Worldly Ways and Byways

E >> Eliot Gregory >> Worldly Ways and Byways

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What the future of the "Great Faubourg" will be, it is hard to say.
All hope of a possible RESTAURATION appears to be lost. Will the
proud necks that refused to bend to the Orleans dynasty or the two
"empires" bow themselves to the republican yoke? It would seem as
if it must terminate in this way, for everything in this world must
finish. But the end is not yet; one cannot help feeling sympathy
for people who are trying to live up to their traditions and be
true to such immaterial idols as "honor" and "family" in this
discouragingly material age, when everything goes down before the
Golden Calf. Nor does one wonder that men who can trace their
ancestors back to the Crusades should hesitate to ally themselves
with the last rich PARVENU who has raised himself from the gutter,
or resent the ardor with which the latest importation of American
ambition tries to chum with them and push its way into their life.

CHAPTER 31 - Men's Manners

NOTHING makes one feel so old as to wake up suddenly, as it were,
and realize that the conditions of life have changed, and that the
standards you knew and accepted in your youth have been raised or
lowered. The young men you meet have somehow become uncomfortably
polite, offering you armchairs in the club, and listening with a
shade of deference to your stories. They are of another
generation; their ways are not your ways, nor their ambitions those
you had in younger days. One is tempted to look a little closer,
to analyze what the change is, in what this subtle difference
consists, which you feel between your past and their present. You
are surprised and a little angry to discover that, among other
things, young men have better manners than were general among the
youths of fifteen years ago.

Anyone over forty can remember three epochs in men's manners. When
I was a very young man, there were still going about in society a
number of gentlemen belonging to what was reverently called the
"old school," who had evidently taken Sir Charles Grandison as
their model, read Lord Chesterfield's letters to his son with
attention, and been brought up to commence letters to their
fathers, "Honored Parent," signing themselves "Your humble servant
and respectful son." There are a few such old gentlemen still to
be found in the more conservative clubs, where certain windows are
tacitly abandoned to these elegant-mannered fossils. They are
quite harmless unless you happen to find them in a reminiscent
mood, when they are apt to be a little tiresome; it takes their
rusty mental machinery so long to get working! Washington
possesses a particularly fine collection among the retired army and
navy officers and ex-officials. It is a fact well known that no
one drawing a pension ever dies.

About 1875, a new generation with new manners began to make its
appearance. A number of its members had been educated at English
universities, and came home burning to upset old ways and teach
their elders how to live. They broke away from the old clubs and
started smaller and more exclusive circles among themselves,
principally in the country. This was a period of bad manners.
True to their English model, they considered it "good form" to be
uncivil and to make no effort towards the general entertainment
when in society. Not to speak more than a word or two during a
dinner party to either of one's neighbors was the supreme CHIC. As
a revolt from the twice-told tales of their elders they held it to
be "bad form" to tell a story, no matter how fresh and amusing it
might be. An unfortunate outsider who ventured to tell one in
their club was crushed by having his tale received in dead silence.
When it was finished one of the party would "ring the bell," and
the circle order drinks at the expense of the man who had dared to
amuse them. How the professional story-teller must have shuddered
- he whose story never was ripe until it had been told a couple of
hundred times, and who would produce a certain tale at a certain
course as surely as clock-work.

That the story-telling type was a bore, I grant. To be grabbed on
entering your club and obliged to listen to Smith's last, or to
have the conversation after dinner monopolized by Jones and his
eternal "Speaking of coffee, I remember once," etc. added an
additional hardship to existence. But the opposite pose, which
became the fashion among the reformers, was hardly less wearisome.
To sit among a group of perfectly mute men, with an occasional word
dropping into the silence like a stone in a well, was surely little
better.

A girl told me she had once sat through an entire cotillion with a
youth whose only remark during the evening had been (after absorbed
contemplation of the articles in question), "How do you like my
socks?"

On another occasion my neighbor at table said to me:

"I think the man on my right has gone to sleep. He is sitting with
his eyes closed!" She was mistaken. He was practising his newly
acquired "repose of manner," and living up to the standard of his
set.

The model young man of that period had another offensive habit, his
pose of never seeing you, which got on the nerves of his elders to
a considerable extent. If he came into a drawing-room where you
were sitting with a lady, he would shake hands with her and begin a
conversation, ignoring your existence, although you may have been
his guest at dinner the night before, or he yours. This was also a
tenet of his creed borrowed from trans-Atlantic cousins, who, by
the bye, during the time I speak of, found America, and especially
our Eastern states, a happy hunting-ground, - all the clubs,
country houses, and society generally opening their doors to the
"sesame" of English nationality. It took our innocent youths a
good ten years to discover that there was no reciprocity in the
arrangement; it was only in the next epoch (the list of the three
referred to) that our men recovered their self-respect, and assumed
towards foreigners in general the attitude of polite indifference
which is their manner to us when abroad. Nothing could have been
more provincial and narrow than the ideas of our "smart" men at
that time. They congregated in little cliques, huddling together
in public, and cracking personal old jokes; but were speechless
with MAUVAISE HONTE if thrown among foreigners or into other
circles of society. All this is not to be wondered at considering
the amount of their general education and reading. One charming
little custom then greatly in vogue among our JEUNESSE DOREE was to
remain at a ball, after the other guests had retired, tipsy, and
then break anything that came to hand. It was so amusing to throw
china, glass, or valuable plants, out of the windows, to strip to
the waist and box or bait the tired waiters.

I look at the boys growing up around me with sincere admiration,
they are so superior to their predecessors in breeding, in
civility, in deference to older people, and in a thousand other
little ways that mark high-bred men. The stray Englishman, of no
particular standing at home no longer finds our men eager to
entertain him, to put their best "hunter" at his disposition, to
board, lodge, and feed him indefinitely, or make him honorary
member of all their clubs. It is a constant source of pleasure to
me to watch this younger generation, so plainly do I see in them
the influence of their mothers - women I knew as girls, and who
were so far ahead of their brothers and husbands in refinement and
culture. To have seen these girls marry and bring up their sons so
well has been a satisfaction and a compensation for many
disillusions. Woman's influence will always remain the strongest
lever that can be brought to bear in raising the tone of a family;
it is impossible not to see about these young men a reflection of
what we found so charming in their mothers. One despairs at times
of humanity, seeing vulgarity and snobbishness riding triumphantly
upward; but where the tone of the younger generation is as high as
I have lately found it, there is still much hope for the future.

CHAPTER 32 - An Ideal Hostess

THE saying that "One-half of the world ignores how the other half
lives" received for me an additional confirmation this last week,
when I had the good fortune to meet again an old friend, now for
some years retired from the stage, where she had by her charm and
beauty, as well as by her singing, held all the Parisian world at
her pretty feet.

Our meeting was followed on her part by an invitation to take
luncheon with her the next day, "to meet a few friends, and talk
over old times." So half-past twelve (the invariable hour for the
"second breakfast," in France) the following day found me entering
a shady drawing-room, where a few people were sitting in the cool
half-light that strayed across from a canvas-covered balcony
furnished with plants and low chairs. Beyond one caught a glimpse
of perhaps the gayest picture that the bright city of Paris offers,
- the sweep of the Boulevard as it turns to the Rue Royale, the
flower market, gay with a thousand colors in the summer sunshine,
while above all the color and movement, rose, cool and gray, the
splendid colonnade of the Madeleine. The rattle of carriages, the
roll of the heavy omnibuses and the shrill cries from the street
below floated up, softened into a harmonious murmur that in no way
interfered with our conversation, and is sweeter than the finest
music to those who love their Paris.

Five or six rooms EN SUITE opening on the street, and as many more
on a large court, formed the apartment, where everything betrayed
the ARTISTE and the singer. The walls, hung with silk or tapestry,
held a collection of original drawings and paintings, a fortune in
themselves; the dozen portraits of our hostess in favorite roles
were by men great in the art world; a couple of pianos covered with
well-worn music and numberless photographs signed with names that
would have made an autograph-fiend's mouth water.

After a gracious, cooing welcome, more whispered than spoken, I was
presented to the guests I did not know. Before this ceremony was
well over, two maids in black, with white caps, opened a door into
the dining-room and announced luncheon. As this is written on the
theme that "people know too little how their neighbors live," I
give the MENU. It may amuse my readers and serve, perhaps, as a
little object lesson to those at home who imagine that quantity and
not quality is of importance.

Our gracious hostess had earned a fortune in her profession (and I
am told that two CHEFS preside over her simple meals); so it was
not a spirit of economy which dictated this simplicity. At first,
HORS D'OEUVRES were served, - all sorts of tempting little things,
- very thin slices of ham, spiced sausages, olives and caviar, and
eaten - not merely passed and refused. Then came the one hot dish
of the meal. "One!" I think I hear my reader exclaim. Yes, my
friend, but that one was a marvel in its way. Chicken A
L'ESPAGNOLE, boiled, and buried in rice and tomatoes cooked whole -
a dish to be dreamed of and remembered in one's prayers and
thanksgivings! After at least two helpings each to this CHEF-
D'OEUVRE, cold larded fillet and a meat pate were served with the
salad. Then a bit of cheese, a beaten cream of chocolate, fruit,
and bon-bons. For a drink we had the white wine from which
champagne is made (by a chemical process and the addition of many
injurious ingredients); in other words, a pure BRUT champagne with
just a suggestion of sparkle at the bottom of your glass. All the
party then migrated together into the smoking-room for cigarettes,
coffee, and a tiny glass of LIQUEUR.

These details have been given at length, not only because the meal
seemed to me, while I was eating it, to be worthy of whole columns
of print, but because one of the besetting sins of our dear land is
to serve a profusion of food no one wants and which the hostess
would never have dreamed of ordering had she been alone.

Nothing is more wearisome than to sit at table and see course after
course, good, bad, and indifferent, served, after you have eaten
what you want. And nothing is more vulgar than to serve them; for
either a guest refuses a great deal of the food and appears
uncivil, or he must eat, and regret it afterwards. If we ask
people to a meal, it should be to such as we eat, as a general
thing, ourselves, and such as they would have at home. Otherwise
it becomes ostentation and vulgarity. Why should one be expelled
to eat more than usual because a friend has been nice enough to ask
one to take one's dinner with him, instead of eating it alone? It
is the being among friends that tempts, not the food; the fact at
skilful waiters have been able to serve a dozen varieties of fish,
flesh, and fowl during the time you were at table has added little
to any one's pleasure. On the contrary! Half the time one eats
from pure absence of mind, a number of most injurious mixtures and
so prepares an awful to-morrow and the foundation of many
complicated diseases.

I see Smith and Jones daily at the club, where we dine cheerfully
together on soup, a cut of the joint, a dessert, and drink a pint
of claret. But if either Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Jones asks me to
dinner, we have eight courses and half as many wines, and Smith
will say quite gravely to me, "Try this '75 'Perrier Jouet'," as if
he were in the habit of drinking it daily. It makes me smile, for
he would as soon think of ordering a bottle of that wine at the
club as he would think of ordering a flask of nectar.

But to return to our "mutton." As we had none of us eaten too much
(and so become digesting machines), we were cheerful and sprightly.
A little music followed and an author repeated some of his poetry.
I noticed that during the hour before we broke up our hostess
contrived to have a little talk with each of her guests, which she
made quite personal, appearing for the moment as though the rest of
the world did not exist for her, than which there is no more subtle
flattery, and which is the act of a well-bred and appreciative
woman. Guests cannot be treated EN MASSE any more than food; to
ask a man to your house is not enough. He should be made to feel,
if you wish him to go away with a pleasant remembrance of the
entertainment, that his presence has in some way added to it and
been a personal pleasure to his host.

A good soul that all New York knew a few years ago, whose
entertainments were as though the street had been turned into a
SALON for the moment, used to go about among her guests saying,
"There have been one hundred and seventy-five people here this
Thursday, ten more than last week," with such a satisfied smile,
that you felt that she had little left to wish for, and found
yourself wondering just which number you represented in her mind.
When you entered she must have murmured a numeral to herself as she
shook your hand.

There is more than one house in New York where I have grave doubts
if the host and hostess are quite sure of my name when I dine
there; after an abstracted welcome, they rarely put themselves out
to entertain their guests. Black coats and evening dresses
alternate in pleasing perspective down the long line of their
table. Their gold plate is out, and the CHEF has been allowed to
work his own sweet will, so they give themselves no further
trouble.

Why does not some one suggest to these amphitrions to send fifteen
dollars in prettily monogrammed envelopes to each of their friends,
requesting them to expend it on a dinner. The compliment would be
quite as personal, and then the guests might make up little parties
to suit themselves, which would be much more satisfactory than
going "in" with some one chosen at hazard from their host's
visiting list, and less fatiguing to that gentleman and his family.

CHAPTER 33 - The Introducer

WE all suffer more or less from the perennial "freshness" of
certain acquaintances - tiresome people whom a misguided Providence
has endowed with over-flowing vitality and an irrepressible love of
their fellowmen, and who, not content with looking on life as a
continual "spree," insist on making others happy in spite of
themselves. Their name is legion and their presence ubiquitous,
but they rarely annoy as much as when disguised under the mask of
the "Introducer." In his clutches one is helpless. It is
impossible to escape from such philanthropic tyranny. He, in his
freshness, imagines that to present human beings to each other is
his mission in this world and moves through life making these
platonic unions, oblivious, as are other match-makers, of the
misery he creates.

If you are out for a quiet stroll, one of these genial gentlemen is
sure to come bounding up, and without notice or warning present you
to his "friend," - the greater part of the time a man he has met
only an hour before, but whom he endows out of the warehouse of his
generous imagination with several talents and all the virtues. In
order to make the situation just one shade more uncomfortable, this
kindly bore proceeds to sing a hymn of praise concerning both of
you to your faces, adding, in order that you may both feel quite
friendly and pleasant:

"I know you two will fancy each other, you are so alike," - a
phrase neatly calculated to nip any conversation in the bud. You
detest the unoffending stranger on the spot and would like to kill
the bore. Not to appear an absolute brute you struggle through
some commonplace phrases, discovering the while that your new
acquaintance is no more anxious to know you, than you are to meet
him; that he has not the slightest idea who you are, neither does
he desire to find out. He classes you with the bore, and his one
idea, like your own, is to escape. So that the only result of the
Introducer's good-natured interference has been to make two fellow-
creatures miserable.

A friend was telling me the other day of the martyrdom he had
suffered from this class. He spoke with much feeling, as he is the
soul of amiability, but somewhat short-sighted and afflicted with a
hopelessly bad memory for faces. For the last few years, he has
been in the habit of spending one or two of the winter months in
Washington, where his friends put him up at one club or another.
Each winter on his first appearance at one of these clubs, some
kindly disposed old fogy is sure to present him to a circle of the
members, and he finds himself indiscriminately shaking hands with
Judges and Colonels. As little or no conversation follows these
introductions to fix the individuality of the members in his mind,
he unconsciously cuts two-thirds of his newly acquired circle the
next afternoon, and the following winter, after a ten-months'
absence, he innocently ignores the other third. So hopelessly has
he offended in this way, that last season, on being presented to a
club member, the latter peevishly blurted out:

"This is the fourth time I have been introduced to Mr. Blank, but
he never remembers me," and glared coldly at him, laying it all
down to my friend's snobbishness and to the airs of a New Yorker
when away from home. If instead of being sacrificed to the
introducer's mistaken zeal my poor friend had been left quietly to
himself, he would in good time have met the people congenial to him
and avoided giving offence to a number of kindly gentlemen.

This introducing mania takes an even more aggressive form in the
hostess, who imagines that she is lacking in hospitality if any two
people in her drawing-room are not made known to each other. No
matter how interested you may be in a chat with a friend, you will
see her bearing down upon you, bringing in tow the one human being
you have carefully avoided for years. Escape seems impossible, but
as a forlorn hope you fling yourself into conversation with your
nearest neighbor, trying by your absorbed manner to ward off the
calamity. In vain! With a tap on your elbow your smiling hostess
introduces you and, having spoiled your afternoon, flits off in
search of other prey.

The question of introductions is one on which it is impossible to
lay down any fixed rules. There must constantly occur situations
where one's acts must depend upon a kindly consideration for other
people's feelings, which after all, is only another name for tact.
Nothing so plainly shows the breeding of a man or woman as skill in
solving problems of this kind without giving offence.

Foreigners, with their greater knowledge of the world, rarely fall
into the error of indiscriminate introducing, appreciating what a
presentation means and what obligations it entails. The English
fall into exactly the contrary error from ours, and carry it to
absurd lengths. Starting with the assumption that everybody knows
everybody, and being aware of the general dread of meeting
"detrimentals," they avoid the difficulty by making no
introductions. This may work well among themselves, but it is
trying to a stranger whom they have been good enough to ask to
their tables, to sit out the meal between two people who ignore his
presence and converse across him; for an Englishman will expire
sooner than speak to a person to whom he has not been introduced.

The French, with the marvellous tact that has for centuries made
them the law-givers on all subjects of etiquette and breeding, have
another way of avoiding useless introductions. They assume that
two people meeting in a drawing-room belong to the same world and
so chat pleasantly with those around them. On leaving the SALON
the acquaintance is supposed to end, and a gentleman who should at
another time or place bow or speak to the lady who had offered him
a cup of tea and talked pleasantly to him over it at a friend's
reception, would commit a gross breach of etiquette.

I was once present at a large dinner given in Cologne to the
American Geographical Society. No sooner was I seated than my two
neighbors turned towards me mentioning their names and waiting for
me to do the same. After that the conversation flowed on as among
friends. This custom struck me as exceedingly well-bred and
calculated to make a foreigner feel at his ease.

Among other curious types, there are people so constituted that
they are unhappy if a single person can be found in the room to
whom they have not been introduced. It does not matter who the
stranger may be or what chance there is of finding him congenial.
They must be presented; nothing else will content them. If you are
chatting with a friend you feel a pull at your sleeve, and in an
audible aside, they ask for an introduction. The aspirant will
then bring up and present the members of his family who happen to
be near. After that he seems to be at ease, and having absolutely
nothing to say will soon drift off. Our public men suffer terribly
from promiscuous introductions; it is a part of a political career;
a good memory for names and faces and a cordial manner under fire
have often gone a long way in floating a statesman on to success.

Demand, we are told, creates supply. During a short stay in a
Florida hotel last winter, I noticed a curious little man who
looked like a cross between a waiter and a musician. As he spoke
to me several times and seemed very officious, I asked who he was.
The answer was so grotesque that I could not believe my ears. I
was told that he held the position of official "introducer," or
master of ceremonies, and that the guests under his guidance became
known to each other, danced, rode, and married to their own and
doubtless to his satisfaction. The further west one goes the more
pronounced this mania becomes. Everybody is introduced to
everybody on all imaginable occasions. If a man asks you to take a
drink, he presents you to the bar-tender. If he takes you for a
drive, the cab-driver is introduced. "Boots" makes you acquainted
with the chambermaid, and the hotel proprietor unites you in the
bonds of friendship with the clerk at the desk. Intercourse with
one's fellows becomes one long debauch of introduction. In this
country where every liberty is respected, it is a curious fact that
we should be denied the most important of all rights, that of
choosing our acquaintances.

CHAPTER 34 - A Question and an Answer

DEAR IDLER:

I HAVE been reading your articles in The Evening Post. They are
really most amusing! You do know such a lot about people and
things, that I am tempted to write and ask you a question on a
subject that is puzzling me. What is it that is necessary to
succeed - socially? There! It is out! Please do not laugh at me.
Such funny people get on and such clever, agreeable ones fail, that
I am all at sea. Now do be nice and answer me, and you will have a
very grateful

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