[Picture: The Bootlair saheb] SOME dogs, when they hear a fiddle, are
forced to turn over on their backs and howl; some are unmoved by music.
So some men are tortured by every violation of symmetry, while some
cannot discern a straight line. I belong to the former class, and my
Butler belongs to the latter. He _would_ lay the table in a way which
almost gave me a crick in neck, and certainly dislocated my temper, and
he would not see that there was anything wrong. I reasoned with him, for
he is an intelligent man. I pointed out to him, in his own vernacular,
that the knives and forks were not parallel, that the four dishes formed
a trapezium, and that the cruet, taken with any two of the salt cellars,
made a scalene triangle; in short, that there was not one parallelogram,
or other regular figure, on the table. At last a gleam of light passed
over his countenance. Yes, he understood it all; it was very simple;
henceforth I should find everything straight. And here is the result!
He has arranged everything with the utmost regularity, guiding himself by
the creases in the tablecloth; but, unfortunately, he began by laying the
cloth itself slantwise; consequently, I find myself with my back to one
corner of the room and my face to another, and cannot get rid of the
feeling that everything on the table is slightly the worse for liquor.
And the Butler is in despair. What on earth, he thinks, can be wrong
now? He evidently gives it up, and so do I.
I have already treated of the Boy, and to devote another chapter to the
Butler may seem like making a distinction where there is no difference;
but there is in reality a radical difference between the two offices,
which is this, that your Boy looks after you, whereas your Butler looks
after the other servants, and you look after him; at least, I hope you
do. From this it follows that the Boy flourishes only in the free
atmosphere of bachelordom. If master marries, the Boy sometimes becomes
a Butler, but I have generally seen that the change was fatal to him. He
feels a share at first in master’s happiness on the auspicious occasion,
and begins to fit on his new dignity. He provides himself with a more
magnificent _cumberbund_, enlarges the border of gold thread on his
puggree, and furbishes up his English that he may converse pleasantly
with _mem saheb_. He orders about the other servants with a fuller voice
than before, and when anyone calls for a chair, he no longer brings one
himself, but commands the _hamal_ to do so. He feels supremely happy!
Alas! before the _mem saheb_ has been many weeks in the house, the change
of air begins to disagree with him—not with his body, but with his
spirit, and though he may bear up against it for a time, he sooner or
later asks leave to go to his country. His new mistress is nothing loth
to be rid of him, nor master either, for even his countenance is changed;
and so the Butler’s brief reign comes to an end, and he departs,
deploring the unhappy match his master has made. Why could not so
liberal and large-minded a _saheb_ remain unmarried, and continue to cast
the shadow of his benevolence on those who were so happy as to eat his
salt, instead of taking to himself a _madam_, under whom there is no
peace night or day? As he sits with his unemployed friends seeking the
consolation of the never-failing _beeree_, the ex-butler narrates her
ladyship’s cantankerous ways, how she eternally fidgeted over a little
harmless dust about the corners of the furniture, as if it was not the
nature of dust to settle on furniture; how she would have window panes
washed which had never been washed before; her meanness in inquiring
about the consumption of oil and milk and firewood, matters which the
_saheb_ had never stooped to look into; and her unworthy and insulting
practice of locking up stores, and doling them out day by day, not to
mention having the cow milked in her presence: all which made him so
ashamed in the presence of the other servants that his life became
bitter, and he was forced to ask for his _ruzza_.
Lalla, sitting next to him, remarks that no doubt one person is of one
disposition and another of another disposition. “If it had been my
destiny to remain in the service of Colonel Balloonpeel, all my days
would have passed in peace; but he went to England when he got his
_pencil_. Who can describe the calmness and goodness of his _madam_.
She never asked a question. She put the keys in the Butler’s hand, and
if he asked for money she gave it. But one person is of one disposition
and another is of another disposition.”
“That is true,” replies the ex-butler, “but the _sahebs_ are better than
the _mem sahebs_. The _sahebs_ are hot and get angry sometimes, but
under them a man can live and eat a mouthful of bread. With the _mem
sahebs_ it is nothing but worry, worry, worry. Why is this so dirty?
Who broke that plate? When was that glass cracked? Alas! why do the
_sahebs_ marry such women?”
Old Ramjee then withdraws his _beeree_ from his mouth and sheds light on
the subject. “You see, in England there are very few women, for which
reason it is that so many _sahebs_ remain unmarried. So when a _saheb_
goes home to his country for a wife, he must take what he can get.”
“It is a question of destiny,” says Lalla, “with them and with us. My
first wife, who can tell how meek she was? She never opened her mouth.
My present wife is such a _sheitan_ that a man cannot live under the same
roof with her. I have sent her to her country ten times, but what is the
use? Will she stay there? The flavour has all gone out of my life.”
[Picture: A plot against the butler]
And they all make noises expressive of sympathy.
The Butler being commander-in-chief of the household forces, I find one
quality to be indispensable in him, and that is what the natives call
_hookoomut_, the faculty of so commanding that other men obey. He has to
control a sneaking _mussaul_, an obstinate _hamal_, a quarrelsome, or
perhaps a drunken cook, a wicked dog-boy, a proud coachman, and a few
turbulent _ghorawallas_, while he must conciliate, or outwit, the
opposition headed by the _ayah_. If he cannot do this there will be
factions, seditions, open mutiny, ending in appeals to you, to which if
you give ear, you will foster all manner of intrigue, and put a premium
on lies and hypocrisy; and it will be strange if you do not end by
punishing the innocent and filling the guilty with unholy joy. In this
country there is only one way of dealing with the squabbles of domestics
and dependents, and that is the method of Gallio, who was a great man.
Besides the general responsibilities of his position as C.-in-C., the
Butler has certain specific duties, such as to stand with arms folded
behind you at meal time, to clean the silver, and to go to the bazaar in
the morning. The last seems to be quite as much a prerogative as a duty,
and the cook wants to go to law about it, regarding the Butler as an
unlawful usurper. He asserts his claim by spoiling the meat which the
Butler brings. Of course, there must be some reason why this duty, or
privilege, is so highly valued, and no doubt that reason is connected
with the great Oriental principle, that of everything a man handles or
controls, somewhat should adhere to his palm; but if you ask how this
principle is applied or worked out, I can only reply that that is a
matter on which I believe not one of us has any information, though for
the most part we hold very emphatic opinions on the subject. I am quite
certain that it may be laid down for a general rule that the Butler
prefers indirect to direct taxation. He certainly would not reduce salt
and customs duties to pave the way for an income tax. Neither would a
Viceroy, perhaps, if he had to stay and reap the fruit of his works,
instead of leaving that to his successor—but that is political reflection
which has no business here. The Butler, I say, wisely prefers indirect
taxation and prospers. How, then, are you to checkmate him? Don’t! A
wise man never attempts what cannot be accomplished. I work on the
assumption that my Butler is, like Brutus, an honourable man, treating
him with consideration, and fostering his self-respect, even at the cost,
perhaps, of a little hypocrisy. It is a gracious form of hypocrisy, and
one that often justifies itself in the end, for the man tends to become
what you assume that he is. For myself, I confess that I yield to the
butler’s claim to go to market, albeit I am assured that he derives
unjust advantages therefrom, more easily than I reconcile myself to that
other privilege of standing, with arms folded, behind me while I
breakfast, or tiffin, or dine. I can endure the suspicion that he is
growing rich while I am growing poor, but that argus supervision over my
necessary food is like a canker, and his indefatigable attentiveness
would ruin the healthiest appetite. After removing the cover from the
“beefysteak” and raising one end of the dish that I may get at the gravy
more easily, he offers me potatoes, and I try to overcome an instinctive
repugnance to the large and mealy tuber under which he has adjusted the
spoon in order to lighten my labour. After the potatoes there are
vegetables. Then he moves the salt a little nearer me and I help myself.
Next he presses the cruet-stand on my attention, putting the spoon into
the mustard pot and taking the stopper out of the sauce bottle. I submit
in the hope that I may now be allowed to begin; but he has salad or
tomatoes or something else requiring attention. I submit once more and
then assume my knife and fork. He watches his opportunity and insinuates
a pickle bottle, holding the fork in his right hand. I feel that it is
time to make a stand, so I give him one unspeakable look and proceed with
my meal, whereupon he retreats and I breathe a little more freely. But
no; he is at my left hand again with bread. To do him justice, he is
quite willing to save me annoyance by impaling a slice on the knife and
transferring it to my plate, but I prefer to help myself, which
encourages him to return to the charge with butter and then jam. This
looks like the end, but his resources are infinite. His eye falls on the
sugar basin standing beside my teacup, and he immediately takes it up
and, coming round to my left side, holds it to my nose. All this time
sit I, like Tantalus, with the savoriest of Domingo’s “beefysteaks”
before me and am not allowed to taste it. But I know that in every
operation he is animated by an exalted sense of blended duty and
prerogative, and if I could really open his mind to the thought that the
least of his attentions was dispensable, his whole nature would be
demoralized at once; so I endure and grow lean. Another thing which
works towards the same result is a practice that he has of studying my
tastes, and when he thinks he has detected a preference for a particular
dish, plying me with that until the very sight of it becomes nauseous.
At one time he fed me with “broon custard” pudding for about six months,
until in desperation I interdicted that preparation for evermore, and he
fell back upon “lemol custard.” Thus my luxuries are cut off one after
another and there is little left that I can eat.
[Picture: Curry and rice] Our grandfathers used to have Parsee butlers in
tall hats to wait upon them, but that race is now extinct. The Butler on
this side of India is now a Goanese, or a Soortee, or, more rarely, a
Mussulman. Each of these has, doubtless, his own characteristics; but
have you ever stepped back a few paces and contemplated, not your own or
anyone else’s individual servant, but the entire phenomenon of an Indian
Butler? Here is a man whose food by nature is curry and rice, before a
hillock of which he sits cross-legged, and putting his five fingers into
it, makes a large bolus, which he pushes into his mouth. He repeats this
till all is gone, and then he sleeps like a boa-constrictor until he
recovers his activity; or else he feeds on great flat cakes of wheat
flour, off which he rends jagged-pieces and lubricates them with some
spicy and unctuous gravy. All our ways of life, our meats and drinks,
and all our notions of propriety and fitness in connection with the
complicated business of appeasing our hunger as becomes our station, all
these are a foreign land to him: yet he has made himself altogether at
home in them. He has a sound practical knowledge of all our viands,
their substance, and the mode of their preparation, their qualities,
relationships and harmonies, and the exact place they hold in our great
cenatorial system. He knows all liquors also by name, with their places
and times of appearing. And he is as great in action as in knowledge.
When he takes the command of a _burra khana_ he is a Wellington. He
plans with foresight, and executes with fortitude and self-reliance. See
him marshal his own troops and his auxiliary butlers while he carves and
dispenses the joint! Then he puts himself at their head and invades the
dining-room. He meets with reverses;—the claret-jug collides with a dish
in full sail and sheds its contents on his white coat; the punkah rope
catches his turban and tosses it into a lady’s lap, exposing his
curiously shaven head to the public merriment; but, though disconcerted,
he is not defeated. He never forgets his position or loses sight of his
dignity. His mistress discusses him with such wit as may be at her
command, and he understands but smiles not. When the action is over he
retires from the field, divests himself of his robes of office and sits
down, as he was bred to do, before that hillock of curry and rice.
Even good Homer nods, and I confess I am still haunted by the memory of a
day when my Chief was my guest, and the butler served up red herrings
neatly done up in—_The Times of India_!