experience were the New Zealand maid-servants of some thirty-five years
ago. Perhaps by this time they are “home-made,” and consequently less
eccentric; but in my day they were all immigrants, and seemed drawn
almost entirely from the ranks of factory girls. They were respectable
girls apparently, but with very free and easy manners. However, that
did not matter. What seriously inconvenienced me at the far up-country
station where my husband and I had made ourselves a very pretty and
comfortable home was the absolute and profound ignorance of these
damsels. They took any sort of place which they fancied, at enormous
wages, and when they had at great cost and trouble been fetched up to
their new home I invariably discovered that the cook, who demanded
and received the wages of a _chef_, knew nothing whatever of any sort
of cooking and the housemaid, had never seen a broom. They did not
know how to thread a needle or wash a pocket-handkerchief, and, as I
thought, must have been waited on all their lives. Indeed, one of my
great difficulties was to get them away from the rapt admiration with
which they regarded the most ordinary helps to labour. One day I heard
peals of laughter from the wash-house, and found the fun consisted in
the magical way in which the little cottage-mangle smoothed the aprons
of the last couple of damsels. So I—who was extremely ignorant myself,
and had no idea how the very beginnings of things should be taught—had
to impart my slender store of knowledge as best I could. The little
establishment would have collapsed entirely had it not been for my
Scotch shepherd’s wife, a dear woman with the manners of a lady and
the knowledge of a thorough practical housewife. What broke our hearts
was that we had to begin this elementary course of instruction over
and over again, as my damsels could not endure the monotony of their
country life longer than three or four months, in spite of the many
suitors who came a-wooing with strictly honourable intentions. But the
young ladies had no idea of giving up their liberty, and turned a deaf
ear to all matrimonial suggestions, even when one athletic suitor put
another into the water-barrel to get him out of the way, and urged that
this step must be taken as a proof of his devotion.
After the New Zealand experiences came a period of English life,
and I felt much more experienced in domestic matters by the time my
wandering star led me forth once more and landed me in Natal. In spite,
however, of this experience, I fell into the mistake of taking out
three English servants, whom I had to get rid of as soon as possible
after my arrival. They had all been with me some time in England, and
I thought I knew them perfectly; but the voyage evidently “wrought
a sea change” on them, for they were quite different people by the
time Durban was reached. Two developed tempers for which the little
Maritzburg house was much too small, and when it came to carving-knives
hurtling through the air I felt it was more than my nerves could stand.
The third only broke out in folly, and showed an amount of personal
vanity which seemed almost to border on insanity. However, I gradually
replaced them with Zulu servants, in whom I was really very fortunate.
They learned so easily, and were so good-tempered and docile, their
only serious fault being the ineradicable tendency to return for a
while—after a very few “moons” of service—to their kraals. At first I
thought it was family affection which impelled this constant homing,
but it was really the desire to get back to the savage life, with its
gorges of half-raw meat and native beer, and its freedom from clothes.
It is true I had an occasional very bad quarter of an hour with some of
my experiments, as, for instance, when I found an embryo valet blacking
his master’s socks as well as his boots, or detected the nurse-boy
who was trusted to wheel the perambulator about the garden stuffing a
half-fledged little bird into the baby’s mouth, assuring me it was a
diet calculated to make “the little chieftain brave and strong.”
I think, however, quite the most curious instance of the thinness
of surface civilisation among these people came to me in the case
of a young Zulu girl who had been early left an orphan and had been
carefully trained in a clergyman’s family. She was about sixteen years
old when she came as my nursemaid, and was very plump and comely, with
a beaming countenance, and the sweetest voice and prettiest manners
possible. She had a great love of music, and performed harmoniously
enough on an accordion as well as on several queer little pipes and
reeds. She could speak, read, and write Dutch perfectly, as well as
Zulu, and was nearly as proficient in English. She carried a little
Bible always in her pocket, and often tried my gravity by dropping on
one knee by my side whenever she caught me sitting down and alone, and
beginning to read aloud from it. It was quite a new possession, and she
had not got beyond the opening chapters of Genesis and delighted in the
story of “Dam and Eva,” as she called our first parents. She proved an
excellent nurse and thoroughly trustworthy; the children were devoted
to her, especially the baby, who learned to speak Zulu before English,
and to throw a reed assegai as soon as he could stand firmly on his
little fat legs. I brought her to England after she had been about a
year with me, and she adapted herself marvellously and unhesitatingly
to the conditions of a civilisation far beyond what she had ever
dreamed of. After she had got over her surprise at the ship knowing its
way across the ocean, she proved a capital sailor. She took to London
life and London ways as if she had never known anything else. The only
serious mistake she made was once in yielding to the blandishments of
a persuasive Italian image-man and promising to buy his whole tray of
statues. I found the hall filled with these works of art, and “Malia”
tendering, with sweetest smiles, a few pence in exchange for them. It
was a disagreeable job to have to persuade the man to depart in peace
with all his images, even with a little money to console him. A friend
of mine chanced to be returning to Natal, and proposed that I should
spare my Zulu nurse to her. Her husband’s magistracy being close to
where Maria’s tribe dwelt, it seemed a good opportunity for “Malia”
to return to her own country; so of course I let her go, begging my
friend to tell me how the girl got on. The parting from the little
boys was a heart-breaking scene, nor was Malia at all comforted by the
fine clothes all my friends insisted on giving her. Not even a huge
Gainsborough hat garnished with giant poppies could console her for
leaving her “little chieftain”; but it was at all events something to
send her off so comfortably provided for, and with two large boxes of
good clothes.
In the course of a few months I received a letter from my friend, who
was then settled in her up-country home, but her story of Maria’s
doings seemed well-nigh incredible, though perfectly true.
All had gone well on the voyage and so long as they remained at Durban
and Maritzburg; but as soon as the distant settlement was reached,
Maria’s kinsmen came around her and began to claim some share in her
prosperity. Free fights were of constant occurrence, and in one of
them Maria, using the skull of an ox as a weapon, broke her sister’s
leg. Soon after that she returned to the savage life she had not known
since her infancy, and took to it with delight. I don’t know what
became of her clothes, but she had presented herself before my friend
clad in an old sack and with necklaces of wild animals’ teeth, and
proudly announced she had just been married “with cows”—thus showing
how completely her Christianity had fallen away from her, and she had
practically returned, on the first opportunity, to the depth of that
savagery from which she had been taken before she could even remember
it. I soon lost all trace of her, but Malia’s story has always remained
in my mind as an amazing instance of the strength of race-instinct.
My next colonial home was in Mauritius, and certainly the servants of
that day—twenty years ago, alas!—were the best I have ever come across
out of England. I am told that this is no longer the case, and that
that type of domestic has been improved and educated into half-starved
little clerks. The cooks were excellent, so were the butlers. Of
course, they had all preserved the Indian custom of “dustoor” (I am not
at all sure of the spelling) or perquisite. In fact, a sort of little
duty was levied on every article of consumption in a household.
I never shall forget the agony of mind of one of my butlers at having
handed me a wrong statement of the previous day’s “bazaar.” I had
really not yet looked at it, but he implored me with such dreadful
agitation to let him have it back again to “correct” that I read it
aloud before him, to his utter confusion and abasement. The vendor
had first put down the price paid him for each article, and then the
“dustoor” to be added; needless to say, I was to pay the difference,
and the tax had been amply allowed for in the price charged. As “Gyp”
would say, Tableau!
Curiously enough, it was the dhoby or washerman class which gave
the most or rather the only trouble. They—_i.e._ the washerman
and his numerous wives—fought so dreadfully. Once I received a
petition requesting me in most pompous language to give the youngest
or “last-joined” wife a good talking to, for in spite of all
corrections—that is, beatings—she declined entirely to iron her share
of the clothes, and had the effrontery to say she had not married an
ugly old man to have to work hard. The dhoby on his side declared he
had only incurred the extra expense and bother of a fourth and much
younger wife in order that the “Grande Madame’s” white gowns might be
beautifully ironed, fresh every day.
I handed the letter—almost undecipherable on account of its ornate
penmanship and flourishes—to the A.D.C. who was good enough to help me
with my domestic affairs, and he must have arranged it satisfactorily,
for when he left us hurriedly to rejoin his regiment, which had been
ordered on active service, he received a joint letter of adieu from all
the dhobies, wishing him every sort of good fortune in the campaign,
and expressing a hope that he might soon return with “le croix de la
reine Victoria flottant de sa casaque.” Rather a confusion of ideas,
but doubtless well meant.
In spite, however, of the general excellence of Mauritius servants,
my very dignified butler at Réduit cost me the most trying
experience of my party-giving career. Once upon a time I had an
archery meeting at Réduit, and a dance afterwards for the young
people. This programme—combining, as it did, afternoon and evening
amusements—required a certain amount of organisation as to food. The
shooting was to go on as long as the light lasted, and it was thought
better to have the usual refreshments in the tents during that time,
and then an early and very substantial supper indoors so soon after the
dancing began as the guests liked to have it.
There used in those days to be an excellent restaurant in Port Louis
which furnished all the ball suppers. The cost was high, but all
trouble was saved, and the food provided left nothing to be desired.
The manager of the “Flore Mauricienne” never made a mistake, and only
needed to be told how many guests to provide for; everything was then
sure to be beautifully arranged. So I had no anxieties on the score of
ample supplies of every obtainable dainty being forthcoming. Great,
therefore, was my surprise, when, after the first batch of guests had
been in to the supper-room, I was informed in a tragic whisper that
everything looked very nice in there, but that there was no second
supply of food to replenish the tables. This seemed impossible, and I
sent for the butler and demanded to know what had become of the supper.
“Monsieur Jorge” smiled blandly and, waving his hands in despair,
ejaculated “Rien, rien, Madame,” repeatedly. So, although I had not
intended to go in to supper myself just then, I hastened to the scene.
There were the lovely tables as usual, a mass of flowers and silver,
but with empty dishes. I felt as if it must be a bad dream from which I
should presently awake, but that did not make it less terrible at the
moment. Of course the A.D.C.s were active and energetic, but they could
not perform miracles and produce a supper which they had themselves
ordered and knew had arrived, but which seemed to have vanished into
thin air. Tins of biscuits were found and sandwiches were hastily cut,
and every one was most kind and good-natured and full of sympathy for
me.
If “Monsieur Jorge” and his myrmidons had appeared in the least tipsy,
the situation would have been less perplexing, but except a profound
and impenetrable gravity of demeanour every servant seemed quite right.
My guests danced merrily away, and hunger had no effect on their gay
humour, but the staff and I (who had had no supper) were plunged in
melancholy.
The moment our telegraph clerk came on duty next morning a message was
sent to Port Louis (eight miles off) asking the manager of the “Flore”
what had become of his supper, and by the time I came down to breakfast
that worthy had appeared on the scene, and, more versed in the ways
of Mauritian servants than any of us were, had elicited from Monsieur
Jorge that he remembered putting the numerous boxes of supper away
carefully, but where, he could not imagine. The night before he had
insisted that he had placed all the supper there was, on the tables. So
a search was instituted, and very soon the melancholy remains of the
supper were discovered hidden away in an unused room. All the packing
ice had, of course, melted, and jellies, &c., were reduced to liquid.
There was about fifty pounds’ worth of food quite spoiled and useless,
most of it only fit to be thrown away. The manager’s wrath really
exceeded mine, and he stipulated that not one of the crowd of servants
should have a crumb of the remains of that supper, which I heard
afterwards had been given to the garden coolies. As a matter of fact,
I believe Monsieur Jorge _was_ somewhat tipsy, and it took the form of
complete loss of memory. But it was a dreadful experience.
From the “belle isle de Maurice” we went to Western Australia, where
we arrived in the middle of winter, and the contrast seemed great in
every way, especially in the domestic arrangements, for servants were
few and far between and of a very elementary stamp of knowledge. I
tried to remedy that defect by importing maid-servants, but succeeded
only in acquiring some very strange specimens. In those days Western
Australia was such an unknown and distant land that the friends at home
who kindly tried to help me found great difficulty in inducing any good
servant to venture so far, and although the wages offered must have
seemed enormous, the good class I wanted could not at first be induced
to leave England. Later, things improved considerably and we got very
good servants, but the first importations were very disheartening. I
used to be so amazed at their love of finery. To see one’s housemaid
at church absolutely covered with sham diamonds, large rings outside
her gloves, huge _solitaire_ earrings, and at least a dozen brooches
stuck about her, was, to say the least of it, startling; so was the
apparition of my head-cook, whom I sent for hurriedly once, after
dinner, and who appeared in an evening dress of black net and silver.
I also recognised the kitchen-maid at a concert in a magnificent pale
green satin evening dress, which, taken in conjunction with her scarlet
hair, was rather conspicuous. Of one gentle and timid little housemaid,
who did not dazzle me with her toilettes, I inquired what she found
most strange and unexpected in her new home—which, by the way, she
professed to like very much.
“The lemons, my lady, if you please.”
“Lemons!” I said; “why?”
“Well, it’s their growin’ on trees as is so puzzlin’ like, if you
please.”
“Where else did you expect them to grow?” I inquired.
“I thought they belonged to the nets. I’d always seen them in nets in
shops, you know; and lemons looks strange without nets.”
My next and last experience of colonial servants was in Trinidad. By
this time I had gained so much and such varied experience that there
was no excuse for things not working smoothly, and as I was fortunate
in possessing an excellent head-servant who acted as house-steward
I had practically no trouble at all, beyond a little anxiety at any
time of extra pressure about the head-cook, who had not only heart
disease, but when drunk flew into violent rages. Our doctor had warned
the house-steward that this man—who was a half-caste Portuguese from
Goa—might drop dead at any moment if he gave way to temper and drink
combined. So it was always an anxious time when balls and banquets and
luncheons followed each other in quick succession. On these occasions,
besides his two permanent assistants, G. was allowed a free hand as
to engaging outside help. But he seemed to take that opportunity to
bring in his bitterest foes, to judge by the incessant quarrels,
all of long standing, which poor Mr. V. (the house-steward) had to
arrange. I only did the complimenting, and after each ball supper or
big dinner sent for the cook and paid him extravagant compliments
on his efforts. That was the only way to keep him going, and things
went well on the surface; but there were tragic moments to be lived
through when the said cook had refreshed himself a little too often,
and about midday would declare he had no idea what all these people
were doing in his kitchens, and, arming himself with a rolling-pin,
would drive them forth with much obloquy. I chanced to be looking out
of my dressing-room window one day when he started a raid on the _corps
d’armée_ of black girls who were busily picking turkeys and fowls for
the next night’s ball supper. I never saw anything so absurd as the way
the girls fled into the neighbouring nutmeg-grove, each clasping her
half-picked fowls and scattering the feathers out of her apron as she
ran with many “hi! hi’s!”
I really began to think it would be necessary to summon the police
sentries to protect them, for G. was flinging all sorts of fruit and
vegetables at them, and had quite got their range. However, as Mr.
V. emerged from his office and began to inquire of the cook if he
was anxious to die on the spot, I only looked on. At first there was
nothing but rage and fury on the cook’s part, to which Mr. V. opposed
an imperturbable calm and the emphatic repetition of the doctor’s
warning. Then came a burst of weeping, caused, G. declared, by his
sense of the wickedness of the human race in general and “dem girls”
in particular. After that a deep peace seemed to suddenly descend on
the scene, and the cook returned to his large and airy kitchens, still
weeping bitterly. Mr. V. vanished, the picking girls reappeared one
by one, and, cautiously looking round to see if it was safe to do so,
took up their former positions under shady trees. Presently I saw other
forms stealing back into the kitchens, from which they too had been
forcibly ejected; and then I heard the cook’s voice start one of Moody
and Sankey’s hymns, with apparently fifty verses and a rousing chorus.
After that I had no misgivings as to the success of the supper.
We succeeded, as it were, to most of our servants, for they had
nearly all been at Government House for some years, and at all events
knew their duties. I met one functionary, whose face I did not seem
to know, on the staircase one day, and inquired who he was. “Me
second butlare, please,” was the answer. The first “butlare” was an
intensely respectable middle-aged man, of apparently deeply religious
convictions, and I always saw him at church every Sunday, and he was a
regular and most devout communicant. Judge, then, of my surprise and
dismay, when, poor Jacob having died rather suddenly of heart disease,
I was assured that four separate and distinct Mrs. Jacobs had appeared,
each clad in deepest widow’s weeds, and each armed with orthodox
“lines” to claim the small arrears of his monthly pay. But I am afraid
that similar inconsistencies between theory and practice are by no
means uncommon in those “Summer Isles of Eden.”
XV
INTERVIEWS
My experience of being interviewed began many years before the
invention of the present fashion of demanding from perfect strangers
answers to questions which one’s most intimate friend would hesitate to
ask. My interviewers had not the smallest desire to be informed as to
what I liked to eat or drink, or at what hour I got up of a morning.
The conversation on these occasions used to be strictly confined to my
visitor’s own affairs. Perhaps “strictly” is not the word I want, for
I well remember that my greatest difficulty at these interviews was to
keep the information showered on me at all to the subject in hand, and
to avoid incessant parenthetical reminiscences of bygone events.
Both in Natal and Mauritius we lived so far away from the town that it
was too much trouble for the interviewer to seek me out, nor indeed do
I remember hearing of cases which needed help and advice there so often
as at other places.
My real _début_ in being interviewed was made in Western Australia
some twenty years ago in the dear old primitive days, when I felt that
I was the squire’s wife and the rector’s wife rolled into one, and most
of the troubles used to be brought straight to me. Indeed, so numerous
were my visitors of this class that a special room had to be set aside
in which to receive them; and certainly, if its walls had tongues as
well as ears, some droll confidences might be betrayed by them.
But I must confess I began badly. Almost my first visitor in that room
was a “pensioner’s” widow. There can be very few “pensioners” left now,
for fifteen years ago, when we left dear Western Australia, hardly
thirty of the old “Enrolled Guard” survived. The colloquial name by
which they were known in those latter days was Pensioner, though it
does not really express their status.
Fifty years ago a large military force had been sent out to the Swan
River Settlement—all that was then known of a colony now a million
square miles in extent—to guard the convicts asked for by the first
settlers to help them to make roads and bridges and public buildings.
After twenty years the deportation of convicts to Western Australia
ceased, and the troops were withdrawn.
As, however, it was desirable to induce respectable settlers to make
the colony their home, special advantages had been offered to soldiers
to remain and take up free grants of land. Many of those who had wives
and families accepted the offer, and, whenever they proved to be sober
and industrious men, did extremely well. In addition to the liberal
grants of land, each man was given a small pension, and ever since the
convicts left his military functions had been confined to mounting
guard at Government House. Even that slight duty came to an end,
however, during our stay, and smart young policemen replaced the old
veterans in out-of-date uniforms, their breasts covered with numerous
medals for active service in all parts of the globe.
But to return to my first interviewer—an old Irishwoman, very feeble
and very poor, her man long since dead, and the children apparently
scattered to the four winds of heaven; the grant of land sold, the
money spent, the pension always forestalled, and the inevitable
objection to entering the colonial equivalent for “the House.” To more
practised ears it would no doubt have sounded a suspicious story, but
it went to my heart, and I gave the poor old body some tea and sugar,
an order for a little meat, and—fatal mistake—a few shillings. Next day
there was a coroner’s inquest on the charred remains of my unfortunate
friend, who had got, as it seems she usually did, very drunk, and had
tumbled into her own fireplace. Every one seemed to know how weak and
foolish I had been in the matter of even that small gift of money,
and the newspapers hinted that I must be a Political Economist of
the lowest type! So pensioners’ widows tried in vain to “put the
com-mether” on me after that experience.