Chapter IX

There are plenty of good footmen that make very bad butlers: they are all right as long as they wear the buttons, but when they don the black coat, and have men under them, they are all at sea. They find they have to see that the other men do their work properly; if he rebukes them he has to take their insults, for they know he has not the power to discharge them. He is supposed to drive, but his Master holds the whip. If he reports a few of them, and get them discharged as unsuitable, he is quickly told that he does not know how to manage his men: that he is too hard on them. The butler has not the same position as a sergeant in the army, where the officers uphold any reasonable complaint, but the butler must by his own personality control his men, or they will pretty soon control him. Besides this there is another consideration in favour of the footmen: that is, the liveries. If a man leaves after short service all his liveries has to be either renewed or altered. I will state a case in point. The family I was with had taken the house of the Duke of —— in an Eastern County. The two footmen were inclined to resent all authority, and wanting to do what they liked and leave the rest to the butler. At night they could not be found when the house was shut up for the night, but they found some means of getting into the house after it was closed, notwithstanding. At first I had to sit up to let them in. They would bolt off to the pub in the village, and remain there till closing time, and after. I always gave my men one chance, and told them they must get in to time; and that I should not wait up to let them in. I found they got in by leaving their bedroom window open, which was on the ground floor. They simply ignored me. So I fastened their window, and went to bed. A policeman always patrolled round the house at night. In case of an alarm, he could ring a bell in my bedroom from outside, which was also on the ground floor. That night at 12.30 the bell rang. The two footmen and the policeman stood outside the window. I said, “Hullo, what do you want?” They said, “We want to come in.” I said, “Then you can damn well stop out.” The family had gone to Scotland for a fortnight the day before.

The next morning the footmen started a row: wanted to fight me. I said, “Right ho, I’ll take you on one at a time, and I’ll give you the dam’dest hiding you ever had in your life.” When they saw I meant business, they climed down, but thinks I, “This is the final; either they leave, or I get out of it myself.” I at once sent a telegram to the Bos. In an hour or so the reply came: “Pay footmen, and send them off by next train.” Here, then, is the instance of the butler being expected to drive, and having to wire to the Bos to apply the whip, or put on necessary pressure to keep order.

Sometimes the butler rows in with those under him, but that game can’t last long, for what is the use of a butler who does not aim at discipline, and order in a house, and who is not to be trusted to take care of property and things placed under his charge? If there is no order kept in a house there is no comfort for anybody. Not overlooking the possibility of a burglary through a house not being properly locked up at night. In that event, the footmen who left the window open would not be blamed. It would be the butler’s fault for not seeing the house properly locked up. There is where the footmens’ laugh comes in. But the outcome of this affair did not altogether rest with me. There are always spies about a place who tittle-tattle to the Master or Mistress, everything they see or hear amongst the other servants. Someone would have seen them out at that time of night, after the house should have been locked up for the night. The news would quickly travel, and a butler would be brought to book for allowing it, and be told he was not trustworthy. No matter what the butler has to say by way of defending or explaining himself his employer will believe only what it suits him to believe. Every household is carried on in this despotic fashion. Servants are treated as though they are the employer’s personal property, to be able to make, or break, as they think fit, and which they are able to do, by means of the servant’s “character.” They are servants by name, but slaves in everything but the name. For as the poet saith:—

Every man, from the King downwards, knows secretly in his heart that his wife is the “King of the Castle.” He may bluster and “Swank” as much as he likes, but he has to give way in the end. If he does not she can make things so darned uncomfortable, that he wishes he had never been born, or he gets a divorce. That is why I think there is such a lot in Physchic Autosuggestion. A clever conversationalist, either a man or woman, may put things in such a way that one may be made to think things against one’s will. Simply twist them round with their fingers, so to speak.

The greater the number of friends the gentry have, the more popular they think they are, and get a paragraph in the daily papers about what they do, and what they don’t do. Of course those with most money will have most friends to come and eat at their table, and sponge on them generally. If they went to an hotel to lunch or dinner they would have to pay for the service, one way or another. But when they come to lunch or dine, or stay on a visit, they get it all gratis. The extra service being included in the butler’s wages. They make no end of extra work, but no matter how much is piled on him he gets no extra pay for doing it.

I remember a case in point, that happened in Pont Street some few years ago. The butler and footman had prepared for the usual members of the family for lunch. As they were about to sit down in troops three extra ladies: come to lunch, of course. The old lady, the hostess, was a bit deaf, she shrieked out, “Perkins, you have not laid any places.” He asked her if she knew these people were coming to lunch. She replied, “Yes, of course, and I told the cook.” He said, “The cook don’t lay the cloth.” So that proves that she expected (like a great many more of them) that the butler should work under the cook’s orders. Nice position, ain’t it?

Obviously, all these gentrys’ friends and visitors cannot be unmarried. They hold the marriage rights very lightly, as told by the Divorce Court, but how much of it happens that is never published, or even found out? They take all these happenings as a matter of course. For what have they got to do with their time, day after day? When ordinary pleasure wanes and pals on them, they go farther and farther, until it gets too hot, then there is a “bust up” and out it all comes in the Divorse Court.

I was once collecting the letters for post in a very large house, when I saw something of the sort. It is not usual to knock the doors before entering the living rooms in large places, excepting perhaps “My Ladies Boudoir,” and, of course, bed rooms. I had collected some letters, then went on to the library (for woe betide the butler who does not collect them all, especially in a country place with only one post out a day). I opened the door, but shut it again very quickly and quietly, for what I saw was not a sight fit for curates. The Noble Earl’s back was towards the door, but the lady visitors was not. Yet, there was the Noble Earl’s wife in her boudoir, innocently writing letters, some distance away, unconscious of it all. But I will relate nothing more of what I saw. I will here pull down the blind. I thought to myself, “Letters, or no letters, I am not going in that room again.” Some people would imagine a servant would have some sort of pull or advantage in such a case as this: but such is not the case. If they even suspected that a servant knew, or saw something of the sort, some excuse would soon be found for getting rid of him, and what weight would a servant’s word be against theirs? It would pay a servant better to keep his mouth shut about it. But when I hear, or read in the newspapers, that a servant has been left a good round sum of money in a will, I always imagine there has been some dirty work somewhere, and the servant knew it. Maybe, the rightful heir had at some time been done out of his rights. Or foul play may have been employed, such as poison, or many other ways. It is pretty certain he does not get it because of his pure slogging work.

I was nearly getting £500 once, but that was for doing, or trying to do something. But as “A miss is as good as a mile” I may as well relate the story. A story of drink.

I had engaged myself as butler-valet to a young married gentleman, very rich, and a brother to a great friend of the late King Edward.

I had only been there a few days, when I found out where the trouble was. He had married a young woman far beneath him, in fact, a tradesman’s daughter; and like a great many more of young men of good family, who marry actresses, chorus girls, and such like, simply spoil their lives. They are driven off their balance by a pretty face; but whose knowledge of housekeeping, or managing a house, extends as far as a restaurant table, where they have been taken by so called gentlemen. Sometimes their married life lasts only a short time. In others they live in the same house but each go their own way in life, being afraid of scandal. This particular woman was as pretty as a wax doll, small of stature, with golden hair, of Scotch extraction, but she had an awful temper. She was everlasting nagging her husband. He must have been drunk when he married her. Like the parson who refused to marry a certain couple because the man was so drunk. “Well, sir,” said the would be bride, “I can’t get him to come when he is sober.”

One night at dinner the soup did not please him. What he called it I will not relate. He took the soup tureen, and threw tureen and all on the fire. The little lady blamed me for allowing him to get the drink, whereas he was “Tishy” when he came in from his club. I refused to have anything to do with the wine cellar keys, and gave them up to her. Shortly afterwards he wanted whiskey. I told him I had not got the cellar keys, and that his wife had them. As she would not hand them over he came down to the basement, got an axe, and split the wine cellar door to pieces, made a hole large enough for a man to get through, and told me to get out a bottle of whiskey. Lord, how I pittied that man. He was like a great good tempered schoolboy when he was sober. He could see that he had ruined his life by marrying this woman. He could not take her into Society for her Scotch brogue was that hard one could almost cut it with a knife.

I tried the process of giving him his whisky and soda a little weaker every time, till at last he would say: “I asked you for whiskey, not plain soda water,” and would then pitch glass and all under the grate. Sometimes in this way I would get him nearly sober, and he would talk sensibly.

One day he asked me if I was going to stick to gentleman’s service all my life. I said my object was to save enough to take a little business of some sort. He asked, “About how much would you want to make a start?” I replied, “I ought to make a decent start with five hundred pounds.”

“Well,” he said, “as you seem to be the only one who cares anything about me, if you stick to me you shall have it.” For when he was sober I used to try and persuade him to keep away from the drink. I could see he was sorry for himself, and wished he could. He would then give me a few cigars. But he was weak, both in will power and in determination to resist it. For he would go off to his club and all my work was undone. A man with so much money to spend did not lack friends galore—of a sort. Some of them were just sharks, who used to cheat him at cards. He had a sailing yacht, and we used to go yacht-racing at Cowes, Oban, and the Clyde. On one occasion, when playing cards on the yacht, he was not so drunk as they thought him to be, when he detected one of the players (a certain Captain in the Army) cheating. He took all the cards and threw them overboard, and said he would not allow another card on his yacht. In this he kept his word. He kept a chef and a steward aboard, and the same crew came with him every yachting season, for when sober he was a perfect gentleman, but simply helpless when drunk. I can picture him now, having his hair cut on deck, with the “Union Jack” to cover him.

I used to like getting up in the early morning to go ashore with the chef and steward to buy provisions at the early markets. It was life indeed, cruising on the West Coast of Scotland. One morning I was nearly knocked overboard. The mate let go the jib sail when tacking: it caught me. He did not know I was up “forrard,” and he could not see me where he stood.

The Bos took a large house in Argyleshire, with a grouse moor, and fishing. He filled the house with his “friends,” and they spent their time in shooting, yachting, and fishing, also plenty of card playing. He lent me a gun and I had a fine time with the rabbits. The life on the moors did him a lot of good: he kept fairly sober. London was the very worst place for him.

One day he invited every man who had, or could carry a gun, from the town and country round about to a day’s shooting of white hares. (At a certain time of the year in Scotland the hares turn quite white.) About fifty of us started. We formed a ring round the foot of a high mountain, and gradually drove them towards the top, where there promiced to be some lively shooting. Most of the men understood nothing of the rules of shooting. The guns were pretty thick on top, and I often had to lie flat on the heather and be fired over, for guns pointed at one from all directions. However, the affair passed off without any accident. Everybody enjoyed themselves, for there was no lack of food and whiskey. Every man having some game to take home with him.

Most of the crew of the yacht were single men, only the Captain being married. One day the Bos asked them why they did not marry. He said:—“Fifty pounds to the one who marries first.” The mate was not long about it, and got the fifty pounds. “Thirty pounds for the next,” he said. That was soon claimed. Twenty-five pounds he gave each to the rest of the crew when they married.

One night I was just about to serve dinner at the house. I was getting some soda water out of the cellarette in the sideboard, when one exploded in my hand, like a Mill’s bomb. It split my hand about five inches. One could see the white ligaments that work the fingers; luckily none of these were cut, or it would have stopped my violin playing for ever, being the left hand. The Bos put me in a pony cart, I was taken to a doctor several miles away. I tried not to faint, but had to against my will. The doctor put eight stitches in my hand. Eventually it got quite allright, except the marks.

A curious incident happened while we were there. I had a footman who had “Religious mania.” That is all right within limits, but one never knew where he was. He neglected his work. I could seldom find him, so I had to do his work myself. I found that he went into the town, got on a soap box, and preached to those who chose to listen to him. But it did not end there. He would get a crowd of them to come up to the house, and hold prayer meetings in his bedroom, which was on the ground floor; afterwards giving them all supper in the servants’ hall. The cook complained to me, and said she could not feed all that crowd, for two legs of mutton quickly disappeared, and he came for more. I spoke to him about it, also about neglecting his work. Work was the last of his thoughts. Religion was never meant to throw one off their mental balance. Neither is it religion simply to call oneself a Christian, and say you are of the Church of England, or any other church. Religion is shown in our actions of every day of our lives, in practical sympathy, in helping the needful, in unselfishness, in going out of our way, if need be, to help others not so well off in this world’s goods as ourselves. Not doing it to the accompanyment of a blare of trumpets, in order to get our names published in the newspapers. As to going to church. How many ladies would go if the new dress or new hat or toque they expected had not arrived. Mrs. Lauds Struth had a new toque arrive, Mrs. Bron Kitis (anybody above a tradesman has a double-barrelled name) expected a new hat which had not arrived. Consequently Mrs. Bron Kitis does not go to church. If she did shafts of envy would be flying about, like wireless, though both of them may consider themselves good Christians.

But to revert to our Bible-thumper. I told him what he did when he was off duty had nothing to do with me, but he was not to have prayer meetings at the house, and that the suppers would be stopped. His bedroom was on the ground floor, close to the back entrance. One night, soon afterwards, the cook told me they were all trooping in as usual. I thought something must be done.

I said to the cook, “Leave it to me, I’ll soon shift them.” I put a fire-shovel in the fire till it was red hot, then just before I pushed it under his door, where the stones were worn, I sprinkled a little cayenne pepper on the shovel, let it remain a second under the door, took it out, and disappeared to watch events. Soon they all came rushing out into the courtyard, sneezing one against the other like mad. I asked the footman what was the matter? Had his Satanic Majesty been whisking his tail round about? Though this appeared to me to be approaching a mean action, I found that nothing else would move them, as serious diseases require serious remedies. It was far from my thoughts to ridicule religion. It was mostly for a “lark.” His audiance must have thought it a very good religion, with a good supper to follow at somebody else’s expense. As the footman got worse and more dazed every day I was obliged to report the matter, as he was no use to me. So the Bos sent the poor fellow back to London, where, no doubt, he may be seen in Hyde Park, on a soap box, holding forth to his heart’s content.

Writing about soap boxes reminds me of the attempt by some wild scallywags to form a “Servants’ Union.” What a farce. As though they could make the gentry do anything they did not want to do! They would simply laugh in derision. Why, if every British servant came out they could easily fill their places with foreigners, and much cheaper, too. Failing that, they could live at hotels. Dictate to the gentry, what ho! What next?

And if they could only perswade a man to go on strike and leave a good place, the fellow on the soap-box would jump down and rush off as fast as he could to see if he could get the place the fellow had come out of.

They need not worry themselves. The gentry have got the servants by the neck right enough. When they are served by the best servants in the land they are just the same. They don’t forget to let you know on every possible occasion that you are a servant. They have a stranglehold on the liberty of the subject. The only thing is, if the servant objects to the long hours of work, and every hour of the day or night, if required, to get out of it altogether, and try some other profession.

Mention was made of an eight hour day’s work for servants. I myself have worked for sixteen hours a day continously, so that would just be half a day’s work. The employers would halve the wages, half to the first shift, and half to the second shift. So that although the servants would get more liberty they would have very little money in their pockets to spend, and having no home handy they must go under cover somewhere in wet or bad weather. Though a great many maidservants are taken from so called homes for training them, they do not want them there after they have been launched off into service.

But I must get aboard the yacht again. The Bos kept comparatively sober for a time. We won one or two races. On the occasion of a win it was an excuse for him to break out again. Any fool can get drunk, but it takes a man to get sober.

Under the seats were lockers in the floors of the cabin, by lifting up a strip of carpet were baths. All these, and every available place were cram full of bottles of whiskey, champayne, and all sorts of wines and liqueurs. I think we were at Oban. The Bos was so bad, and could not recover himself, but laid in his bunk for days, till eventually we had to send ashore for a doctor. The doctor immediately ordered all the wines and spirits to be taken ashore in the boats, every bottle to be stored there. Otherwise, he said he would not be answerable for the Bos’ life. It took a week for the doctor to bring him to himself again.

How sorry I was that a nice young gentleman should get in such a state. When the yachting season was over the yacht was laid up, and we returned to London. Here we were in the danger zone again. For the Bos would naturally go to his club for he could get no rest or comfort at home. His wife was continually nagging him, when all the time he required tender persuasion. I often had to go to his club at night and bring him home in a hansom cab (for there were no taxis in those days). I would find him “all of a heap” in a big arm chair, before the fire, “dead to the world.” I would get him home, and to bed. In the morning I would try him with some good strong soup, to get a foundation to his stomach, but he would seldom drink it. All he wanted was whiskey and soda. After a bit I would get him downstairs and talk nicely to him, trying to persuade him to make a stand against the drink. He would not drink cocoa, for it is an excellent thing when a man is in such a state and finds the craving for drink coming on, to take copious drinks of cocoa; of course a certain amount of determination is required, which he had not. Towards the afternoon, being young he had recouperated a bit, and was very thankful to me for taking such care of him, but at night he would dress for dinner, and go to his club. He seldom dined with his wife. If he did it was like a wild beast show, and ended up in a quarrel: she had no tact. At the club he met his “friends,” and all my work was undone again. If he did not arrive home by eleven o’clock I had to go again and bring him home, and go through the same process again. It was only natural that this could not continue for long without a breakdown. It came. The doctor was called in. After a time the doctor ordered him to take a tour abroad, in order to get away from it all, especially his “friends.” Though he took drink to obtain oblivion from his miseries, they returned tenfold in the morning. So we packed up, and set off for the South of France.