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  MANSERVANT

  and

  MAIDSERVANT

  Ivy Compton-Burnett

  PUSHKIN PRESS

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Also Available from Pushkin Press

  About the Author

  Copyright

  MANSERVANT

  and

  MAIDSERVANT

  Chapter 1

  “Is that fire smoking?” said Horace Lamb.

  “Yes, it appears to be, my dear boy.”

  “I am not asking what it appears to be doing. I asked if it was smoking.”

  “Appearances are not held to be a clue to the truth,” said his cousin. “But we seem to have no other.”

  Horace advanced into the room as though his attention were withdrawn from his surroundings.

  “Good morning,” he said in a preoccupied tone, that changed as his eyes resumed their direction. “It does seem that the fire is smoking.”

  “It is in the stage when smoke is produced. So it is hard to see what it can do.”

  “Did you really not understand me?”

  “Yes, yes, my dear boy. It is giving out some smoke. We must say that it is.”

  Horace put his hands in his pockets, and caused an absent sound to issue from his lips. He was a middle-aged man of ordinary height and build, with thin, wrinkled cheeks, eyes of a clear, cold blue, regular features unevenly set in his face, and a habit of looking aside in apparent abstraction. This was a punishment to people for the nervous exasperation that they produced in him, and must expiate.

  “Has that fire been smoking, Bullivant?”

  “Well, sir, not to say smoking,” said the butler, recoiling before the phenomenon. “Merely a response to the gusty morning. A periodical spasm in accordance with the wind.”

  “Will it put soot all over the room?”

  “Only the lightest deposit, sir. Nothing to speak about,” said Bullivant, keeping his eyes from Horace, as he suggested his course.

  Bullivant was a larger man than his masters, and had an air of being on a considerable scale in every sense. He had pendulous cheeks, heavy eyelids that followed their direction, solid, thick hands whose movements were deft and swift and precise, a nose that hardly differentiated from its surroundings, and a deeply folded neck and chin with no definite line between them. His small, steady, hazel eyes were fixed on his assistant, and he wore an air of resigned and almost humorous deprecation, that suggested a tendency to catch his masters’ glance.

  Mortimer Lamb liked Bullivant; George, his subordinate, disliked and feared him; and Horace merely feared him, except in his moods of nervous abandonment, when he feared nothing and nobody.

  George was an ungainly, overgrown youth, whose garb still indicated a state of juvenile usefulness, who shuffled, started and avoided people’s eyes, but managed to present a pleasant appearance, and could not avoid presenting a pathetic one. He made every movement twice under Bullivant’s eye, as though doubling his effort proved his zeal, and the former continued to observe him until he went with a suggestion of flight on some errand to the kitchen. Bullivant relaxed his bearing and turned to Horace almost with a smile, being an adept at suggesting a facial movement without executing it.

  “It is to make them do it, sir, not to do it yourself. I should never call doing things myself the harder part.”

  “Then why don’t you do them yourself?” said Mortimer, in a reckless manner.

  Bullivant turned his eyes on him, and Horace turned his eyes away.

  “I cannot understand anyone’s choosing the harder part,” said Mortimer, on a humbler note.

  “Well, sir, we have to think of the future, when our own day will be done,” said Bullivant, taking his revenge by including Mortimer in this prospect, and just drawing back before an eddy of smoke.

  “I do not have to. I should not dream of doing such a thing.”

  “We must not think that the world stops with us, sir, because it stops for us.”

  “Bullivant, you did not think I meant you to do things yourself, did you?”

  “Does that chimney want sweeping?” said Horace, not pretending to abandon his own line of thought.

  “No, sir, not until the spring,” said Bullivant, in a tone of remonstrance.

  “Might it be as well to light the fire earlier?” said Mortimer, not looking at his cousin.

  “Well, sir, for one morning like this, there may be a dozen with the grate drawing as sweet——” Bullivant broke off before his simile developed, and again recoiled.

  “There must be some obstruction in the chimney,” said Horace.

  “Well, sir, if that is the case, it is not for want of enjoinder,” said Bullivant, referring to his latest encounter with the sweep, and keeping his face immobile in the face of another gust. “George, ask Mrs. Selden to retard the breakfast. There is a matter that calls for investigation.”

  George despatched the errand and returned. Bullivant made a dumb show of his requirements, as though spoken directions would be beneath himself and difficult for George. The latter, after a moment of tense attention, disappeared and returned with a pole, which he proceeded to thrust up the chimney.

  “Is the fire too hot?” said Horace.

  “No, sir,” said George, with simple truthfulness.

  “It seems to lack most of its natural characteristics,” said Mortimer.

  Horace kept his eyes on the operations, as if he did not hear. George conducted them with no result, became heated without aid from the fire, and finally glanced at Bullivant. The latter took the pole, gave it an easy, individual twist, and caused a dead bird to fall upon the hearth. George looked as if he were witnessing some sorcery, and Bullivant returned the pole to him without word or glance, but with an admonishing gesture with regard to some soot upon it.

  “Well, the grate is not at fault,” said Horace, as if glad to exempt his house from blame.

  “The bird is a jackdaw,” said Mortimer. “A large, black bird. Did you put it there, Bullivant?”

  Bullivant indicated the bird to George with an air of rebuking omission, and when the latter had borne it away, turned gravely to Mortimer.

  “So far am I, sir, from being connected with the presence of the fowl, that I was not confident, when I t
ook matters into my own hands, of any outcome. I merely hoped that my intervention might lead to a result.”

  “The mistress is late,” said Horace, “but she prefers us not to wait for her.”

  “That is understood, sir,” said Bullivant. “She has spoken to me to the effect.”

  He moved to a door and returned with an air of having met the situation. When George reappeared with the dishes, he took them from him and set them on the board, turning the implements for serving to the convenient angle, as though people accustomed to full attendance might not be certain of their use. When Horace had served them, he replaced the covers, and gave the coffee pots a suggestive adjustment.

  “The ladies do not mind their breakfast cold,” said Horace.

  Bullivant just raised his shoulders over feminine indifference to food, and motioned to George to place a dish by the fire. He kept his eyes on him, as he was intercepted by smoke, to see he gave no signs, and frowned as he gave somewhat dramatic ones.

  “So the jackdaw was not responsible,” said Mortimer. “We were too ready to blame what could not defend itself.”

  “Yes, sir, I think it was,” said Bullivant, in a low, smooth tone, as though willing to keep the matter between Mortimer and himself. “A proportion of soot has been dislodged, and is having this momentary result.”

  “Well, ham is supposed to be smoked,” said Mortimer.

  “How do you mean? Supposed to be?” said Horace. “Is it not smoked?”

  “Yes, I should think so by now, my dear boy. I meant that a little extra smoking would do no harm.”

  “Will you have coffee?” said his cousin.

  “Why, is there tea?”

  “No, I asked if you would have coffee.”

  “Well, I must have it, mustn’t I?”

  “How do you mean? Must? There is no compulsion.”

  “Of course there is. To have one or the other in the morning.”

  “We have given up having our choice, sir,” said Bullivant, in an easy and distinct tone.

  “Then you will have coffee?” said Horace.

  “Yes, yes, so I must, my dear boy. So I will.”

  Bullivant walked on a wide circuit to Mortimer’s place, and set the cup at his hand, meeting his abrupt stirring of it as his natural behaviour.

  “I have lived in this house for fifty-four years,” said Mortimer. “Fifty-four years to-day. I was born in eighteen hundred and thirty-eight.”

  “Do you mean it is your birthday?” said Horace.

  “No, no, not that, my dear boy, nothing like that. Just that I was born in this house fifty-four years ago.”

  “Many happy returns of the day,” said Horace.

  “May I also offer my congratulations, sir?” said Bullivant, his tone striking a subtle degree of initiative and intimacy.

  “Thank you very much. It is unusual to have all one’s experience under one roof. And I have really had none outside it. I cannot imagine anything happening to me anywhere else, or anything happening to me at all. Not that I mean anything; I do not much like things to happen, or I should not much like it. I am content to live in other people’s lives, content not to live at all. Whatever it is, I am content.”

  Mortimer Lamb had a short, square figure, a round, full face, rounded, almost blunted features, a mobile, all but merry mouth, and dark, kind, deep-set eyes, that held some humour and little hope. He would have been disappointed not to have a profession, if he had thought of having so expensive a thing. He gave his time to helping Horace on the place, or rather gave part of his time, and did nothing with the rest. His chief emotions were a strong and open feeling for his cousin, and a stronger and necessarily less open feeling for his cousin’s wife.

  “I also was born in this village, sir,” said Bullivant, “and have also spent the major part of my life under this roof.”

  “And where were you born, George?” said Mortimer.

  “In—in the institution—in the workhouse, sir,” said George, with a startled eye, giving Bullivant an almost equal glance, in recognition that the worst had come to pass.

  “Well, but in what place?” said Mortimer, as if this were the point of his question.

  “At the workhouse in our town, sir.”

  “And were you brought up there?” said Mortimer, while Bullivant gave a slight shrug, in acceptance of George’s past being thus in keeping with him.

  “Yes, sir, until I was old enough to work.”

  “And were you unhappy there? That is, were you happy?”

  “No, sir. Yes, sir. Not unhappy,” said George, causing Bullivant’s shoulders to rise again over his finding the experience to his mind.

  “So it was not like Oliver Twist?” said Mortimer.

  “No, sir, not often, sir,” said George, evidently used to the question. “It was only no home life, sir.”

  “And did they teach you there?”

  “We went to the local school, sir, with other boys.”

  “And was it all right for you there?”

  “We were scorned up to a point, sir,” said George, in simple comprehension.

  Bullivant glanced at George, but went no further, as though he himself knew where to stop.

  “Well, we carry no sign of our history,” said Horace.

  Bullivant gave George another glance, feeling this was a point on which opinions might differ.

  “You can keep your own counsel,” said Horace. “You owe no one your confidence.”

  “I have never sailed under false colours, sir,” said George, causing Bullivant to frown at the needless personal touch.

  “What made you think of being a house servant?” said Horace.

  “I was put out as houseboy, sir, because a place offered, and then one keeps on with it.”

  “Do you regret it?” said Mortimer.

  “No—no, sir,” said George, with a glance at Bullivant, who did not countenance belittlement of the calling.

  “So you have no home in the neighbourhood?” said Mortimer.

  “No, no home at all, sir.”

  “He has places to go to, sir,” said Bullivant, in a tone that deprecated exaggerated concern. “The lad has met with kindness. He is on his feet.”

  “The ladies are on the stairs,” said Horace, as though the private lives in question at the moment were hardly George’s.

  Bullivant pointed sharply to the hearth. George, in concordance with his master’s view, sped to lift the dish and place it on the board. Bullivant himself walked forward and drew out a chair.

  “Good morning,” said a rather deep voice, as the mistress of the house entered and took the seat opposite to Horace, something in their way of meeting without words showing them husband and wife. “There is nothing to justify my being late. The morning is no damper and colder for me than for anyone else, though I felt it must be.”

  “It was for us it was that,” said Mortimer. “But we were glad to bear it for you.”

  “This room is never damp. It could not be in its situation,” said Horace, who saw in his family house the perfection he had not found in his family. “And cold is too strong a word.”

  “What word should be used?” said his wife, with her glance about the wide, bleak room coming to rest on the grate.

  “A slight contretemps with the fire, ma’am,” said Bullivant in a low tone, bending towards her.

  Charlotte Lamb was a short, broad woman of fifty, ungraceful almost to ungainliness. She had iron-grey hair, so wiry that it appeared unkempt, though it was not always so; clothes that were warranted to defy any usage, but hardly did so in her case; a rather full colour, features somewhat poorly formed, and eyes of a strong, deep blue, that showed anger, mirth or emotion as occasion called; and occasion called a good deal.

  Horace had married her for her money, hoping to serve his impoverished estate, and she had married him for love, hoping to fulfil herself. The love had gone and the money remained, so that the advantage lay with Horace, if he could have taken so hopefu
l a view of his life.

  Horace had inherited a house and land, and Mortimer had inherited nothing, save an unspoken right to live under the family roof. Horace’s father, who was uncle and guardian to Mortimer, had assured the young men on his deathbed that he left no debts. They had expressed at the moment their appreciation of the inheritance, and had found later that his description of it was just. Mortimer took what money was given him, without even formal gratitude, feeling it enough to harbour no grievance. Horace saw the possession of money with a rigid and awed regard, that in the case of his wife was almost incredulous. That the money belonged to Charlotte rather than to anyone else, was a problem he had never solved, though the solution was simply that she came of a substantial family and was the only surviving child. He laid his hands on the balance of her income, and invested it in his own name, a practice that she viewed with an apparent indifference that was her cover for being unable to prevent it. She had put off remonstrance until it had become unthinkable. Horace held that saving the money, or rather preventing its being spent, was equivalent to earning it, and he pursued his course with a furtive discomfiture that clouded his life, though it could not subdue his nature.

  “Has the fire been smoking?” said Charlotte, unconscious of the effect of her words.

  “Yes, but not of its own accord. There was a jackdaw in the chimney,” said Mortimer.

  “A what?”

  “A jackdaw. Bullivant brought it down.”

  “How did he know it was there?” said another voice, as an elderly woman entered the room, and paused with an air of humour and weight.

  “There was palpably an obstruction, ma’am,” said Bullivant, as he placed a chair.

  “Was it a dead jackdaw?”

  “Yes, and a stage beyond that,” said Mortimer. “George did what was necessary. I don’t know what it was.”

  George paused in readiness to supplement the account.

  “No, George, no. Not before the ladies,” said Bullivant, making a gesture with his hand.

  “And did the fire stop smoking then?” said Miss Lamb.

  “Well, it had formed the habit,” said Mortimer. “It did not break it all at once.”