While on this subject it may be well to remark that the same rule applies to all visits, even what are called “morning” visits—calls made because they must be made more than with the idea of any pleasure to be evolved therefrom. The temptation to remain too long in such cases is, of course, not great, but it does not follow necessarily that the visitor goes just when she ought. Shyness, a sort of difficulty in finding the right moment in which to get up and say good-bye, perhaps sometimes a feeling that you have seemed stupid and dull, and that you must try and sparkle somewhat before you go, to take away the bad impression given of your abilities; all sorts of little under-currents common to human nature seem at times to hamper people and make them do gauche things, among them being that of sitting on when they ought to leave.
Even if you are with a friend, not an ordinary acquaintance, and have lunched with her, it is better to make a move to depart soon after; for although you may have nothing particular to do that day, she may have, and in London especially there is such a pressure of things which must be got through somehow that few of us can afford to let our afternoon slip away, and with it the chance of seeing such a person, going to such a shop, writing important letters, etc., etc.
Now I will return to the country house, to make a few observations, this time not to the visitors, but to the visited; and, as I have all through my articles tried to make it clear that I do not address myself to people who live in luxury, I wish to repeat that fact, and to say that I have not “in my mind’s eye” a magnificent castle with everything to match, but a house on a modest scale and establishment ditto.
You, inhabiting a nice, comfortable abode of the kind, have bidden some guests to come and stay; perhaps for an “At Home” in the neighbourhood, perhaps with no special object in view; but the country is pretty, they can walk or “bike,” and there is the pony-carriage and possibly a dog-cart, useful for men in the shooting-season.
Well, first I hope you have not asked too many, for, except in the case of very young girls who have scarcely been out anywhere, and to whom a gathering means Elysium, never mind what inconveniences in the shape of an over full house—sofas to sleep upon and hardly room to dress in—are attached to it, nobody likes discomfort, and cramming ten people in where there is only space for eight, or less, does not conduce to comfort. Besides, too many guests means too few servants for the unwonted crowd, and consequently work has to be hurried through and, in artistic parlance, “scamped.”
Then you have dust not only lurking in corners but coming boldly forth to view on carpets and furniture, glass and china dull and knives ditto, flowers drooping, half-dead for want of water; in fact a complete absence of those details which spell first cleanliness and then charm in a house, and, taking them as a whole, make the difference between enjoyment of daily life and the mere endurance of it for the sake of some brilliant hours in prospect.
It is the business of a hostess to see that her staff of servants is equal to the demands made upon it, and then to exact thoroughness in the work done; outside which there remain many small matters for her personal attention, such as putting writing materials in the bedrooms, cards on which are printed the hours for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and the arrival and departure of the post; and if in addition to this a time-table of trains to and from London is annexed, it will be found of great value in sparing somebody the headache which so often accompanies a prolonged study of Bradshaw. A few books also, suited to the tastes of whoever is to occupy the room, should always be left on a shelf or table. They look comfortable and are generally appreciated.
The mistress of a house must of course show a pleasant countenance of welcome to her visitors, and should be quick to notice little signs of fatigue in the elders, contriving to spare them too much talking when they ought to be resting, without at all suggesting that repose was needful because they are not quite as young as they were, a thing which nobody likes to believe patent to an ordinary observer. With the younger members of the party she must be as bright and “full of life” as her physical and mental constitution will allow; ready to make plans for amusement, and as far as circumstances admit, arrange them to suit the different dispositions of her guests; not forcing the naturally inactive ones to join in outdoor games, scramble through woods, or take part in picnics when a chilly wind is blowing, and black clouds render precautionary umbrellas and waterproofs necessary items in the outfit; nor, on the other hand, obliging the athletic, to whom movement is indispensable and good bracing air a regular “pick-me-up,” to sit in the house because the weather is bad, when they are really longing to don thick boots and defy the elements with the weapons of youth and health.
But while trying your best to provide some sort of amusement for your guests, never forget to “leave well alone,” and your visitors also. If there is one thing more objectionable than another to many people, it is being “hiked about,” and told to go here and there, or do this and that, when they do not want either to go to or do the place or thing suggested. Talleyrand once said to a man who asked counsel of him respecting a project he had very much at heart, “Surtout pas trop de zèle,” and that advice it is well to bear in mind. We all know the proverb, “One may have too much of a good thing,” and “zeal,” excellent in itself, is apt if over-much indulged to become a nuisance to the object if not the subject thereof.
The hostess who, with the best intentions, insists on driving her friends even to things they like doing, who says, “Now I know what will suit you—the old ruins. We will go there to-day, and to-morrow is the Gymkana. We must all go there. Headache, did you say? Oh, I thought you never had headaches, but anyhow a nice little drive just to the ruins can’t hurt. In fact the air will do you good. Now, you, I know you would rather stay in, so take that comfortable chair, and there’s your book, I put it ready for you, and there’s the Morning Post, or would you like the Times better?” and so on ad infinitum, is a person to be dreaded. “Kind woman,” say her friends behind her back, “but, oh, if she would only leave us alone!”