There is one figure the dramatist of the future will never again be able to employ, and that is the ancient retainer. Never again will he follow his unfortunate master and mistress into exile, or lay down his life for them, or give up to them his humble earnings. Not only will the species be extinct, but the very tradition of it will have passed away.
The twenty-first century baby is destined to be rocked and cradled by electricity, warmed and coddled by electricity, perhaps fathered and mothered by electricity. Probably the only thing he will be left to do unaided will be to make love; and yet, possibly, that also is another form of electricity. At any rate, the ancient retainer is doomed, and it is the ancient retainer's fault. He has shown his decreasing interest in the family, so no wonder the family takes no further interest in him. Job servants supply his place, and in illness a trained nurse does as well, if not much better.
Alas, it is a materialistic, utilitarian age and, if they did but know it, neither master nor servant can afford to stifle what remains of loyalty and affection. There are some things for which money will not pay, strange though it may seem in these days when everything has its price. The life which cultivates no feeling but indifference is to be deplored both for master and man.
There is something which makes of labour a higher thing than a mere barter. If that something really existed, we would not have that ceaseless, perpetually changing procession with tin trunks; personally, I should not feel so much that I was keeping a boarding-house for strangers, whom I pay instead of their paying me. If any of the old spirit were still left, servants would not be sent adrift to shift for themselves when their best days are over, and we should still see that phenomenon, an old servant.
What becomes of old servants? It is a mystery. Some possibly become meek, and keep lodging-houses; others, meeker still, become caretakers. Can human imagination conjure up a more dismal fate? To be the companion of beetles and mice; to vegetate in a basement, gloomy with the abysmal gloom of London, and silent with the monumental silence of a deserted house!
Why not think of the possible future, that giddy, independent day, when to give notice, and feast on the consequent anguish, is a cool rapture? Once only I met an ex-parlour maid who rose superior to fate. She had become useful by the day. Then, unexpectedly, a subtle change came over her--she also aspired. She couldn't give warning, which would have been her natural outlet, but she felt that she owed something to her dignity before the other servants. From henceforth, she announced, she would really have to come in by the front door. I submitted, and the area steps know her no more.
