Tono Bungay | Page 6

itself. There was an old peerage and a Crockford
together with the books of recipes, the Whitaker's Almanack, the Old
Moore's Almanack, and the eighteenth century dictionary, on the little
dresser that broke the cupboards on one side of my mother's room;
there was another peerage, with the covers off, in the pantry; there was
a new peerage in the billiard-room, and I seem to remember another in
the anomalous apartment that held the upper servants' bagatelle board
and in which, after the Hall dinner, they partook of the luxury of sweets.
And if you had asked any of those upper servants how such and such a
Prince of Battenberg was related to, let us say, Mr. Cunninghame
Graham or the Duke of Argyle, you would have been told upon the nail.
As a boy, I heard a great deal of that sort of thing, and if to this day I
am still a little vague about courtesy titles and the exact application of
honorifics, it is, I can assure you, because I hardened my heart, and not
from any lack of adequate opportunity of mastering these succulent
particulars.
Dominating all these memories is the figure of my mother--my mother
who did not love me because I grew liker my father every day--and
who knew with inflexible decision her place and the place of every one
in the world--except the place that concealed my father--and in some
details mine. Subtle points were put to her. I can see and hear her
saying now, "No, Miss Fison, peers of England go in before peers of
the United Kingdom, and he is merely a peer of the United Kingdom."
She had much exercise in placing people's servants about her tea-table,

where the etiquette was very strict. I wonder sometimes if the etiquette
of housekeepers' rooms is as strict to-day, and what my mother would
have made of a chauffeur....
On the whole I am glad that I saw so much as I did of Bladesover--if
for no other reason than because seeing it when I did, quite naively,
believing in it thoroughly, and then coming to analyse it, has enabled
me to understand much that would be absolutely incomprehensible in
the structure of English society. Bladesover is, I am convinced, the clue
to almost all that is distinctively British and perplexing to the foreign
inquirer in England and the English-speaking peoples. Grasp firmly
that England was all Bladesover two hundred years ago; that it has had
Reform Acts indeed, and such--like changes of formula, but no
essential revolution since then; that all that is modern and different has
come in as a thing intruded or as a gloss upon this predominant formula,
either impertinently or apologetically; and you will perceive at once the
reasonableness, the necessity, of that snobbishness which is the
distinctive quality of English thought. Everybody who is not actually in
the shadow of a Bladesover is as it were perpetually seeking after lost
orientations. We have never broken with our tradition, never even
symbolically hewed it to pieces, as the French did in quivering fact in
the Terror. But all the organizing ideas have slackened, the old habitual
bonds have relaxed or altogether come undone. And America too, is, as
it were, a detached, outlying part of that estate which has expanded in
queer ways. George Washington, Esquire, was of the gentlefolk, and he
came near being a King. It was Plutarch, you know, and nothing
intrinsically American that prevented George Washington being a
King....
IV
I hated teatime in the housekeeper's room more than anything else at
Bladesover. And more particularly I hated it when Mrs. Mackridge and
Mrs. Booch and Mrs. Latude-Fernay were staying in the house. They
were, all three of them, pensioned-off servants.
Old friends of Lady Drew's had rewarded them posthumously for a
prolonged devotion to their minor comforts, and Mrs. Booch was also

trustee for a favourite Skye terrier. Every year Lady Drew gave them an
invitation--a reward and encouragement of virtue with especial
reference to my mother and Miss Fison, the maid. They sat about in
black and shiny and flouncey clothing adorned with gimp and beads,
eating great quantities of cake, drinking much tea in a stately manner
and reverberating remarks.
I remember these women as immense. No doubt they were of
negotiable size, but I was only a very little chap and they have assumed
nightmare proportions in my mind. They loomed, they bulged, they
impended. Mrs. Mackridge was large and dark; there was a marvel
about her head, inasmuch as she was bald. She wore a dignified cap,
and in front of that upon her brow, hair was PAINTED. I have never
seen the like since. She had been maid to the widow of Sir Roderick
Blenderhasset Impey, some sort of