SECRETARIES
For some time I have remained doubtful whether I would head one of
my chapters Secretaries, for several reasons, which I will try to
explain. In the first place my relations with these gentlemen have
been almost uniformly pleasant, and that is a state of things which
does not lend itself to picturesque writing. In the second place I am
somewhat timid of being misunderstood, and as I know that secretaries
are sensitive (and with justice), I do not want to say a word that can
be misconstrued. But in common justice to a very estimable body of men
(and some ladies) I feel that I ought not to issue these recollections
without some extended reference to secretaries, and so having as I hope
cleared the ground a little, I will take the plunge.
In all the vast body of unpaid work which is done by people in this
country for the benefit of their fellows I do not think any is so
onerous as that part which is involved in what are understood as a
secretary’s duties. He is usually a man who is very busy in some trade
or profession, but takes up the job of being secretary of his literary
society in a spirit of pure altruism. If, as is often the case, he be
a young and inexperienced man, he will soon discover that so far from
assisting him in any way with his work (and the duties are by no means
light), his colleagues usually confine themselves to finding fault with
him, and finding more work for him to do. The busier he is, and the
idler they are, the more critical will they be, until he will find in
very many instances that he is doing all the work and getting none of
the credit.
And it is very often niggling, exasperating work. The selection of a
list of lecturers, say, half a dozen, from the lavish number upon all
subjects provided by our friend Christy, really devolves upon him,
although there is nominally a committee. At any rate, if any lecturer
chosen should fall short of the general expectations, be a failure,
to put it bluntly, the secretary will please to bear the blame,
whether he had anything to do with the choice or not. If a certain
lecture is a great success, and everybody feels pleased, as sometimes
happens, in the universal satisfaction it is quite easy to forget that
it was the secretary’s choice, pressed against the inertia of the
committee. If, on the night of the lecture, there should chance to be
some counter-attraction, impossible to foresee by any merely human
secretary, what a fool he must have been not to have foreseen.
How well do we all know that woebegone look upon a secretary’s face as
he says, “I hope we shall have a good muster, but there are two or
three things on to-night, and we draw a mixed audience here, so that I
am afraid many of them will go elsewhere.”
Happy secretary if he can then chuckle over the thought that all the
tickets are sold, and consequently the financial success of the course
is assured. Otherwise a wet night, or an uninteresting subject, may
mean a big deficit in the funds, the takings being insufficient to pay
the lecturer his fee, to say nothing of other expenses. And of course
it is the secretary’s fault, he must be fully prepared for that. It
is only very seldom that a secretary is found strong enough to rule
his committee with an iron hand, and insist that if he must take the
blame for untoward happenings, he shall have the main voice in all
arrangements. Unfortunately, such a secretary is apt to develop into a
tyrant with whom it is hard to deal, although I gratefully admit that
the character is very rare.
Again, it is upon the secretary always falls the thankless task of
negotiating with the lecture agency, when a change of previously
arranged dates has to be made. Such cases will occur, but no one
outside of the profession can realise what an enormous amount of
troublesome correspondence they entail. The severe training of the
agency staff in some little measure enables them to compete with this
with more or less ease, but the secretary, unless he be a born business
man, often finds himself in an amazing entanglement, from which he
feels it almost impossible ever to emerge with the least credit. That
these matters are straightened out at all is generally due to the
kindly and methodical assistance given by the agency, and it is most
pleasant to record that this is, as a rule, unstintedly acknowledged.
It is of no use disguising the fact that the lecturers themselves
do often give the secretary a bad quarter of an hour. I am not now
thinking of those secretaries who seem to imagine that no one but
themselves has any idea of time, dates or engagements. Who will worry
with correspondence, both agency and lecturer, weeks ahead of an
engagement, as if other people had nothing else to do but write and
say, “Yes, I have your date noted, and if I live will be on hand as
arranged.” No, I am now thinking of the usual secretary, who, having
got his agreement signed, goes calmly on his way, until the day of the
lecture. He knows that he has done his part, knows that at eight there
will be in all human probability an eager crowd of some eight hundred
people or so to hear the lecturer, but, being human, he cannot help
wishing that he had just a line from the lecturer to say that it is all
right. Of course, if we were all perfect in every respect, he would
not worry, but--you never can tell, and a halfpenny post card is so
easily sent, and makes such an enormous difference to the peace of mind
of a man who is doing a lot of gratuitous work, and does not deserve
gratuitous worry as well.
Yet it does happen that the minute hand of the clock goes steadfastly
on towards the XII which will denote that it is VIII o’clock, and not a
sign is received from the lecturer. Then just as everybody is beginning
to wonder what the secretary will do, the lecturer strolls in, and is
calmly indignant to learn that there has been any anxiety about him.
Forgetfulness may explain, though it cannot excuse, such behaviour. I
have been guilty of forgetfulness myself, but I am glad to say that on
these occasions I have always arrived long enough before the time for
appearing to relieve the secretary of that gnawing worry that he must
feel if he is fit for his job when nothing has been heard from the
lecturer, and he does not appear until the clock has struck.
But there are deeper depths than these for the hapless secretary.
There are the occasions when the lecturer does not write and does
not appear? To my shame and sorrow be it said I was once guilty of
such a crime, and I can only plead for forgiveness on the following
grounds. I was booked to lecture at Croydon on a certain date which
fell on a Monday. Now on Friday I had travelled down to Altrincham,
having accepted an invitation to stay there with a dear friend until
Monday. Unhappily I caught a very severe cold going down, and on
Sunday night was delirious, the condition lasting over Monday. In
my lucid intervals I remembered my engagement, but, most strangely,
thought it was for Tuesday, and when on Tuesday morning I awoke
sane, though very weak, my first thought was a glad one--I should be
able to keep my appointment after all. I turned up my lecture slip
at breakfast-time for the secretary’s address, in order to send him
a wire, and then discovered that my engagement was for the previous
night! I cannot sufficiently blame myself for not letting the agency
know my whereabouts, for the outraged secretary had rung them up, and
they could not find me, my wife having accompanied me to Altrincham.
The condition of that secretary’s mind with that packed hall before
him, and not only no lecturer, but no news of him, I can never get out
of my mental vision, and I feel that it was such a fault as I could
never meet by any sufficient apology. I could not help falling ill,
and I was perfectly justified in visiting a friend, but nothing could
excuse my failing to let my agents know of my whereabouts when away
from home during the lecture season, except when keeping engagements
made for me by them. To finish the story. I was treated with the utmost
courtesy and forbearance. They made another appointment for me much
later on in the season, but the audience neither forgot nor forgave,
and when I did appear the hall was barely a quarter filled, which, of
course, penalised the wrong people altogether.
Another occasion I must refer to. Since I cannot find any fault, any
reasonable fault that is, with secretaries, it is only fitting that I
should admit some of my own. I was engaged to lecture at Ilford on a
certain evening at a Presbyterian Church. Carelessly glancing at the
engagement slip, I did not notice with sufficient precision where the
church was situated, but as I had for some years lived near Ilford I
did not trouble about that. I knew, or thought I knew, where the place
was. I lived in the country then, so I stayed at a hotel in London, and
in good time dressed and caught my train from Fenchurch Street. I had
hardly been in the train a minute before I realised that I had left
my engagement slip in the hotel. It did not trouble me at all, for I
felt sure of where to find the _Congregational_ Church. Now, why or
how the denomination got changed in my mind I cannot tell, but I know
that until past nine o’clock I scoured Ilford, vastly grown and changed
since I knew it, and could find no Congregational Church that was open
or where there were any signs of a lecture.
So I was fain to return, beaten and horribly ashamed of myself, because
I, being a Londoner, and withal well acquainted with that particular
neighbourhood, had failed to find the place where I was to lecture.
Also that I had been so careless as to leave my instructions in my room
at the hotel. I found immediately upon my return what a stupid mistake
I had made, and at once sat down to write the most complete apology I
could compose. I offered no excuse for myself, indeed, I don’t think I
could frame a decent one, and I also offered to agree to any proposal
that the secretary might make.
That gentleman replied very kindly and courteously, proposing that I
should deduct all the expense the society had been put to from the
amount of my fee, and fixing another date. I thankfully agreed, and I
am glad to say that the audience on my second date was a bumper one.
But the pastor, who was my chairman, did his duty by me as a faithful
friend. He produced a MS., which he flourished before my eyes, saying
that after his previous experience, when he had to rake in his memory
for something to tell the congregation, so that they should not go away
utterly disappointed, he had come prepared for any little forgetfulness
on the part of Mr. Bullen. After a few more pleasantries of the sort,
I stood up and confessed my offence, repeated my apologies, and then
said that I did not know whether it was or was not an aggravation or a
palliation of my offence that it should be the first time such a thing
had happened to me in a lecturing experience of sixteen years, and a
delivery of over a thousand lectures. I did not mention the Croydon
affair, for I was then ill, and had I not been I should certainly have
kept my engagement. And the rest was joy.
Three times in the course of my lecture career I have been approached
by secretaries, all, as I well remember, paid officials, to ask if I
would reduce my fee, _after_ the lecture. The excuse in every case
was the same: the low state of the society’s funds. My answer was
in all cases the same, i.e. had I been asked before the engagement
whether I would under the circumstances lecture for a reduced fee, the
opportunity of choice would have been afforded me. But I always went on
to ask on what grounds of equity could I, a single individual earning
my living, be expected to contribute several pounds to the funds of a
society consisting of several hundred people. And the answer was always
that my objections were perfectly just, and that had the secretary been
able to exercise his own option, he would not have put such a request
to me, but that, being a paid official, he had to do as he was told.
Now I would not for one moment attempt to dissuade any of my brethren
or sisters of the lecture platform from _giving_ their services in the
cause of charity, when asked to do so beforehand. But I would strongly
urge them always to insist upon their full fee being paid to them,
and then making it, or part of it, a donation to the funds. For if a
lecturer consents to give his services, he may be very sure that he
will get a very poor audience, no one will think it is worth their
while to work in order that his, the lecturer’s, efforts in the cause
of charity may be successful. In a word, what people get for nothing
they do not value, which is an old but much ignored axiom.
In this connection I would like to mention an experience of my own
in Scotland, although I may not give the names of the two places. It
was in bitter winter weather, very snowy, when I arrived, and the
town looked frost-bitten. But the hall where I was to lecture was
a beautiful one, warm and comfortable, and the great library and
reading-rooms attached were well filled. The secretary, a genial,
jovial gentleman, bade me heartily welcome, and introduced me to
several grave magnates as the members of his committee. As the clock
struck we all filed on to the platform, and to my consternation there
was just one more person in the audience than there was on the platform.
This might well have daunted the chairman, for the seating
accommodation stretching blankly away before him was for 800. But it
did not in the least that I could see. He took up his parable, and
performed his duties with just the same air of ponderous gravity as he
might have assumed in addressing an audience of thousands. And I could
do no less than follow his good example, though I did feel glad when
the lights went out, and enabled me to forget that great empty space.
After the tedious formality of votes of thanks had been performed to
the bitter end, I eagerly sought the secretary for an explanation. He
told me that it was quite a frequent experience, because the lectures
were well endowed and absolutely free, repeating the axiom which I
have quoted above. I unburdened myself to him, for he was exceedingly
sympathetic, and said that while I didn’t mind a small audience, there
were limits, and I earnestly hoped that I might never have that night’s
experience again.
Vain hope. The following night I went to another large neighbouring
town, the white weather still continuing, and again I faced an audience
of fourteen, all told--no committee this time--and again a pleasant
secretary told me the same disheartening tale. He, however, was more of
a philosopher than my friend of the previous night, for he said that
as long as our salaries were paid, and we did our best, the meagre
attendance ought not to affect our happiness in any way. I agreed that
it ought not, and yet--hang it all!--I couldn’t help feeling somehow
morally to blame. Utterly foolish, I know, but there it was.
It was some years before I visited those two places again, and when I
did I had a vivid recollection of my previous experience. So that as
soon as I met the secretary of the first place I said that I approached
the lecture with considerable reluctance, feeling that it was like
taking money under false pretences. He laughed cheerily and said:
“You’ll be all right to-night. The hall is already full, and it wants a
quarter of an hour yet to eight o’clock. And we shall be turning people
away the whole fifteen minutes.”
I stared at him amazed, and as soon as I got my breath demanded an
explanation of this extraordinary phenomenon. Very quietly he assured
me that the sole reason for it was that a charge of 2s. 6d. was now
made for tickets for the whole course of eight lectures, with the
gratifying result that the hall was now much too small to accommodate
the crowds that besieged its doors every lecture night. And we shook
hands over this patent endorsement of the theories we had both
enunciated. Next day I went on to the other town, full of curiosity and
eager hope that all would be well there too. So hopeful was I that the
fact that the town was in the furious throes of a by-election did not
trouble me at all. Yet we all know that if there is one thing more than
another that can bring all a secretary’s hopes and plans to the ground,
it is to have a by-election clash with a lecture. It even affects the
female part of his audience.
When, therefore, I met the secretary, and saw that his face wore
its usual unperturbed expression, I ventured to say something in a
commiserating tone about the by-election. He smiled gravely and replied:
“I don’t think you’ll find it make much difference to the meeting.”
I did not like to ask him whether that would be because the attendance
was so meagre, for I feared it would be, or might be personal, so I
said nothing more upon the subject. But when the time arrived, and I
made my way towards the hall, I was very much struck by the number and
excitement of the people in the streets, who all seemed to be going my
way. And when I reached the hall I was a bit excited myself to find the
entrance, which was a long corridor, filled with loudly talking people,
who did not in the least resemble a lecture audience. So much did this
impress me that before I had got very far through the crowd I asked one
of my neighbours why there was all this excitement about the lecture.
He promptly informed me that _this_ was a political meeting, and that
the lecture hall was _next door_!
So I lost no time in changing my direction, finding, to my intense
delight, that my audience was complete, and though sedate, evidently
highly expectant. Every seat was occupied, and there were over a
hundred standing. I afterwards learned that the reason for this change
was the same as at the neighbouring town, the change from a perfectly
free lecture to one for which a small charge was made. Still, I never
before had such a gratifying experience as to find that the attraction
of a political meeting next door was not sufficiently potent to attract
my audience away from me. And I felt, I must admit, proportionately
elated.
I think that by this time it must be sufficiently clear that my
opening remarks about secretaries were quite justified, that I have
little to say about them because I have found them so uniformly good.
It is really the case. I do not in the least know what the agency’s
experience of them may be, but I must speak as I found them. Three
secretaries I have known who were ladies, and they were perfect in
courtesy and business-like habits. We had in two cases some little
hilarity, owing to my addressing a lady as “M. Jones, Esq.,” but
then as I put it to them, if the word “Miss” is not put in brackets
before the initial of a Christian name, no blame can be attached to a
correspondent who assumes that the writer is of the male persuasion.
Let me close this chapter by assuring secretaries, one and all, that
I carry into my retirement none but the pleasantest recollections of
their uniform courtesy and kindness to me, often manifested under
most trying circumstances. I would also like to add my whole-hearted
admiration of the way in which these gentlemen (and ladies) perform
their, for the most part gratuitous, and certainly onerous, duties.