CHAPTER XVI
SECRETARIES
For some time I have remained doubtful whether I would head one of my chapters Secretaries, for several reasons, which I will try to explain. In the first place my relations with these gentlemen have been almost uniformly pleasant, and that is a state of things which does not lend itself to picturesque writing. In the second place I am somewhat timid of being misunderstood, and as I know that secretaries are sensitive (and with justice), I do not want to say a word that can be misconstrued. But in common justice to a very estimable body of men (and some ladies) I feel that I ought not to issue these recollections without some extended reference to secretaries, and so having as I hope cleared the ground a little, I will take the plunge.
In all the vast body of unpaid work which is done by people in this country for the benefit of their fellows I do not think any is so onerous as that part which is involved in what are understood as a secretary’s duties. He is usually a man who is very busy in some trade or profession, but takes up the job of being secretary of his literary society in a spirit of pure altruism. If, as is often the case, he be a young and inexperienced man, he will soon discover that so far from assisting him in any way with his work (and the duties are by no means light), his colleagues usually confine themselves to finding fault with him, and finding more work for him to do. The busier he is, and the idler they are, the more critical will they be, until he will find in very many instances that he is doing all the work and getting none of the credit.
And it is very often niggling, exasperating work. The selection of a list of lecturers, say, half a dozen, from the lavish number upon all subjects provided by our friend Christy, really devolves upon him, although there is nominally a committee. At any rate, if any lecturer chosen should fall short of the general expectations, be a failure, to put it bluntly, the secretary will please to bear the blame, whether he had anything to do with the choice or not. If a certain lecture is a great success, and everybody feels pleased, as sometimes happens, in the universal satisfaction it is quite easy to forget that it was the secretary’s choice, pressed against the inertia of the committee. If, on the night of the lecture, there should chance to be some counter-attraction, impossible to foresee by any merely human secretary, what a fool he must have been not to have foreseen.
How well do we all know that woebegone look upon a secretary’s face as he says, “I hope we shall have a good muster, but there are two or three things on to-night, and we draw a mixed audience here, so that I am afraid many of them will go elsewhere.”
Happy secretary if he can then chuckle over the thought that all the tickets are sold, and consequently the financial success of the course is assured. Otherwise a wet night, or an uninteresting subject, may mean a big deficit in the funds, the takings being insufficient to pay the lecturer his fee, to say nothing of other expenses. And of course it is the secretary’s fault, he must be fully prepared for that. It is only very seldom that a secretary is found strong enough to rule his committee with an iron hand, and insist that if he must take the blame for untoward happenings, he shall have the main voice in all arrangements. Unfortunately, such a secretary is apt to develop into a tyrant with whom it is hard to deal, although I gratefully admit that the character is very rare.
Again, it is upon the secretary always falls the thankless task of negotiating with the lecture agency, when a change of previously arranged dates has to be made. Such cases will occur, but no one outside of the profession can realise what an enormous amount of troublesome correspondence they entail. The severe training of the agency staff in some little measure enables them to compete with this with more or less ease, but the secretary, unless he be a born business man, often finds himself in an amazing entanglement, from which he feels it almost impossible ever to emerge with the least credit. That these matters are straightened out at all is generally due to the kindly and methodical assistance given by the agency, and it is most pleasant to record that this is, as a rule, unstintedly acknowledged.
It is of no use disguising the fact that the lecturers themselves do often give the secretary a bad quarter of an hour. I am not now thinking of those secretaries who seem to imagine that no one but themselves has any idea of time, dates or engagements. Who will worry with correspondence, both agency and lecturer, weeks ahead of an engagement, as if other people had nothing else to do but write and say, “Yes, I have your date noted, and if I live will be on hand as arranged.” No, I am now thinking of the usual secretary, who, having got his agreement signed, goes calmly on his way, until the day of the lecture. He knows that he has done his part, knows that at eight there will be in all human probability an eager crowd of some eight hundred people or so to hear the lecturer, but, being human, he cannot help wishing that he had just a line from the lecturer to say that it is all right. Of course, if we were all perfect in every respect, he would not worry, but—you never can tell, and a halfpenny post card is so easily sent, and makes such an enormous difference to the peace of mind of a man who is doing a lot of gratuitous work, and does not deserve gratuitous worry as well.
Yet it does happen that the minute hand of the clock goes steadfastly on towards the XII which will denote that it is VIII o’clock, and not a sign is received from the lecturer. Then just as everybody is beginning to wonder what the secretary will do, the lecturer strolls in, and is calmly indignant to learn that there has been any anxiety about him. Forgetfulness may explain, though it cannot excuse, such behaviour. I have been guilty of forgetfulness myself, but I am glad to say that on these occasions I have always arrived long enough before the time for appearing to relieve the secretary of that gnawing worry that he must feel if he is fit for his job when nothing has been heard from the lecturer, and he does not appear until the clock has struck.
But there are deeper depths than these for the hapless secretary. There are the occasions when the lecturer does not write and does not appear? To my shame and sorrow be it said I was once guilty of such a crime, and I can only plead for forgiveness on the following grounds. I was booked to lecture at Croydon on a certain date which fell on a Monday. Now on Friday I had travelled down to Altrincham, having accepted an invitation to stay there with a dear friend until Monday. Unhappily I caught a very severe cold going down, and on Sunday night was delirious, the condition lasting over Monday. In my lucid intervals I remembered my engagement, but, most strangely, thought it was for Tuesday, and when on Tuesday morning I awoke sane, though very weak, my first thought was a glad one—I should be able to keep my appointment after all. I turned up my lecture slip at breakfast-time for the secretary’s address, in order to send him a wire, and then discovered that my engagement was for the previous night! I cannot sufficiently blame myself for not letting the agency know my whereabouts, for the outraged secretary had rung them up, and they could not find me, my wife having accompanied me to Altrincham.
The condition of that secretary’s mind with that packed hall before him, and not only no lecturer, but no news of him, I can never get out of my mental vision, and I feel that it was such a fault as I could never meet by any sufficient apology. I could not help falling ill, and I was perfectly justified in visiting a friend, but nothing could excuse my failing to let my agents know of my whereabouts when away from home during the lecture season, except when keeping engagements made for me by them. To finish the story. I was treated with the utmost courtesy and forbearance. They made another appointment for me much later on in the season, but the audience neither forgot nor forgave, and when I did appear the hall was barely a quarter filled, which, of course, penalised the wrong people altogether.
Another occasion I must refer to. Since I cannot find any fault, any reasonable fault that is, with secretaries, it is only fitting that I should admit some of my own. I was engaged to lecture at Ilford on a certain evening at a Presbyterian Church. Carelessly glancing at the engagement slip, I did not notice with sufficient precision where the church was situated, but as I had for some years lived near Ilford I did not trouble about that. I knew, or thought I knew, where the place was. I lived in the country then, so I stayed at a hotel in London, and in good time dressed and caught my train from Fenchurch Street. I had hardly been in the train a minute before I realised that I had left my engagement slip in the hotel. It did not trouble me at all, for I felt sure of where to find the Congregational Church. Now, why or how the denomination got changed in my mind I cannot tell, but I know that until past nine o’clock I scoured Ilford, vastly grown and changed since I knew it, and could find no Congregational Church that was open or where there were any signs of a lecture.
So I was fain to return, beaten and horribly ashamed of myself, because I, being a Londoner, and withal well acquainted with that particular neighbourhood, had failed to find the place where I was to lecture. Also that I had been so careless as to leave my instructions in my room at the hotel. I found immediately upon my return what a stupid mistake I had made, and at once sat down to write the most complete apology I could compose. I offered no excuse for myself, indeed, I don’t think I could frame a decent one, and I also offered to agree to any proposal that the secretary might make.
That gentleman replied very kindly and courteously, proposing that I should deduct all the expense the society had been put to from the amount of my fee, and fixing another date. I thankfully agreed, and I am glad to say that the audience on my second date was a bumper one. But the pastor, who was my chairman, did his duty by me as a faithful friend. He produced a MS., which he flourished before my eyes, saying that after his previous experience, when he had to rake in his memory for something to tell the congregation, so that they should not go away utterly disappointed, he had come prepared for any little forgetfulness on the part of Mr. Bullen. After a few more pleasantries of the sort, I stood up and confessed my offence, repeated my apologies, and then said that I did not know whether it was or was not an aggravation or a palliation of my offence that it should be the first time such a thing had happened to me in a lecturing experience of sixteen years, and a delivery of over a thousand lectures. I did not mention the Croydon affair, for I was then ill, and had I not been I should certainly have kept my engagement. And the rest was joy.
Three times in the course of my lecture career I have been approached by secretaries, all, as I well remember, paid officials, to ask if I would reduce my fee, after the lecture. The excuse in every case was the same: the low state of the society’s funds. My answer was in all cases the same, i.e. had I been asked before the engagement whether I would under the circumstances lecture for a reduced fee, the opportunity of choice would have been afforded me. But I always went on to ask on what grounds of equity could I, a single individual earning my living, be expected to contribute several pounds to the funds of a society consisting of several hundred people. And the answer was always that my objections were perfectly just, and that had the secretary been able to exercise his own option, he would not have put such a request to me, but that, being a paid official, he had to do as he was told.
Now I would not for one moment attempt to dissuade any of my brethren or sisters of the lecture platform from giving their services in the cause of charity, when asked to do so beforehand. But I would strongly urge them always to insist upon their full fee being paid to them, and then making it, or part of it, a donation to the funds. For if a lecturer consents to give his services, he may be very sure that he will get a very poor audience, no one will think it is worth their while to work in order that his, the lecturer’s, efforts in the cause of charity may be successful. In a word, what people get for nothing they do not value, which is an old but much ignored axiom.
In this connection I would like to mention an experience of my own in Scotland, although I may not give the names of the two places. It was in bitter winter weather, very snowy, when I arrived, and the town looked frost-bitten. But the hall where I was to lecture was a beautiful one, warm and comfortable, and the great library and reading-rooms attached were well filled. The secretary, a genial, jovial gentleman, bade me heartily welcome, and introduced me to several grave magnates as the members of his committee. As the clock struck we all filed on to the platform, and to my consternation there was just one more person in the audience than there was on the platform.
This might well have daunted the chairman, for the seating accommodation stretching blankly away before him was for 800. But it did not in the least that I could see. He took up his parable, and performed his duties with just the same air of ponderous gravity as he might have assumed in addressing an audience of thousands. And I could do no less than follow his good example, though I did feel glad when the lights went out, and enabled me to forget that great empty space. After the tedious formality of votes of thanks had been performed to the bitter end, I eagerly sought the secretary for an explanation. He told me that it was quite a frequent experience, because the lectures were well endowed and absolutely free, repeating the axiom which I have quoted above. I unburdened myself to him, for he was exceedingly sympathetic, and said that while I didn’t mind a small audience, there were limits, and I earnestly hoped that I might never have that night’s experience again.
Vain hope. The following night I went to another large neighbouring town, the white weather still continuing, and again I faced an audience of fourteen, all told—no committee this time—and again a pleasant secretary told me the same disheartening tale. He, however, was more of a philosopher than my friend of the previous night, for he said that as long as our salaries were paid, and we did our best, the meagre attendance ought not to affect our happiness in any way. I agreed that it ought not, and yet—hang it all!—I couldn’t help feeling somehow morally to blame. Utterly foolish, I know, but there it was.
It was some years before I visited those two places again, and when I did I had a vivid recollection of my previous experience. So that as soon as I met the secretary of the first place I said that I approached the lecture with considerable reluctance, feeling that it was like taking money under false pretences. He laughed cheerily and said:
“You’ll be all right to-night. The hall is already full, and it wants a quarter of an hour yet to eight o’clock. And we shall be turning people away the whole fifteen minutes.”
I stared at him amazed, and as soon as I got my breath demanded an explanation of this extraordinary phenomenon. Very quietly he assured me that the sole reason for it was that a charge of 2s. 6d. was now made for tickets for the whole course of eight lectures, with the gratifying result that the hall was now much too small to accommodate the crowds that besieged its doors every lecture night. And we shook hands over this patent endorsement of the theories we had both enunciated. Next day I went on to the other town, full of curiosity and eager hope that all would be well there too. So hopeful was I that the fact that the town was in the furious throes of a by-election did not trouble me at all. Yet we all know that if there is one thing more than another that can bring all a secretary’s hopes and plans to the ground, it is to have a by-election clash with a lecture. It even affects the female part of his audience.
When, therefore, I met the secretary, and saw that his face wore its usual unperturbed expression, I ventured to say something in a commiserating tone about the by-election. He smiled gravely and replied:
“I don’t think you’ll find it make much difference to the meeting.”
I did not like to ask him whether that would be because the attendance was so meagre, for I feared it would be, or might be personal, so I said nothing more upon the subject. But when the time arrived, and I made my way towards the hall, I was very much struck by the number and excitement of the people in the streets, who all seemed to be going my way. And when I reached the hall I was a bit excited myself to find the entrance, which was a long corridor, filled with loudly talking people, who did not in the least resemble a lecture audience. So much did this impress me that before I had got very far through the crowd I asked one of my neighbours why there was all this excitement about the lecture. He promptly informed me that this was a political meeting, and that the lecture hall was next door!
So I lost no time in changing my direction, finding, to my intense delight, that my audience was complete, and though sedate, evidently highly expectant. Every seat was occupied, and there were over a hundred standing. I afterwards learned that the reason for this change was the same as at the neighbouring town, the change from a perfectly free lecture to one for which a small charge was made. Still, I never before had such a gratifying experience as to find that the attraction of a political meeting next door was not sufficiently potent to attract my audience away from me. And I felt, I must admit, proportionately elated.
I think that by this time it must be sufficiently clear that my opening remarks about secretaries were quite justified, that I have little to say about them because I have found them so uniformly good. It is really the case. I do not in the least know what the agency’s experience of them may be, but I must speak as I found them. Three secretaries I have known who were ladies, and they were perfect in courtesy and business-like habits. We had in two cases some little hilarity, owing to my addressing a lady as “M. Jones, Esq.,” but then as I put it to them, if the word “Miss” is not put in brackets before the initial of a Christian name, no blame can be attached to a correspondent who assumes that the writer is of the male persuasion.
Let me close this chapter by assuring secretaries, one and all, that I carry into my retirement none but the pleasantest recollections of their uniform courtesy and kindness to me, often manifested under most trying circumstances. I would also like to add my whole-hearted admiration of the way in which these gentlemen (and ladies) perform their, for the most part gratuitous, and certainly onerous, duties.