Джером К. Джером
Fanny and the Servant Problem
MRS. BENNET. And pray, what tune should we have been singing if Providence hadn’t been so thoughtful of us?
FANNY [she is about to answer, then checks herself, and sits again]. You take care you don’t find out. There’s time yet.
MRS. BENNET. We had better leave her.
BENNET. Threats, my good girl, will not help you.
MRS. BENNET [with a laugh]. She’s in too tight a corner for that.
BENNET. A contrite heart is what your aunt and I desire to see. [He takes from his pocket a small book, places it open on the desk.] I have marked one or two passages, on pages 93–7. We will discuss them together – later in the day.
They troop out in silence, the key turns in the lock.
FANNY [takes up the book – turns to the cover, reads]. “The Sinner’s Manual.” [She turns to page 93.]
[CURTAIN]
ACT III
SCENE
The same.
Time. —A few days later.
A table is laid for tea. Ernest enters with the tea-urn. He leaves the door open; through it comes the sound of an harmonium, accompanying the singing of a hymn. Fanny comes from her dressing-room. She is dressed more cheerfully than when we last saw her, but still “seemly.” She has a book in her hand. She pauses, hearing the music, goes nearer to the open door, and listens; then crosses and takes her place at the table. The music ceases.
FANNY. Another prayer meeting? [Ernest nods.] I do keep ’em busy.
ERNEST. D’ye know what they call you downstairs?
FANNY. What?
ERNEST. The family cross.
FANNY. I’m afraid it’s about right.
ERNEST. What have you been doing this time? Swearing again?
FANNY. Worse. I’ve been lying. [Ernest gives vent to a low whistle.] Said I didn’t know what had become of that yellow poplin with the black lace flounces, that they’ve had altered for me. Found out that I’d given it to old Mother Potts for the rummage sale at the Vicarage. Jane was down there. Bought it in for half a crown.
ERNEST. You are risky. Why, you might have known —
Vernon comes in. He is in golfing get-up. He throws his cap on to the settee.
VERNON. Hello, got a cup of tea there?
Ernest goes out.
FANNY. Yes. Thought you were playing golf?
VERNON. Just had a telegram handed to me in the village – from your friend Newte. Wants me to meet him at Melton Station at five o’clock. [Looks at his watch.] Know what he wants?
FANNY. Haven’t the faintest idea. [She hands him his cup.] Is he coming here? Or merely on his way somewhere?
VERNON. I don’t know; he doesn’t say.
FANNY. Don’t let him mix you up in any of his “ventures.” Dear old George, he’s as honest as the day, but if he gets hold of an “idea” there’s always thousands in it for everybody.
VERNON. I’ll be careful. [Ernest has left the door open. The harmonium breaks forth again, together with vocal accompaniment as before.] What’s on downstairs, then – a party?
FANNY. Bennet is holding a prayer meeting.
VERNON. A prayer meeting?
FANNY. One of the younger members of the family has been detected “telling a deliberate lie.” [Vernon is near the door listening, with his back towards her, or he would see that she is smiling.] Black sheep, I suppose, to be found in every flock. [Music ceases, Ernest having arrived with the news of his lordship’s return.]
VERNON [returning to the table, having closed the door]. Good old man, you know, Bennet. All of them! So high-principled! Don’t often get servants like that, nowadays.
FANNY. Seems almost selfish, keeping the whole collection to ourselves.
VERNON [laughs]. ’Pon my word it does. But what can we do? They’ll never leave us – not one of them.
FANNY. No, I don’t believe they ever will.
VERNON. Do you know, I sometimes think that you don’t like them. [Fanny makes a movement.] Of course, they are a bit bossy, I admit. But all that comes from their devotion, their —
FANNY. The wonder to me is that, brought up among them, admiring them as you do, you never thought of marrying one of them.
VERNON [staggered.] Marrying them?
FANNY. I didn’t say “them.” I said “one of them.” There’s Honoria. She’s pretty enough, anyhow. So’s Alice, Charles Bennet’s daughter, and Bertha and Grace – all of them beautiful. And what’s even better still – good. [She says it viciously.] Didn’t you ever think of them?
VERNON. Well [laughs] – well, one hardly marries into one’s own kitchen.
FANNY. Isn’t that rather snobbish? You say they’re more like friends than servants. They’ve lived with your people, side by side, for three generations, doing their duty, honourably. There’s never been a slur upon their name. They’re “high-principled.” You know it. They’ve better manners than nine-tenths of your smart society, and they’re healthy. What’s wrong with them – even from a lord’s point of view?
VERNON [recovering himself]. Well, don’t pitch into me about it. It’s your fault if I didn’t marry them – I mean one of them. [He laughs, puts his empty cup back on the table.] Maybe I’d have thought about it – if I hadn’t met you.
FANNY [takes his hand in hers]. I wish you hadn’t asked Newte any questions about me. It would have been so nice to feel that you had married me – just because you couldn’t help it – just because I was I and nothing else mattered.
VERNON. Let’s forget I ever did. [He kneels beside her.] I didn’t do it for my own sake, as you know. A man in my position has to think of other people. His wife has to take her place in society. People insist upon knowing something about her. It’s not enough for the stupid “County” that she’s the cleverest, most bewilderingly beautiful, bewitching lady in the land.
FANNY. And how long will you think all that?
VERNON. For ever, and ever, and ever.
FANNY. Oh, you dear boy. [She kisses him.] You don’t know how a woman loves the man she loves to love her. [Laughs.] Isn’t that complicated?
VERNON. Not at all. We’re just the same. We love to love the woman we love.
FANNY. Provided the “County” will let us. And the County has said: A man may not marry his butler’s niece.
VERNON [laughing]. You’ve got butlers on the brain. If ever I do run away with my own cook or under-housemaid, it will be your doing.
FANNY. You haven’t the pluck! The “County” would laugh at you. You men are so frightened of being laughed at.
VERNON [he rises]. Well, if it saves us from making asses of ourselves —
FANNY. Wasn’t there a niece of old Bennet’s, a girl who had been brought up abroad, and who wasn’t a domestic servant – never had been – who stayed with them here, at the gardener’s cottage, for a short time, some few years ago?
VERNON. You mean poor Rose Bennet’s daughter – the one who ran away and married an organ-grinder.
FANNY. An organ-grinder?
VERNON. Something of that sort – yes. They had her over; did all they could. A crazy sort of girl; used to sing French ballads on the village green to all the farm labourers she could collect. Shortened poor Bennet’s life by about ten years. [Laughs.] But why? Not going to bully me for not having fallen in love with her, are you? Because that really wasn’t my fault. I never even saw her. ’Twas the winter we spent in Rome. She bolted before we got back. Never gave me a chance.
FANNY. I accept the excuse. [Laughs.] No, I was merely wondering what the “County” would have done if by any chance you had married her. Couldn’t have said you were marrying into your own kitchen in her case, because she was never in your kitchen – absolutely refused to enter it, I’m told.
VERNON [laughs]. It would have been a “nice point,” as they say in legal circles. If people had liked her, they’d have tried to forget that her cousins had ever been scullery-maids. If not, they’d have taken good care that nobody did.
Bennet enters. He brings some cut flowers, with the “placing” of which he occupies himself.
BENNET. I did not know your lordship had returned.
VERNON. Found a telegram waiting for me in the village. What’s become of that niece of yours, Bennet – your sister Rose’s daughter, who was here for a short time and ran away again? Ever hear anything about her?
BENNET [very quietly he turns, lets his eyes for a moment meet Fanny’s. Then answers as he crosses to the windows]. The last I heard about her was that she was married.
VERNON. Satisfactorily?
BENNET. Looking at it from her point of view – most satisfactorily.
VERNON [laughs]. But looking at it from his – more doubtful?
BENNET. She was not without her attractions. Her chief faults, I am inclined to think, were those arising from want of discipline in youth. I have hopes that it is not even yet too late to root out from her nature the weeds of indiscretion.
VERNON. And you think he is the man to do it?
BENNET. Perhaps not. But fortunately there are those about her fully alive to the duty devolving upon them.
VERNON. Um. Sounds a little bit like penal servitude for the poor girl, the way you put it, Bennet.
BENNET. Even penal servitude may be a blessing, if it serves to correct a stubborn spirit.
VERNON. We’ll have to make you a J.P., Bennet. Must be jolly careful I don’t ever get tried before you. [Laughs.] Is that the cart?
BENNET [he looks out through the window]. Yes, your lordship.
VERNON [he takes up his cap]. I may be bringing someone back with me. [To Fanny, who throughout has remained seated.] Why not put on your hat – come with me?
FANNY [she jumps up, delighted]. Shall I?
BENNET. Your ladyship is not forgetting that to-day is Wednesday?
FANNY. What’s the odds. There’s nobody to call. Everybody is still in town.
BENNET. It has always been the custom of the Lady Bantocks, when in residence, to be at home on Wednesdays.
VERNON. Perhaps better not. It may cause talk; if, by chance, anybody does come. I was forgetting it was Wednesday. [Fanny sits again.] I shan’t do anything without consulting you. Good-bye.
FANNY. Good-bye.
Vernon goes out.
BENNET. You think it wise, discussing with his lordship the secret history of the Bennet family?
FANNY. What do you mean by telling him my father was an organ-grinder? If the British public knew the difference between music and a hurdy-gurdy, he would have kept a butler of his own.
BENNET. I am not aware of having mentioned to his lordship that you ever to my knowledge even had a father. It is not my plan – for the present at all events – to inform his lordship anything about your family. Take care I am not forced to.
FANNY. Because my father, a composer who had his work performed at the Lamoureux Concerts – as I can prove, because I’ve got the programme – had the misfortune to marry into a family of lackeys – I’m not talking about my mother: she was never really one of you. She had the soul of an artist.
BENNET [white with suppressed fury; he is in front of her; his very look is enough to silence her]. Now you listen to me, my girl, once and for all. I told you the night of your arrival that whether this business was going to prove a pleasant or an unpleasant one depended upon you. You make it an easy one – for your own sake. With one word I can bring your house of cards about your ears. I’ve only to tell him the truth for him to know you as a cheat and liar. [She goes to speak; again he silences her.] You listen to me. You’ve seen fit to use strong language; now I’m using strong language. This boy, who has married you in a moment of impulse, what does he know about the sort of wife a man in his position needs? What do you? made to sing for your living on the Paris boulevards – whose only acquaintance with the upper classes has been at shady restaurants.
FANNY. He didn’t want a woman of his own class. He told me so. It was because I wasn’t a colourless, conventional puppet with a book of etiquette in place of a soul that he was first drawn towards me.
BENNET. Yes. At twenty-two, boys like unconventionality. Men don’t: they’ve learnt its true name, vulgarity. Do you think I’ve stood behind English society for forty years without learning anything about it! What you call a colourless puppet is what we call an English lady. And that you’ve got to learn to be. You talk of “lackeys.” If your mother, my poor sister Rose, came from a family of “lackeys” there would be no hope for you. With her blood in your veins the thing can be done. We Bennets – [he draws himself up] – we serve. We are not lackeys.
FANNY. All right. Don’t you call my father an organ-grinder, and I won’t call you lackeys. Unfortunately that doesn’t end the trouble.
BENNET. The trouble can easily be ended.
FANNY. Yes. By my submitting to be ruled in all things for the remainder of my life by my own servants.
BENNET. Say “relations,” and it need not sound so unpleasant.
FANNY. Yes, it would. It would sound worse. One can get rid of one’s servants. [She has crossed towards the desk. Her cheque-book lies there half hidden under other papers. It catches her eye. Her hand steals unconsciously towards it. She taps it idly with her fingers. It is all the work of a moment. Nothing comes of it. Just the idea passes through her brain – not for the first time. She does nothing noticeable – merely stands listless while one might count half a dozen – then turns to him again.] Don’t you think you’re going it a bit too strong, all of you? I’m not a fool. I’ve got a lot to learn, I know. I’d be grateful for help. What you’re trying to do is to turn me into a new woman entirely.
BENNET. Because that is the only way to help you. Men do not put new wine into old bottles.
FANNY. Oh, don’t begin quoting Scripture. I want to discuss the thing sensibly. Don’t you see it can’t be done? I can’t be anybody else than myself. I don’t want to.
BENNET. My girl, you’ve got to be. Root and branch, inside and outside, before you’re fit to be Lady Bantock, mother of the Lord Bantocks that are to be, you’ve got to be a changed woman.
A pause.
FANNY. And it’s going to be your job, from beginning to end – yours and the rest of you. What I wear and how I look is Jane’s affair. My prayers will be for what Aunt Susannah thinks I stand in need of. What I eat and drink and say and do you will arrange for me. And when you die, Cousin Simeon, I suppose, will take your place. And when Aunt Susannah dies, it will merely be a change to Aunt Amelia. And if Jane ever dies, Honoria will have the dressing and the lecturing of me. And so on and so on, world without end, for ever and ever, Amen.
BENNET. Before that time, you will, I shall hope, have learnt sufficient sense to be grateful to us. [He goes out.]
FANNY [she turns – walks slowly back towards the tea-table. Halfway she pauses, and leaning over the back of a chair regards in silence for a while the portrait of the first Lady Bantock]. I do wish I could tell what you were saying.
The door opens. The Misses Wetherell come in. They wear the same frocks that they wore in the first act. They pause. Fanny is still gazing at the portrait.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Don’t you notice it, dear?
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Yes. There really is.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. It struck me the first day. [To Fanny, who has turned] Your likeness, dear, to Lady Constance. It’s really quite remarkable.
FANNY. You think so?
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. It’s your expression – when you are serious.
FANNY [laughs]. I must try to be more serious.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. It will come, dear.
They take their places side by side on the settee.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [to her sister, with a pat of the hand]. In good time. It’s so nice to have her young. I wonder if anybody’ll come this afternoon.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [to Fanny]. You see, dear, most of the county people are still in town.
FANNY [who is pouring out tea]. I’m not grumbling.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Oh, you’ll like them, dear. The Cracklethorpes especially. [To her sister for confirmation] Bella Cracklethorpe is so clever.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. And the Engells. She’ll like the Engells. All the Engell girls are so pretty. [Fanny brings over two cups of tea.] Thank you, dear.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [as she takes her cup – patting Fanny’s hand]. And they’ll like you, dear, all of them.
FANNY [returning to table]. I hope so.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. It’s wonderful, dear – you won’t mind my saying it? – how you’ve improved.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Of course it was such a change for you. And at first [turns to her sister] we were a little anxious about her, weren’t we?
Fanny has returned to them with the cake-basket.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [as she takes a piece]. Bennet [she lingers on the name as that of an authority] was saying only yesterday that he had great hopes of you.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [Fanny is handing the basket to her]. Thank you, dear.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. I told Vernon. He was so pleased.
FANNY. Vernon was?
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. He attaches so much importance to Bennet’s opinion.
FANNY. Um. I’m glad I appear to be giving satisfaction. [She has returned to her seat at the table.] I suppose when you go to town, you take the Bennets with you?
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [surprised at the question]. Of course, dear.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Vernon didn’t wish to go this year. He thought you would prefer —
FANNY. I was merely thinking of when he did. Do you ever go abroad for the winter? So many people do, nowadays.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. We tried it once. But there was nothing for dear Vernon to do. You see, he’s so fond of hunting.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [to her sister]. And then there will be his Parliamentary duties that he will have to take up now.
Fanny rises, abruptly.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. You’re not ill, dear?
FANNY. No. Merely felt I wanted some air. You don’t mind, do you? [She flings a casement open.]
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Not at all, dear. [To her sister] It is a bit close.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. One could really do without fires.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. If it wasn’t for the evenings.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. And then, of course, the cold weather might come again. One can never feel safe until —
The door opens. Dr. Freemantle enters, announced by Bennet. The old ladies go to rise. He stops them.
DR. FREEMANTLE. Don’t get up. [He shakes hands with them.] How are we this afternoon? [He shakes his head and clicks his tongue.] Really, I think I shall have to bring an action for damages against Lady Bantock. Ever since she —
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Hush! [She points to the window.] Fanny.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Here’s Doctor Freemantle.
Fanny comes from the window.
DR. FREEMANTLE [he meets her and takes her hand]. Was just saying, I really think I shall have to claim damages against you, Lady Bantock. You’ve practically deprived me of two of my best paying patients. Used to be sending for me every other day before you came. Now look at them! [The two ladies laugh.] She’s not as bad as we expected. [He pats her hand.] Do you remember my description of what I thought she was going to be like?
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. She’s a dear girl.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Bennet —
FANNY [she has crossed to table – is pouring out the Doctor’s tea]. Oh, mightn’t we have a holiday from Bennet?
DR. FREEMANTLE [laughs]. Seems to be having a holiday himself to-day.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. A holiday?
DR. FREEMANTLE. Didn’t you know? Oh, there’s an awfully swagger party on downstairs. They were all trooping in as I came.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. I’d no idea he was giving a party. [To Fanny] Did you, dear?
FANNY [she hands the Doctor his tea]. Yes. It’s a prayer meeting. The whole family, I expect, has been summoned.
DR. FREEMANTLE. A prayer meeting! Didn’t look like it.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. But why should he be holding a prayer meeting?
FANNY. Oh, one of the family —
DR. FREEMANTLE. And why twelve girls in a van?
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. In a van?
DR. FREEMANTLE. One of Hutton’s from the Station Hotel – with a big poster pinned on the door: “Our Empire.”
Fanny has risen. She crosses and rings the bell.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. What’s the matter, dear?
FANNY. I’m not quite sure yet. [Her whole manner is changed. A look has come into her eyes that has not been there before. She speaks in quiet, determined tones. She rings again. Then returning to table, hands the cake-basket to the Doctor.] Won’t you take one, Doctor? They’re not as indigestible as they look. [Laughs.]
DR. FREEMANTLE [he also is bewildered at the changed atmosphere]. Thank you. I hope I —
FANNY [she turns to Ernest, who has entered. Her tone, for the first time, is that of a mistress speaking to her servants]. Have any visitors called for me this afternoon?
ERNEST. Vi-visitors – ?
FANNY. Some ladies.
ERNEST [he is in a slough of doubt and terror]. L – ladies?
FANNY. Yes. Please try to understand the English language. Has a party of ladies called here this afternoon?
ERNEST. There have been some ladies. They – we —
FANNY. Where are they?
ERNEST. They – I —
FANNY. Send Bennet up to me. Instantly, please.
Ernest, only too glad to be off, stumbles out.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. My dear —
FANNY. You’ll take some more tea, won’t you? Do you mind, Doctor, passing Miss Wetherell’s cup? And the other one. Thank you. And will you pass them the biscuits? You see, I am doing all I can on your behalf. [She is talking and laughing – a little hysterically – for the purpose of filling time.] Tea and hot cake – could anything be worse for them?
DR. FREEMANTLE. Well, tea, you know —
FANNY. I know. [Laughs.] You doctors are all alike. You all denounce it, but you all drink it. [She hands him the two cups.] That one is for Aunt Wetherell of the beautiful hair; and the other is for Aunt Wetherell of the beautiful eyes. [Laughs.] It’s the only way I can distinguish them.
Bennet enters.
Oh, Bennet!
BENNET. You sent for me?
FANNY. Yes. I understand some ladies have called.
