PART II.
My last paper on the rules of Society ended with some remarks upon dinner-parties and the conversation thereat; but although the article thus finished, my observations did not, and must therefore be continued into this chapter. A silent dinner is a very depressing function, so much so indeed that among the disadvantages of living alone must be counted solitary meals, as not only saddening in their effect upon the mind, but provocative of bad digestion in the body; and even if we dine in company, but the company of dull, stupid, or at any rate unconversable people, the result is much the same as though we had sat down in solitude. It behoves us therefore, each and all, to try and prevent this evil and also make the dinner pleasant by taking a middle course—as is usually wisest with regard to most things in life—and neither to be like a ghost, speechless and casting the metaphorical wet blanket over the assembled guests; nor, on the other hand, to remind everybody of the whirling of a mill by the never-ceasing clatter of our tongue.
A clever hostess will do her best to secure some few good talkers at her table, in order that no pauses of sufficient length to give a sense of uncomfortable silence may occur; nothing more than those little gaps in conversation poetically supposed to be caused by "Angels passing." We are not all geniuses in the talking line, but we are bound to take our share, so far as in us lies, in contributing to brightness and cheerfulness at table; only, of course, young girls are not expected to bring themselves prominently forward in that way, and young or old it should not be forgotten that a "voice soft, gentle and low, is an excellent thing in woman," and that a shrill laugh, or an exclamation so highly pitched that it pierces through the ordinary hum of sound, is anything but agreeable or attractive. Also, it should be remembered that dinners are meant to be enjoyed, and men especially feel aggrieved if they are exposed to a constant fire of words, worst of all if those words resolve themselves into questions which require answers. Chilly soup, tepid fish, and entrées bolted for want of time to eat them properly, produce feelings of anger which even beauty itself can hardly stand against, if the beauty's chatter has caused the annoyance, that is to say. So it is wise to let your neighbour on either hand enjoy his dinner in peace, undisturbed by too much conversation, although at the same time he must not be allowed to suppose that a dumb doll dressed in pretty clothes is sitting beside him.
Do not crumble your bread over the tablecloth by way of inspiration, if you think you ought to say something and can find nothing; do not play with your wine-glasses either, until, very likely, you upset one of them; nor drop your dinner-napkin, gloves, etc., which makes a commotion and is rather a bore.
Such small things seem hardly worth mentioning, but tricks of any kind are to be avoided, as they generally give the impression of awkwardness.
Should you happen to go down to dinner with the master of the house, it is as well to let your hostess have a chance of catching your eye to give the signal when she wishes to leave the table, but never on any account fall into the mistake which I once heard was made by a woman who ought to have known better. She imagined that the lady of the house was very inexperienced and was sitting on an unconscionable time because she did not know when to go, and so she, the guest, actually took it upon herself to push her own chair back a little, with a glance at her hostess; but the latter, looking steadily at her presuming acquaintance, said very quietly, "I do not think I made a move, Mrs. ——" and sat on for another ten minutes.
As regards evening parties there is not much to say. You speak to the hostess at the head of the stairs where she stands to receive her guests, and then you wander through the rooms, and enjoy yourself, till you descend for supper or depart altogether. There is no need to look for the lady of the house to say good-bye. She has, most probably, left her post long before and is wandering about among the company.
The next thing I will mention is country house visiting, which is very pleasant as a rule, especially to people young enough not to mind the open doors and windows, the large rooms—innocent of fires sometimes when dwellers in towns would have lit them—and long corridors down which a fine north-easter pursues you.
Take plenty of wraps, therefore, unless it is the very middle of summer; but this is by the way.
I will suppose that you arrive at your destination dressed in a neat travelling costume all in good order; no buttons off gloves or boots, no untidy straps about the handbag—of splendid dressing-bags I am not speaking.
You are shown into an apartment—very likely a big hall used in the day as a drawing-room—where you find perhaps several, perhaps only one or two, people, and the mistress of the house may ask whether you would like to see your room at once, or, if it is near tea-time, if you will stay and have a cup first? I believe that in New York and other places in America the custom in this respect differs from our own, and that the newly-arrived visitor is not brought face to face with the house party until she has had an opportunity of tidying her hair, brushing her gown, and generally smartening herself up, after which she can appear with an "equal mind," untroubled by any misgivings as to the results of the journey upon her looks. In my opinion, that arrangement is a great improvement on our way of doing things; but, however, as it is, you sit travel-tossed and more or less crumpled up, talking to anybody you know, and possibly, if by nature shy, with an embarrassing consciousness of being mentally criticised by some of those present whom you do not know. In such circumstances the most important matter is to keep still. If you have ever watched actors on the stage, you must have noticed that they never shuffle and move about without intending it. It is one of the first lessons, in fact, that amateurs have to learn, simply to stand or sit still. Nothing has a worse effect than the look of "not knowing what to do with your arms and legs," so do, therefore, refrain from twisting your feet about under your chair, fidgeting with your bracelets, or letting the spoon fall out of your saucer. If your gloves are off, do not begin to think about your hands getting red, for, if you do, they are pretty certain to fulfil your fears by becoming so. Nervousness has more to do with that than is generally imagined.
Whoever saw a pair of scarlet hands before them when they were alone?
Just call to mind the fact that there is no real reason why you should feel "all anyhow" because you are in a strange house among strangers, and try to be natural in manner and pleasant to everybody.
One thing very necessary to cultivate when on a visit is the habit of punctuality. In London, where people come long distances, with the chance of a "block," or finding the street up, or some other obstacle to progress, a liberal margin is allowed as to time, and dinner at a quarter to eight means eight. But in the country the hour named is the hour intended, and in some houses the striking of the gong and the appearance of the butler throwing open the doors for dinner are nearly simultaneous, while in others the guests have five minutes' grace after the gong sounds in which to get downstairs and into the drawing-room. In any case they should all have assembled before dinner is announced, for few things annoy the master of the house more than to see stragglers come in when the soup, and perhaps even the fish, has been already served.
The same rule applies to all arrangements which are not "movable feasts." Luncheon, for instance, is usually at a fixed hour, and so is breakfast in some houses, though not in all. If you are to ride or drive, or whatever it is, be ready to the minute, and do not give trouble by having to be sent for. To give no unnecessary trouble either to guests or servants is, indeed, a good motto to bear in mind, for nobody likes to be "put about," and a woman who gives a lot of trouble, whether from thoughtlessness or from an idea that by requiring a great deal of attention and waiting upon she makes herself interesting and of more importance, will find out her mistake sooner or later, and learn that fetching cushions and smelling-bottles is not an amusing occupation for her friends, and that ringing the bell without good reason only sends servants, especially other people's servants, into a bad temper.
When you come down to breakfast you need not go round and shake hands with everybody. Speak to the lady of the house and anybody you know close by, and a few little bows and smiles will do the rest. Be careful in going to or from the dining-room to wait your turn, and not walk out before those who ought to precede you. Sometimes when the same people are making a longish stay in the house, they draw lots to decide who shall go in with whom by way of variety instead of having always the same partner. Pieces of paper are numbered, two sets alike, and drawn just before dinner, the guests then pairing off according to their numbers, so that a woman or girl with no particular position may find herself in the place of honour at the table, but even so it would be extremely bad taste in her to leave the dining-room first.
When talking do not mention the name of the person you are addressing every time you speak. It has a tiresome effect upon the ear to hear perpetually "Yes, Mrs. ——" "No, Mr. ——" "Do you think so, Lady ——?" "How fine it is to-day, Mr. ——!"
No hard-and-fast rule can be laid down as to how often the name should be mentioned—for, of course, it must be sometimes—but a little careful attention to ordinary conversation will teach you more than any written remarks could, and your own instinct must guide you further in the avoidance of little faults of the kind.
A matter of importance when visiting is to try never to be in the way when you are not wanted, and never out of it when you are wanted. Do not, for example, sit down and make an unrequired third in a conversation carried on between two people who are evidently quite content with each other's society, for they will only wish you anywhere, and, unless you have the constitution of a rhinoceros, the freezing atmosphere will soon bring to your mind a certain proverb which says that "Two's company, but three's none."
Do not insist upon speaking of something which interests you specially when, perhaps, nobody else cares very much about it; and, more than all, do not talk about yourself, your likes and dislikes, your health, etc., etc. It may not be pleasant, but the fact remains that nineteen people out of twenty feel not the smallest interest in you or your concerns except in so far as the outcome is agreeable to them, and this not exactly from want of heart so much as from want of time to stop and consider you, when there are so many others near and dear to them to be thought of. At all events, so it is, and any person who hangs about a room when she might as well go out of it, or worries people by airing her own opinions when nobody wishes to hear them, is decidedly in the way, and neither more nor less than a bore. This rock, i.e., being de trop, may be called the Scylla, while another of quite a contrary kind may be styled the Charybdis in the sea of Society, and both must be steered clear of if the voyage is to be pleasant and successful. The former is the rock on which active and energetic people split, and the latter often makes shipwreck of the more meditative and indolent natures, inclined to let things slip by, unobservant of what is required of them, or, if aware of it, too fond of their own comfort and repose to respond. Judgment and tact are essential in order to avoid running against one or other of these rocks, and perhaps the best preventive of mistakes in the matter will be found in remembering to "do as you would be done by," because, keeping that in mind, you will have only to make a shrewd guess as to what others would like in the same circumstances. Now and then doubtless in carrying out this rule some self-denial is involved, as, for instance, when lawn-tennis, or croquet, or even a walk, is proposed, and you, caring little for physical exertion at any time, and very anxious, moreover, to finish a book you are deep in, feel for a moment disposed to be churlish and refuse to join. Well, then comes in the remembrance of what is due to others, and you put the best face you can on it, get your hat, and go. Or on a wet day somebody wants to play billiards, or battledore and shuttlecock, or something, and you would rather work at a drawing or run through a song or two in the little boudoir where you will disturb nobody, but you are wanted to help brighten up the dreary day, and your private inclinations have to be sacrificed to the good of others. Another thing—— But my paper is growing rather lengthy, and, lest I should be voted a bore and go to pieces on the rock Scylla, I think my remarks had better end here for to-day, the remainder of them, not many now, being laid by for another occasion.
(To be continued.)
