to say sporty gentleman, dancing a jig with one extended arm inviting all beholders to join in his hilarity. It afforded her no small gratification, and brought home to me the unwelcome realization that my sober (and expensive) Christmas present had been wide of the mark. This sanguine reminder of St. Valentine's mission was installed in a prominent position on the kitchen-shelf where Catherine's arrested girlhood takes many a sly, and I doubt not, sustaining glance in its direction, glances which seem to say that under the middle-aged and unromantic exterior there ​still beats the hopeful and tremulous heart of youth.
Catherine's ample breast should have pillowed young Canadian heads, and her warm heart concerned itself with the clacking cares of a happy brood. She would have made a devoted mother. Fortunately, it is doubtful if she has any suspicion that she has drawn a blank in life's lottery. She is fortified by an inner conviction of prosperity, and enjoys an income that in proportion to her wants I sometimes feel to be enviable.
If you were to meet her on the highway, you would probably take her for somebody's best aunt, she has such a heart-warming look of integrity and dependableness. A very pleasant and acceptable sight in these latter days.
Few there be who have the good fortune to approach the adventure of life through their own most direct and natural channels. Almost always we have to fall back upon second choices, second chances. It is so with Catherine. The more vital relationships for which she has abundant capacity, she knows only vicariously. The wandering tendrils of an affectionate nature, prohibited natural outlet, seek some touch upon reality in the experience ​of others. So it comes that I deal gently with Catherine's speculation upon the neighbors, her predilection for rice-pudding, and even with her fixed idea that cheese is a basic supply for supper.
If the leaves of Catherine's simple book of life lie more open to me than to herself, it is with a deepened sense of tenderness towards all human limitations that I scan them, much as I should like to imagine the Maker of life might himself feel towards the blind impulses, the thwarted capacities, the unfulfilled desires that grope so feebly in the half-light of our dim mortality.