The recent rediscovery of Sir Clive Peel’s memoirs of his time as a leading civil servant in Victorian England have shed light on the methods used to control young people at that time, as this extract reveals…
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“Recalling my time in Turkey reminds me of a rather strange encounter a few years later with the younger generation.
Stanley Jacobs-Smith – or, to be more accurate, Sir Stanley – had served with me in the Governor General’s Office in Australia, and was then my deputy during my period as Her Majesty’s Ambassador to Constantinople. I had always got on well with the chap – a terribly affable, dignified man, whose brother I had known at Eton.
One lunchtime about a year after I had retired, I bumped into Stanley at our Gentlemen’s Club in St. James, and he happened to mention that he was off to take up a senior post in India. Well, by the end of luncheon – and after a couple of bottles of extremmely fine claret – I had managed to land myself with a chore.
Stanley was explaining how his youngest daughter, Emily, was in her penultimate year at school, and that he was having all sorts of problems arranging for a guardian to look after her during the holidays. The coming Summer was not a problem – the lass could go and stay with her Aunt in Italy – and Winter would not be an issue either, what with the family’s chalet in France for skiing. But the next Easter: well, that was a little problematic.
So yours truly – very gallantly, I felt – offered to help out. After all, there I was – retired, living on my own, in the large house: it surely wouldn’t be too much trouble to have a young thing around for a few weeks?
Well… that, at least, was what I thought at the time. But when the following March came, and 18-year old Emily duly stepped down from the back of the carriage in which Foster had gone to meet her from the railway station, little was I to realise how problematic dealing with a wilful teenager was going to be.
To be honest, most of the time she behaved impeccably: kept herself to herself, reading stories all day long (Mr. Dickens’ new works being among her favourites), going for long walks. She was tidy, pleasant and polite, and my staff liked having her round the house. I imagine she must have been more interesting company than an old buffer like me!
The problem occurred on the evening that I had invited a number of former colleagues down to Devon for the weekend. Of course, with twelve bedrooms, this sort of weekend was not a problem accommodation-wise, but with some fairly distinguished figures present – who I will refrain from naming, to spare their blushes – it was not a time at which one expected one’s young house-guest to misbehave.
But misbehave she did. Oh yes.
It was at dinner on the Saturday evening that everything happened. Emily had been invited to join us for the evening, and came down looking radiant in her evening dress and pearls. She looked quite the part! But over dinner… well! I knew young people had become more outspoken, and young ladies in particular – but frankly her behaviour was inexcusable.
Firstly, she picked an argument with one former ambassador about Britain’s role in the Colonies: why couldn’t they govern themselves, she argued? Then it was on to poverty – why couldn’t we invest more to help the poor in the East End of London? Oh, and accompanied by an attack on Her Majesty the Queen – “Why couldn’t she give her money to help relieve poverty?” And then on to a disgraceful argument with a senior politician, whom she lambasted over the fact that women were not allowed to vote. Needless to say, her very opinions confirmed to the gentlemen present that allowing females to participate in elections would be a most dangerous thing!
Eventually, it was time for the ladies to leave us. Oh how we yearned for a little peace and quiet and mature conversation over the customary glass of port! But… and I am sure you will find this difficult to believe… Emily simply refused to leave, stating that all people were equal before God, and that she would rather stay with the gentlemen and continue talking to us. We were staggered, of course, the ladies being almost as embarrassed for her as we were annoyed.
Now had she left quietly, all would have been forgiven the following morning – if not necessarily forgotten. But she was unbelievably rude, shouting at my guests and ruining the whole atmosphere.
Now I should point out at this stage that when I agreed to look after the girl, her father had been very clear to me on the subject of her behaviour. “I don’t want you to mess around, Clive,” he had said. “I’ve never had any trouble with her before, but if she steps out of line you have my full authority to deal with her as severely as you feel to be appropriate.” And then, two weeks later, by post, a light – but long parcel had arrived for me in the post, with a hand-written note: “Just in case – Best wishes – S. J.-S.”
Finally, I felt that I had no choice. Just as she was…well, almost fighting with one of the ladies who was trying to encourage her to leave, I had to intervene. “Come here NOW, girl,” I shouted. She looked at me, and perhaps from the tone of my voice stopped and walked over. “I cannot believe your behaviour this evening, young lady. You have demonstrated a childish attitude that has been most embarrassing for us all to have to behold, and which brings shame on your father and his good reputation with us.” There was a general murmur of approval from those present.
I continued. “Now you are my guest for as long as you stay in my household, and I am not prepared to tolerate this sort of behaviour. Do you understand me?”
Suddenly, she looked meek. “Yes, Sir.”
“Now. You are to go immediately to your bedroom, and change into your nightdress and gown. And then I want to see you in thirty minutes’ time in my study, where we will discuss this further.”
I’m not sure that she understood at that stage quite what form our “discussion” would take, but I am sure that what followed would be etched in her memory for a long time to come.
The study adjoining one of the main reception rooms, so the lass had to endure the humiliation first of all of walking through the crowd of guests – who she had been so trying to impress, and all of whom must have known what fate awaited her – in her nightwear. I made her stand, of course, as we talked, and – settled in one of my comfortable leather chairs – I lectured her on the appropriate standards of behaviour for a young woman of class. If she had not realised the error of her ways, she soon did – her previously self-confidence evaporating into a picture of self-pity: eyes downcast, mumbling apologies.
She only looked up when I questioned: “Tell me, Emily, how did your father punish you when you misbehaved at home?”
“Punish me, Sir?”
“Yes, Emily. Punish you.”
She hesitated. “Well… I never really got into trouble with him, Sir.”
“Well what about at school? What happens to naughty girls there?”
“We are sent to bed early, Sir… that is, if we are ever naughty.”
“Sent to bed early, eh? Well, now, I don’t think that was quite what your father had in mind when he told me how to deal with you if you stepped out of line.”
She looked at me quizzically, and followed me with her eyes as I walked over to my desk, and opened the middle drawer in it. And I could swear she nearly fainted as I pulled out the two long, bendy rattan canes that Sir Stanley had posted to me.
“Sir?..”
“Your father sent these to me, young girl, with very clear advice on how to punish any misdeeds.”
“But you.. you can’t.”
“Can’t I? Just you wait, young lady.”
“But I didn’t do anything that bad.” There was almost a degree of panic in her voice.
“Well if humiliating me and my guests isn’t bad, I don’t know what is.”
“But I have said I am sorry, Sir.”
“And you will be even sorrier in a moment, my dear, believe me. It’s too late to be apologising now: you should have thought about your behaviour before you came to dinner this evening. Now take off your dressing gown.”
“But…”
“Do it. Now.”
She obliged, and I held out my hand to take the robe from her, laying it over my desk. She stood in front of me, trembling slightly, clad only in her thin white nightdress.
I explained what was to come. “Now I am going to give you a caning as hard as I can, to teach you a lesson that I intend you to remember for a very long time. And when I have finished, I want you to go out into the drawing room and apologise to the ladies and gentlemen. Do you understand?”
“Please, Sir. Please…”
“Do you understand?”
Meekly, quietly: “Yes, Sir.”
I selected the lighter of the two canes, and walked back round to my desk, pointing with the stick at one of the large, red leather armchairs. “I want you to stand behind that armchair.”
She walked round it, slowly. I very quickly realised that the back of the chair was much higher than her waist, and so barked an order at her: “Take that leather footrest from in front of the chair, and position it behind the chair as you go.”
She manoeuvred the piece of furniture – which must have been heavier than it looked – into position.
“Now I want you to stand on that footrest, with your legs apart next to the back legs of the chair.”
As she climbed up, I leant the cane against the desk, and reached into my dinner jacket pocket, removing the lengths of linen that the Butler had been to search out at my request, and which he had passed to me as I had left the dining room.
Walking behind her, I crouched down next to her right leg, and wrapped the first piece of cloth several times around her ankle and the chair leg, binding her tightly. She sounded alarmed: “Please Sir, no!” but I ignored her and moved across to the left ankle, tying it similarly tightly I place, noticing as I did so how she was trembling in fear of the punishment that was to come.
“Lean forward and bend over the chair.”
I noticed with some satisfaction how the footrest had left her positioned at precisely the right height: as she bent forward, her bottom was left at a perfect angle for her thrashing. I walked round to the front of her, and took another piece of linen, wrapping it round her left hand and pulling it down so that I could secure it to the front chair leg. And then the same with the last piece of cord, with her right hand, leaving her now bound securely into place.
I walked back round her, and checked the binds on her ankles – perfect: just tight enough. And then I reached down to the bottom of her nightie, and lifted it upwards – at which she gave a little squeal. I managed with a little effort – and reaching with one hand round the front of it, between her body and the chair, as the other exposed her bottom – to get the garment up to her waist, exposing her behind (and, dare I say it, a little more) to my gaze. I watched her wriggle as her skin made contact with the cool leather of the chair.
I removed my diner jacket and unfastened my cufflinks, rolling my sleeves up. I picked up the stick, and walked behind her. “I am going to flog you very hard, Emily. And as I do so, I want you to thank me for each stroke, do you hear me?”
Silence. Then faintly: “Yes, Sir.”
And then I started, lining the cane up against the middle of her thighs, tapping it gently, then drawing it back and cracking it forward onto her pale skin. She winced, more at first from the shock of the blow than from the pain: although it had been a hard stroke, I was saving the worst for later. A most pleasing thin red line appeared, as she said – in a surprisingly firm voice: “Thank you, Sir.”
The second stroke was just above the first, and perfectly parallel with it. Again, the firmness of her voice surprised me: “Thank you, Sir.”
I adjusted my position, and thwacked the cane down once more, slightly harder and lower this time, and before she had had time to react, drew it back and delivered another stroke directly on top of the previous one, and then a third. She cried out, the fiery nature of the weal that was rapidly spreading across the back of her legs revealing the effectiveness of the blows. But then, still firm: “Thank you, Sir.”.
I continued with the flogging, each blow being brought down across her thighs, building up a firm rhythm of strokes, pausing every ten seconds or so to receive her thanks. I watched her squirming against the chair, the discomfort of her position, and of the whipping, clearly beginning to have its effect.
Before too long, the weals on her thighs were merging into one another, the individual trace-marks of the stick no longer visible amongst the multiplicity of strokes. I stepped back, and delivered one final blow – for the time being – across the top of her thighs, right where they met the bottom of her buttocks, and listened with pleasure as she cried out with pain. But still she remembered… “Thank you, Sir.”
I laid the cane to one side, and walked over to the bookcase. I pulled out my copy of Debrett’s Peerage, and helped myself to a small whisky from the bottle that I kept secreted behind. I savoured the drink, as I took in the sight of the girl bent over the armchair, clearly trying to compose herself… and then I walked over to the desk and picked up the other cane – the heavier, slightly longer one. I whiipped it sharply through the air twice, right in front of her, leaving neither of us in any doubt as to its relative effectiveness compared to the previous rod – which seemed quite tame in comparison.
I walked back behind her. “I am now going to complete your punishment, Emily. And I warn you that this time I intend to make it hurt.” I bent down, and tugged on the cords binding her ankles to the chair, tightening them again where her wriggling had loosened them.
“PLEASE sir.”
“I suggest you save your breath.”
I lined the cane up across the centre of her backside, then lifted it high up above my head, and brought it down with all of my force. She screamed, loudly, and broke into immediate sobs. “No, please, no………” And then, several seconds later, as she composed herself… “Thank you, Sir.”
I have to say that the sight of her, bent virtually nude over that chair, with her red thighs and just one, clear, straight line burning across her buttocks, was quite memorable. And it became even more memorable as I continued, striping her with blow after blow, whipping the rattan down as harshly as I could. She was crying openly now, and the pain was clear to behold from the way in which she tried as best she could to buckle within the cords that tied her to the legs of the great leather chair.
And then – after what must have been a dozen or more lashes – I walked backwards several paces, and turned towards her. “Six more.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
But what a set of six! With a few steps of run-up, the cane raised high, and the very effectiveness of the rod that I was using, each of the strokes raised her slightly onto her tiptoes as she tried to deal with the force and pain of the blow, her thank-you’s now barely audible under her sobs.
And that final blow, low down, again at the join of buttocks and thighs, with all my strength, her scream piercing the still air in the study. And the twenty second wait before she could compose herself for her final “Thank you, Sir.”
I left her there for a few minutes, as he sobs faded, and then untied her – releasing her ankles first (and noting the red marks from the cords), and then her hands. As she stood back up, gingerly, her nightie fell back down into place, covering her again. Her hands scarcely knew where to go – to her face to dry her tears, or to herr backside to clutch it in agony.
I was about to hand her her dressing gown, but a better idea came to me – “Follow me.”
As we walked back together into the reception room, it was obvious from the faces of the assembled group that the sounds of the punishment had been clearly heard next door. The faces of the guests, staring at her, started Emily crying again.
“Ladies and Gentlemen… Miss Jacobs-Smith has an apology to make.”
I looked at her. She hesitated, then spoke, with surprising clarity given the ordeal she had just endured: “I am sorry for my misbehaviour earlier this evening, and have learnt my lesson.”
She looked back at me, and I smiled supportively. There was a murmur of approval from the group.
“Now then, Emily. So that the ladies and gentlemen realise just how sorry I have made you, I want you to go and stand to the side of the fireplace, facing the wall, and lift your nightie up to you waist. And then you can stay there for a little while, before you go to bed.”
“Noooooo…”
“Now.”
So she walked across the room, faced the wall, and exposed her freshly-thrashed body. There was an audible gasp from some of those present – I would like to think the ladies – and various of the group gathered round to admire my handiwork.
I clicked my fingers, and the butler stepped forward with more drinks. And before too long, normal conversation resumed (although I could not help but notice the glances being thrown in Emily’s direction!). After ten minutes or so, I walked behind her, and whispered to her to go and get her gown from the study, and to go to bed, and she scampered off as quickly as she was able to, her humiliation finally at an end.
I had some interesting “Thank you” notes from my guests after that weekend, which left me in no doubt that one of two of the gentlemen present had been inspired by my treatment of misbehaviour to revise their approach of dealing with their own wives or daughters! As for Emily, her conduct throughout the rest of her stay was perfect, and not another word of the events passed between us. Indeed, she got married last year, and Sir Stanley invited me to the wedding: a lovely ceremony. And, of course, I sent her new husband two presents by post, in a long box, a few days later. I wonder?…
