THE SYSTEM OF FEES.
Allusion has been made in preceding paragraphs to the system of
gratuities that prevails in Great Britain and on the Continent. It is
the greatest of all the annoyances of European travel, not so much for
the money it consumes as for the perplexities it makes, and the
perpetual irritation of being asked at every step to give an
indefinite sum for real or fancied services. It would be a good deal
mitigated if the expectants would name the exact amount they are
entitled to; a regular tariff for gratuities would be a vast relief to
the traveling public, but this boon is emphatically refused. The
amount is always left to the stranger, partly for the reason that
custom has so ordained, and partly because an avenue is thus left open
for an increased demand.
The waiter is much less likely than his friend the cab-man to tell you
he is under-paid, but he vouchsafes that information far more
frequently than is agreeable to the traveler. He rarely speaks when
conveying this reproof, but his manner is unmistakable. Occasionally
he puts the money back in your hand, and declines to accept it; his
manner is as lofty as the summit of Mount Blanc, and quite as cold,
and to judge by his appearance his most tender susceptibilities have
been sorely wounded. The novice generally soothes him by an addition
to the amount of the offer, but the experienced voyager does nothing
of the kind. He drops the returned cash into his pocket and turns
away; the movement brings the offended dignity to his senses, and for
a moment he undergoes a mental struggle over the situation. Shall he
preserve his haughty manner and refuse to pursue the subject, or shall
he accept what he has just declined? These are the questions that flit
through his brain, and he carefully balances the pros and cons. The
usual result is in favor of the last-named course, and he pockets his
fee in silence and thankfulness, not unaccompanied with a sullen air.
Occurrences of this kind are more rare in England than on the
Continent, and the Continent again is freer from them than the
countries farther East. Perhaps the worst of all is Egypt, where
"backsheesh!" ("a present") is dinned into the traveler's ears from
morn till night; it is the word he first hears on his arrival, and the
last at his departure, and in after years it haunts his dreams, and is
by no means banished from his waking hours. Whatever he does or does
not do, he is expected to pay for; services are impudently forced upon
him, and then the demand for compensation is as insolent as it is
exorbitant. The manner of the Egyptian Arab in this matter of
backsheesh is most insulting, and the wonder is he has been allowed to
practice it so long. Give him what you consider a fair return for his
services, either real or fancied, and he pushes the money back into
your hands and lifts his nose into the air; you have been in his
estimation a miser, and your coin is unfit for him to touch. But if
you drop it into your pocket and turn away, his whole attitude
changes; he is no longer the proud descendant of the Mamelukes and the
kings of Egypt, but the most cringing suppliant you can imagine. He
begs you to give again what he has just refused, and if you persist in
keeping it he has resource to tears. Not unfrequently he rolls on the
ground and screams like an angry child, and he will follow you for
hours in the hope that you will relent. Sometimes, instead of
thrusting the money into your hand, he throws it on the ground,
knowing that you will be very unlikely to stoop to pick it up; by so
doing he endeavors to make sure of the original offer, and takes his
chances in shaming or bullying you into giving more.
The question naturally occurs to an American, 'How shall I ascertain
what is proper to give when a service has been rendered to me?' No
general rule can be laid down, and the traveler must depend often on
his judgment. Where it is possible to do so, you can ask any person
who is familiar with the subject, and he will tell you; when this
cannot be done you have only yourself to rely upon. Remember that in
England and on the Continent money has a greater purchasing power than
in America, and gauge your fees accordingly. Where you have engaged
cabmen, guides, or other individuals whose rate of service is
previously arranged, or is regulated by a tariff, you will be about
right if you add ten per cent. for a gratuity. Thus a guide whose
tariff is five francs a day should be satisfied with half a franc,
but, if he has been specially zealous and useful, you can give him a
franc with safety. The Paris cabman expects four sous additional on
the course or six sous an hour; his fee is obligatory in a certain
sense, as his wages are too low for him to live upon without the
_pour boire_. The German cabman expects his _trinkgeld_ as a
matter of course, and you will really under-pay him if you do not give
it. The same is the case with his class in all parts of the Continent,
as well as in Great Britain, and you will fully hit the mark if you
augment the regular tariff by fifteen or twenty per cent.
In the restaurants the waiters generally receive nothing in the form
of wages; they rely entirely on the donations of patrons for their
compensation, and the system is well understood by the public. The
money thus obtained is dropped into a box at the cashier's counter,
and divided among all the waiters of the establishment at the end of
the week. This has been found after long experience the best way to
secure uniform attention to all customers,--better than to allow each
waiter to pocket the money he receives. In the latter case, a patron
known to be liberal would be carefully looked after, while the man who
gave only the regulation fee would be neglected. Under the present
arrangement a waiter can have no great inducement to neglect the
niggardly man to an undue extent, and, on the other hand, he will not
be over-serviceable to the generous one. The box for the money is in
full view of all the waiters, so as to prevent any frauds on the
revenue; it is usually of metal, and a foot or so in height. The shape
and material cause the coin to jingle when it falls, and thus the
waiters can be taught by the ear as well as by the eye that the
donations are properly bestowed.
A French barber shop frequently amuses the stranger on account of the
way the _pour boire_ is received. You have whatever tonsorial
operation you choose, and when the work is finished you pay according
to the tariff. When change has been made you leave a few sous on the
counter for the inevitable extra; the cashier drops them in the metal
box which stands ready for their reception, and the sound of their
fall is followed by a chorus of "Merci, monsieur," from all the
barbers in the place, be they few or many. Half a dozen masculine
voices pronouncing those words in measured cadence have a strange
effect on the ears of a novice.
In many hotels and restaurants in England, and on the Continent, not
only do the servants receive no wages, but they even pay something to
the proprietor for their places. In the restaurants of Vienna there
is a man who is designated the "_zoll-kellner_," (pay-waiter) who
carries a leather sack at his side to hold the coin for making change.
Your accounts are settled with him, and not with the waiter who has
served you, and it is to the zoll-kellner that you give your
gratuities. Out of the gratuities he pays the wages of the waiters,
and reimburses himself for his services, so that the attendance costs
the establishment nothing. Some of the larger bier-halles in Vienna
derive a revenue from the service, as they require the zoll-kellner to
pay some hundreds of dollars annually for his privilege, besides
giving his time and paying the waiters.
The usual fee in a restaurant on the Continent is a sou on each franc
of the bill, or one sou in twenty. Thus, if you have ten francs to pay
for your dinner, you give half a franc, or ten sous, to the waiter,
and if you have expended only five francs you give him five sous. A
sou on a franc is a good general rule; it is followed by the great
majority of Frenchmen and other continental people, but you should not
adhere to it by giving a single sou when you have only a franc to pay.
Never give less than two sous, where you give anything at all, except
to the professional beggar of whom you wish to rid yourself. The
cashiers of the restaurants always arrange the change, so that you
will have the material for the _pour boire_. Suppose your bill is
exactly ten francs, and you put down a twenty-franc piece from which
the amount is to be taken. The cashier sends back, not a ten-franc
piece, but a five-franc piece, four francs, half a franc, and the rest
in copper. Sometimes there is an attempt to cause the stranger to
bleed freely by making change so that he will be compelled to give
more than is necessary. Thus in the instance described above, the
cashier would send back a five-franc piece and five pieces of one
franc each, so as to compel a donation of a franc. Whenever this is
done you can be entirely sure that it is an effort to extract more
than is due; you can meet it by asking change--_la monnaie_--for
one of the franc pieces, or better still, give the exact _pour
boire_ from the reserve you should always have in your pocket.
The regulation of the fees necessary for a hotel is more difficult
than for a restaurant. The amount given should be proportioned to the
time you have been in the house, the services of the waiters, the
demands you have made upon them, and the size of your party. It is
best to let one person of a party pay all the gratuities, and do it in
a systematic way so that each servant receives his or her due. Suppose
you are four in number, and have been a week in the house; you pay the
concierge from five to eight francs, the chambermaid four to six, the
waiter who has brought the coffee in the morning, and otherwise looked
after you, five to eight, and the porter who has handled luggage and
blacked your boots, five to six francs. These figures are for a fair
amount of service, and are liberal enough for most cases. Every
traveler must judge for himself whether he has made an undue demand
upon the servants, and gauge his gratuities accordingly.
So much has been said about the fee system that some of the hotels
have adopted the plan of certain English ones in announcing that the
service is all included and nothing more is expected. But the pretence
is a very thin one, as the departing traveler will surely ascertain.
The servants come to his room while he is putting the finishing touch
to his packing, they lie in wait in the halls and on the stairways,
and they assemble at the door to see him off. There is often a
preconcerted system of signals by which all the servants can be
notified of the approaching departure of a patron of a hotel. Bells
will be rung, or somebody will be called in a loud voice to bring
something either real or imaginary. The writer had the following
experience in a hotel in Paris:
He had been in the house nearly a week, and followed the usual custom
of leaving his key with the concierge whenever he went out. If he came
in in the afternoon he was usually informed that the chambermaid had
the key upstairs, and on proceeding to his hall he summoned that
damsel by touching a bell at the head of the stairway; the concierge
never made any pretence of calling her, but simply indicated that the
key was above. One afternoon he came in, asked for his key, and
received the usual response that the chambermaid had it. As he turned
to go upstairs he asked to have his bill made out, as he was going
away immediately.
The half-asleep concierge seemed to have been struck with a shock from
an electric battery. She protruded her head from the window of her
office, and shouted so that she could have been heard to the uttermost
parts of the house:-
"_Fifine! Fifine! apportez le clef pour numero trente deux; monsieur
va partir--il va partir_" ("Bring the key for number 32; the gentlemen
is going away; he's going away!")
The echoes of the last syllable of the last word of her call followed
number 32 up the stairs to his door. When he had arranged his packing
and descended, he found the servants waiting for him, with the
exception of those he had already encountered on his way down. At
least half of them he had never seen, but all had their hands open for
any tokens of remembrance in the shape of the current coin of the
country.
The custom of assembling all the servants on the departure of a
traveler is descended from the Middle Ages when the retainers of a
castle were summoned by the bell at the portcullis to welcome the
coming and speed the parting guest. Like many another honorable usage
of olden times it has suffered degradation; at present it is simply a
form of extracting money from the traveler, and not one servant in a
hundred is aware of its origin, or thinks of it in any other light
than the practical one. The fee system to the hotel waiter had a
similar origin, and is likewise a relic of feudalism. The guest at the
castle of a baron of the Middle Ages was not expected to pay for his
accommodation; he was in every sense a guest, and like many a guest of
modern days, he often felt that he was causing a good deal of trouble
and extra work on the part of the servants and retainers. Consequently
he opened his purse at his departure and scattered his cash among
those who had cared for him; the shell of the custom has been
retained, but its sentiment is altogether gone. The patron of a hotel
pays his bill, and is in no sense a "guest," as many keepers of
hostelries like to call him, and the excuse for his distribution of
money among the servants has the lightest possible foundation.
In high circles the habits of the olden time remain in all their
purity, and princes and kings and nobles are obliged to pay heavily
for their entertainment. After his sojourn in Paris in 1867, the
Emperor of Russia gave 40,000 francs to be distributed among the
servants of the palace where he was lodged, and the King of Italy gave
10,000 francs under similar circumstances at Vienna in 1873. American
and other foreigners of distinction who visit Egypt are often honored
with lodgings in one of the Khedive's palaces, or with one of his
private steamers to go up the Nile. But it is bad economy to accept
these courtesies, for the reason that the backsheesh to servants and
officers amounts to a large figure, frequently to several hundreds of
dollars. It was said of Ismail Pacha that he paid nothing to the
attaches of his boats and palaces but reimbursed them by giving them
an occasional distinguished visitor to pluck.
The fee system has grown into so many abuses in these latter days that
several governments have passed laws restricting it, and forbidding
its servants to accept fees. This is noticeable in the public
galleries of France, Italy, and other countries, where no fees are
demanded except a slight charge for taking care of a cane or umbrella,
and sometimes an entrance fee, which is bought at a ticket-office, and
must be paid by everybody who enters. At the ruins of Pompeii signs
are posted in all the languages of Europe forbidding the guides to
accept fees in any form under penalty of dismissal; the regulations
are so stringent that no guide dares to accept a piece of money, no
matter how willing you may be to give it. But there is a form of
keeping the word of promise to the ear and breaking it to the hope;
the guides are allowed to sell photographs of the various objects of
interest, and sometimes they pester you with them to an extent far
worse than any direct application for gratuities.
The traveler should be cautious about making a "half-bargain" with
guides, valets, _et id omne genus_, who will be sure to make all
kinds of claim against him. Never accept the services of one of these
men without a positive agreement as to the amount he is to receive,
and if you can have it include his _pour boire_, so much the better.
He always desires to leave something open for a demand, while you
should be equally certain to have no loop-hole in the contract. A
Neapolitan guide will fix his services at five francs a day, "and
something for myself if you are satisfied." Now this something breeds
a great deal of trouble. The writer had one of these fellows to
accompany him up Vesuvius on his first visit to Naples. The
'something' was left undetermined; the guide received five francs at
the end of the day with a franc extra, which was thought to be quite
sufficient. He struck an attitude of astonishment and declared himself
outrageously treated; "gentlemen always gives me five francs extra,"
he remarked, "and some of them gives ten." This was said with an air
of withering contempt, but there was nothing in his neighborhood that
withered immediately. When a guide proposes to hire himself for five
francs and something if you are satisfied, endeavor to fix the amount
of the "satisfaction." If he will not do it he is a good subject to
drop, unless he is the only one of his kind attainable, and you happen
to be in a hurry. Remember always that a half-bargain is a bad
bargain, everywhere, and especially in the countries where the fee
system is in vogue.
Sometimes even a careful bargain will not protect the traveler from
trouble. Italian boatmen will agree for a certain sum, and while on
the way they demand more. If you are going on board a steamer at
Naples they are apt to be extortionate, as they know you are leaving
port and are not likely to give them trouble with the police. A
boatman agrees to carry you and your baggage for two francs; you enter
his boat and off you go. Half way to the ship he stops rowing and
demands four, or perhaps five, francs, and threatens to return to
shore unless you comply. If you are strong, and carry a cane or good
umbrella, a threat to break his head, accompanied with a gesture to
that effect, will generally cause him to proceed. If you are weak and
timid, the best way is to say nothing, and if you are tough in
conscience and don't mind meeting downright rascality with a white
lie, you can nod assent and let him go on. Before he gets to the ship
he will increase his demand, and you may nod again. When you reach the
vessel do not show your money till your baggage is safe on board, the
heavy trunks in the hold, and the lighter things in your cabin. Then
pay the sum you first agreed to give, and not a centime more, and,
having discharged the obligation, descend to the saloon. The boatman
is not allowed to follow you there, but he will give vent to a volley
of imprecations that fall harmless on your devoted head if you happen
to be ignorant of Italian. When these fellows get too noisy they are
ordered away from the ship, and after their departure you may mount
again to the deck and enjoy the wonderfully beautiful panorama of the
bay of Naples.
The boatmen of Alexandria, Egypt, are worse than their Neapolitan
brethren, as they sometimes resort to downright violence. A strong
cane is the best argument for them, and if you are two or three men
against an equal or inferior number, you have a moral force that
stands in good stead. One man alone may face two or three of these
rascals, but he is not altogether safe, as they would have little
hesitation in robbing him and then throwing him overboard, if they
could be sure of escaping undetected. They have been known to pull
around the harbor for an hour or two to compel their victim to come to
terms, and if brought before the police for their misconduct they
generally manage to bribe themselves out of trouble, unless their
prosecutor is able and willing to pay more for their punishment than
they can for their liberty.
The inhabitants of Switzerland have been noted in all ages for their
thrifty habits and their ability to make much of an opportunity. In
former times their genius was displayed in watch-making and other
industries; in these latter days, they have devoted themselves in
great measure to fleecing the tourists that come among them, and some
of their performances in this line border on the wonderful.
Watch-making and wood-carving still exist, and quite probably there
are yet many honest people in the land of the Alps. Down to a recent
period the exploitation of the stranger was left to the hotel-keepers,
guides, porters, and others with whom he came in contact, and if he
felt aggrieved and brought complaint against his swindlers he could
receive redress at the hands of the law. _On a changé tout cela_,
the government has come to the assistance of the exploiting class, and
what was before optional is now official. At every step the tourist
encounters a "tariff," and if he objects to anything his attention is
called to the fact that it is "official." The hotel porter takes your
trunk to the door of the establishment where you have been lodged, and
hands it over to a licensed porter, who carries it to the boat, train,
or diligence. He stops at the dock, or at the front of the station,
where another licensed porter comes forward and bears the trunk to the
baggageman; each of the porters must be paid, and the baggageman
also expects something, and if you object you are shown the official
tariff, from which there is no appeal.
The official tariff is made the scapegoat of a great many extortions
and downright falsehoods; the writer will give a bit of his personal
experience to illustrate this statement. He was in Martigny, on his
way to Chamouny, in the summer of 1880, and wished to hire a carriage
for the journey; he had been told that one could be had for thirty or
forty francs, and asked the proprietor of the hotel Clerc where
carriages were to be had and the price to be paid. The latter answered
that the tariff for a carriage for two persons was fifty francs, and
there was no other price.
"But," said the stranger, "I have been told that a carriage can be had
for thirty or forty francs. Is it not so?"
"Not at all," was the proprietor's answer; "there is only one price,
fifty francs. They will tell you so at the office of the Association
of Drivers." (_Societe des cochers de Martigny._)
He indicated the office, which was close to the hotel, and the
stranger went there. The agent assured him that no carriage could be
had under fifty francs, and he pointed to the official tariff, by
which all drivers were bound. Convinced of the truthfulness of the
landlord's statement, the stranger engaged a carriage and paid
twenty-five francs in advance, the balance being due on arrival at
Chamouny. Then he strolled up the street and came upon an office
bearing the announcement:--
"Carriages for Chamouny.--Two persons, thirty francs; three
persons, forty francs; four persons, fifty francs."
Full of wrath at having been swindled, he returned to the hotel and
interviewed the landlord. There was a good deal of frankness to the
square foot of the conversation, and the landlord became very
indignant when told that he had dealt sparingly with the truth. He
defended his action on the ground that the official tariff was fifty
francs, and he did not recognize the existence of the opposition. In
whatever light the case was presented, he responded that the
opposition was not "recognized," and he would not allow his patrons to
travel by it if possible to prevent their doing so. He denied
receiving any commission from the "official" drivers, and waxed wroth
at the intimation of such a thing, but the writer ascertained
afterwards to his full satisfaction that the drivers gave ten per
cent. of their revenues to the hotel-keepers on condition that the
latter would ignore the existence of the opposition, and give all
patronage to the association.
Cases like the foregoing may be found all over Switzerland in one form
or another. Great stress is laid upon the words "official" and
"tariff," and matters are so arranged that the traveler can be bled as
much as possible with the least possible chance of redress. The
authorities connive at the frauds, and the chances are twenty to one
that a tourist who has the temerity to bring his disputes before them
will be required to pay the sum in question, with a heavy addition in
the shape of a fine. As an instance of official connivance, the
following may be cited:--
Tourists going from Zermatt to the railway station at Visp have a
journey of about eight hours, partly by saddle and partly by wagon; it
is customary to forward trunks and valises by the government post,
which is due at Visp at 4 P.M., while the train for Lausanne and
Geneva leaves at five o'clock. The traveler times his movements so as
to get to Visp to claim his baggage and take it to the railway station
in season for the train, but he finds on arrival that the postmaster
is busy with the verification of the lists, copying them, sorting
letters, and arranging parcels in general, so that there is no
delivery till after the departure of the train. This neat arrangement
compels the traveler who wishes to keep with his luggage to spend a
night at Visp, to the profit of one of the two hotels that adorn this
uninteresting place, and, furthermore, they have a habit of closing
the office half an hour before the departure of the forenoon train,
and the hotel-keepers manage to keep you at breakfast until this
half-hour has been reached. In this case you must wait till afternoon,
or go on without your property, either of which is unpleasant, and if
you venture to complain you are told that such is the regulation of
the office, and as the postmaster represents the government the
futility of any opposition is at once apparent.
The Swiss excel even the Chinese in their genius for combinations and
guilds; and the object of these enterprises is not, like those of the
Chinese, altogether in the interest of legitimate labor, but to the
end that the pocket of the stranger can be depleted to the advantage
of the inhabitants of the land of William Tell. Items that were
formerly regarded as gratuities, and therefore optional, are now
obligatory, and they are frequently demanded with an insolence that
rouses the traveler's ire. There are doubtless many honest people in
Switzerland, but it is not easy for the ordinary traveler to find
them, and the difficulty seems to be increasing every year.