In a "Grand Hôtel" again; abroad; never mind which or where; have
experienced many Inns and many outings, but find all Grand Hôtels much
the same. "Lawn-tennis, English Church in the Spa_t_ious Grounds, good
station for friends of the _Fisch-Sport_."--But the quintessence of
Grand-Hotelism is "Mr." in his Bureau.
The main thing about "Mr." is his frock-coat ("made in Germany"). It
is always buttoned; he is never without it; I believe he sleeps in
it. Divest him of this magician's robe (so to speak) and he would be
powerless.
The Hôtel omnibus clatters in; "Mr." confronts us, smiling and serene,
with his two Secretaries of Legation. He discriminates the Inn-comers
at a glance.--"Numero 10, 11, 12, _entresol_;" for Noah-like
Paterfamilias with Caravan; "Numero 656, for se Leddy's med;" "Numero
80, for me, the _soi-disant Habitué_;" it's the room I'm _supposed_ to
have always had, so I pretend to like it. One Unremunerative-looking
Pedestrian, in knickerbockers, is assured that, if he waits half a
day or so, he may get an attic--"Back of se house; fine view of se
sluice-gate and cemetery."--U.-L.P. expostulates; he has telegraphed
for a good room; it's _too_ bad.--"Ver' sawy, but is quite complete
now, se Hôtel." U.-L.P., furious; "Hang it," &c. "Mr." deprecates this
ingratitude--"Ver' sawy, Sor; but if you don't like," (with decision),
"se whole wide wurrld is open to you!" Pedestrian retires, threatening
to write to the _Times_. Preposterous! as if the Editor would print
anything against "Mr."! "Mr.'s" attitude majestic and martyred;
CASABIANCA in a frock-coat! Bless you! he knows us all, better than
we know ourselves. He sees the Cook's ticket through the U.-L.P.'s
Norfolk-jacket.
[Illustration: "He sees the Cook's ticket through the U.-L.P.'s
Norfolk-jacket."]
When "Mr." is not writing, he is changing money. The sheepish Briton
stands dumb before this financier, and is shorn--of the exchange,
with an oafish fascination at "Mr.'s" dexterous manipulation of the
_rouleaux_ of gold and notes. Nobody dares haggle with "Mr." When he
is not changing money, he is, as I have said, writing, perhaps his
Reminiscences. It is "Mr." "What gif you se informations;" and _what_
questions! The seasoned Pensionnaire wants to know how she can get
to that _lovely_ valley where the Tiger-lilies grow, without taking a
carriage. The British Matron, where she can buy rusks, "real English
rusks, you know." A cantankerous tripper asks "why he never has
bread-sauce with the nightly chicken." And we all troop to "Mr." after
breakfast, to beg him to affix postage-stamps to our letters, and to
demand the precise time when "they will reach England;" as if they
wouldn't reach at all without "Mr.'s" authority. It gives the nervous
a sense of security to watch "Mr." stamping envelopes. It is a way of
beginning the day in a Grand Hôtel.
"Mr." gives you the idea of not wishing to make a profit; but he gives
you nothing else. You wish to be "_en pension_"--"Ver' well, Sor, it
is seventeen francs (or marks) the day;" but you soon discover that
your room is extra, and that you may not dine "apart;" in a word, you
are "Mr.'s" bondsman. Then there is the persuasive lady, who perhaps,
_may_ be stopping a week or more, but her plans are undecided--at any
rate six days--"Will 'Mr.' make a reduction?" "Mr." however, continues
his manuscript, oh ever so long! and smiles; his smile is worse than
his bite! I, the _Habitué_, approach "Mr." with a furtive clandestine
air, and observe cheerily, "I hope to remain here a month."
"Certainly, Sor; is better you do; will be se same as last year; I
gif you se same appartement, you see."--This with an air of favour.
I thank him profusely--for nothing. My bill turns out to be higher
than if I had been overcharged separately for everything. "Mr." is
the Master of the Arts of extras. He does not wish to make a profit;
oh no! but--ahem--he makes it. As for the outsiders who straggle in
casually for luncheon and want to be sharp with "Mr." afterwards,
they are soon settled. One who won't be done, complains of a prince's
ransom for a potato-salad.--"If you haf pertatas, you pay for
pertatas."--TALLEYRAND could not have been more unanswerable.
"Mr." is immense at entertainments; it is "Mr." who organises "Se
Spanish Consairt," "Se Duetto of se Poor Blinds," and, of course, "Se
Bal"; he is very proud of his latest acquisition--the Orchestrion that
plays the dinner down. To see "Mr." dispatch itinerant minstrels would
do our County Council good.
"Mr." knows our compatriots _au fond_; he makes no extra charge for
toast at breakfast, and you only pay half-a-crown for a pot of George
the Third Marmalade, to lubricate it withal. Five-o'clock tea comes
up at six, just as at home. He makes much of Actors, Peers, and
Clergymen. Sunday is a great day for "Mr." He directs everyone to the
English Church in "The Grounds"--(fifteen benches and one tree, with a
fountain between them); and then goes off to play cards, but always
in his frock-coat. The "Chaplain" gets his breakfast-egg gratis; and
a stray Bishop writes, "Nothing can exceed the comfort of this Hôtel,"
in that Doomsday Book of Visitors.
When you depart--and, abroad, this is generally about daybreak--"Mr."
is always on the spot, haughty, as becomes a man about to be paid, but
considerate; there is a bouquet in petticoats for the Entresol--even,
for me, a condescending word. "_When you see_ Mr. SHONES _in London,
you tell him next year I make se Gulf-Links._" I don't know who
the dickens JONES may be, but I snigger. It all springs from that
miserable fiction of being an _Habitué_. "_Sans adieux!_" ejaculates
"Mr.," who is great at languages; so am I, but, somehow, find myself
saying "Good-bye" quite naturally. _À propos_ of languages, "Mr."
is very patient with the Ladies who _will_ speak to him in so-called
French or German, when they say, "_Où est le Portier?_" or "_Es
ist sehr schön heute_," he replies, in the genuine tongue. I once
overheard a lady discussing the chances of rest and quiet in the
"Grand Hôtel." "_Oui c'est une grande reste_." said she. It only
puzzled "Mr." for a moment. "_Parfaitement, Madame; c'est ravissant,
n'est-ce pas?_" and then "Mr." sold her the little Hand-book, composed
by the Clergyman, on which he receives a commission.
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