Of Butlers and SpiesBy Austin Barnes
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A zealot adorned madly in red beret and tunic spoke thusly to the crowd below:
“The English butler is the archetype of all butlers, as the English spy is of spies. Thus, when we think of butlers we think of English butlers, and when we think of spies we think of English spies. England is a land of butlers and spies in equal proportion.
Everywhere we find a butler we find a servant of honesty and decency, and everywhere we find a spy we find a servant of deceit and cunning. Nowhere but among butlers and spies could we find such contrasting modes. England is a land where the two sides are of equivalent strength.
Spies, intent on subterfuge, dressed as butlers to hide their true form. A butler was, thus, just as likely a spy in costume. England was a land of real and fake butlers in identical number.
No true spy would admit to being a spy and so the butlers, ever dutiful and good, masqueraded as spies to show that they were not. England was a land where spies dressed as butlers and butlers dressed as spies.
The butlers were fake butlers and the spies were fake spies. For a time this held, and one knew that a spy was really a butler and a butler really a spy. However when lie had become truth and truth became lie, the spies disguised themselves in their own skin. England was a land of half fake and half true spies.
In turn, the butlers became butlers again. They strode out with dishes and ties and meant only to serve, but their masters no longer knew them authentic. No butler was let into the dining halls. No butler made pleasantries with new-coming guests. No trust was to be had. England was a land without butlers.
The spies no longer pretend to be butlers. They pretended to be butlers pretending to be spies. But who could abuse trust in these gardens, studies, barrooms of leisure? No trust was to be had. England was a land without spies. Now, no one seems to know if England is a land at all.”
“And thus the Lord did teach,” preached that preacher, perched atop his beech. “Do not hide thy face under that of another, for your own shall never return”.
“The English butler is the archetype of all butlers, as the English spy is of spies. Thus, when we think of butlers we think of English butlers, and when we think of spies we think of English spies. England is a land of butlers and spies in equal proportion.
Everywhere we find a butler we find a servant of honesty and decency, and everywhere we find a spy we find a servant of deceit and cunning. Nowhere but among butlers and spies could we find such contrasting modes. England is a land where the two sides are of equivalent strength.
Spies, intent on subterfuge, dressed as butlers to hide their true form. A butler was, thus, just as likely a spy in costume. England was a land of real and fake butlers in identical number.
No true spy would admit to being a spy and so the butlers, ever dutiful and good, masqueraded as spies to show that they were not. England was a land where spies dressed as butlers and butlers dressed as spies.
The butlers were fake butlers and the spies were fake spies. For a time this held, and one knew that a spy was really a butler and a butler really a spy. However when lie had become truth and truth became lie, the spies disguised themselves in their own skin. England was a land of half fake and half true spies.
In turn, the butlers became butlers again. They strode out with dishes and ties and meant only to serve, but their masters no longer knew them authentic. No butler was let into the dining halls. No butler made pleasantries with new-coming guests. No trust was to be had. England was a land without butlers.
The spies no longer pretend to be butlers. They pretended to be butlers pretending to be spies. But who could abuse trust in these gardens, studies, barrooms of leisure? No trust was to be had. England was a land without spies. Now, no one seems to know if England is a land at all.”
“And thus the Lord did teach,” preached that preacher, perched atop his beech. “Do not hide thy face under that of another, for your own shall never return”.
Austin Barnes is a writer and journalist based in Glasgow, Scotland.