p. 11 | What Is Drudgery?

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 2, 1902

What Is Drudgery?

We hear much nowadays of the “drudgery” of woman’s work. The “new,” or emancipated, woman looks with pitying eyes upon her sister on the farm, with her long routine of tasks, her labor stretching often from sun to sun. “Away with such drudgery!” she says, and goes on her chosen way, which is patterned as closely as possible after the masculine career.

Such a woman the other day set me thinking. I went to the Standard Dictionary, and there I read:—

“Drudgery,—hard and constant work in any menial or dull occupation; service marked by weariness and spiritless routine.”

The definition suggested many things. Somehow, I was reminded of a story taken years ago from an English paper, and preserved in one of my many scrapbook volumes. It is entitled “The Happiest Man in London,” and tells of a couple living in a single room, with nothing but the most necessary furniture. For twenty-five years the wife had been paralyzed, and all this time her husband had been her nurse, protector, support, and, most of all, her lover. She could scarcely speak, and her only strength of expression lay in her eyes, looking straight out, clear and shining. In response to a new doctor’s question, this hero of a man told in the simplest and most sincere way how he lived:—

“I get up early of a morning, you see, sir,” said Temple, as our hero was named, “and make our breakfast and attend to her. Then before I start for work,—I’m in an engineer’s employ,—I just boards her up in bed so she can’t fall out. I’m back at dinner hour, and we have it together. Then, when I have work, my evening soon passes. There’s usually a bit of cooking to be done, and washing up, and the room to see to. An invalid must have things clean about her; it isn’t agreeable to just lie and look at anything dirty. I like Lucy to keep bright—but there! she always is; and if occasionally she gets down, I soon cheer her up, don’t I, Lucy? I and Sunny together. Sunny—that’s our bullfinch. He’s asleep now, covered up, you see, and I won’t disturb him. But by day he’s that lively! He chirps and talks away to Lucy; he’s company for her, Sunny is, bless his little heart!”

And the story tells how the tired man, coming home from his work, goes cheerily about the cares of his little household; how he eats the tasteless meat from which “Lucy’s” beef tea had been made—enjoying the meat the better the poorer it was, because he knew thereby that the tea was good; and how he did some washings to save pennies for luxuries for his dear invalid. It describes how the old man got ready for the night. He was obliged to retire early whenever possible. He brought warm water to the bedside, and washed the hands and face of his wife, and tied on her white nightcap. (In the morning he would perform her toilet again, and do her hair for her.) Then he arranged on the chair, so as to be within reach, a candle in a tin candlestick, a glass of water, and a biscuit. After that he fetched a large prayer book and the Bible, read the psalms and the second lesson for the evening, and afterward prayed. He thanked God for the many mercies vouchsafed to them that day,—for food, and power and opportunity to work, and for a home. He remembered those who had none of these blessings, and begged that they might receive them. He commended himself and his wife to God’s keeping throughout the night.

There came a day when the friendly young doctor announced that he was going away for a month, and would bring “another friend” back with him; and this is the response he had from these two who had not found life an easy thing:—

“God bless you, sir! You couldn’t tell me anything that would make me more rejoiced. The dear young lady! We seem to know her now, already, but we shall really see her, I’m sure?”

“Oh, yes!” answered the doctor, “and you’ll love her, Mr. Temple, everybody does.”

“Lucy, did you hear? The doctor is going to bring the dear young lady.”

The woman unclosed her eyes. She looked at the doctor, and her drawn face seemed flooded with sweetness. Her lips moved.

“She says, ‘God bless you, sir;’ Lucy says, ‘God bless you;’ and when she says it, she means it. Ah, we know what a blessed thing married life can be, don’t we, Lucy? It’s a solemn act, sir, to take a woman to be your wife. But when the blessing of God rests upon a union, marriage is a sacrament that brings you an added grace. Your faith grows, and your love grows, and your nature deepens. You learn many things. I’m old, and I’ve lived, but the part of life that has helped me to the best knowledge is—just that. I took Lucy, I said I’d love her, comfort her, honor her, and keep her in sickness and in health. I’ve tried, and we’ve been happy. Sir, love does it all. You’ll want to comfort her, you’ll have to honor her, and if sickness comes, you’ll love her all the more.”

From the bed came a strange sound. It was something between a laugh and a sob, and the doctor, turning, looked away again. Her husband’s words had moved the wife to tears, but her face was radiant with the joy in the upturned eyes.

Temple laid his hands on hers—hers which could give no answering pressure. “Sir,” he said, “I can’t wish you better happiness than I’ve had. I wish you as much. And I take it I’m about the happiest man in London.”

Was it drudgery—the toiling all day for daily bread, the work in the house, and the preparation of the meals; the care of a helpless, almost speechless, invalid for twenty-five years; life literally bounded by the shop and the single room he called home; no outside companionship or relaxation? And still he was “the happiest man in London!”

Love is the sweetener and uplifter of daily toil. Love transforms what would else be drudgery into glad, joy-giving ministry.—The House Keeper.