The Champagne Standard Part 8

Shopkeepers should be very particular as to their young saleslady's nose; the very superior kind just crushes the public. England is a proof that it is not the eye that is born to command, but the stately Roman nose. It has given the world quite a wrong idea of Englishmen, who have gone on their triumphant way in the wake of that majestic feature, to the alarm and respect of the rest of the world. Had it been less aggressive, the world might possibly now fear England less and love her more. Yet such trivialities make history.

If you have a good conscience, the only wielder of temporary power who appears mighty and yet mild is the policeman. To the bad conscience he represents more the solid terrors of the law than the Lord Chief Justice himself. He is the only creature from whom familiarity never takes away any of his terrors.

We once had an old cook who put it in a nutsh.e.l.l. "Happy is he who can look a policeman in the face," she declared. The wisdom of it! After all, is not half the world running away from retributive justice? Think, then, of the blessing of a legalised conscience. To be at peace with the policeman! Think of the rapture of envy a poor, hunted-down burglar must feel as he sees an ordinary citizen pa.s.s that awful being in a helmet without a quake.

I take this opportunity of offering to the great and polite one my little tribute of grat.i.tude in the name of all the spinsters, widows, nursemaids, and puppy dogs who cross the street in the security of his outstretched hand. And of all maiden ladies, English and American, who seek his advice and ask him perplexing questions, which he alone can answer, for he is admittedly a combination of the street directory, the dictionary, and the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" up-to-date. I have often wondered if he ever unbends? Does he ever take off his boots and his helmet, or does he sleep in them? Does he ever sit down? It must be a great joy and pride to be his wife, to be, as it were, on such friendly terms with the traffic. I am sure that, if she loves him, she asks him no questions.

Here, I really must digress just enough to say that until women can be policemen, and can stand like magnificent statues in the turmoil of vehicles and direct the tumult with one finger--without a moment's confusion--not until then will I believe that they have been chosen by destiny to do man's work. Bless the policeman! May his wages be raised--he deserves it!

The temporary power of a cabman is often concentrated in a moment of intense anguish for his fare when, if a four-wheeler, he rolls off his box, stares at the money dropped into a very dirty paw, makes a speech which ranges from reproach to vituperation, and follows you until a beneficent front door closes on your anguish. He has it in his power to take the bloom from the smartest toilette.

There is no one in the whole range of civilisation who has such a power to inflict humiliation on one as a cabman! He has that delicate perception that he knows just when his remarks will cut like a lash. He always grumbles on principle, and you would rather give him your whole fortune than have him make a spectacle of you before those other temporaries, the footmen. As if he didn't know it, and as if he didn't always choose the n.o.blest of these as witnesses! You know that you have overpaid him, and so does he, but he follows you with running remarks, in the form of a soliloquy, which increase in virulence as you flee before him, and which produce that peculiar contortion of face in the well-bred footman, in which a grin battles with a countenance of stone.

Those awful footmen! I do believe that a cabby, in spite of his bad language, is sometimes the prey of softer emotions. One knows by observation that he often smokes a pipe, and from the way his chariot leans up against the pavement of the nearest saloon, out of which he comes with a frightfully red face and smacking his lips, one knows he is not a "bigoted" total abstainer. One even pictures him as retired to a mews, and in that peaceful retreat, with the family was.h.i.+ng flapping over his head, enjoying respite from timid fares in the bosom of his family.

There is a monumental prejudice against four-wheelers. It is even growing. Once I used to frolic about in them, flitting from one afternoon tea to the other; now when I ask for one it is, if possible, secretly, and always apologetically. Why is it? They cost nearly the same as hansoms, but why are they so plebeian? Even a 'bus is not so low. Servants respect you more even if they know that you get into a 'bus out of their sight than if they witness your downfall into a four-wheeler. Kings have driven in hansoms, and Cabinet Ministers have been tipped out of them; but who ever heard of a King or a Cabinet Minister driving in a "growler"?

Of course, a 'bus is low, but you need not say you came in one, only you must be careful! The other day old Lady Toppingham called and grew quite eloquent on the levelling influences of 'buses; they might do for cooks and tradespeople, she said, but her principles were such that she really couldn't ride in one. All the time she was clutching a blue punched 'bus ticket on the top of her card-case with her relentless thumb. I agreed with her, and said that I also never could nor would, and no sooner had she gone than I was off to Whiteley's on top of a blue Kensington. Still, it is levelling, and you should always pick off the straws and never cling to the tickets.

However, the most ign.o.ble conveyance is undoubtedly the "growler." To go in one to a smart afternoon reception requires courage. I shall never forget my last experience. It was an awful function, and both sides of the street were lined with private carriages, and a double row of footmen graced the _porte cochere_.

My four-wheeler was the only one in sight, and it was the forlornest of its kind. It shook like jelly and rattled like artillery. A burly being in sackcloth and dirt (instead of ashes) rolled off the box, and sixteen perfectly equipped footmen had their features set to a preparatory grin.

I placed my foot on the dirtiest cab step in London, and from my white-gloved hand I dropped a liberal fare into a grimy paw. To the joy of the attendant footmen the owner of the paw said the most appalling things. I stopped the hurricane with another s.h.i.+lling, and flew up the steps and took refuge in extra haughtiness, and overdid it!

I was thankful when I was ushered into the drawing-room and cooled off in the icy stare of the other guests--some thirty women and two men.

Nothing betrayed that I was a "growler" lady as I took the limp hand of my hostess, who favoured me with a speechless smile. This she temporarily detached from a superior man in superior garments, such as, to do them justice, Englishmen only know how to wear. He was very perfect, and in one of his blank eyes he wore a gla.s.s.

I don't know his name, but I shall never forget him. He was evidently one of the lilies of the field who only know of four-wheelers by hearsay. Whether our hostess stopped smiling long enough to murmur an introduction I do not know, but we were quite lost among the furniture, and as much thrown on each other's society as if we were on a desert island. So when he uttered inquiringly something that sounded like "yum," I said desperately, knowing it could strike no answering chord, "I came in a four-wheeler; it requires a good deal of moral courage."

Then I stopped, blus.h.i.+ng and embarra.s.sed. How would he express his scorn! I stepped aside to give him a chance to vanish out of my plebeian neighbourhood; but, instead, said this gallant Englishman, bringing his eyegla.s.s to bear on me, "Ow--ow--really? So did I. Never drive in anything else." Yes, there are heroes even in London drawing-rooms.

Has any one ever heard of a footman with wife and children? Can that cast-iron countenance ever unbend? Does that vacant look hide mighty thoughts, or does it hide nothing? Is a footman himself ever scorned? I do hope he is, for he has made me suffer so much. I have sometimes thought that if I owned a footman I should be too proud to live; yet on studying the faces of my fellow men so blessed, I find that they are not proud, but quite modest, and sometimes even shabby.

Yes, the owners of footmen are mostly less prosperous in appearance than their servants, while the possessor of a butler and footmen galore looks quite poor. But I do wonder where footmen go when they are old? I never saw an old footman but once, and that was in a registry office, a dim sanctuary, dotted by desks and ornamented by agitated ladies.

The awful temporary power of registry office clerks, how they do make one quail! There was about the old footman a fict.i.tious smartness, a youthfulness so out of keeping with his haggard face that it gave me a shock. For once I was sorry that the biter was bit, and that the stony-hearted clerk behind his desk imparted his wisdom with such brevity and disdain.

I shall never forget the insinuating wistfulness with which the old man leaned across the desk, and, gracefully using his well-brushed silk hat as s.h.i.+eld, described how bad times were, and that he would be glad to take any place at all, at any wages; all he wanted was a home. He would even go into the country--even in the country! It was too pitiful, and my heart ached for him as I recognised in the shabby smartness of his well-fitting clothes one who had "valeted" in higher spheres. By the way he held his top hat I saw how perfectly he had studied the outside of manners.

The cruelty of the beefy clerk was colossal. "We can't place old footmen, n.o.body wants 'em." He spoke like a machine. "But I'll take your name." The old man tripped out with a pathetic lightness as if to prove to us all by a sample how active his legs still were. So it seems that even the proudest footman should not be too proud.

I am not so afraid of butlers as I am of footmen. I have never met with an affable footman, but I have known one or two butlers who were quite fatherly. With one, in particular, I always long to shake hands. I admire his clothes so much. Never for an instant would any one take them for a gentleman's evening clothes. The magnificent girth of his ample tail coat shadows the most respectable of black trousers; they pretend to no higher sphere, but are perfect for the state of society in which they move. A rather fine head, like a respectable Roman Emperor's (if such a personage ever existed), completes an impressive personality.

I don't know what he thinks about me, but when he vouchsafes me something that is a smile and yet isn't a smile, I feel gratified. I always thought that his ancestors fought for my friends' ancestors in the battle of Agincourt, but, on inquiry, find he has been with them six months. The temporary owner of this great man is quite modest.

One of the funniest exhibitions of temporary power I once observed in America--in a church. Two of us had gone to hear a great American preacher, and we had been invited to sit in the pew of a friend, in a church to which we were strangers. We came early, and waited patiently just within the church door to be shown to the seat. Only a few stragglers had arrived, and all were waiting humbly for that important functionary--the s.e.xton.

Now the American s.e.xton--the verger--is a very mighty man indeed.

Parsons come and go, but the s.e.xton stays for ever. If he is not very tall and dignified in black broad-cloth, he is generally fat and fussy in the same. He picks out waiting sinners and seats them according to his boundless caprice. He knows just the kind of stray sinner who may be ushered into a charitable pew, and he knows the pews that decline to receive stray sinners under any consideration.

It is curious what courage it takes to penetrate into a strange pew; it is being a kind of Sabbath burglar. Never does a right-minded s.e.xton usher an out-at-elbow sinner into the pew of the rich and great. That they are presumably addressing the same Divine Power is no reason. This explains the Roman Catholic hold on the people. If you are a Roman Catholic, you enter G.o.d's house and pray anywhere; but if you are a Protestant, what shy pauper would dare to stray into an expensive pew for a communion with his G.o.d?

My American s.e.xton had, in the meantime, bustled down the centre aisle.

He looked the little crowd over haughtily, and he refused to catch my wistful eye--my companion was getting very tired. At last I ventured, "Would you kindly show us to Judge ----'s pew?" "Can't now, I'm busy; my young men will come presently," and he darted off.

His young men did not come, and I looked vainly about for succour, for the pews were filling up. Suddenly the great swing-door at the entrance opened, and in came a tall commanding figure, a man of advanced years, whose name is a household word in the land, the great preacher himself.

He pulled off his battered slouch hat, and I saw his kind, keen eyes as they rested on the white hair and tired face of my friend. "Why are you waiting here, what can I do for you?" he asked.

"We are waiting to be shown to Judge ----'s pew," I explained.

"I will show you, come with me." This he did, and left us the richer by the kindliest smile in the world.

Different countries, different exercise of temporary power. The English railway guard is not impressive nor much in evidence. The American railroad conductor, on the other hand, is a great man, but he exercises his power genially, and in the intervals of collecting tickets he is approachable. He generally takes up his abiding place at the end of one of the "cars," and puts his legs on the seat opposite and talks with a much flattered chosen one. He sees a good deal of the world, not being shut into a cubby-hole like his English brother. In the course of years of travel along a particular route his popularity becomes so great that it culminates in gifts, and many a popular conductor blazes in the light of a huge diamond "bosom pin," or carries under his arm at night a gorgeous presentation lantern. No man is so great but he feels flattered at his notice, and he really is not very proud, considering, and his power is benign.

In England his namesake, the 'bus conductor, has often made me feel the blight of his authority. There was once a misanthrope who took to keeping a light-house; if I were a misanthrope I would become a 'bus conductor. It must, of course, be awfully irritating, that temporary support he gives to beautiful ladies as they topple off; but it is compensated for, to some extent, by wrenching the arms of the lovely creatures as he hauls them on the foot-board of the 'bus before it stops. This, they say, he does out of pure benevolence, so that the poor 'bus horses shall not have to start up the c.u.mbersome machine unnecessarily. Still, one ventures to ask if we poor women are not of as much consequence as a 'bus horse?

Last year a benevolent conductor nearly dislocated my arm as he pulled me up, and I ached for two months after. I protest against this misplaced tenderness! It is said that an Englishman may ill-treat his wife with more impunity than his dog, but I don't believe it. I am not afraid of the conductor unless I get in or out of his 'bus; but the haul he gives me in, which sends me reeling against the other pa.s.sengers, and the pull he gives me out when I recline for a moment, without any grat.i.tude, against his outstretched arm, makes him unpopular with me.

There is an American product which, with the American invasion, has, alas and alas! taken root here, and that is the American hotel clerk, real and imitated. He has come with the great caravanserais, and, like the American plumber, he is the target for American wit.

There is no doubt that it takes a cool and composed personality to "wrastle" with the travelling public, and yet the travelling public is not half so terrible as the cool and composed hotel clerk. He has brought insolence to the level of a fine art, and as he is answerable only to a corporation, that means that he is answerable to no one. He always puts you into a room you don't want, and having no pecuniary interest in the matter, it is to him of no earthly consequence whether you stay or not.

Complain to him, and you complain to deaf ears. He apparently has nothing to do but to loll behind the office counter and improve his finger-nails. Tumultuous rings of various bells leave him unmoved; pa.s.sionate telephonic appeals he only answers when he chooses. He turns to an agonised public a face like carved wax and eyes like agate, and it recoils. The parting of his hair is a monument to his industry.

When I call on a guest at a big hotel I deliver up my card with hope, because, as the poet rashly sang, "Hope springs eternal in the human breast." Then I sit down and wait as near the office as possible, and wistfully watch the elegant leisure of the great man behind the counter.

My card has disappeared in the custody of a small boy with a salver, and the chances are that before I see him again he will be a man grown.

After having waited half an hour I venture to intrude on the peace behind the counter, and I am received with a _hauteur_ which puts me in my right place at once. The guest, being merely a number, excites no earthly interest, but the clerk wearily sends another infant in search of the first, and then turns his immaculate back on me, and I am permitted to admire the s.h.i.+ny smoothness of his back hair. I again subside, and in my indignation I make up my mind to complain to the daily Press: Is thy servant a doormat that he should be so downtrodden?

Do not preach about the ancient tyrannies of kings and emperors, and other estimable folks, about whom history has probably told a good many lies, and to these add the further lie that I am happy because I am free and independent. I am not free and independent! Instead, I languish under the tyranny of a hundred thousand tyrants, before whom I grovel and quake. Several of them sleep on my top floor and treat me with much severity.

Instead of thousands of tyrants, give me, rather, one tyrant; I can accommodate existence to him, and it is distinctly more interesting and less complicated.

The problem of existence is its mult.i.tude of tyrants. Indeed, how delightful life would be if we were not so tyrannised over by the downtrodden!

_The Extravagant Economy of Women_

The trouble with women is that they do not know how to spend money. The great majority never have any money, or they are at the mercy of some grim masculine creature, be he father or husband, who demands items--now think of an average man bothering himself about items! It must be a survival of the time when we inhabited harems, or when we were beautiful dames to whom our true knights gave undying love but nothing more substantial; or we rejoiced the souls of the ancient patriarchs though we did not succeed in extracting any cash.

I don't for a moment believe that the lovely Hebrew damsel, Rebecca, had a penny of her own, nor that the peerless Guinevere had half-a-crown (or whatever the coinage was) to buy her Launcelot a love token. And though Scheherazade--that peerless, self-contained, circulating library of a thousand and one volumes--told enough stories to her Sultan to have made the fortune of a modern publisher, she could hardly have made less even if she had had the felicity to write a modern novel. The favourite of the harem would, it is certain, have found a purse a hollow mockery.

Now we modern women are the descendants, more or less remote, of Rebecca, Guinevere, and Scheherazade, and our greatest resemblance to our fair ancestresses is that most of us have no money to spend, and those of us who have do not know how to spend it. Heredity is an excuse for being what might be called the stingy s.e.x.

What would the world have been like had the purse-strings of time been held by women? More comfortable, possibly, but, probably, much less beautiful. It takes the great, splendid masculine spendthrifts in high places to glorify the world with treasures of priceless art. But it was an immortal maiden queen who inspired the greatest poet of all time, and as the production of poetry has always been cheap, so poetry was the splendid and inexpensive contribution to the glory of her reign made by a not too extravagant queen. It is the men who keep alive the extravagance, the beauty, and the ideality of life. But little credit to them who have always been able to put their hands in their trousers pockets and jingle the pennies.