MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
0 N April 6th the Hotels Committee of the British Tourist and Holidays Board published the result of the investiga- tions which they have been conducting into the standards of hospitality offered to the visitor by our inns and hostelries. They were agreed that the large luxury hotels attained a degree of
efficiency and comfort comparable to that offered by similar estab- lishments abroad. Their criticisms were directed chiefly against the more modest hotels, which, in that they are for the most part situated in our cathedral cities and other tourist centres, are those by which the foreign visitor is most apt to judge the charm of our manners or the quality of our ways of life. Their conclusions, although euphemistically phrased, do not suggest that the general level of comfort and friendliness is such as to attract the hard currencies which we so earnestly require. Before the introduction of railways our coaching inns were famous, not merely for their cleanliness and luxury, but for the cheerful reception which even the foreign visitor received. Huge sea-coal fires would be blazing in the grates, the red curtains would be drawn against the snow outside, and the candles in their silver candelabra would be lighted on the mahogany tables. The tired traveller would be provided with a tin foot-bath in which mustard had been dissolved ; he would then be offered oyster pudding, mulled claret and a dish of snipe. After, exchanging interesting national and local gossip with the inn- keeper, he would retire to rest in a large feather bed, the sheets of which would have been heated by those copper warming-pans which still give to a certain type of antiquarian a sense of honest cheer. Next morning he would resume his journey to the sound of horns blowing, of the jingle of harness, of the rattle of horses' hooves, and would derive much internal satisfaction from the beatific smile on the face of the inn-keeper and his wife, from the gay deference of the ostlers, from the farewell gesticulations of the pretty house- maids in their pink print frocks, and from an enormous breakfast consisting almost entirely of pork chops.
* * * * When he went abroad, however, the British traveller of the eighteenth century derived the impression that, if welcomed at all, he was welcomed only as the victim of exploitation. He would generally wrangle in bad French with his courier and the postilions ; he would be convinced that the post-horses were underfed and ill treated ; he would regard the inn-keepers as thieves and their wives as harpies. He would complain of the rough cotton sheets, of the bumps and knots in the mattresses, of the animals which devoured, him by night and of the truly deplorable nature of the latrines. He would regard the food as insufficient and confused ; he would assert that the wines of the districts through which he passed had not been matured and gave him colic, palpitations or the slow fever. He would long passionately for the coaching inns of Old England and for the genial cleanliness which they provided. The Industrial Revolution altered these proportions of affection and distaste. The coaching inns declined for sixty years to the level of a village pub ; they were succeeded by the railway hotel, which proved utterly unable to maintain the old convivial geniality. Their fly-blown mirrors no longer reflected red and jovial visages around the punch- bowl ; they reflected a gas-jet, a dirty table-cloth, a sticky bottle of some patent sauce and a dejected bunch of celery in a glass jar. But when he went abroad the nineteenth-century Briton felt again that he was both wanted and loved.
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The chill which brooded over the Victorian railway hotel appears to have exercised a depressing effect upon the keepers and staffs of all our hostelries. The visitor to our larger inns or smaller hotels is not greeted today with any jubilation ; he is greeted in a mood of ill-disguised unhappiness, which is sometimes dignified unhappiness, but more often resigned or even resentful. He is made to feel that he is a regrettable incident. The Hotels Committee, in their report, draw attention to this lack of warmth. " The general opinion," they assert, " was that the reception of visitors on arrival- at hotels left a very good deal to be desired." People who reach an alien town do not enjoy being treated as if " they were a mere room-number, to be dealt with in an impersonal manner with the greatest speed." The technique of reception is, we must admit, far better understood on the Continent and in the United States than in our own inviolate island. The Latins and the Greeks are more gregarious than we are, and the inn-keepers of Auxerre, Empoli, Murcia or Volo will manifest, not distaste, but perfectly sincere delight at the arrival of some alien guest. They do not feel that they are lowering themselves to some abject status if they take the trouble to see that their guests are accorded special attention. In the United States the technique of reception has been elaborated into a fine art. Not only will the receptionist address you by your own name, but the matiness of the occasion is increased by the fact that his name also is inscribed on his desk, so that when he calls me " Mr. Nicolson," I can rejoin with " Mr. Kempinsky." A warm feeling of mutual intimacy is thereby conveyed.
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The Committee in their report assert that the furniture of our hotels is, when one considers the depredations of the purchase-tax, reasonably adequate. They have a kind word for " the general standard of comfort in lounges " ; they say that British beds are good, and might be better if someone would devise a method of preventing eiderdowns from slipping off during the watches of the night. It is when they come to consider the quality of the food provided for visitors that a note of criticism, even of disparagement, creeps in. They contend that the Ss. limit on meals, which to the American visitor is a meagre 70 cents, has a debilitating effect upon the content and variety of British bills of fare. They point out that the cooking of vegetables is not among the highest achieve- ments -of the British genius. With happy meiosis they suggest that there appears " to be a very great deal of room for improvement in the making of coffee." A note of startling originality is struck in the report by the assertion that " breakfast was agreed to be the worst meal of the day." This is to me a discouraging remark, since I have hitherto agreed with the advice given to his compatriots by Monsieur Andre Maurois that, when visiting England, they should forgo luncheon and dinner and concentrate solely on break- fast and tea. These, Monsieur Maurois contends, are the only two meals which the British know how to cook. Yet I agree that the visiting American—accustomed to iced orange juice, hot rolls and real coffee—might be depressed when confronted first thing in the morning with a lonely tomato resting on a slice of bacon. Nor do the Latins realise that porridge, if approached in the right spirit, is a most important dish. -
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I trust that this report will be studied by all those-melancholy people who tend or manage our hotels There must be same psycho- logical reason why our modern inn-keepers cannot recapture the high spirits of their forebears or imitate either the gay curiosity of the Europeans or the "spirit of service" which the Americans have brought to such perfection. It may be that they suffer from spiritual pride and regard as subservient a too welcoming attitude towards their guests. It may be that their dignified aloofness derives from an admirable desire not to intrude upon the privacy of those who visit them. Or it may be that they are over-worked and under-staffed, poor people, and do not possess either the leisure or the health to make personal deviations from a routine and discipline which economise both. But if the Festival of Britain is to be a frolicsome occasion, it would be well if, sometimes, they could force a smile.
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