…and she is not happy.
…and she is not happy.
I do not think it is the proper business of women to criticise important men who are doing important things, importantly. Many times in the past I have had no choice but to silence foolish women who have thought it appropriate to air opinions of this nature. It is a woman’s place to applaud, to hold pens, to commiserate if appropriate, and not, I feel strongly, to make comment on the actions of the superior sex.
And yet, when the pillars of the community act badly, what is a woman to do? Should I remain silent, complicit in allowing dreadfulness to continue? What is the proper response to finding that the important men are not doing the important things? This is truly a conundrum.
The great men of the island have such appallingly low standards. Reverend Davies may often be seen in public wearing a shirt with no actual collar. Doctor Willoughby’s collars are limp and yellowing, and there are visible stains upon the front part. Durosimi O’Stoat, I am told, is the last male heir of one of the most important local families. I briefly made his acquaintance yesterday. We were not properly introduced, he smelled of common dirt, and the whole encounter has left me shocked.
What am I to do? It is unspeakably difficult for me.
Domestic advice from Mrs Beaten.
(Art the peculiar responsibility of Nimue Brown.)
I, Mrs Emmaline Elizabeth Beatrice Beaten found myself shipwrecked upon the shores of Hopeless Maine some six months ago. It is a cold and wretched place, sorely in want of even the most basic things in life. The island has not a single manufacturer of doilies or tablecloths. The natives are coarse and vulgar, with no sense of etiquette or good manners. Even those who claim to form the social hierarchy show a distinct lack of breeding.
Now that I am recovered from the shock of my arrival in this place, I see that I have a moral duty to perform. I must raise these people up from their sordid condition. I must instil in them a sense of right and wrong, and a clear understanding of how this applies to matters of personal toilet and the correct way to send out invitations. Although I am by nature a humble, and modest woman, it is clear to me that I have been called and must cast aside my reserve in order to lead these hapless islanders into the light.
(Every Sunday, Mrs Beaten will be sharing her annoyance, while awkwardly betraying her own poor manners and lack of common sense, sometimes through the medium of little sketches.)