If you attend her "Wednesdays" in December you will be ushered in by a neat little maid in frilled cap and apron and black sateen gown. You will find your hostess in the parlor with half-a-dozen others, and, think you have a glimpse into Japanese fairyland. The den is somewhat denuded of its ordinary furnishings, but the bizarre posters still remain on the walls, and the couch, covered with a scrawly Japanese creton, is still in evidence. Wires are stretched from picture moulding to picture moulding, and Japanese lanterns swing gayly from above. In one corner a huge paper umbrella, dangling with unlighted lanterns, bright hued and tiny, swings over a low tea table, at which sits one of the hostess' friends in Japanese array. Her dark eyes, blackened into almond-shaped slits, vie with her decorated hair in foreign effect. From dainty little Japanese cups we drink the tea she makes for us and thank fortune there is one woman in the world at least who dares trifle with the conventional "at home" and eliminate its objectionable features. While drinking your tea you nibble at rolled Tutti Fruitti wafers, munch delicious home-made bonbons, stuffed figs and nougat (for which your hostess is so famous), revel in a huge Japanese jar (strangely like a familiar umbrella stand) which holds five great ragged yellow chrysanthemums with stems nearly three feet long, and finally settle yourself down to listen to some quaint little love song, with guitar accompaniment, sung by a dear little maid with bronze-brown hair.
This hostess limits each "at home" to twenty-five, so small a number it makes the average hostess smile, but, if necessary, gives four or five through the winter, as she needs no service beyond that of her own maid, making the expense marvelously small. She has many friends who feel as you do, that one bid to a sociable little "five o'clock" in her doll-house flat is worth all the receptions of a week on gay upper Fifth Avenue.
The first Saturday evening in each month, from November until April, she and her husband are at home to his bachelor friends and any young married people who can endure the suffocating atmosphere. All the easy chairs are pressed into service, the little iron lanterns blink joyously, and story-telling, music and smoking are the order of the evening. The light being dim, positions are uncertain and bachelor manners prevail, so unrestrained jollity reigns, and though the people in the other flats may hear the echoing laughter they pass it over with a good natured tolerance and wonder what there is that is so funny.
About half-past ten, when stories wane and a change seems desirable, the little low tea table appears and a rarebit, souffle of oysters, or some chafing-dish dainty, is prepared by the hostess. Occasionally, when one of the men has a firmly founded reputation for some special dish he is asked to officiate, which he does amid the joyous jokes of his roistering colleagues, while everyone within reach renders able assistance and the others keep up a running fire of disabling comments.
If one is willing to take advantage of their very present opportunities it seems to me that limited means lose half their disadvantages. Choose your apartment with a view to entertaining. If your bed-room opens from the parlor make it dainty and sweet and close the portieres until merely a glimpse appears.
Wax your hardwood floors and keep them shining like mirrors; if rugs are scarce they will be a good apology. Make your friends welcome and give them a good time when they come. An old-fashioned candy-pull is often more entertaining than the most elaborately prepared function.
A Stag Supper. 1.
In the main room have a mellow light from two or three swinging iron lanterns and several in Japanese paper. Off in one of the corners, have a cut-glass bowl filled with punch and around it a ring of smilax. The guests select their places by each choosing the name of one of six popular actresses. A silver tray containing six small blank envelopes is passed, and in each envelope is enclosed one of the host's cards, on the back of which is inscribed the name of an actress. Passing into the dining-room they find, at each place, a photo to correspond, on the back of which is written some well-known quotations from the actresses' most famous plays. These photos are removed from their original cards by soaking, and are rebuffed and mounted on rectangular mats of dull gray, on which the inscriptions are written in white ink.
In the dining room over the heavy damask cloth, is stretched a quaint old German table runner, reaching from end to end of the table. In the center, embroidered in the red cotton used in such work, hospitality encourages jollity in the familiar old motto, "Ein froher Gast is Niemand's Last" (a merry guest is no one's burden). "Wein, Weib und Geasang," the faithful trio, is all represented. At each place, beside the napkin, is a rich red rose, just large enough to form a dainty boutonniere.
Mounds of red pickled cabbage accompany the oysters, rich tomato soup follows, and the nougat ice cream is decorated with candied cherries.