Briar Rose & Spanking the Maid Read online

  She enters once and for all encumbered with her paraphernalia which she deposits by the wall near the door, thinking: it should be easier than this. Indeed, why bother at all when it always seems to turn out the same? Yet she cannot do otherwise. She is driven by a sense of duty and a profound appetite for hope never quite stifled by even the harshest punishments: this time, today, perhaps it will be perfect … So, deliberately and gravely, not staring or turning her head either one way or the other, she crosses the room to the far wall and with a determined flourish draws open the tall curtains, flooding the room with buckets of sunlight, but her mind is clouded with an old obscurity: When, she wants to know as she opens wide the glass doors to let the sweet breath of morning in (there are birds, too, such a song, she doesn’t hear it), did all this really begin? When she entered? Before that? Long ago? Not yet? Or just now as, bracing herself as though for some awful trial, she turns upon the bed and flings the covers back, her morning’s tasks begun. ‘Oh!’ she cries. ‘I beg your pardon, sir!’ He stares groggily down at the erection poking up out of the fly of his pajama pants, like (she thinks) some kind of luxuriant but dangerous dew-bejeweled blossom: a monster in the garden. ‘I was having a dream,’ he announces sleepily, yet gravely. ‘Something about tumidity. But it kept getting mixed up somehow with –’ But she is no longer listening. Watching his knobby plant waggle puckishly in the morning breeze, then dip slowly, wilting toward the shadows like a closing morning glory, a solution of sorts has occurred to her to that riddle of genesis that has been troubling her mind: to wit, that a condition has no beginning. Only change can begin or end.

  She enters, dressed crisply in her black uniform with its starched white apron and lace cap, leans her mop against the wall like a standard, and strides across the gleaming tile floor to fling open the garden doors as though (he thinks) calling forth the morning. What’s left of it. Watching her from behind the bathroom door, he is moved by her transparent earnestness, her uncomplicated enthusiasm, her easy self-assurance. What more, really, does he want of her? Never mind that she’s forgotten her broom again, or that her shoe’s unbuckled and her cap on crooked, or that in her exuberance she nearly broke the glass doors (and sooner or later will), what is wonderful is the quickening of her spirits as she enters, the light that seems to dawn on her face as she opens the room, the way she makes a maid’s oppressive routine seem like a sudden invention of love. See now how she tosses back the blankets and strips off the sheets as though, in childish excitement, unwrapping a gift! How in fluffing up the pillows she seems almost to bring them to life! She calls it: ‘doing the will of God from the heart!’ ‘Teach me, my God and King, in all things thee to see,’ she sings, ‘and what I do in any thing, to do it as for thee!’ Ah well, he envies her: would that he had it so easy! All life is a service, he knows that. To live in the full sense of the word is not to exist or subsist merely, but to make oneself over, to give oneself: to some high purpose, to others, to some social end, to life itself beyond the shell of ego. But he, lacking superiors, must devote himself to abstractions, never knowing when he has succeeded, when he has failed, or even if he has the abstractions right, whereas she, needing no others, has him. He would like to explain this to her, to ease the pain of her routine, of her chastisement – what he calls his disciplinary interventions – but he knows that it is he, not she, who is forever in need of such explanations. Her mop fairly flies over the tiles (today she has remembered the mop), making them gleam like mirrors, her face radiant with their reflected light. He checks himself in the bathroom mirror, flicks lint off one shoulder, smoothes the ends of his moustache. If only she could somehow understand how difficult it is for me, he thinks as he steps out to receive her greeting: ‘Good morning, sir.’ ‘Good morning,’ he replies crisply, glancing around the room. He means to give her some encouragement, to reward her zeal with praise or gratitude or at least a smile to match her own, but instead he finds himself flinging his dirty towels at her feet and snapping: ‘These towels are damp! See to it that they are replaced!’ ‘Yes, sir!’ ‘Moreover, your apron strings are dangling untidily and there are flyspecks on the mirror!’ ‘Sir.’ ‘And another thing!’ He strides over to the bed and tears it apart. ‘Isn’t it about time these sheets were changed? Or am I supposed to wear them through before they are taken to be washed?’ ‘But, sir, I just put new—!’ ‘What? WHAT—?!’ he storms. ‘Answering back to a reproof? Have you forgotten all I’ve taught you?’ ‘I – I’m sorry, sir!’ ‘Never answer back if your master takes occasion to reprove you, except—?’ ‘Except it be to acknowledge my fault, sir, and that I am sorry for having committed it, promising to amend for the time to come, and to … to …’ ‘Am I being unfair?’ he insists, unbuckling his belt. ‘No, sir,’ she says, her eyes downcast, shoulders trembling, her arms pressed tight to her sides.

  He is strict but not unkindly. He pays her well, is grateful for her services, treats her respectfully, she doesn’t dislike him or even fear him. Nor does she have to work very hard: he is essentially a tidy man, picks up after himself, comes and goes without disturbing things much. A bit of dusting and polishing now and then, fold his pajamas, change the towels, clean the bathroom, scrub the floor, make his bed: really there’s nothing to complain about. Yet, vaguely, even as she opens up the garden doors, letting the late morning sunshine and freshness in, she feels unhappy. Not because of what she must do – no, she truly serves with gladness. When she straightens a room, polishes a floor, bleaches a sheet or scrubs a tub, always doing the very best she can, she becomes, she knows, a part of what is good in the world, creating a kind of beauty, revealing a kind of truth. About herself, about life, the things she touches. It’s just that, somehow, something is missing. Some response, some enrichment, some direction … it’s, well, it’s too repetitive. Something like that. That’s part of the problem anyway. The other part is what she keeps finding in his bed. Things that oughtn’t to be there, like old razor blades, broken bottles, banana skins, bloody pessaries, crumbs and ants, leather thongs, mirrors, empty books, old toys, dark stains. Once, even, a frog jumped out at her. No matter how much sunlight and fresh air she lets in, there’s always this dark little pocket of lingering night which she has to uncover. It can ruin everything, all her careful preparations. This morning, however, all she finds is a pair of flannelette drawers. Ah: she recognizes them. She glances about guiltily, pulls them on hastily. Lucky the master’s in the bathroom, she thinks, patting down her skirt and apron, or there’d be the devil to pay.

  Something about scouring, or scourging, he can’t remember, and a teacher he once had who called his lectures ‘lechers.’ The maid is standing over him, staring down in some astonishment at his erection. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, sir!’ ‘I was having a dream …,’ he explains, trying to bring it back. ‘Something about a woman …’ But by then he is alone again. He hears her in the bathroom, running water, singing, whipping the wet towels off the racks and tossing them out the door. Ah well, it’s easy for her, she can come and go. He sits up, squinting in the bright light, watching his erection dip back inside his pajamas like a sleeper pulling the blankets over his head (oh yes! to return there!), then dutifully shoves his feet into slippers, stretches, staggers to the open garden doors. The air is fragrant and there’s a morning racket of birds and insects, vaguely threatening. Sometimes, as now, scratching himself idly and dragging himself still from the stupor of sleep, he wonders about his calling, how it came to be his, and when it all began: on his coming here? on her coming here? before that, in some ancient time beyond recall? And has he chosen it? or has he, like that woman in his dream, showing him something that for some reason enraged him, been ‘born with it, sir, for your very utility’?

  She strives, understanding the futility of it, for perfection. To arrive properly equipped, to cross the room deliberately, circumspectly, without affectation (as he has taught her), to fling open the garden doors and let the sweet breath of morning flow in and chase the night awa
y, to strip and air the bed and, after all her common tasks, her trivial round, to remake it smooth and tight, all the sheets and blankets tucked in neatly at the sides and bottom, the upper sheet and blankets turned down at the head just so far that their fold covers only half the pillows, all topped with the spread, laid to hang evenly at all sides. And today – perhaps at last! She straightens up, wipes her brow, looks around: yes! he’ll be so surprised! Everything perfect! Her heart is pounding as the master, dressed for the day, steps out of the bathroom, marches directly over to the bed, hauls back the covers, picks up a pillow, and hits her in the face with it. Now what did he do that for? ‘And another thing!’ he says.

  He awakes, feeling sorry for himself (he’s not sure why, something he’s been dreaming perhaps, or merely the need to wake just by itself: come, day, do your damage!), tears himself painfully from the bed’s embrace, sits up, pushes his feet into slippers. He grunts, squinting in the dimness at his watch: she’s late. Just as well. He can shower before she gets here. He staggers into the bathroom and drops his pajamas, struggling to recall his dream. Something about a woman in the civil service, which in her ignorance or cupidity, she insisted on calling the ‘sibyl service.’ He is relieving himself noisily when the maid comes in. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, sir!’ ‘Good morning,’ he replies crisply, and pulls his pajamas up, but she is gone. He can hear her outside the door, walking quickly back and forth, flinging open the curtains and garden doors, singing to herself as though lifted by the tasks before her. Sometimes he envies her, having him. Her footsteps carry her to the bed and he hears the rush and flutter of sheets and blankets being thrown back. Hears her scream.

  He’s not unkind, demands no more than is his right, pays her well, and teaches her things like, ‘All life is a service, a consecration to some high end,’ and, ‘If domestic service is to be tolerable, there must be an attitude of habitual deference on the one side and one of sympathetic protection on the other.’ ‘Every state and condition of life has its particular duties,’ he has taught her. ‘The duty of a servant is to be obedient, diligent, sober, just, honest, frugal, orderly in her behavior, submissive and respectful toward her master. She must be contented in her station, because it is necessary that some should be above others in this world, and it was the will of the Almighty to place you in a state of servitude.’ Her soul, in short, is his invention, and she is grateful to him for it. ‘Whatever thy hand findeth to do,’ he has admonished, ‘do it with all thy might!’ Nevertheless, looking over her shoulder at her striped sit-me-down in the wardrobe mirror, she wishes he might be a little less literal in applying his own maxims: he’s drawn blood!

  He awakes, mumbling something about a dream, a teacher he once had, some woman, infirmities. ‘A sort of fever of the mind,’ he explains, his throat phlegmy with sleep. ‘Yes, sir,’ she says, and flings open the curtains and the garden doors, letting light and air into the stale bedroom. She takes pleasure in all her appointed tasks, but enjoys this one most of all, more so when the master is already out of bed, for he seems to resent her waking him like this. Just as he resents her arriving late, after he’s risen. Either way, sooner or later, she’ll have to pay for it. ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she remarks hopefully. He sits up with an ambiguous grunt, rubs his eyes, yawns, shudders. ‘You may speak when spoken to,’ he grumbles, tucking his closing morning glory back inside his pajamas (behind her, bees are humming in the garden and there’s a crackly pulsing of insects, but the birds have fallen silent: she had thought today might be perfect, but already it is slipping away from her), ‘unless it be to deliver a message or ask a necessary question.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ He shoves his feet into slippers and staggers off to the bathroom, leaving her to face (she expects the worst) – shadows have invaded the room – the rumpled bed alone.

  It’s not just the damp towels. It’s also the streaked floor, the careless banging of the garden doors, her bedraggled uniform, the wrinkled sheets, the confusion of her mind. He lectures her patiently on the proper way to make a bed, the airing of the blankets, turning of the mattress, changing of the sheets, the importance of a smooth surface. ‘Like a blank sheet of crisp new paper,’ he tells her. He shows her how to make the correct diagonal creases at the corners, how to fold the top edge of the upper sheet back over the blankets, how to carry the spread under and then over the pillows. Oh, not for his benefit and advantage – he could sleep anywhere or for that matter (in extremity) could make his own bed – but for hers. How else would she ever be able to realize what is best in herself? ‘A little arrangement and thought will give you method and habit,’ he explains (it is his ‘two fairies’ lecture), but though she seems willing enough, is polite and deferential, even eager to please, she can never seem to get it just right. Is it a weakness on her part, he wonders as he watches her place the pillows on the bed upside down, then tug so hard on the bottom blanket that it comes out at the foot, or some perversity? Is she testing him? She refits the bottom blanket, tucks it in again, but he knows the sheet beneath is now wrinkled. He sighs, removes his belt. Perfection is elusive, but what else is there worth striving for? ‘Am I being unfair?’ he insists.

  He’s standing there in the sunlight in his slippers and pajama bottoms, cracking his palm with a leather strap, when she enters (once and for all) with all her paraphernalia. She plants the bucket and brushes beside the door, leans the mop and broom against the wall, stacks the fresh linens and towels on a chair. She is late – the curtains and doors are open, her circumspect crossing of the room no longer required – but she remains hopeful. Running his maxims over in her head, she checks off her rags and brushes, her polishes, cleaning powders, razor blades, toilet paper, dustpans – oh no …! Her heart sinks like soap in a bucket. The soap she has forgotten to bring. She sighs, then deliberately and gravely, without affectation, not stamping too loud, nor dragging her legs after her, not marching as if leading a dance, nor keeping time with her head and hands, nor staring or turning her head either one way or the other, she advances sedately and discreetly across the gleaming tiles to the bed, and tucking up her dress and apron, pulling down her flannelette drawers, bends over the foot of it, exposing her soul’s ingress to the sweet breath of morning, blowing in from the garden. ‘I wonder if you can appreciate,’ he says, picking a bit of lint off his target before applying his corrective measures to it, ‘how difficult this is for me?’

  He awakes, vaguely frightened by something he has dreamt (it was about order or odor and a changed condition – but how did it begin …?), wound up in damp sheets and unable at first even to move, defenseless against the day already hard upon him. Its glare blinds him, but he can hear the maid moving about the room, sweeping the floor, changing the towels, running water, pushing furniture around. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she says. ‘Come here a moment,’ he replies gruffly, then clears his throat. ‘Sir?’ ‘Look under the bed. Tell me what you see.’ He expects the worst: blood, a decapitated head, a bottomless hole … ‘I’m – I’m sorry, sir,’ she says, tucking up her skirt and apron, lowering her drawers, ‘I thought I had swept it …’

  No matter how much fresh air and sunlight she lets in, there is always this little pocket of lingering night which she has to uncover. Once she found a dried bull’s pizzle in there, another time a dead mouse in a trap. Even the nice things she finds in the bed are somehow horrible: the toys broken, the food moldy, the clothing torn and bloody. She knows she must always be circumspect and self-effacing, never letting her countenance betray the least dislike toward any task, however trivial or distasteful, and she resolves every morning to be cheerful and good-natured, letting nothing she finds there put her out of temper with everything besides, but sometimes she cannot help herself. ‘Oh, teach me, my God and King, in all things thee to see, and what I do in any thing, to do it as for thee,’ she tells herself, seeking courage, and flings back the sheets and blankets. She screams. But it’s only money, a little pile of gold coins, agleam with promise. Or challenge: is he testing h
er?

  Oh well, he envies her, even as that seat chosen by Mother Nature for such interventions quivers and reddens under the whistling strokes of the birch rod in his hand. ‘Again!’ ‘Be … be diligent in endeavoring to please your master – be faithful and … and …’ Swish-SNAP! ‘Oh, sir!’ ‘Honest!’ ‘Yes, sir!’ She, after all, is free to come and go, her correction finitely inscribed by time and the manuals, but he … He sighs unhappily. How did it all begin, he wonders. Was it destiny, choice, generosity? If she would only get it right for once, he reasons, bringing his stout engine of duty down with a sharp report on her brightly striped but seemingly unimpressionable hinder parts, he might at least have time for a stroll in the garden. Does she – CRACK! – think he enjoys this? ‘Well?’ ‘Be … be faithful, honest and submissive to him, sir, and—’ Whish-SLASH! ‘And – gasp! – do not incline to be slothful! Or—’ THWOCK! ‘Ow! Please, sir!’ Hiss-WHAP! She groans, quivers, starts. The two raised hemispheres upon which the blows from the birch rod have fallen begin (predictably) to make involuntary motions both vertically and horizontally, the constrictor muscle being hard at work, the thighs also participating in the general vibrations, all in all a dismal spectacle. And for nothing? So it would seem … ‘Or?’ ‘Or lie long in bed, sir, but rise … rise early in a morning!’ The weals crisscross each other on her enflamed posteriors like branches against the pink clouds of dawn, which for some reason saddens him. ‘Am I being unfair?’ ‘No – no, s—’ Whisp-CRACK! She shows no tears, but her face pressed against the bedding is flushed, her lips trembling, and she breathes heavily as though she’s been running, confirming the quality of the rod which is his own construction. ‘Sir,’ he reminds her, turning away. ‘Sir,’ she replies faintly. ‘Thank you, sir.’