 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and recorded by Deborah Lynn in Northern Michigan, February 2007. WANTED A COOK by Ellen Dale There was a ring at the front doorbell. Letitia, wrought up, nervously clutched my arm. For a moment a sort of paralysis seized me. Then, alertly as a young calf, I bounded toward the door, hope aroused, and expectation keen. It was rather dark in the outside hall, and I could not quite perceive the nature of our visitor. But I soon gladly realized that it was something feminine. And as I held the door open, a thin, small, soiled, wisp of a woman glided in and smiled at me. Talanisvensk? She asked, but I had no idea what she meant. She may have been impertinent, or even rude, or perhaps improper. But she looked as though she might be a domestic, and I led her gently, reverently, to Letitia in the drawing room. I smiled back at her in a wild endeavor to be sympathetic. I would have anointed her, or bathed her feet, or applied her with figs and dates, or have done anything that any nationality craves as a welcome. As the front door closed, I heaved a sigh of relief. Here was probably the quintessence of five advertisements. Out of the mountain crept a mouse, and quite a little mouse, too. Talanisvensk proved to be nothing more outrageous than do you speak Swedish. My astute little wife discovered this intuitively. I left them together, my mental excuse being that women understand each other and that a man is unnecessary under the circumstances. I had some misgivings on the subject of Letitia in Svensk, but the universal language of femininity is not without its uses. I devoutly hoped that Letitia would be able to come to terms as the mere idea of a cook who couldn't excoriate us in English was, at that moment, delightful. At the end of a quarter of an hour I strolled back to the drawing room. Letitia was smiling, and the handmaiden sat grim and uninspired. I've engaged her, Archie, said Letitia. She knows nothing, as she has told me, in the few words of English that she has picked up. But you remember what Aunt Julia said about a clean slate. I gazed at the maiden and reflected that while the term slate might be perfectly correct, the adjective seemed a bit over-enthusiastic. She was decidedly soiled, this quintessence of a quintet of advertisements. I said nothing, anxious not to dampen Letitia's elation. She has no references, continued my wife, as she has never been out before. She is just a simple little Stockholm girl. I like her face immensely, Archie, immensely. She is willing to begin at once, which shows that she is eager and consequently likely to suit us. Wait for me, Archie, while I take her to the kitchen. Calm, Girda? Exactly why Letitia couldn't say, come, Girda, seems strange. She probably thought that calm must be Swedish and that it sounded well. She certainly invented calm on the spur of the Scandinavian moment, and I learned afterward that it was correct. My inspired Letitia. Still, in spite of all, my opinion is that calm Girda would have done just as well. Isn't it delightful, cried Letitia, when she joined me later? I am really enthusiastic at the idea of a Swedish girl. I adore Scandinavia, Archie. It always makes me think of Ibsen. Perhaps Girda Leiberg, that's her name, will be as interesting as Hedegabler and Mrs. Alving and Nora and all those lovely, complex Ibsen creatures. They were Norwegians, dear, I said gently, anxious not to shatter illusions. The Ibsen play deals with Christiania, not with Stockholm. But they are so near, declared Letitia, amiable and seraphic once more. Somehow or other I invariably mix up Norway and Sweden and Denmark. I know I shall always look upon Girda as an Ibsen girl who has come here to live her life or work out her inheritance. Perhaps, dear, she has some interesting internal disease, or a maggoty brain. Don't you think, Archie, that the Ibsen inheritances are always most fascinating? A bit morbid, but surely fascinating. I prefer a healthy cook, Letitia, I said meditatively. Somebody willing to interest yourself in our inheritance rather than in her own. I don't mind what you say now, she pouted. I am not to be put down by clamor. We really have a cook at last, and I feel more lenient toward you, Archie. Of course, I was only joking when I suggested the Ibsen diseases. Girda Leiberg may have inherited from her ancestors something quite nice and attractive. Then you mustn't look upon her as Ibsen, Letitia, I protested. The Ibsen people never inherit nice things. Their ancestors always bequeath nasty ones. That is where their consistency comes in. They are receptacles for horrors. Personally, if you'll excuse my flippancy, I prefer Norwegian anchovies to Norwegian heroines. It is a mere matter of opinion. I'm ashamed of you, retorted Letitia defiantly. You talk like some of the wretchedly frivolous criticisms, so called, that men like Acton Davies and Alan Dale inflict upon the long-suffering public. They never amuse me. Ibsen may make his heroines the recipients of ugly legacies, but he has never yet cursed them with the odious incubus known as a sense of humor. The people with a sense of humor have something in their brains worse than maggots. We'll drop the subject, Archie. I'm going to learn Swedish. Before Girda Leiberg has been with us a month, I intend to be able to talk fluently. It will be most useful. Next time we go to Europe, we'll take in Sweden, and I'll do the piloting. I am going to buy some Swedish books and study. Won't it be jolly? And just think how melancholy we were this morning, you and I, looking out of that window and trying to materialize cooks. Wasn't it funny, Archie? What amusing experiences we shall be able to chronicle later on. Letitia babbled on, like half a dozen brooks, and thinking up a gentle parody in the shape of cooks may come and men may go. I decided to leave my household gods for the bread-earning contest downtown. I could not feel quite as sanguine as Letitia, who seemed to have forgotten the dismal results of the advertisement. Just one little puny Swedish result. I should have preferred to make a choice. Letitia was as pleased with Girda Leiberg as though she had been a selection instead of that or nothing. If somebody had dramatized Girda Leiberg's initial dinner, it would probably have been considered exceedingly droll. As a serious episode, however, it's humor to my mind left spot naity. Letitia had asked her to cook us a little Swedish meal so that we could get some idea of Stockholm life, in which, for some reason or other, we were supposed to be deeply interested. Unfortunately, I was extremely hungry and had carefully avoided luncheon in order to give my appetite a chance. We sat down to a huge bowl of cold, greasy soup, in which enormous lumps of meat swam, as though for their life, awaiting rescue at the prongs of a fork. In addition to this Epicurean dish was a teeming plate of water-soaked potatoes delicately boiled. That was all. Letitia said that it was Swedish and the most annoying part of the entertainment was that I was alone in my critical disapprobation. Letitia was so engrossed with the little Swedish conversation book that she brought to table that she forgot the more material question of food. Forgot everything but the horrible jargon she was studying and the soiled, wisp-like maiden who looked more unlike a clean slate than ever. What shall I say to her, Archie? asked Letitia, turning over the pages of her book as I tried to rescue a block of meat from the cold fat in which it lurked. Here is a chapter on dinner. I am very hungry. I am very hungry. I am very hungry. Rather pretty, isn't it? Hark at this. I am very hungry. I am very hungry. I am very hungry. I am very hungry. That means waiter, give me the bill of fare and the list of wines. Don't, I cried. Don't. This woman doesn't know what dining means. Look out a chapter on feeding. Letitia was perfectly unruffled. She paid no attention to me whatsoever. She resonated with the slovenly girl who stood around and gaped at her Swedish. Gerda, said Letitia with her eyes on the book. Gifmeer, Apvins, and Napak, Nag, or Potato. And then, as Miss Leiberg dived for the drowned potatoes, Letitia exclaimed in an ecstasy of joy, She understands, Archie. She understands. I feel I am going to be a great success. Jog tackar, Gerda. That means I thank you. Jog tackar. See if you can say it, Archie. Just try, dear, to oblige me. Jog tackar. Well, that's a good boy. Jog tackar. I won't, I declared spitefully. No Jagd tackering for a parody like this. Letitia, you don't seem to realize that I am hungry. Honestly, I prefer a delicatessen dinner to this. Pray give me a piece of venison, red letitia. Absolutely disregarding my mood. There, gada, Gifmeeg at Stikevilt. It is almost intelligible, isn't it, dear? Neate, Urik, you do not eat. I can't, I asserted mournfully, anxious to gain Letitia's sympathy. It was not forthcoming. Letitia's eyes were fastened on Gerda, and I could not help noting on the woman's face an expression of scorn. I felt certain of it. She appeared to regard my wife as a sort of irresponsible freak, and I was vexed to think that Letitia should make such an exhibition of herself and countenance the alleged meal that was set before us. I have really dined very well, she continued joyously. Jog harvok leidjen etit Mike et brah. If you are quite sure that she doesn't understand English, Letitia, I said viciously, and I will say to you that this is a kind of joke. I don't appreciate. I won't keep such a woman in the house. Let us put on our things and go out and have dinner, better late than never. Letitia was turning over the pages of her book, quite lost to her surroundings. As I concluded my remarks, she looked up and exclaimed, How very funny, Archie, just as you said, better late than never. I came across that very phrase and the list of Swedish proverbs. It must be telepathy, dear, better late than never. Bat resent en aldrig. What were you saying on the subject, dear? Will you repeat it? And do try it in Swedish. Say, Bat resent en aldrig. Letitia, I shot forth in a fury. I am not in the humor for this sort of thing. I think this dinner and this woman are rotten. See if you can find the word rotten in Swedish. I am surprised at you. Letitia declared glacially, roused from her book by my heroic, though unparliamentary, language. Your expressions are neither English nor Swedish. Please don't use such gutter words before a servant, to say nothing of your own wife. But she doesn't understand, I protested, glancing at Miss Lieberg. I could have sworn that I detected a gleam in the woman's eyes and that the sphinx-like attitude of dull incomprehensibility suggested a strenuous effort. She doesn't understand anything. She doesn't want to understand. In a week from now, said Letitia, she will understand everything perfectly, for I shall be able to talk with her. Oh, Archie, do be agreeable. Can't you see that I am having great fun? Don't be such a greedy boy. If you could only enter into the spirit of the thing, you wouldn't be so oppressed by the food question. Oh, dear, how important it does seem to be to Mengerda. Her gamel erni? The maiden sullenly left the room, and I felt convinced that Letitia had Swedishly asked her to do so. I was wrong. Her gamel erni? Letitia explained, simply meant, how old are you? She evidently didn't want to tell me, was my wife's comment as we went to the drawing room. I imagined, dear, that she doesn't quite like the idea of my ferreting out Swedish so persistently. But I intend to persevere. The worst of conversation books is that one acquires a language in such a parody way. Now, in my book, the only answer to the question how old are you is, I was born on the 10th of August, 1852. For the life of me, I couldn't vary that. And it would be most embarrassing. It would make me 52. If anyone asked me in Swedish how old I was, I should have to be 52. When I think of my five advertisements, I settle lagooriously as I threw myself into an armchair, fatigued at my efforts to discover dinner. When I remember our expectation and the pleasant anticipations of today, I feel very bitter, Letitia. Just to think that from it all nothing has resulted but that beastly mummy, that atrocious, ossified thing, Archie, Archie, said my wife warningly, please be calm. Perhaps I was too engrossed with my studies to note the deficiencies of dinner. But do remember that I pleaded with her for a Swedish meal. The poor thing did what I asked her to do. Our dinner was evidently Swedish. It was not her fault that I asked for it. Tomorrow, dear, it shall be different. We had better stick to the American regime. It is more satisfactory to you. At any rate, we have somebody in the house, and if our five advertisements had bought forth five hundred applicants, we should only have kept one. So don't torture yourself, Archie. Try and imagine that we had five hundred applicants and that we selected Gerda Leiberg. I can't, Letitia. I said sulkily and heaved a heavy sigh. Come, she said soothingly. Come and study Swedish with me. It will be most useful for your lives of great men. You can read up the Swedes in the original. I'll entertain you with this book, and you'll forget all about Mrs. Potts. I mean Gerda Leiberg. By the by, Archie, she doesn't remind me so much of Hedda Gabler. I don't fancy that she is very subtle. You, Letitia, I retorted, remind me of Mrs. Nicolby. You ramble on, so. Letitia looked offended. She always declared that Dickens got on her nerves. She was one of the new-fashioned readers who have learned to despise Dickens. Personally, I regretted only his nauseating sense of humor. Letitia placed a cushion behind my head, smoothed my forehead, kissed me, made her peace, and settled down by my side. Lack of nourishment made me drowsy and Letitia's babblings sounded vague and muffled. It is the most inclusive little book, she said, and if I can succeed in memorizing it all, I shall be quite at home with the language. In fact, dear, I think I shall always keep Swedish cooks. Hark at this. If the wind be favorable, we shall be at Gothenburg in forty hours. I'm Vinden Ergad, Saerovi Pyrtiö Timar E. Goatburg. I think it is sweetly pretty. You will never forget that I have a friend who is I think it is sweetly pretty. You are seasick. Stuart, bring me a glass of brandy and water. We are now entering the harbor. We are now anchoring. Your passports, gentlemen. A comfortable lethargy was stealing over me. Letitia took a pencil and paper and made notes as she applied the book. A chapter on seeing a town is most interesting, aren't she? Of course, it must be a Swedish town. Do you know the two private galleries of Mr. Smith the Merchant and Mr. Muller the Chancellor? Tomorrow morning, I wish to see all the public buildings and statues. Staterna is Swedish for statues, aren't you? Are you listening, dear? We will visit the church of the Holy Ghost at two. Then we will make an excursion on Lake Melen and see the Fortress of Vaxholm. It is a charming little book. Don't you think that it is a great improvement on the old Allendorf system? I don't find nonsensical sentences like the hat of my aunt's sister is blue but the nose of my brother-in-law's sister-in-law is red. I rose and stretched myself. Letitia was still plunged in the irritating guide to Sweden where I vowed I would never go. Nothing on earth should ever induce me to visit Sweden. If it came to a choice between Hoboken and Stockholm, I mentally determined to select the former. As I paced the room, I heard a curious splashing noise in the kitchen. Letitia's studies must have dulled her ears. She was evidently too deeply engrossed. I strolled nonchalantly into the hall and proceeded deliberately toward the kitchen. The thick carpet deadened my footsteps. The splashing noise grew louder. The kitchen door was closed. I gently opened it. As I did so, a wild scream rent the air. There stood Goethe Leiberg in my pen declines to write it, a simple unsophisticated birthday dress taking an ingenuous reluctant bath in the stationary tubs with the plates and dishes and dinner things grouped artistically around her. The instant she saw me, she mildly seized a dish towel and shouted at the top of her voice. The kitchen was filled with the steam from the hot water. Venus arising looked nebulous and mystic. I beat a hasty retreat, aghast at the revelation and almost fell against Letitia who, dropping her conversation book, came to see what had happened. She's bathing, I guess, in the kitchen, among the plates, near the soup. Never, cried Letitia. Then, melodramatically, let me pass. Stand aside, Archie. I'll go and see. Perhaps, I thought, perhaps you had better come with me. Letitia, I gurgled. I'm shocked. She has nothing on but a dish towel. Letitia paused irresolutely for a second and, going into the kitchen, shut the door. The splashing noise ceased. I heard the sound of voices, or rather of a voice, Letitia's. Evidently, she had forgotten Swedish and such remark says, if the wind be favorable, we shall be at Gothenburg in forty hours. Indatenably, and could not even hear her say, we will visit the Church of the Holy Ghost at two. It is strange how the stress of circumstances alters the complexion of a conversation book. All the evening, she had studied Swedish, and yet, suddenly confronted by a Swedish lady bathing in our kitchen, dish-toweled but unashamed, all she could find to say was, how disgusting, and how disgraceful, in English. You see, said Letitia, when she emerged, she is just a simple peasant girl and only needs to be told. It is very horrid, of course. And unappetizing, I chimed in. Of course, certainly unappetizing. I couldn't think of anything Swedish to say, but I said several things in English. She was dreadfully sorry that you had seen her and never contemplated such a possibility. After all, Archie, bathing is not a crime. And we were hunting for a clean slate, I suggested, satirically. Do you think, Letitia, that she also takes cold bath in the morning among the bacon and eggs and things? That is enough, said Letitia sternly. The episode, Need Not Serve, is an excuse for indelicacy. It was with the advent of Goethe Leiberg that we became absolutely certain beyond the para-adventure of any doubt that there was such a thing as the servant question. The knowledge had been gradually wafted in upon us, but it was not until the lady from Stockholm had definitively planted herself in our midst that we admitted to ourselves, openly, unblushingly, that the problem existed. Goethe blazoned forth the enigma in all its force and defiance. The remarkable thing about our latest acquisition was the singularly blank state of her gastronomic mind. There was nothing that she knew. Most women and a great many men intuitively recognized the physical fact that water at a certain temperature boiled. Ms. Leiberg, apparently seeking to earn her living in the kitchen, had no certain views as to when the boiling point was reached. Rumors seemed vaguely to have reached her that things called eggs dropped into water, wood in the course of time, any time and generally less than a week, become eatable. Letitia bought a little egg boiler for her, one of those antique arrangements that she used to make her own. She bought a little egg boiler for her, one of those antique arrangements in which the sands of time played the soft-boiled egg. The maiden promptly boiled it with the eggs and undoubtedly thought that the hen in a moment of perturbation or aberration had laid it. I say thought, because it is the only term I can use. It is perhaps inappropriate in connection with Goethe. Potatoes subjected to the action of hot water grow soft. She was certain of that. Whether she tested them with the poker or with her hands or feet, we never knew. I inclined to the last suggestion. The situation was quite marvelous. Here was an alleged worker in a particular field asking the wages of skilled labor and densely ignorant of every detail connected with her task. It seemed unique. Carpenters, plumbers, bricklayers, seamstresses, dressmakers, launderesses, all the sowers and reapers and the little garden of our daily needs were forced by the inexorable law of competition to possess some inkling of the significance of their undertakings. With the cook it was different. She could step jubilantly into any kitchen without the slightest idea of what she was expected to do there. If she knew that water was wet and that fire was hot, she felt amply primed to demand a salary. Impelled by her craving for Swedish literature, Letitia struggled with Miss Lieberg. Compared with the Swede, my exquisitely ignorant wife was a culinary queen. She was an Epicurean caterer. Letitia's slate pencil coffee was ambrosia for the gods, sweetest nectar by the side of the dish water that cook prepared. I began to feel quite proud of her. She grew to be an adept in the art of boiling water. If we could have lived on that fluid, everything would have moved clockworkily. I've discovered one thing, said Letitia, on the evening of the third day. The girl is just a peasant, probably a worker in the fields. That is why she is so ignorant. I thought this reasoning foolish. Even peasants eat, my dear, I muttered. She must have seen somebody cook something. Field workers have good appetites. If this woman ever ate, what did she eat and why can't we have the same? We have arrived at the stage, my poor girl, when all we need is prosaically to fill up. You have given her opportunities to offer us samples of peasant food. The result has been nil. It is odd, Letitia declared, a wrinkle of perplexity appearing in the smooth surface of her forehead. Of course she says she doesn't understand me and yet aren't she, I have talked to her in pure Swedish. I suppose you said, a venison from the conversation book. Don't be ridiculous Archie. I know the Swedish for cauliflower, green peas, spinach, a leg of mutton, mustard, roast meat, soup and if the wind be favorable we shall be at Gothenburg in 40 hours. I interrupted. She was silent and I went on. It seems a pity to end your studies in Swedish, Letitia. But fascinating though they be, they do not really necessitate our keeping this barbarian. You can always pursue them and exercise on me. I don't mind, even with an American cook if such a being exists you could still continue to ask for venison steak in Swedish and to look forward to arriving at Gothenburg in 40 hours. Letitia declined to argue. My mood was that known as cranky. We were in the drawing room after what we were compelled to call dinner. When we arrived at Gothenburg we saw potatoes soaked to a pulp in a rice pudding that looked like a poultice the morning after and possibly tasted like one. Letitia had been shopping and was therefore unable to supervise. Our delicate repast was capped by black coffee of an indefinite straw color and with globules of grease on the surface. People who can feel elated with the joy of living men and women there are who will say, oh, give me anything I'm not particular so long as it is plain and wholesome. I've met many of these people. My experience of them is that they are the greatest flottons on earth with veritably voracious appetites and that the best isn't good enough for them. To be sure at a pinch they will demolish a score of potatoes if there be nothing else but offer them caviar canvas-backed quail that's at food that is plain and wholesome. The plain and wholesome liver is a snare and a delusion like the bluffing genial visitor whose geniality veils all sorts of satire and merciless comment. Letitia and I both felt weak and miserable. We had made up our minds not to dine out. We were resolved to keep the home up even if, in return, the home kept us down. Give in, we wouldn't. We were firmly determined not to degenerate into that clammy American institution the boarding house feeder and the restaurant diner. We knew the type. In the feminine it sits at table with its bonnet on and a sullen, gnawing expression of animal hunger. In the masculine it puts its own knife in the butter and uses a toothpick. No cook, no lack of cook should drive us out of COVID. I simply declined to breathe the breath of the lives of great men. She read a sweet little classic called The Table How to Buy Food, How to Cook It and How to Serve It by Alessandro Filippini. A delightful table-to-hodie name. I lay back in my chair and frowned waiting until Letitia chose to break the silence. As she was the most chattily inclined person on all occasions, I reasoned that I should not go to bed. Archie said she, according to this book, there is no place in the civilized world that contains so large a number of so-called high livers as New York City, which was educated by the famous Delmonico and his able lieutenants. Great Heaven, I exclaimed with a groan. Why rub it in, Letitia? I should also say that no city in the world contains so-called high livers. And the great glory of the past has departed from those centers for the culinary art at one time defied all rivals. The scepter of supremacy has passed into the hands of the metropolis of the New World. What sickening can't, I cried, what fiendishly exaggerated restaurant talk. There are perhaps fifty fine restaurants in New York. In Paris there are five hundred finer. Here we have places to eat in. We can dine anywhere in Paris. In New York, save for those fifty fine restaurants, one feeds. Don't read any more of your cookbook to me, my girl. It is written to catch the American trade with the subtle pen of flattery. Try and be patriotic, dear, she said soothingly. Of course I know you wouldn't allow a Frenchman to say all that and that you are just talking cussedly with your own wife. A ring at the bell caused a diversion. We hailed it. We didn't tell anything. The domestic hearth was most trying. We were bored to death. I sprang up and ran to the door, a little past time to which I was growing accustomed. Three tittering young women, each wearing a hat in which roses, violets, poppies, cornflowers, forget-me-nots, feathers and ribbons ran riot, confronted me. Miss Gerta Leiberg, said the foremost, who wore a bright red gown and from whose hat six spiteful poppies lurched forward and almost hit me in the face. For a moment, dazed from the cookbook, I was nonplussed. All I could say was no, meaning that I wasn't Miss Gerta Leiberg. I felt so sure that I wasn't, that I was about to close the door. She lives here, I believe, asserted the damsel, again shooting forth the poppies. I came to myself with an effort. She is the cook. I muttered weakly. We are her friends, quote the damsel, an indignant inflection in her voice, kindly let us in. We've come to the Thursday sociable. The three bedisen ladies entered without further parlay and went toward the kitchen, instinctively recognizing its direction. I was amazed. I heard a noisy greeting, a peel of laughter, a confusion of tongues, a disdainful gesture. They've come to the Thursday sociable, I cried. Who! she asked in astonishment, and I imparted to her the full extent of my knowledge. Latisha took it very nicely. She had always heard she said. In fact, Mrs. Archer had told her that Thursday nights were festival occasions with the Swedes. She thought it rather a pleasant and convivial notion. Servants must enjoy themselves after all, better a happy gathering than a rowdy collection of men. Latisha thought the idea felicitous. She had no objections to giving privileges to a cook, nor had I, for the matter of that. I ventured to remark, however, that Gerda didn't seem to be a cook. Then let us call her a girl, said Latisha. Gerda is a girl, only because she isn't a boy, I remarked tauntingly. If by girl you even mean servant, then Gerda isn't a girl. Goodness knows what she is. Hello, another ring. This time Miss Lieberg herself went to the door, and we listened. More arrivals for the sociable, four Swedish guests, all equally gaily attired in flower hats. Some of them wore bangles, the noise of which in the hall sounded like an infuriation of sleigh bells. They were Kristina and Sophie and Sadie and Alexandra, as we soon learned. It was wonderful how welcome and how quickly they were at home. They rustled through the halls, chatting and laughing and humming, such merry girls, such light-hearted little charmers. Latisha stood looking at them through the crack of the drawing room door. Perhaps it was just as well that somebody should have a good time in our house. Just the same Latisha I observed galled. I think I should say tomorrow that this invasion is most impertinent, most uncalled for. Yes, Archie said Latisha demirly. You think you should say it, but please don't the guy shall, for I assure you that I shan't. I suppose that we must discharge her. She can't do anything and she doesn't want to learn. I don't blame her. She can always get the wages she asks by doing nothing. You would pursue a similar policy, Archie, if it were possible, everybody would. But all other laborers must know how to labor. I was glad to hear Latisha echoing my sentiments. Once again she took up the cookbook. The sound of merry-making in the kitchen drifted in upon us. From what we could gather, Gerda seemed to be dressing up for the delectation of her guests. Shrieks of laughter and a clapping of hands made us wince. My nerves were on edge. Had anyone at that moment dared to suggest that there was even a suspicion of humor in these proceedings, I should have slain him without compunction. Latisha was less irate and tried to comfort me. Latisha sighed and shut up the cookbook. Eggs à la rain seemed as difficult as trigonometry or conic sections or differential calculus and much more expensive. Certainly the eight giggling cooks in the kitchen, now at the very height of their exhilaration, worried themselves little about such concoctions. My nerves again began to play pranks. My room infuriated me. Latisha was tired and wanted to go to bed. I was tired and hungry and disillusioned. It was close upon midnight and the Swedish Thursday was about over. I thought it unwise to allow them even an initial minute of Friday. When the clock struck twelve, I marched majestically to the kitchen, threw open the door, revealed the octet and the glass-water and announced in a severe yet subdued tone that the rebel must cease. You must go at once, I said. I am going to shut up the house. Then I withdrew and waited. There was a delay during which a babble of tongues was let loose and then Miss Lieberg's seven guests were heard noisily leaving the house. Two minutes later there was a knock at our door and Miss Lieberg appeared, her eyes blazing, an enchanted antelope defiantly asserting that it would never be brought to bay on her perspiring features. You've insulted my guests, she cried, in English as good as my own. I've had to turn them out of the house and I've had about enough of this place. Leticia's face was a psychological study. Amazement, consternation, humiliation, all seemed determined to possess her. She rallied with the intricacies of the language of Stockholm, furiously familiar with admirable English. The dense dumb Scandinavian, the lady of the Mino Understand, rejoined her, apparently had the gift of tongues. Leticia trembled. Rarely have I seen her so thoroughly perturbed. Yet seemingly she was unwilling to credit the testimony of her own ears. For with sudden energy she was either pure or impure. TIG! God didn't vague. I'll come off, cried the handmaid insolently. I understand English. I haven't been in this country fifteen years for nothing. It's just on account of folks like you that poor hardworking girls who ain't allowed to take no baths or entertain no lady friends have to protect themselves. Pretend not to understand them, says I. Come on and stop worrying. It's like your impudence to turn my lady friends out of this flat. It's like your impudence. Leticia's crestfallen look, following upon her perturbation, completely upset me. A wave of indignation swamped me. I advanced. And, in another minute, Miss Gerda Leiburg would have found herself in the hall, impaled there by a persuasive hand she said with cold deliberation and a smile, and I'll have you arrested for assault. Oh, I know the law. I haven't been in this country fifteen years for nothing. The law looks after poor weak Swedish girls. Just push me out. It's all I ask. Just you push me out. She edged up to me defiantly. My blood boiled. I would have mortgaged the prospects of my lives of great satisfaction of confounding this abominable woman. Then I saw the peril of the situation. I thought of horrid headliners in the papers. Author charged with abusing servant girl, or arrest of Archibald Fairfax on serious charge, and my mood changed. I understood you all the time, continued Miss Leiburg insulting me. I listened to you. I knew what you thought of me. Of turning out my lady friends on a Thursday night, too, and me a-slaving for them and a-bathing for them and a-treating them to ice cream and cake, and in me own kitchen. You ain't no lady. As for you, I seem to be her particular pet. When I sees a man around the house all the time, a molly codlin and a fussin', I says to myself, he ain't much good if he can't trust the women folk alone. We stood there like dummies to be sure there were two of us, and we were in our own house. The antagonist, however, was a servant, not in her own house. The situation, for reasons that it is impossible to define, was hers. She knew it, too. We allowed her full sway because we couldn't help it. The sympathy of the public in case of violent measures would not have been on our side. The poor domestic, oppressed would have appealed to any jury of married men living luxuriously in cheap boarding houses. When she left us, as she did when she was completely ready to do so, Letitia began to cry. The sight of her tears unnerved me, and I checked the most unfeeling remark that I intended to make to the effect that if the wind be favorable, we shall be at Gothenburg in forty hours. It's not that I mined her insolence, she sobbed. We were going to send her off anyway, weren't we? But it's so humiliating to be done. We've been done. Here have I been working hard at Swedish, writing exercises, learning verbs, studying proverbs, just to talk to a woman who speaks English as well as I do. It's so mortifying. Never mind, dear, I said, drying her eyes for her. The Swedish will come in handy some day. No, she declared vehemently, don't say that you'll take me to Sweden. I wouldn't go to the hateful country. It's a hideous language anyway, isn't it, Archie? It has a nasty, laconic, ugly tongue. You heard me say, TIG to her just now? TIG means be silent. Could anything sound more repulsive? TIG, TIG, UG. Letitia stamped her foot. She was exceeding wroth. End of Wanted a Cook.