All the evening she had studied Swedish， and yet suddenlyconfronted by a Swedish lady bathing in our kitchen， dishtoweledbut unashamed， all she could find to say was “Howdisgusting！” and “How disgraceful！” in English！
“You see，” said Letitia， when she emerged， “she is just asimple 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 anythingSwedish to say， but I said several things in English. She wasdreadfully sorry that you had seen her， and never contemplatedsuch a possibility. After all， Archie， bathing is not a crime.”
“And we were hunting for a clean slate，” I suggestedsatirically. “Do you think， Letitia， that she also takes a coldbath in the morning， among the bacon and eggs， and things？”
“That is enough，” said Letitia sternly. “The episode need notserve as an excuse for indelicacy.”
It was with the advent of Gerda Lyberg that we becameabsolutely certain， beyond the peradventure of any doubt， thatthere was such a thing as the servant question. The knowledgehad been gradually wafted in upon us， but it was not until thelady from Stockholm had definitively planted herself in ourmidst that we admitted to ourselves openly， unblushingly， thatthe problem existed. Gerda blazoned forth the enigma in all itsforce and defiance.
The remarkable thing about our latest acquisition was thesingularly blank state of her gastronomic mind. There wasnothing that she knew. Most women， and a great many men，intuitively recognize the physical fact that water， at a certaintemperature， boils. Miss Lyberg， apparently seeking to earnher living in the kitchen， had no certain views as to when theboiling point was reached. Rumors seemed vaguely to havereached her that things called eggs dropped into water would，in the course of time—any time， and generally less than aweek—become eatable. Letitia bought a little egg-boiler forher—one of those antique arrangements in which the sandsof time play to the soft-boiled egg. The maiden promptlyboiled 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 Gerda.
Potatoes， subjected to the action of hot water， grow soft. Shewas certain of that. Whether she tested them with the poker，or with her hands or feet， we never knew. I inclined to the lastsuggestion. The situation was quite marvelous. Here was analleged worker， in a particular field， asking the wages of skilledlabor， and densely ignorant of every detail connected withher task. It seemed unique. Carpenters， plumbers， bricklayers，seamstresses， dressmakers， laundresses—all the sowers andreapers in the little garden of our daily needs， were forced bythe inexorable law of competition to possess some inkling ofthe significance of their undertakings. With the cook it wasdifferent. She could step jubilantly into any kitchen withoutthe slightest idea of what she was expected to do there. If sheknew that water was wet and that fire was hot， she felt amplyprimed to demand a salary.
Impelled by her craving for Swedish literature， Letitiastruggled with Miss Lyberg. Compared with the Swede， myexquisitely ignorant wife was a culinary queen. She was anepicurean caterer. Letitia’s slate-pencil coffee was ambrosiafor the gods， sweetest nectar， by the side of the dishwater thatcook prepared. I began to feel quite proud of her. She grew tobe an adept in the art of boiling water. If we could have livedon that fluid， everything would have moved clockworkily.
“I’ve discovered one thing，” said Letitia on the evening ofthe third day. “The girl is just a peasant， probably a worker inthe fields. That is why she is so ignorant.”
I thought this reasoning foolish. “Even peasants eat， mydear，” I muttered. “She must have seen somebody cooksomething. Field-workers have good appetites. If this womanever ate， what did she eat and why can’t we have the same？ Wehave asked her for no luxuries. We have arrived at the stage，my poor girl， when all we need is， prosaically， to ‘fill up.’ Youhave given her opportunities to offer us samples of peasantfood. The result has been nil.”
“It is odd，” Letitia declared， a wrinkle of perplexityappearing in the smooth surface of her forehead. “Of course，she says she doesn’t understand me. And yet， Archie， I havetalked to her in pure Swedish.”
“I suppose you said， ‘Pray give me a piece of venison，’ fromthe conversation book.”
“Don’t be ridiculous， Archie. I know the Swedish forcauliflower， green peas， spinach， a leg of mutton， mustard，roast meat， soup， and—”
“‘If the wind be favorable， we shall be at Gothenburg in fortyhours，’” I interrupted. She was silent， and I went on： “It seemsa pity to end your studies in Swedish， Letitia， but fascinatingthough they be， they do not really necessitate our keeping thisbarbarian. You can always pursue them， and exercise on me. Idon’t mind. Even with an American cook， if such a being exist，you could still continue to ask for venison steak in Swedish，and to look forward to arriving at Gothenburg in forty hours.”
