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.