After going through the daily routine with this Noble family for
several years as under butler I thought I would blossom out into a
full-blown valet. As I could clean and load a gun, clean a scarlet
coat, top boots and leather breeches with the best of them: also I knew
enough about fishing, and what to do on a salmon fishing expedition.
Drying the lines, and clothes, etc., ready for the next morning, and
dry all the flies that had been used. I felt I wanted to see a bit more
of the world before I settled down to the humdrum life of a butler.
So I sent in my notice to leave, and soon got a place as valet to a
single young gentleman. Now a valet, as a rule, thinks “no small beer
of himself.” He aims to dress as smart as his master, and puts plenty
of oil on his hair, and generally wears a finger ring. And more credit
to him for being smart, for he has to turn out his Master’s clothes
and boots to perfection, as well as his own. But the valet, like the
butler, pure and simple, will soon be as extinct as the Dodo: his
duties being merged into those of a footman or groom of the chambers,
and soon parlourmaids will be doing the whole box of tricks. The young
gentleman I valeted was a nice, sensible man, but being the younger son
of an Earl, was not overweighted by this world’s goods. He was tall and
slim, and rode well to hounds, and was a good shot. He looked well in
any sort of clothes, but especially his hunting kit. He was well sought
after for country house parties, especially by the ladies. He played
the violin nicely, and could sing a song. He had a suite of rooms, now
called a flat, and when the London season was over he got no end of
invitations. It was pack up and off we would go, not forgetting to take
his violin, and my own as well, for he knew I could play. I always took
my camera as well. On one occasion we visited the house of a certain
Earl in the Midlands. The occasion was to celebrate the birth of a
son and heir. It was to be a lively week. A gentrys’ ball, a farmers’
ball, and a servants’ ball, besides all kinds of sports in the park.
There was a brass band playing to dancing in the park, and a string
band at night. There were thirty gentry in the house, the steward’s
room was full, also the servants’ hall. In those days one would not
think of going into the steward’s room to supper unless dressed in a
black bob-tailed coat, white shirt and black bow tie. In fact, one
would be told of it, if he did not, even if he had been out shooting
all day. In the servants’ hall they were not so particular. There were
about a dozen visiting valets, and a corresponding number of ladies’
maids. We were all expected to lend a hand on ball nights, which we did
willingly. On the night of the farmers’ ball my room mate (a visiting
valet who slept in the same room as myself over the stables, for the
mansion was full up) were alloted to take charge of the cloak room,
which was a sort of counter rigged up in the front hall. It was amusing
when the farmers and tradesmen and their ladies departed they would
ask when we handed them their hats and coats, “What’s to pay?” “Oh, no
charge,” we replied; but they would leave something. Some twopence,
others sixpence, and so on. We found we got so much ready cash that
we put one of the farmer’s old top hats on the floor, and tossed the
money into it. When it was all over we emptied the money out into a
handkerchief and took it to our bedroom to divide. We found we had
sixteen and eightpence each, mostly coppers. On the other ball nights
we waited at the buffet, and at the supper. On the day the park was
thrown open to all-comers a dinner was given to about five hundred;
each man as he entered was given three tickets, entitling him to three
pints of old ale. Some of the old fellows were not used to such strong
stuff. When they came out from the riding school (where the dinner was
served, all decorated with flags and mottos, the pillars were entwined
with different colours) some of them went on their backs, with heels up
in the air.
Tea tents were all over the place, and farm waggons for biting flour,
and treacle bags, and apples, with the competitors’ hands tied behind
their backs, causing no end of fun. Wheel-barrow loads of cooked
potatoes were wheeled to the riding school, wrapped in table cloths,
and the rate at which the food disappeared was alarming. At night there
was a grand display of fireworks.
In the afternoon I got busy with my camera, a half plate. First I had
to take the house party at the front door. That done, I had to take
the crowd. This I could not do on the ground, as everybody wanted to
be in front, and got close up to the camera. So I commandeered one of
the farm waggons. There were plenty of willing hands to pull it to the
spot I wanted. It turned out to be a good picture, with the mansion in
the background. I worked a few clowds in the sky. I quickly got orders
for a hundred copies, which I finished on our return to London, and
mounted them on good cards, at one shilling each, which paid me well.
The gentry were mightily pleased with their group. A thousand gallon
tun of ale was brewed to be broached when the heir attained the age
of twenty-one. Alas, the baby when he grew up was killed in the Great
War. As on the nights between the balls there was not so much to do,
they had arranged to have a dance in the steward’s room, inviting a
few friends to come in. We hurried over supper, and had got the tables
cleared away, when a footman came and told me my “Bos” wanted to see me
in the front hall. He said they had got the ball room partly lit up,
and asked if I would play my violin for the house party to dance. I
said I had lent my violin (which was true, but only for a short time,
as a fellow was then trying to get a tune out of it), I thinking I
should thus get out of it. “Well,” he said, “you can go up to my room
and get my violin.” It was a beautiful instrument. So I was fairly in
for it. So I went in and mounted the dias where the band played on ball
nights. They asked me to play a valse. I soon warmed to my work, and
let go for all I was worth: and kept them going from nine-thirty till
twelve-thirty with lancers, valses, polkas, quadrilles, but it was
mostly valses they wanted. It is the only time I ever made bishops,
priests, and I was going to say, kings,--there was a Prince there--hop
it. Well, I thought I should not get less than a sovereign for this
night’s work. When they had finished they all walked round and thanked
me, and said, “You play very nicely.” But I got “Nothing,” and lost the
fun in the steward’s room as well. But on the morning we came away I
was standing at the carriage door when the Noble Earl came out of the
front door with my Bos. The Earl had his hands in his pockets rattling
something, keys I expect, and I thought to myself, now for my sovereign
for playing the violin. No: I got nothing. But they had ordered eight
mounted photos of the crowd, to stick in their albums as a momento.
These I took to their London house shortly after. They asked, “how
much.” I said, “A sovereign,” which was the price a professional
photographer would have charged. So I got my sovereign after all.
I remember that family in the old Lord’s time. It was quite different
then. He kept a full staff, with only himself in the house. The hall
porter used to powder, though he had no hair on his head, except a rim
round at the back.
Which reminds me of a tale of an old fellow like him, as regards hair.
He had the habit, when he was thinking, or very interested in anything,
of scratching his pole. It was at a theatre. A boy who sat behind him
said: “Chase him out into the open, Gov’nor, you’ll catch him then.”
This hall porter had thirteen young children. He was left in charge
of the town house when the family were away. He used to mend their
clothes and boots when on duty in the front hall. When anyone came to
the front door he would push the things into the little drawer that is
under the seat of his old-fashioned hall porter’s chair. Goodness knows
what became of him or his family when he got the sack, for the new
Lord did not keep a hall porter, or groom of the chambers, either; and
I think one of the footmen had to go as well. Formerly, when they went
to Court or some other important function they made a grand show, the
footmen with three cornered hats, the coachman also, with his wig. I
photographed these liveries for the guidance of the tailors, both back
and front views; they were covered with gold lace. Sometimes one meets
with an effeminate young gentleman, generally a younger son of a good
family, who is the idol of the ladies, a sort of carpet knight; when
waited on at table, and handed, for instance, a dish of cutlets, he
will turn every one of them over in the dish, and then, after all, take
the first one he got hold of. One felt inclined to put the dish down on
the table, and let him get on with it; besides, he was keeping others
waiting. Again, if he comes into a room in other people’s houses, he
will poke the fire, and if he is a fresh air fanatic, will open the
windows.
* * * * *
We were never long in one place, but generally visiting at large
houses, except in the “Season” when we remained in London. I had
always been very fond of reading. I had read all Sir Walter Scot’s
novels, and, in fact, every other that I could get hold of. One large,
old house, not far from Kettering, I was very fond of visiting. It
dated back before Charles the First’s time: there were no modern
improvements; everything was just as it was hundreds of years ago. When
my “Bos” wanted me he used to blow a blast on his hunting horn across
the courtyard. The stone passages were all bumpy, and up and down hill.
The hot water for baths had to be carried in cans hundreds of yards.
This sort of place appealed to me. There was the great banqueting hall,
with diamond paned windows from ceiling (which were all hand-painted)
to the floor. A man used to wheel the fire logs a yard long in a
barrow, and stack them on end, on the great open fireplace. I used to
imagine I could see the ladies and dandies, in their laces, frills,
powdered wigs, and swords, walking about, as they did in the old days,
when ladies were ladies, and acted as such. The old oil paintings
seemed to step out of their frames, and dance a minuet, and bow and
scrape to each other: there it all was, nothing changed, nothing
altered. I wonder if life was any better in those days than it is now
in these hurry, scurry, “hell for leather,” can’t go fast enough times.
In those days if the King did not suit the people they simply chopped
off his head to stop him talking. Now the Kings simply hop it, into the
adjoining country and live happily for ever afterwards.
Whenever we went to visit the same place again the first thing the
servants asked me was: “Got your fiddle?” As, after supper, if they
were tired, they were not too tired for a dance in the servants’ hall.
We were visiting a large house in Lancashire when I lost my violin.
It was dark, on a winter’s evening when we arrived at the station.
The luggage cart from the house was there to meet us: several other
visitors arrived by the same train. I was collecting my small things
to take with me in the cab, when the man said, “All right, leave them.
I’ll bring them all up to the house.” I took what I could, but left him
to bring my own violin. When he arrived, my violin was not amongst the
luggage, he had dropped it on the road. When the company had gone into
dinner I walked back to the station, also asked the police, set the
town crier, with his bell, going, but all to no purpose. I never saw my
violin again. On mentioning the affair, the big Bug of the place said
he could not be responsible for his visitors’ luggage. Though his own
servant had lost it. But I had another violin, still it was a loss to
me.
One visit we made was at a Castle in the North of England, the home of
a certain Duke. My Bos, I fancied, was sweet on one of the daughters.
I saw him come out of one of the rooms looking rather crestfallen. I
fancy he had popped the question and had not clicked.
Things went on like this for about two years. Hunting here, shooting
there; also attending race meetings, when he was at last captured by
the daughter of a magnate in the North of England; and he caught a
Tartar. She had plenty of money, but was a regular spitfire. I could
not stand her at any price, so handed in my brief, and left him. I was
sorry for him in a way, for he was a reasonable young gent to work for.
I was once valet to a Noble Lord who could not bear a vestige of light
in his bedroom. When we were travelling I always took large sheets
of black Italian cloth. With these I had to fasten over the windows,
fanlight, in fact, any little crack or cranny where the light could get
in from outside, with drawing pins, and had to take them down in the
morning when I called him.
I soon got another valet’s place with a gent I will call Sir Henry
Cayenne, for he was as hot as they make them, though a gentleman
and good sportsman at bottom. He could not open his mouth without
swearing. It is said “No man is a hero to his own valet,” because
he knows too much of his inner life. He hunted three or four days a
week, in leathers and scarlet. He had a large house in Yorkshire, and
kept a good establishment, butler, valet, two footmen, and an usher,
and boy. I found the previous valet had “hopped it” one morning after
Sir Cayenne had gone hunting, for on going up to the dressing room
he found some of the leather breeches thrown into the bath, others
under the grate, some of the top boots were thrown out of the window,
others in the bath. He would always have several pairs of each taken
up to choose from. A scarlet coat was also thrown out of the window.
When he returned from hunting he rang his bell, as usual, but no valet
appeared. After a while the butler went up. The Noble Knight said:
“Send my valet,” with several flowery words entwined. The butler
said he had not seen him all day, for the valet had left the boots,
breeches, and coat, just as he saw them in the morning, and “hopped
it.” There was some sulphorous langwage flying about just then. He
could never keep a valet more than a month or two; the one previous
to the one that “hopped it” had been in the Life Guards. Though Sir
Cayenne was a six-foot man, he was thin. The Lifeguardsman was big,
and stout as well. One day they got to words; the valet gave him as
good as he sent, as he did not intend to stay. One of Sir Cayenne’s
accomplishments, as well as the vulgar tongue, was that he was a fairly
good boxer. Sir Cayenne tried to cross the room to where a lot of
hunting crops hung on the wall, saying he would give the valet a good
horse-whipping. “Oh, no you don’t,” said the valet, and closed with
him, forcing him backwards on to the bed, and threw his weight on,
and holding Sir Cayenne there. When he found he could not get free he
said, “All right, I’ll give in. Bring up your book. I’ll pay it and
you can go.” I had not been there but a day or two when, one morning
I was dressing him for hunting, he said, “Take a clean hunting kit to
--” (some place I did not know) “for I shall hunt from there to-morrow
morning, and sleep there to-night.” I asked him which was the best way
to get to this place, as I was a stranger, and did not as yet know
the country. He replied: “You dam well find out!” I got hold of the
stud groom, who had been there a good many years. He told me, and put
me up to some of his ways. Boxing gloves were all over the place, for
Sir Cayenne could box a bit, and was as quick as lightening at it.
Sometimes he would get eminent boxers to come down, and give boxing and
weight-lifting exhibitions in the front hall, inviting the farmers and
their wives to come and see it. He had Jackson, the black boxer there,
and would put the gloves on himself and box a round or two with him.
One day he was lunching alone. It was his habit of reading a book at
the same time. He sent the servants out of the room, a bell was put
on the table for him to ring when he wanted them. They were waiting
outside in the serving room, when the footmen took a set of boxing
gloves, and began sparing about. Sir Cayenne could hear their feet
scuffling on the floor. He got up and opened the door and said: “Just
stop that b---- game while I am having my lunch, will you? Or, look
here, just come inside a minute. I will dam soon knock the stuffing out
of you.” Needless to say they declined. He used to call the footmen
“Brass buttoned B----s.”
There used to be a Royal Duke who could also use flowery language. One
day Sir Cayenne sent him a palm, saying he was the champion at it.
But the Royal Duke sent it back, saying Sir Cayenne was the proper
claimant, and could not be beaten, in fact “par excellence.” I have
heard that this Royal Duke told his valet that if he was in his own
country, he would shoot him.
I think I can handle a gun as quickly, and load it as fast as most
valets, but to load for Sir Cayenne was an experience. When the birds
began to come over pretty quick he would start swearing. Not ordinary
swearing, but stringing nothing but swear words together, one after the
other. How he thought of them I can’t make out. If I did not happen to
grasp the gun, he would simply drop it on the ground, which made me
late for the next shot. It is very curious the contrasts in marriage,
for Sir Cayenne had a most beautiful lady for a wife, as meek and
ladylike as he was blusterous and firey.
At a large luncheon party Sir Cayenne wanted a second helping of roast
beef. The butler being busy handing the wine one of the footmen carved
it off for him. Sir Cayenne shouted out: “Which of you b----s cut this
off? You have not given me any b---- fat.”
One Sunday afternoon when the butler was out, or asleep, Sir Cayenne
rang the library bell. No one answered it. He rang again: still nothing
happened. Then he came out into the square stone hall. He could hear
a lot of gigling and squealing going on in the servants’ hall. The
footmen and grooms and second horsemen were in the hall with some of
the maidservants. He opened the door and said. “Come out of it. I’ll
teach you to make a b---- brothel of my house.” As they passed out he
gave them a bang on the head.
Notwithstanding all his bluster he, like all bullies, was the merest
coward in some matters. For instance, he had made up his mind to learn
to ride the bicycle. I had to call him an hour earlier every morning
to have an hour’s practice before breakfast. I had to learn him, and
hold him up, but he had no pluck. One day he skidded sideways, and the
mud guard scraped all the skin off the shin of my leg. I could feel the
blood running down. He said, “Oh, don’t show it to me. Don’t let me see
it. I can’t bear the sight of blood.” The next morning I went out with
a pair of cricketing pads on. He said: “What the h---- have you got
those things on for? We are not going to play cricket.” I said I had
quite enough skin scraped off for the present.
All his carriages were painted black and yellow. He also drove
four-in-hand.
One morning he took his little meek land agent for a drive to visit
some parts of his estate, in a high two-wheeled cart. He took a short
cut across the park, ran one of the wheels up the bole of a large tree,
and shot them both out. I could not swear he did this on purpose: but
as the Scotchman said: “I hae ma doots.”
Often I would get twenty minutes’ notice to pack up and be off to
London for a night. He was not stingy with his money: as I used to
get five shillings each way for personal expences. Sir Cayenne would
generally go on to Crewe early to do some business. I followed by
train, and met him there. He had a leather case with silver fittings,
plates and all. I had to get this packed with a partridge, or half a
cold phesant, and a small bottle of claret, and get it laid out on the
stationmaster’s office table, and wait for him. He would arrive five or
ten minutes before the London train was due. The train would be ready
to start: the stationmaster told him he could not delay the train any
longer. He would swallow his claret, rush out, and say to me, “Come on,
you silly b----, you’ll lose the train.” I would rush out into the
office, grasp the four corners of the table cloth, grab the case, and
rush out, to find the stationmaster holding a door open for me (for he
knew Sir Cayenne). Sometimes I would tumble full length on the floor
of the carriage, as the train was moving off, and sort the things out
afterwards. I dare not be left behind, or I should have got the sack.
After all he was a good sport, and kept up a good house. But the
flowery language he used to waste on me was alarming. But I used to
keep very cool, and surprising as it may seem, I remained with him over
two years. For he paid his valet a hundred a year, and there were other
compensations. One day he said to me, “Dam you! Haven’t you got any
temper at all?” When I first went there all the servants had feather
beds. One could flop down and rest. But a new housekeeper that came had
them all taken away, and we had to lie on hard mattresses. She was one
of these fresh air, hygene fanatics.
The house was surrounded with coal mines, and the miners used to help
themselves to Sir Cayenne’s game occasionally. One morning we were
off to catch the early train for London. He was driving in his high
two-wheeled cart, with a groom beside him, and I up behind with the
luggage, when a man came through the hedge with a rabbit in his hand.
Sir Cayenne threw the reins to the groom, jumped down, took the rabbit
away, and beat the man about the head with it, asking him what business
he had stealing his game? Interlarded with choice swear words. Then
he put his hand into his pocket, threw the man a sovereign, and said,
“Damn you, I have no time to stop and talk to you.”
Once, shortly after I went into his service, he “let out” and swore
at me at a railway station. The air went blue, so sulphroic was his
langwage, and in front of a lot of people, and porters too, who did
not know him. I thought to myself, “I’ll soon put paid to this.” So
when we got to our destination, and I had him to myself, I told him he
could say what he liked to me when we were alone, as it was like water
on a duck’s back, but if he began it in front of people again I should
leave him that minute (unless I was at fault) and he would continue
his journey alone. But the greatest display of language occurred when
Sir Cayenne was dressing for dinner, and he was trying to tie a white
necktie. Sometimes he would spoil twenty before he got one to his
satisfaction. I would stand on his left hand and as he spoilt them he
threw them down in a heap on the carpet on his right, then I would hand
him another. He would not let me tie one for him: but the swear words
he strung together was terrific.
When at College he was “Rusticated” for some of his outrageous
escapades; went home, and had a tutor to complete his education. One
day he pitched his tutor out of the first floor window, on to the lawn.
His study was more like a wild beast show than anything else.
One day we were getting ready for shooting. His dressing room was on
the ground floor at the house at which we were visiting. He would
always leave everything till the last minute. The other gentlemen were
ready and waiting for him outside. One of them was coming towards his
window to tell him to hurry, but turned back, and told the others that
the air was too blue with language for him to go any closer. Yet, when
ladies were about he was the most gentlemanly man of the lot, “Butter
would not melt in his mouth.”
I put in two years with him, though before I went to him he could
not keep a valet for two months. On the day I left him I felt sorry
in a way. For although I never crossed him, I could not deny that so
much of it played on my nerves. For one is not always such a fool as
one looks. I stood in the front hall waiting to be paid off, when he
passed and said, “I’ll see to you directly.” I hardly knew what this
meant, so when we went into his room I kept near the fireplace, as I
was no match for him at boxing, and was not taking any chances so kept
near the poker. On the contrary, he was as mild as milk; wrote me out
a first-class reference; gave me a present; shook hands; he said he
was sorry to lose me; and thus we parted. I could imagine him living
in the time when duels were in fashion. He would have had one on his
hands every day of the week. When I saw the account of his death some
years later, I felt sorry. For, though he was such a spitfire, there
was something about him one could not help liking. He kept up a good
establishment, and a good house; there was no stint of anything in
reason. He was not like some of them, always looking round to find
a hook to hang a quarrel or complaint on. No, it was just simply
“bluster,” and his bark was worse than his bite. He was a good sport,
and he played the game.