Frequently I have to ask myself in the street for the name of the man I
bowed to just now, and then, before I can answer, the wind of the first
corner blows him from my memory. I have a theory, however, that those
puzzling faces, which pass before I can see who cut the coat, all
belong to club-waiters.
Until William forced his affairs upon me, that was all I did know of
the private life of waiters, though I have been in the club for twenty
years. I was even unaware whether they slept down-stairs or had their
own homes, nor had I the interest to inquire of other members, nor they
the knowledge to inform me. I hold that this sort of people should be
fed and clothed and given airing and wives and children, and I
subscribe yearly, I believe, for these purposes; but to come into
closer relation with waiters is bad form; they are club fittings, and
William should have kept his distress to himself or taken it away and
patched it up, like a rent in one of the chairs. His inconsiderateness
has been a pair of spectacles to me for months.
It is not correct taste to know the name of a club-waiter, so that I
must apologize for knowing William's and still more for not forgetting
it. If, again, to speak of a waiter is bad form, to speak bitterly is
the comic degree of it. But William has disappointed me sorely. There
were years when I would defer dining several minutes that he might wait
on me. His pains to reserve the window-seat for me were perfectly
satisfactory. I allowed him privileges, as to suggest dishes, and would
give him information, as that someone had startled me in the
reading-room by slamming a door. I have shown him how I cut my finger
with a piece of string. Obviously he was gratified by these attentions,
usually recommending a liqueur; and I fancy he must have understood my
sufferings, for he often looked ill himself. Probably he was rheumatic,
but I cannot say for certain, as I never thought of asking, and he had
the sense to see that the knowledge would be offensive to me.
In the smoking-room we have a waiter so independent that once, when he
brought me a yellow Chartreuse,[239-1] and I said I had ordered green,
he replied, "No, sir, you said yellow." William could never have been
guilty of such effrontery. In appearance, of course, he is mean, but I
can no more describe him than a milkmaid could draw cows. I suppose we
distinguish one waiter from another much as we pick our hat from the
rack. We could have plotted a murder safely before William. He never
presumed to have opinions of his own. When such was my mood he remained
silent, and if I announced that something diverting had happened to me
he laughed before I told him what it was. He turned the twinkle in his
eye off or on at my bidding as readily as if it was the gas. To my
"Sure to be wet to-morrow," he would reply, "Yes, sir;" and to
Trelawney's "It doesn't look like rain," two minutes afterward, he
would reply, "No, sir." It was one member who said Lightning Rod would
win the Derby[240-1] and another who said Lightning Rod had no chance,
but it was William who agreed with both. He was like a cheroot, which
may be smoked from either end. So used was I to him that, had he died
or got another situation (or whatever it is such persons do when they
disappear from the club), I should probably have told the head waiter
to bring him back, as I disliked changes.
It would not become me to know precisely when I began to think William
an ingrate, but I date his lapse from the evening when he brought me
oysters. I detest oysters, and no one knew it better than William. He
has agreed with me that he could not understand any gentleman's liking
them. Between me and a certain member who smacks his lips twelve times
to a dozen of them, William knew I liked a screen to be placed until we
had reached the soup, and yet he gave me the oysters and the other man
my sardine. Both the other member and I called quickly for brandy and
the head waiter. To do William justice, he shook, but never can I
forget his audacious explanation, "Beg pardon, sir, but I was thinking
of something else."
In these words William had flung off the mask, and now I knew him for
what he was.
I must not be accused of bad form for looking at William on the
following evening. What prompted me to do so was not personal interest
in him, but a desire to see whether I dare let him wait on me again.
So, recalling that a castor was off a chair yesterday, one is entitled
to make sure that it is on to-day before sitting down. If the
expression is not too strong, I may say that I was taken aback by
William's manner. Even when crossing the room to take my orders he let
his one hand play nervously with the other. I had to repeat "Sardine on
toast" twice, and instead of answering "Yes, sir," as if my selection
of sardine on toast was a personal gratification to him, which is the
manner one expects of a waiter, he glanced at the clock, then out at
the window, and, starting, asked, "Did you say sardine on toast, sir?"
It was the height of summer, when London smells like a chemist's shop,
and he who has the dinner-table at the window needs no candles to show
him his knife and fork. I lay back at intervals, now watching a
starved-looking woman asleep on a door-step, and again complaining of
the club bananas. By and by, I saw a little girl of the commonest kind,
ill-clad and dirty, as all these arabs are. Their parents should be
compelled to feed and clothe them comfortably, or at least to keep them
indoors, where they cannot offend our eyes. Such children are for
pushing aside with one's umbrella; but this girl I noticed because she
was gazing at the club windows. She had stood thus for perhaps ten
minutes, when I became aware that some one was leaning over me, to look
out at the window. I turned round. Conceive my indignation on seeing
that the rude person was William.
"How dare you, William?" I said, sternly. He seemed not to hear me. Let
me tell, in the measured words of one describing a past incident, what
then took place. To get nearer the window, he pressed heavily on my
shoulder.
"William, you forget yourself!" I said, meaning--as I see now--that he
had forgotten me.
I heard him gulp, but not to my reprimand. He was scanning the street.
His hands chattered on my shoulders, and, pushing him from me, I saw
that his mouth was agape.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
He stared at me, and then, like one who had at last heard the echo of
my question, seemed to be brought back to the club. He turned his face
from me for an instant, and answered, shakily:
"I beg your pardon, sir! I--I shouldn't have done it. Are the bananas
too ripe, sir?"
He recommended the nuts, and awaited my verdict so anxiously while I
ate one that I was about to speak graciously, when I again saw his eyes
drag him to the window.
"William," I said, my patience giving way at last; "I dislike being
waited on by a melancholy waiter."
"Yes, sir," he replied, trying to smile, and then broke out
passionately, "For God's sake, sir, tell me, have you seen a little
girl looking in at the club windows?"
He had been a good waiter once, and his distracted visage was spoiling
my dinner.
"There," I said, pointing to the girl, and no doubt would have added
that he must bring me coffee immediately, had he continued to listen.
But already he was beckoning to the child. I had not the least interest
in her (indeed it had never struck me that waiters had private affairs,
and I still think it a pity that they should have); but as I happened
to be looking out at the window I could not avoid seeing what occurred.
As soon as the girl saw William she ran into the middle of the street,
regardless of vehicles, and nodded three times to him. Then she
disappeared.
I have said that she was quite a common child, without attraction of
any sort, and yet it was amazing the difference she made in William. He
gasped relief, like one who has broken through the anxiety that checks
breathing, and into his face there came a silly laugh of happiness. I
had dined well, on the whole, so I said:
"I am glad to see you cheerful again, William."
I meant that I approved his cheerfulness, because it helped my
digestion, but he must needs think I was sympathizing with him.
"Thank you, sir," he answered. "Oh, sir! when she nodded and I saw it
was all right, I could have gone down on my knees to God."
I was as much horrified as if he had dropped a plate on my toes. Even
William, disgracefully emotional as he was at the moment, flung out his
arms to recall the shameful words.
"Coffee, William!" I said, sharply.
I sipped my coffee indignantly, for it was plain to me that William had
something on his mind.
"You are not vexed with me, sir?" he had the hardihood to whisper.
"It was a liberty," I said.
"I know, sir; but I was beside myself."
"That was a liberty also."
He hesitated, and then blurted out:
"It is my wife, sir. She----"
I stopped him with my hand. William, whom I had favored in so many
ways, was a married man! I might have guessed as much years before had
I ever reflected about waiters, for I knew vaguely that his class did
this sort of thing. His confession was distasteful to me, and I said,
warningly:
"Remember where you are, William."
"Yes, sir; but, you see, she is so delicate----"
"Delicate! I forbid your speaking to me on unpleasant topics."
"Yes, sir; begging your pardon."
It was characteristic of William to beg my pardon and withdraw his wife
like some unsuccessful dish, as if its taste would not remain in the
mouth. I shall be chided for questioning him further about his wife,
but, though doubtless an unusual step, it was only bad form
superficially, for my motive was irreproachable. I inquired for his
wife, not because I was interested in her welfare, but in the hope of
allaying my irritation. So I am entitled to invite the wayfarer who has
bespattered me with mud to scrape it off.
I desired to be told by William that the girl's signals meant his
wife's recovery to health. He should have seen that such was my wish
and answered accordingly. But, with the brutal inconsiderateness of his
class, he said:
"She has had a good day, but the doctor, he--the doctor is afeard she
is dying."
Already I repented my question. William and his wife seemed in league
against me, when they might so easily have chosen some other member.
"Pooh the doctor," I said.
"Yes, sir," he answered.
"Have you been married long, William?"
"Eight years, sir. Eight years ago she was--I--I mind her when--and now
the doctor says----"
The fellow gaped at me. "More coffee, sir?" he asked.
"What is her ailment?"
"She was always one of the delicate kind, but full of spirit, and--and
you see she has had a baby lately----"
"William!"
"And she--I--the doctor is afeard she's not picking up."
"I feel sure she will pick up."
"Yes, sir?"
It must have been the wine I had drunk that made me tell him:
"I was once married, William. My wife--it was just such a case as
yours."
"She did not get better, sir?"
"No."
After a pause, he said, "Thank you, sir," meaning for the sympathy that
made me tell him that. But it must have been the wine.
"That little girl comes here with a message from your wife?"
"Yes; if she nods three times, it means my wife is a little better."
"She nodded thrice to-day."
"But she is told to do that to relieve me, and maybe those nods don't
tell the truth."
"Is she your girl?"
"No, we have none but the baby. She is a neighbor's. She comes twice a
day."
"It is heartless of her parents not to send her every hour."
"But she is six years old," he said, "and has a house and two sisters
to look after in the daytime, and a dinner to cook. Gentlefolk don't
understand."
"I suppose you live in some low part, William."
"Off Drury Lane," he answered, flushing; "but--but it isn't low. You
see, we were never used to anything better, and I mind, when I let her
see the house before we were married, she--she a sort of cried, because
she was so proud of it. That was eight years ago, and now,--she's
afeard she'll die when I'm away at my work."
"Did she tell you that?"
"Never. She always says she is feeling a little stronger."
"Then how can you know she is afraid of that?"
"I don't know how I know, sir, but when I am leaving the house in the
morning I look at her from the door, and she looks at me, and then I--I
know."
"A green Chartreuse, William!"
I tried to forget William's vulgar story in billiards, but he had
spoiled my game. My opponent, to whom I can give twenty, ran out when I
was sixty-seven, and I put aside my cue pettishly. That in itself was
bad form, but what would they have thought had they known that a
waiter's impertinence caused it! I grew angrier with William as the
night wore on, and next day I punished him by giving my orders through
another waiter.
As I had my window seat, I could not but see that the girl was late
again. Somehow I dawdled over my coffee. I had an evening paper before
me, but there was so little in it that my eyes found more of interest
in the street. It did not matter to me whether William's wife died, but
when that girl had promised to come, why did she not come? These lower
classes only give their word to break it. The coffee was undrinkable.
At last I saw her. William was at another window, pretending to do
something with the curtains. I stood up, pressing closer to the window.
The coffee had been so bad that I felt shaky. She nodded three times
and smiled.
"She is a little better," William whispered to me, almost gayly.
"Whom are you speaking of?" I asked, coldly, and immediately retired to
the billiard-room, where I played a capital game. The coffee was much
better there than in the dining-room.
Several days passed, and I took care to show William that I had
forgotten his maunderings. I chanced to see the little girl (though I
never looked for her) every evening and she always nodded three times,
save once, when she shook her head, and then William's face grew white
as a napkin. I remember this incident because that night I could not
get into a pocket. So badly did I play that the thought of it kept me
awake in bed, and that, again, made me wonder how William's wife was.
Next day I went to the club early (which was not my custom) to see the
new books. Being in the club at any rate, I looked into the dining-room
to ask William if I had left my gloves there, and the sight of him
reminded me of his wife, so I asked for her. He shook his head
mournfully, and I went off in a rage.
So accustomed am I to the club, that when I dine elsewhere I feel
uncomfortable next morning, as if I had missed a dinner. William knew
this; yet here he was, hounding me out of the club! That evening I
dined (as the saying is) at a restaurant, where no sauce was served
with the asparagus. Furthermore, as if that were not triumph enough for
William, his doleful face came between me and every dish, and I seemed
to see his wife dying to annoy me.
I dined next day at the club, for self-preservation, taking, however, a
table in the middle of the room, and engaging a waiter who had once
nearly poisoned me by not interfering when I put two lumps of sugar
into my coffee instead of one, which is my allowance. But no William
came to me to acknowledge his humiliation, and by and by I became aware
that he was not in the room. Suddenly the thought struck me that his
wife must be dead, and I----. It was the worst-cooked and the
worst-served dinner I ever had in the club.
I tried the smoking-room. Usually the talk there is entertaining; but
on that occasion it was so frivolous that I did not remain five
minutes. In the card-room a member told me, excitedly, that a policeman
had spoken rudely to him; and my strange comment was:
"After all, it is a small matter."
In the library, where I had not been for years, I found two members
asleep, and, to my surprise, William on a ladder dusting books.
"You have not heard, sir?" he said in answer to my raised eyebrows.
Descending the ladder he whispered, tragically:
"It was last evening, sir. I--I lost my head and I--swore at a member."
I stepped back from William, and glanced apprehensively at the two
members. They still slept.
"I hardly knew," William went on, "what I was doing all day yesterday,
for I had left my wife so weakly that----"