My slender practical railway experience I always found useful in all
my travels. We staid a week at one of the best hotels in Paris. Here
I explored a bit, endeavouring to find my way about, and to see the
sights, and as I could not speak but a few words of the language
I often got lost. From thense we went on via Lyons to Cologne and
Frankfort, to Pau and Bairretz; through miles and miles of pine
forests, the trees each with their little pail attached to catch the
turpentine. We remained at Pau two months, where I learnt enough
of the language to ask for things I wanted. Then on to Antwerp and
Birkenhammer where they make such beautiful glass. Though I enjoyed the
trip I cannot say I enjoyed the food, so different from the substantial
English fare.
What I missed a lot was the tea. It is usual for ladiesmaids and valets
to take the tea from England and form a five o’clock tea-party in one
of their own rooms. The Bos saw us one day through his window across
the courtyard. He asked who the party were. I said one of the maids
was the one who darned his socks (as we took no ladies maid with us).
He put his hand in his pocket and threw two Louis on the table and
said, “Take her to the Circus to-night.” I often had to search for him
at night, though he was not so bad as when in London. I had one of his
cards, and could get into the Casino. I started out to walk to the
Pyrinees Mountains one afternoon. They looked about ten miles off, with
their snow-covered tops, and was surprised when they were sixty miles
away. I passed a French Infantry Regiment with their red trowsers and
blue coats, who were on the march, so that my walk was not in vain.
Eventually the time came for our return to London. The Bos certainly
looked better, and was twice the man he was when we went away. But,
alas, the first time he went to his club he was as bad as ever.
Quarelling began again, till one day he told me to pack some things,
as he was going to sleep at his Club. I was to go and call him each
morning. The first morning everything was all right: that was on a
Saturday. The next morning I went to his room. He was not there,
neither had he been there that night. He had changed into evening
dress clothes and gone out. Here was a pretty pickle. Where should I
go to look for him? I knew there were several warm places round about
Leicester Square, where some of the “lively sparks” might have got
hold of him. Which way should I go? That’s the question, as it was
getting on for eleven o’clock. Just then I saw him turn the corner of
the street in a hansom cab. He sat back in one corner, his silk hat all
ruffeled up, his white tie was under his ear. He did look a spectacle.
If it was not for the tragedy of the thing I might say comical; and
all the people just going to Church. I soon got him out, and up to his
room, undressed and put him to bed. In his pockets were all sorts of
funny things, which showed where he had been; but no money. They had
skinned him out clean.
When he woke up I asked him where his gold watch and chain was,
thinking he had lost that as well. But he had the sense to leave that
behind overnight, locked in a drawer of the dressing table. “Well,” I
thought, “this is a deplorable state of affairs. Oh, if I could only do
something to stop his craving for drink.”
In the evening his wife was walking up and down outside the club,
waiting for him to come out, which eventually he did. She persuaded
him to go home. I got them a hansom cab, and followed in another
shortly afterwards, when I had collected and packed his things. When
I arrived at the house I was surprised to see a crowd round the door,
and a Police Sergeant and a Constable inside. What had happened is
this:--When the cab arrived at his house and he saw where he was he
did not want to go in. His wife had got out of the cab to open the
door, or ring the bell. The Bos grabbed the reins that were over his
head, the driver up at the back tugged to recover possesion of them,
the consequence was, the horse bolted down the street at full gallop,
collided with a refuge in the middle of the street, overturned the cab,
and there was a general smash up. The police were quickly on the scene,
and the Bos would have been taken to the police station or hospital had
not the coachman’s wife happened to be passing at the time, and told
the policeman who he was.
Beyond a slight cut on the forehead from broken glass, and a shaking,
he appeared to have escaped injury. It is curious how seldom a drunken
man injures himself when falling about. The Bos sat in a chair, and
after a few formalities the policemen were satisfied, also the cabman,
who escaped injury. The crowd soon scattered, and all was again
quiet. We got the Bos to bed, sent for a doctor, who sent medicine,
and gave orders that he was not to have anything intoxicating in any
shape or form. He fell into a deep sleep, from the effect of what the
doctor gave him. When he woke up he rang the bell. I went up, and
was surprised to find the door was locked, and the key gone. He was
shouting my name, but his wife would not give me the key, or unlock the
door. So I could do nothing. He remained like this for a few days,
continually shouting for me, but his wife would not let me go in to
him. The next morning he was dead, and so was the five hundred pounds
that he had promiced that I should have. For I had nothing in writing
to show, neither was it mentioned in his will.
I had no idea the end was so near, but outraged human nature could not
stand such treatment any longer. He died at the age of twenty-eight,
who, under favourable circumstances, would have enjoyed a long life.
With plenty of money, and everything one could wish for in this world,
excepting a suitable, loving wife. The Bos could not take her amongst
his friends, and she could not pull him down to her own level. Thus
ended that tragedy. How many similar marriages are there in Britain,
in the present day, when scoins of Noble houses have taken to marrying
chorus girls off the stage because they have a pretty face? Very few
of them turn out a success. After the first glamour has worn off they
scuttle off to the Divorse Court.
After the funeral the house and everything was sold, servants paid off
and discharged. The goldenhaired, doll-faced little widow went back
amongst her own set again; well provided for, of course. The best place
for her.
The Bos was a gentleman, who, if he could have had the courage and will
to resist drink, I could have served all the days of my life; but his
wife I would not serve willingly for five minutes. She had made a good
shot, and had made sure of a fortune for life, but had ruined a life in
the process. What a thing for her to look back upon; though I firmly
believe half the gentry have no conscience whatever, or smother it,
knowing “Conscience maketh cowards of us all.” Drink is a proper curse,
if used to excess. I once heard of a butler who had a peppermint in his
speech. Now, anyone with an impediment in his speech is useless as a
servant. This particular butler was fond of a nip of whiskey “Little
and often.” When he answered the bells he popped a pepperment in his
mouth to take away the smell of the whiskey. I suppose the Bos had
other evidence of his drinking habits. So gave him notice to leave,
saying he had had enough of it, and his “damned peppermints also.” An
old boozer once had a dream of a real El Dorado. He dreamt that he and
his palls was swimming down a river of ale. He enjoyed this immensely.
Later on he came to an island; on this island was a spring, not of
water but of whiskey. He shouted to his pals: “Chaps, throw away your
little half pint mugs and hurry up with your quart cans.” Then he woke
up.
While we are on a “wet” subject, I may as well relate one or two more
incidents. Some years ago, before electric light was in use, the
living rooms were lighted by wax candles, occasionally by Moderator
lamps, which burnt colza oil. A butler to a Noble Lord was fond of a
drop of whiskey (I knew him personally). He lived in Portman Square.
On several occasions her Ladyship had told him not to stand on the
drawing room chairs and sofas to light the candles in the sconces.
Dinner being over, he rushed up to the drawing room to “light up.” The
ladies left the dining room sooner than he expected. He stood on a sofa
that crossed the corner of the room. He had taken a drop or two extra
that night. As the ladies came in at the door he lost his balance and
toppled over the back of the sofa into the corner. “Tableau.” Another
butler was so “Tishy” that, on answering a bell, he got into the middle
of the drawing room, and after receiving the order, had lost all sense
of direction as to where the door was. He started going, but entirely
in the wrong direction, and ended up by falling under a table in the
corner opposite the door. The lady rang the bell again, and told the
footman to take the butler away. I heard the lady relate the above
story.
But those hard-drinking days are long past. Even the servants’ beer is
not allowed, whereas, in former days, it was to be found in most houses
in plenty, now, if one can get a cup of cocoa extra one is lucky. It
is no exaggeration in saying that gentleman’s service has “gone to the
dogs.” All “Esprit de Corps” of the profession died years ago. In olden
times visitors would be as much surprised to see the house gone, as not
to see the old butler there. He was a familiar part of the concern. It
would not seem like the same place if he was not there. A fine, plump,
old fellow, with a self-satisfied smile on his face, and a smile of
welcome for you. What do you see now-a-days? A fellow with a look on
his face that one would expect to see on the face of a hunted fox, or
other animal. Pale and emetic, and wishes he had never been born, to
have to cope with these hurry-scurry, tear away days. Days that are not
half long enough for his employer’s pleasures--jazzing, card playing,
theatres and pictures, dinner parties. But they are careful to see that
servants has no time for any of these pleasures.
* * * * *
In all these years I had very little chance of seeing much of my wife
and boy. For gentleman’s service is such that one never knows where the
wind of circumstances is going to waft one next. North, East, South or
West. Excepting when I was out of place was I able to stay with them.
They had moved from Hampstead to her native place in Surrey, where she
had relations, and was better known.
My brother, the partner of most of my youthful escapades, came South to
London. His Bos took a fancy to him after two years as footman, and put
him in his office in the city, where he staid seven years: then he took
a business in London and got married. After twenty years of business he
wanted a more outdoor life. So he bought a new taxi for five hundred
pounds, passed Scotland Yard examinations, and got to work. I mention
these things as some of them come into the picture later on. My brother
had had enough of gentleman’s service. He saw where it led to, in time.
Well, here I was on the pavement again, looking for a job, with very
little money in my pocket, as I had to send nearly all my wages home.
I had lost touch with nearly all my former acquaintances through whom
I was likely to hear of a situation vacant, and registry offices I
abhor. So I put an advertisement in the _Morning Post_, and got several
replies. One was to meet a titled lady, who lived just this side of
Portsmouth, so I started off to see her.
On my arrival at the little station I think I was the only passenger
who got out. I noticed a lady coming towards me. She asked my name, and
said she was the lady I had come to see. I noticed her carriage was
outside the station. My suspicions were at once aroused. Why had she
come to the station to meet me? Was it so that I should not have any
chance to talk to any of her servants at the house? Anyhow, I thought
so. We went into the little waiting room, eyeing each other like two
expert swordsmen. After a deal of chin wagging I told her I would
decide, and let her know on the following morning. I was not so rude as
to tell her to her face that her place would not suit me, but I wrote
her a letter saying so. I heard afterwards that the place was “hot.”
But one cannot always tell the outcome of these sort of interviews.
For, on again advertising, a gentleman wished me to go and see him
at an hotel at Crewe Station, stating he would pay my fare. I went,
and saw him and his lady. They seemed fair and straightforward, so I
accepted the position. On my arrival at the station nearest their house
by train appointed, the porter said, “Are you going up to the Hall?”
(For there is something about a servant that one can always surmise
the fact). I said, “Yes.” He replied, “You have got the best place in
Homeshire.” Thinks I, “This sounds a bit encouraging.” But I eyed him
keenly to see if he was joking. The proof of a pudding is the eating
thereof. No matter how brightly a place is painted, one cannot tell
untill a week or two has passed as to what it really is like, for they
are all different. Your methods may not be their methods, and one has
to quickly adapt oneself to their ways. For it is the employers who
pay the piper, and expect everything done as they wish. That is the
advantage of experience, to be able to do things any way and every way.
I may safely say that this was the best situation I ever had, though
not the largest, as there were only seven men kept in the house.
Everything about the place was first-class, and kept in first-class
order. The Bos was a real gentleman of the old school. He had been
Colonel in the Guards, so that he knew what men were, that they were
made of flesh and blood, human beings, and not mere machines. Everyone
who came to the house with a parcel, message, note or what not, were
entitled to a pint of beer, also bread and cheese. I had an office,
a nice little room, near the back entrance, for I had to keep all
household accounts, wine cellar books, and accounts of all petty
expences. This used to be the meeting place of the clerk of the works,
head gamekeeper, head gardener, and head coachman, for half an hour
before dressing for dinner. Here we used to have a friendly chat, and
tell the latest “Bon Mot,” and talk of the events of the day, and what
was likely to happen on the morrow. There was no stint of a glass of
beer, or perhaps a nip of whiskey. For the Bos liked his servants to be
happy and comfortable. The Bos was a fine old sportsman of the first
class: had good phesant and partridge shooting on his estate. Everyone
liked him; though a keen disciplarian, he would stand no nonsence.
No use trying hoodwink him. He could detect the false from the true
in an instant. The footmen wore smart liveries. Chocolate coloured
coats, with red collars and cuffs, scarlet waistcoats and breeches,
all trimmed with silver brade, pink silk stockings, buckled shoes,
powdered hair when we had visitors, and when at the London house. All
the servants were happy enough at this place, though we had to work
very hard at times, and for many hours a day: still, there were slack
times when I used to give them a dance in the servants’ hall, which was
something for them to look forward to. Even down to the scullerymaid,
for she knew it was a foundation for better positions. For any of the
best families in the land would take a servant from such a place as
that. To know that they had served there was recommendation enough.
The place was sort of self-contained, for in a road that led down to
the back carriage drive, was blacksmith, carpenter’s, bricklayer’s,
and painter’s shops, and a stone mason’s yard. So that all repairs,
building required, also on the farms on the estate, was done by his
own men. The Bos was very fond of cricket, and had a splendid ground
and permanent cricket pavilion, where sixty could sit down to luncheon
at one time. All the china and glass were kept in a pantry there,
opposite which was a kitchen for dishing up the food. At the back was a
copper for hot water, the small plate and knives were the only things
brought to the house after the cricket match was over. All the washing
up was done there. On these occasions the Bos would playfully shake his
fist in my face and say: “You have got something to do for the next
fortnight. Don’t you dare to run short of anything!” It would be my
fault if there was not plenty of everything, for I had a free hand, to
order what was wanted. The house was crammed full of visitors. I got in
eight extra waiters, they with our own staff made fifteen men, beside
that there were several visiting valets. So for that fortnight I had to
use my wits to keep everything going. The ladies used to come to the
house from the cricket ground to lunch, generally about thirty. We had
fifty to dinner every night. County cricket teams used to play. Gentry
came with their parties from miles round: it was a great social event.
Burgundy cup, Champayne cup, Moselle cup were in great demand all
day. A donkey cart was constantly going backwards and forwards (about
a quarter of a mile) for fresh supplies. The head waiter would write
on a piece of paper whatever he was running short of. I would pack
it in the cart, and send it up to him. I and the footmen staid at
the house to prepare for the dinner at night. Our own valet was a
very smart-looking man. He had been in the Life Guards. Over six feet
high, black hair, slim, he looked a perfect gentleman when dressed: a
good-tempered, nice, jolly fellow, always open for a joke or a bit of
fun. He used to say the stuff was never yet brewed that would make him
drunk. But I had “ma doots.” I have lived with three valets who were
ex-Life Guardsmen. The amount of beer those fellows could put away
was astonishing; and it did not seem to have any more effect on them
than a fly on an elephant’s back. But drinking spirits was bound to
have effect if persisted in. Every year eight gallons of whiskey came
from Scotland to fill up the thirty gallon barrel, which had not been
empty for twenty-five years, so that some of it was pretty old stuff.
One day when I was filling the barrel up, the fumes went all over the
place. The valet got scent of it, and followed the trail, till he came
to the little square grating in the cellar door, which I had taken the
precaution to lock on the inside. He wanted to come in, but for his own
good I said, “No, I will give you a glass before you go to bed.” For
if I had let him in I should not have been able to get him out, and I
should have been sorry if anything happened to him through me.
The Bos was “great” at shooting lunches; in fact, from a sportsman’s
point of view, too elaborate. In every case we had to provide it just
the same as in the dining room, whether it be in a farm house, a barn,
or woodman’s hut. The clerk of the works got his orders at our usual
“session” overnight, as to how many there would be. He and his men
would fix up the tables all ready, also a stove alight. I had to get
all the table appointments, food and drinks, cigars and cigarettes,
together, and drive, with the valet and steward’s room boy to wait on
them. Often all the ladies would come out to the shooting lunch, when
they would number five and twenty. All the hot joints and other food
were put in bright copper pans with lids. We could hear when they were
getting near by the sound of the guns; then we began to “dish up.”
On one of these occasions the valet took the Bos’ shooting cap (an old
greasy cap. He said he could not shoot straight in any other, though he
had a dozen) and hung it on the elbow of the stove pipe to dry. About
the time we were handing the coffee a most undescribable smell pervaded
the place, something like burning, oily rag, scented.
When we got behind the screen we saw the cap just about to catch
alight, with a hole burnt through the top. The valet was in a fix. It
was too far to send the boy to the house on his bycicle to get another
cap in time. We watched the valet through the cracks of the screen when
he took the cap to the Bos and handed it to him. “Look,” said the Bos
to the company, “what they have done to my cap! They would burn me, if
they dared.”
Yes, he was a grand old gentleman: his like will never be seen again.
When he travelled people would walk along the train and look at him,
for he had a striking resemblance to the late King Edward. The people
often thought it was the King, and ask the valet if it was so.
The head coachman was an exceedingly smart little man. The way he and
his men turned his horses, carriages, and four in hand, was beyond
compare. We always had a house full for the Chester and Manchester
race meetings, comprising not a few owners of race horses. On one
occasion the coachman was very keen on getting information respecting
a particular race. During dinner little was said about racing during
the conversation. They reserved that untill the ladies and servants had
left the room, discussing it over the “Nuts and wine.”
The little coachman got some of the others to pull him up in the
dinner lift, which opened out into the dining room, behind a large
screen. There he remained in that cramped position untill he got the
information he wanted. Everyone had a very profitable day at the races
the next day, for the horse came in first.
While at the races I was standing close to a bookmaker, when an old
farmer came up, and put a sovereign on an outsider at 25 to 1. The
bookie and his clerk smiled at the old fellow. The race started with
shouts of “They’re off.” The horse the old farmer had backed kept
creeping on, passing the others, one by one, untill at the “distance”
there was only that and the favourite “in it.” However, the farmer’s
choice got beaten by a short head. The farmer said, “I don’t mind
losing my sovereign. I had a darned good run for my money.” The bookie
winked at his clerk, and said, “He would have had a bigger run for his
money if his horse had won.”
The same programme was gone through every year with little variation.
We all went to the town house for three months during the London
season. It was during my fourth season when we were in London that
a great friend of the Bos died in Cornwall. He went to the funeral,
taking his valet. When visiting, or travelling, he always took a
leather case containing two quart bottles, one to hold brandy, the
other whiskey, as he did not like other whiskey than his own. On his
return to the London house, he immediately rung his study bell. He told
me to bring up his spirit case. He opened it, and said, “I thought so.”
The bottles were empty. I did not understand what he meant untill he
told me the valet was drunk on his way up to town. He said when he put
the rug over his knees in the railway carriage he fell down on to him.
There had been no time to speak to the valet, or perhaps I could have
made things right for him. However, he got the sack.
I was as sorry as though it had been my own brother, for he was a
real good fellow-servant. In fact we were like brothers: no need to
be cautious as to letting him see or hear anything, as I was sure it
would go no farther. We did not have a cross word all the time he was
with us. He was so full of fun. He was very fond of rattling two of
the copper pot lids together, like cymbals, when I was driving the
pony back from the shooting lunches, trying to make it bolt, when it
took me all my time to hold the pony in. He would simply laugh at me.
Oh, yes, we had some jolly times together. He left, and was replaced
by another: where they found him I don’t know. A man as different as
chalk and cheese in comparison to the other: a creeping, cringing,
mischief-making fellow. One could soon tell he had not seen good
service. A “mongrel” I called him. We had to be very careful not to let
him see or hear anything we did not wish to go farther. He put me in
mind of a fellow behind a draper’s counter who measures out yards of
elastic.
As there were no sons or daughters to “get off,” our stay in London was
comparatively quiet, except for an occasional big dinner party. At the
country house I had thirty-two clocks to wind every week, and the Bos
was very particular about their striking at the same time. I don’t know
if he caught a chill when going to his friend’s funeral, or what it
was, but he was taken ill shortly after our arrival in the country. He
took to his bed and died in three weeks.
Here was a pretty state of affairs. He had no direct heir, so the whole
estate went to a distant relation, who was comparatively poor. His wife
had to turn out, all servants were discharged. As the town house was
the wife’s personal property she went there to live, taking the Mongrel
to be her butler, as she said the establishment she would keep up would
not be large enough for me. The Mongrel had worked himself in there
right enough. But I hope I may be saved from such another experience as
that funeral. The house was full of relations and friends. The number
of wreaths was enormous. The corpse was taken to the Chapel, about
a hundred yards from the house. Four of the gentleman visitors took
turn in watching, day and night, so that the house was open day and
night. A tremendous crowd came on the day of the funeral, for the Bos
was well liked and respected by all who knew him, for miles round. A
perfect English country gentleman. The Mongrel went about with a white
handkerchief to his nose and eyes, especially when the gentry were
about. The stupid ass had not known the Bos a month. He behaved as
though he had been with him all his life. The two rows of seats for the
servants, holding twenty-five, were full, except one vacant seat at the
lower end. I, of course, had the seat at the top next the aisle. The
Mongrel, of course, came in late to produce effect. He came to the top
of our seat. I saw him, and thinking he wanted to squeeze his way down
to the vacant seat I politely stepped out into the aisle, to make it
easier for him, when he immediately sat down in my seat, fell on his
knees, put his face in his handkerchief, and wept copiously. I was left
standing in the aisle.
Had it occurred in any other place than a church (a music-hall, for
instance) and he had served me the dirty trick I should have caught
him by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him out of it. But I did not
wish to create any disturbance in such a place and at such a time. The
incident did not escape the notice of the widow, who sent the verger,
who took me to a seat beside her, in her own pew. Would not the Mongrel
have “fancied his chance” had it been him instead of me? He would have
thought he was “absolutely It.” I quote this instance among many of his
tricks, to show what an arrant ass he was. In gentleman’s service it
must be all “give and take” if servants are to live in peace with one
another, but he was all take and no give, cunning and selfish to the
very core. I never knew what became of him, and I am sure I don’t care.
It is curious how quickly people know if they like each other, even
sometimes only through reading about them. But in a gentleman’s house
one has to go on living with them: whether one likes them or not, one
cannot avoid them like the “man in the street.”
* * * * *
So this was the end of the best employer (I hate the word “Master”) I
ever had.
Gentry, when they are ill, or fancy they are, have nothing else to do
but to go to bed, get in the best doctors, get the best drugs, and get
well, also can have the best nourishing food that the earth produces.
Not so the poor labourer.
But it is all the same for both rich and poor in the end. When the old
fellow with the scythe and hour glass comes along it is no use saying,
“Wait a minute.” They have both got to go, and the old world jogs along
in the same old way. “Might is right,” and always will be as long as
the world lasts. No time, then, for wishing to undo things you wish you
had not done; no time for doing things you wish you had done. Too late!
You must wait till the final sorting out, your good deeds from the bad,
and may the good deeds out-balance the bad deeds, and the opportunities
of doing good that you, through pride, have missed doing. We shall
all stand on the same footing then, receive the same consideration,
and get your deserts. For we were all born without a shirt. We brought
nothing into the world, and we shall take nothing out of it. In a week
or two the widow had collected her personal belongings, and departed to
a smaller house in Kensington, taking the Mongrel with her, as butler.
I remained on to show the new heir and his wife where to find things.
They brought two boys who they called footmen with them. Boys they had
taken out of some “Home.” The heir soon got to work and sold a lot of
things, horses and carriages, also hundreds of dozens of wine of all
sorts. He took the keys of the cellars, and was always present when
the packing was going on, took a list, and locked the door, and took
the keys with him. A very mistrustful sort of man. He said to me: “I
suppose if you wanted to give notice to leave any situation, you would
choose the month of February, as there are only twenty-eight days in
it.” I replied that my days were not so valuable that I should give
such a thing a single thought. He wanted me to remain on as his butler,
but I declined with thanks.
During the following London season I happened to be passing their town
house, where they were holding a reception. I smiled when I saw the
two footmen, one on each side of the door, they were five feet two,
or three, inches tall. The lady had got the family dress liveries cut
down to something like a “fit.” They looked like two ornaments that had
fallen off a Christmas cake.