At some of these receptions they had a little music, but at most of them they had no entertainment. For the clever people who went to these receptions did not go long distances to sit like mutes while some third- or fourth- or fortieth-rate artist played or sang; they went to meet other well-known Bohemians—well-known men and charming women. The most successful hosts were those who asked celebrities and pretty people in equal quantities: the celebrities liked meeting pretty people, and the pretty people liked meeting the celebrities.
Some celebrities were quite annoyed if there were only celebrities to meet them; they wanted an audience.
I remember Whistler the painter and Oscar Wilde being the first two people to arrive at a reception at Mrs. Jopling’s house in Beaufort Street, where I had been lunching. They were intensely annoyed at having only the Joplings and myself as audience; it was no good showing off before us, since we knew all about them. They were quite distant to each other, and more distant to us. But as the time wore on, and nobody came, Wilde had time to think of something effective to say—he never spoke, if he could help it, unless he thought he could be effective.
“I hear that you went over to the Salon by Dieppe, Jimmy,” he sneered, “were you economising?”
“Don’t be foolish,” said Whistler. “I went to paint.”
“How many pictures did you paint?” asked the æsthete, with crushing superiority.
Whistler did not appear to hear his question. “How many hours did it take?” he asked.
“You went, not I,” said Oscar. “No gentleman ever goes by the Dieppe route.”
“I do, often,” said our charming hostess, who had this great house in Chelsea, with an acre or two of garden: “it takes five hours.”
“How many minutes are there in an hour, Oscar?” drawled Whistler.