THE SERVANT PROBLEM.

By P. G. Wodehouse

Punch, June 3, 1903

“No, Sir,” said PETTIFER firmly, “when they bring in a law converting every town in the kingdom with more than one house in it into a garrison town, the problem of how to get and how to keep domestic servants will be solved. But not till then. No, Sir.”

TUDWAY, who, I had noticed, was looking uncommonly depressed, groaned heavily.

“I too have suffered,” he said bitterly. “Yet there was time when I flattered myself that I had solved the problem. It was a book that gave me the idea. To this day I have grave doubts as to whether I ought to have read that book. You see, the Daily Express called it an undoubted work of genius, but then the Daily Mail said that it was a meretricious tissue of nonsense, which had no value either as literature or as a human document. I took what I own was rather a bold step. I read the book with a view to forming an opinion on my own account.”

“TUDWAY!” said PETTIFER in a scandalized voice.

“Yes, yes, I know,” went on TUDWAY hurriedly. “But, of course, I shouldn’t often do that sort of thing. But I did on this occasion; and, as I was reading, a paragraph caught my eye which seemed to me to offer a complete solution of the servant difficulty. The writer (a lady) observed : ‘I have gained much of strength and gracefulness of body from scrubbing the kitchen floor, to say nothing of some fine points of philosophy. It brings a certain energy to one’s body and one’s brain.’ Now, I don’t know if you grasp the profound import of those words, but to me it was obvious. Once promulgate the idea, thought I, that the work of a domestic servant makes for beauty, and the world will become one vast Registry Office. Our servants will not ask for wages. All that they will stipulate for will be a good kitchen floor. They will not want a day out. They will beg as a privilege to be allowed to stay in and scrub. In a few years we shall be selling vacancies in our domestic staff to the highest bidders. I tell you, the thought inspired me. I gave the thing a trial. For a whole month I stuck to it in spite of acute housemaid’s knee, which even now causes me no small agony. How I worked! It was a theme for a poet. And, talking of poets—er—curiously enough, I myself——. A mere impromptu fragment, you understand. Thrown off on the spur of the moment. I call it ‘Culture.’ It’s rather good,” he added modestly. And before we could stop him he had begun to read :—

“Oh, I wanted to be an Apollo,
  A model of beauty and grace.
I sighed for a supple figure,
  I longed for a handsome face.
I wished to be tall as a Horseguard Blue,
  And broad as a large-sized door.
So I called for a duster, bought a pail,
  And I scrubbed at the kitchen floor.

“I wanted to rival Plato.
  I sighed for a mighty brain.
I yearned to be wiser than BACON
  (Say half as wise again).
To be rich in beautiful, wonderful thoughts,
  (At present I’m rather poor);
So I tucked my sleeves up, doffed my coat,
  And scrubbed at the kitchen floor.”

“Well, then,” I said, as he coughed preparatory to beginning the third verse, “but surely what you ought to do is to publish your photograph with the advertisement. ‘Result of a month under our Treatment. The Apollo of Grace and the Plato of Wisdom. Look at ME. I tried it.’ That sort of thing, you know. What some people want is some ocular proof of the merits of your system. Why don’t you publish a photograph, TUDWAY?”

“The photograph you describe,” replied TUDWAY, with pronounced gloom, “has already appeared in the daily papers.”

“Ah! And the result?” PETTIFER’S tones were not sanguine.

I have advertised in this way daily during the last five weeks for three servants,” replied TUDWAY, “and I am still short of that number by a matter of one cook and two housemaids.

 

~~~ The End ~~~