THE RULES OF SOCIETY.ByLADY WILLIAM LENNOX.PART III.I leftoff last time in rather an abrupt fashion: but possibly the unfinished condition of my article may—on the principle of serial stories, which always exhibit a certain unexpectedness and incompleteness in their instalments—have given my readers an appetite, so that, like Oliver Twist, they are “ready for more.” I will therefore now proceed to explain what was meant by the “other thing” spoken of at the end of my paper.It had reference to what is often felt to be a difficulty with regard to country house visiting, and consists in not knowing how long to stay. When, as sometimes happens, the duration of the visit is settled and plainly mentioned beforehand, it is a real comfort; for if you are invited for a week, or from such a day to such a day, the dates being given, there is no room for doubt: you know exactly what is expected of you and can make plans to suit. But when the invitation is vague as to its ending, though explicit as to its beginning, and you are asked to “come on the 8th and stay with us; we shall have a few cheery people,” it is hard to say for certain whether the traditional three days, “press day, dress day, and rest day,” as the line runs—though for my part I fail to see where the “rest” day comes in—are intended to cover the time of your visit or whether a week is meant. At all events it is always better to be too short than too long as regards time when others are concerned besides yourself. A prolix, long-winded individual is invariably fled from when he begins to speak, and anybody who gets a reputation for outstaying his or her welcome is not likely to be asked much anywhere. It would be terrible to be known as “that woman who can never be got rid of when she once comes.” Far better is it to arrange for a short visit, and then, should your hostess really wish you to pay a longer one, she can say so and try to persuade you to alter your plans on her behalf. But, unless it is quite clear that your company is still desired, it is wise to keep to your original intention, because sometimes politeness, carried perhaps rather beyond what is necessary, may be misunderstood, as really occurred on one occasion when some people who had paid an unreasonably long visit were leaving the house at last, to the relief of their entertainers. An unlucky impulse prompted the hostess to say, “Good-bye, must you really go?” Whereupon, to her dismay, the departing guests turned with a smile and said, “Oh no, we are not really obliged to go just yet,” and they actually stayed. Here again we may take counsel of the wisest of Books which says, “Remove thy foot from thy neighbour’s house lest he grow weary and hate thee.”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 dogauchethings, 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 younggirls 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 theMorning Post, or would you like theTimesbetter?” and so onad infinitum, is a person to be dreaded. “Kind woman,” say her friends behind her back, “but, oh, if she would only leave us alone!”The essence of good manners, indeed, is to make things as pleasant as possible by letting people follow their own bent and inclination; giving them the chance of joining in something which may be agreeable, but dropping the subject at once if it does not seem to be attractive. Closely connected with this is manner itself, about which it may be said perhaps, “People cannot help their manner.”That is true to a certain extent but not entirely, for a good manner may be cultivated and a bad one discouraged just as flowers may be watered and attended to and weeds rooted out. When I speak of a good manner, I do not mean that specially soft demeanour which reminds one somewhat of a cat and is often accompanied by a little delicately hinted flattery of the person spoken to, although such manner is seldom thrown away, human nature being very prone to approve of flattery under the guise of appreciation. But I do mean gentleness as contrasted with anything like roughness orbrusquerie. The Latin expression “Suaviter in modo” conveys the idea better than any words I know, and, in women particularly, short sharp ways of speaking, over-strong, almost violent, expressions of opinion, and what may be called unoiled words of contradiction, are disagreeable in themselves and dead against every rule and custom of society. If we possess a hand of steel, let us hide it in a velvet glove. The strength will be in no wise impaired thereby, while our neighbours will be less sensible of the hardness.I must now say a word with regard to a curious mistake made sometimes even by people who certainly ought to know better. The mistake is in leaving out part of a person’s name whether in speaking or writing. If, for example, a man is called “Lord Frederick Smith,” or a woman “Lady Mary or Lady Edward Jones,” the Christian name must always be heard: not omitted in favour of the surname only. Indeed very often the former need only be mentioned, but the latter alone must never be. “Lord Smith” or “Lady Jones,” in the cases adduced above would be quite incorrect, but, strange to say, the error is not seldom committed.Finally I will turn to the subject of most women’s pleasure and difficulty, dress. That is to say, dress when staying in country houses, for with respect to London there is no occasion to offer any observations, every woman being a law unto herself, limited only by her own taste and purse. But I know that sometimes, if a visit is imminent, the question “What clothes shall I take?” presents itself to the mind in the light rather of a puzzle far from easy to unravel, especially if ways and means are not remarkable for abundance. Naturally every girl and woman likes to look her best when staying away with the chance of meeting strangers and making a good or bad impression, and in the case of women who have reached the summer or autumn of life, there is one comparatively simple mode of lessening the toilette problem, which is to wear black. Black in good condition, be it understood, because shabby black has about it suggestions of poverty and supreme effort, which are neither becoming nor exhilarating. But silk, satin, velvet, any material really handsome, and lightened by lace and jet, can go anywhere unashamed, while for morning gowns cashmere, foulard, and that haven of refuge, the ubiquitous serge, always look well and do not date themselves too obviously. As for hats and bonnets, everybody can please themselves, remembering, however, that one hat should be fit to stand rain, as nothing has a worse effect than bedraggled ostrich feathers, or artificial flowers and gauze or chiffon crushed flat by a downpour. A short skirt is also an essential, and perhaps, if the purse is as short as the gown, an economy may be arrived at by having two skirts of different length to wear with the same coat. Neat boots of course “go without saying,” and plenty of gloves, a strong pair or two for every day and a store of pretty ones for occasions when they will be wanted. Tweeds and serges, cottons and foulards to suit the season—and the age of the wearer—are the best materials for morning frocks whether in black or colour. Silks and satins are quite out of it in the country except for evening. Tea-gownsversusregular dinner dresses is a question to which an answer vague as those of the Delphic Oracle can only be given, for the excellent reason that the custom in one house is no guide to it in another in the matter. At some places when the party is small and quiet, tea-gowns are quite in order even at dinner, but in others those comfortable garments are relegated to their proper sphere, appearing only at five o’clock tea, the wearers blossoming forth at a later hour in the smartest and most up-to-date of toilettes. Tea-jackets answer the purpose of tea-gowns, but one or other should be packed, although it may chance after all to stay in the wardrobe, never being required either at tea or dinner.Some pretty frocks which would do alike for party or dinner must be taken, and a few odds and ends of ribbon, bits of lace and sprays of artificial flowers, in case real ones are not to be had from the gardener, come in useful especially if an impromptu fancy dress dinner is arranged, and “the shop” in the village, with its stock-in-trade varying from candles and ironmongery to very thin cottony ribbons of abnormal hues, bunches of scarlet geranium, and poppies with woolly buds, is the only place where anything can be got.In deciding what to take and what to leave behind, space necessarily must be considered, and it is astonishing the quantity of things one person will bring out of a box, almost like a conjuror and his inexhaustible hat, while another woman can hardly make the same sized receptacle hold half that number of articles. The difference comes partly from natural genius and partly from habit. In any case it is better to take two or three trunks of moderate dimensions than one mountain, which taxes the strength of even railway-porters, and makes servants look askance when they see a sort of elephant in the hall, waiting to be transported somehow upstairs. More than all, have your luggage tidy, locks secure, straps ditto. Bags and portmanteaus have a way of getting out of order, as regards the spring. I have seen specimens of both, strapped certainly, but not really locked, so that an aperture was visible all along the top, which should have been closed, and I have felt sorry for the owners.These details, although they seem hardly in touch with my subject, are yet not entirely unconnected with it, inasmuch as one rule is to encourage things pleasant, and avoid, or ignore, things disagreeable. The wheels of daily life run over rough as well as smooth ground, and the inevitable jars and concussions would be even more apparent than they are, were it not for the oil provided by the Rules of Society.
THE RULES OF SOCIETY.ByLADY WILLIAM LENNOX.PART III.I leftoff last time in rather an abrupt fashion: but possibly the unfinished condition of my article may—on the principle of serial stories, which always exhibit a certain unexpectedness and incompleteness in their instalments—have given my readers an appetite, so that, like Oliver Twist, they are “ready for more.” I will therefore now proceed to explain what was meant by the “other thing” spoken of at the end of my paper.It had reference to what is often felt to be a difficulty with regard to country house visiting, and consists in not knowing how long to stay. When, as sometimes happens, the duration of the visit is settled and plainly mentioned beforehand, it is a real comfort; for if you are invited for a week, or from such a day to such a day, the dates being given, there is no room for doubt: you know exactly what is expected of you and can make plans to suit. But when the invitation is vague as to its ending, though explicit as to its beginning, and you are asked to “come on the 8th and stay with us; we shall have a few cheery people,” it is hard to say for certain whether the traditional three days, “press day, dress day, and rest day,” as the line runs—though for my part I fail to see where the “rest” day comes in—are intended to cover the time of your visit or whether a week is meant. At all events it is always better to be too short than too long as regards time when others are concerned besides yourself. A prolix, long-winded individual is invariably fled from when he begins to speak, and anybody who gets a reputation for outstaying his or her welcome is not likely to be asked much anywhere. It would be terrible to be known as “that woman who can never be got rid of when she once comes.” Far better is it to arrange for a short visit, and then, should your hostess really wish you to pay a longer one, she can say so and try to persuade you to alter your plans on her behalf. But, unless it is quite clear that your company is still desired, it is wise to keep to your original intention, because sometimes politeness, carried perhaps rather beyond what is necessary, may be misunderstood, as really occurred on one occasion when some people who had paid an unreasonably long visit were leaving the house at last, to the relief of their entertainers. An unlucky impulse prompted the hostess to say, “Good-bye, must you really go?” Whereupon, to her dismay, the departing guests turned with a smile and said, “Oh no, we are not really obliged to go just yet,” and they actually stayed. Here again we may take counsel of the wisest of Books which says, “Remove thy foot from thy neighbour’s house lest he grow weary and hate thee.”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 dogauchethings, 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 younggirls 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 theMorning Post, or would you like theTimesbetter?” and so onad infinitum, is a person to be dreaded. “Kind woman,” say her friends behind her back, “but, oh, if she would only leave us alone!”The essence of good manners, indeed, is to make things as pleasant as possible by letting people follow their own bent and inclination; giving them the chance of joining in something which may be agreeable, but dropping the subject at once if it does not seem to be attractive. Closely connected with this is manner itself, about which it may be said perhaps, “People cannot help their manner.”That is true to a certain extent but not entirely, for a good manner may be cultivated and a bad one discouraged just as flowers may be watered and attended to and weeds rooted out. When I speak of a good manner, I do not mean that specially soft demeanour which reminds one somewhat of a cat and is often accompanied by a little delicately hinted flattery of the person spoken to, although such manner is seldom thrown away, human nature being very prone to approve of flattery under the guise of appreciation. But I do mean gentleness as contrasted with anything like roughness orbrusquerie. The Latin expression “Suaviter in modo” conveys the idea better than any words I know, and, in women particularly, short sharp ways of speaking, over-strong, almost violent, expressions of opinion, and what may be called unoiled words of contradiction, are disagreeable in themselves and dead against every rule and custom of society. If we possess a hand of steel, let us hide it in a velvet glove. The strength will be in no wise impaired thereby, while our neighbours will be less sensible of the hardness.I must now say a word with regard to a curious mistake made sometimes even by people who certainly ought to know better. The mistake is in leaving out part of a person’s name whether in speaking or writing. If, for example, a man is called “Lord Frederick Smith,” or a woman “Lady Mary or Lady Edward Jones,” the Christian name must always be heard: not omitted in favour of the surname only. Indeed very often the former need only be mentioned, but the latter alone must never be. “Lord Smith” or “Lady Jones,” in the cases adduced above would be quite incorrect, but, strange to say, the error is not seldom committed.Finally I will turn to the subject of most women’s pleasure and difficulty, dress. That is to say, dress when staying in country houses, for with respect to London there is no occasion to offer any observations, every woman being a law unto herself, limited only by her own taste and purse. But I know that sometimes, if a visit is imminent, the question “What clothes shall I take?” presents itself to the mind in the light rather of a puzzle far from easy to unravel, especially if ways and means are not remarkable for abundance. Naturally every girl and woman likes to look her best when staying away with the chance of meeting strangers and making a good or bad impression, and in the case of women who have reached the summer or autumn of life, there is one comparatively simple mode of lessening the toilette problem, which is to wear black. Black in good condition, be it understood, because shabby black has about it suggestions of poverty and supreme effort, which are neither becoming nor exhilarating. But silk, satin, velvet, any material really handsome, and lightened by lace and jet, can go anywhere unashamed, while for morning gowns cashmere, foulard, and that haven of refuge, the ubiquitous serge, always look well and do not date themselves too obviously. As for hats and bonnets, everybody can please themselves, remembering, however, that one hat should be fit to stand rain, as nothing has a worse effect than bedraggled ostrich feathers, or artificial flowers and gauze or chiffon crushed flat by a downpour. A short skirt is also an essential, and perhaps, if the purse is as short as the gown, an economy may be arrived at by having two skirts of different length to wear with the same coat. Neat boots of course “go without saying,” and plenty of gloves, a strong pair or two for every day and a store of pretty ones for occasions when they will be wanted. Tweeds and serges, cottons and foulards to suit the season—and the age of the wearer—are the best materials for morning frocks whether in black or colour. Silks and satins are quite out of it in the country except for evening. Tea-gownsversusregular dinner dresses is a question to which an answer vague as those of the Delphic Oracle can only be given, for the excellent reason that the custom in one house is no guide to it in another in the matter. At some places when the party is small and quiet, tea-gowns are quite in order even at dinner, but in others those comfortable garments are relegated to their proper sphere, appearing only at five o’clock tea, the wearers blossoming forth at a later hour in the smartest and most up-to-date of toilettes. Tea-jackets answer the purpose of tea-gowns, but one or other should be packed, although it may chance after all to stay in the wardrobe, never being required either at tea or dinner.Some pretty frocks which would do alike for party or dinner must be taken, and a few odds and ends of ribbon, bits of lace and sprays of artificial flowers, in case real ones are not to be had from the gardener, come in useful especially if an impromptu fancy dress dinner is arranged, and “the shop” in the village, with its stock-in-trade varying from candles and ironmongery to very thin cottony ribbons of abnormal hues, bunches of scarlet geranium, and poppies with woolly buds, is the only place where anything can be got.In deciding what to take and what to leave behind, space necessarily must be considered, and it is astonishing the quantity of things one person will bring out of a box, almost like a conjuror and his inexhaustible hat, while another woman can hardly make the same sized receptacle hold half that number of articles. The difference comes partly from natural genius and partly from habit. In any case it is better to take two or three trunks of moderate dimensions than one mountain, which taxes the strength of even railway-porters, and makes servants look askance when they see a sort of elephant in the hall, waiting to be transported somehow upstairs. More than all, have your luggage tidy, locks secure, straps ditto. Bags and portmanteaus have a way of getting out of order, as regards the spring. I have seen specimens of both, strapped certainly, but not really locked, so that an aperture was visible all along the top, which should have been closed, and I have felt sorry for the owners.These details, although they seem hardly in touch with my subject, are yet not entirely unconnected with it, inasmuch as one rule is to encourage things pleasant, and avoid, or ignore, things disagreeable. The wheels of daily life run over rough as well as smooth ground, and the inevitable jars and concussions would be even more apparent than they are, were it not for the oil provided by the Rules of Society.
ByLADY WILLIAM LENNOX.
I leftoff last time in rather an abrupt fashion: but possibly the unfinished condition of my article may—on the principle of serial stories, which always exhibit a certain unexpectedness and incompleteness in their instalments—have given my readers an appetite, so that, like Oliver Twist, they are “ready for more.” I will therefore now proceed to explain what was meant by the “other thing” spoken of at the end of my paper.
It had reference to what is often felt to be a difficulty with regard to country house visiting, and consists in not knowing how long to stay. When, as sometimes happens, the duration of the visit is settled and plainly mentioned beforehand, it is a real comfort; for if you are invited for a week, or from such a day to such a day, the dates being given, there is no room for doubt: you know exactly what is expected of you and can make plans to suit. But when the invitation is vague as to its ending, though explicit as to its beginning, and you are asked to “come on the 8th and stay with us; we shall have a few cheery people,” it is hard to say for certain whether the traditional three days, “press day, dress day, and rest day,” as the line runs—though for my part I fail to see where the “rest” day comes in—are intended to cover the time of your visit or whether a week is meant. At all events it is always better to be too short than too long as regards time when others are concerned besides yourself. A prolix, long-winded individual is invariably fled from when he begins to speak, and anybody who gets a reputation for outstaying his or her welcome is not likely to be asked much anywhere. It would be terrible to be known as “that woman who can never be got rid of when she once comes.” Far better is it to arrange for a short visit, and then, should your hostess really wish you to pay a longer one, she can say so and try to persuade you to alter your plans on her behalf. But, unless it is quite clear that your company is still desired, it is wise to keep to your original intention, because sometimes politeness, carried perhaps rather beyond what is necessary, may be misunderstood, as really occurred on one occasion when some people who had paid an unreasonably long visit were leaving the house at last, to the relief of their entertainers. An unlucky impulse prompted the hostess to say, “Good-bye, must you really go?” Whereupon, to her dismay, the departing guests turned with a smile and said, “Oh no, we are not really obliged to go just yet,” and they actually stayed. Here again we may take counsel of the wisest of Books which says, “Remove thy foot from thy neighbour’s house lest he grow weary and hate thee.”
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 dogauchethings, 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 younggirls 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 theMorning Post, or would you like theTimesbetter?” and so onad infinitum, is a person to be dreaded. “Kind woman,” say her friends behind her back, “but, oh, if she would only leave us alone!”
The essence of good manners, indeed, is to make things as pleasant as possible by letting people follow their own bent and inclination; giving them the chance of joining in something which may be agreeable, but dropping the subject at once if it does not seem to be attractive. Closely connected with this is manner itself, about which it may be said perhaps, “People cannot help their manner.”
That is true to a certain extent but not entirely, for a good manner may be cultivated and a bad one discouraged just as flowers may be watered and attended to and weeds rooted out. When I speak of a good manner, I do not mean that specially soft demeanour which reminds one somewhat of a cat and is often accompanied by a little delicately hinted flattery of the person spoken to, although such manner is seldom thrown away, human nature being very prone to approve of flattery under the guise of appreciation. But I do mean gentleness as contrasted with anything like roughness orbrusquerie. The Latin expression “Suaviter in modo” conveys the idea better than any words I know, and, in women particularly, short sharp ways of speaking, over-strong, almost violent, expressions of opinion, and what may be called unoiled words of contradiction, are disagreeable in themselves and dead against every rule and custom of society. If we possess a hand of steel, let us hide it in a velvet glove. The strength will be in no wise impaired thereby, while our neighbours will be less sensible of the hardness.
I must now say a word with regard to a curious mistake made sometimes even by people who certainly ought to know better. The mistake is in leaving out part of a person’s name whether in speaking or writing. If, for example, a man is called “Lord Frederick Smith,” or a woman “Lady Mary or Lady Edward Jones,” the Christian name must always be heard: not omitted in favour of the surname only. Indeed very often the former need only be mentioned, but the latter alone must never be. “Lord Smith” or “Lady Jones,” in the cases adduced above would be quite incorrect, but, strange to say, the error is not seldom committed.
Finally I will turn to the subject of most women’s pleasure and difficulty, dress. That is to say, dress when staying in country houses, for with respect to London there is no occasion to offer any observations, every woman being a law unto herself, limited only by her own taste and purse. But I know that sometimes, if a visit is imminent, the question “What clothes shall I take?” presents itself to the mind in the light rather of a puzzle far from easy to unravel, especially if ways and means are not remarkable for abundance. Naturally every girl and woman likes to look her best when staying away with the chance of meeting strangers and making a good or bad impression, and in the case of women who have reached the summer or autumn of life, there is one comparatively simple mode of lessening the toilette problem, which is to wear black. Black in good condition, be it understood, because shabby black has about it suggestions of poverty and supreme effort, which are neither becoming nor exhilarating. But silk, satin, velvet, any material really handsome, and lightened by lace and jet, can go anywhere unashamed, while for morning gowns cashmere, foulard, and that haven of refuge, the ubiquitous serge, always look well and do not date themselves too obviously. As for hats and bonnets, everybody can please themselves, remembering, however, that one hat should be fit to stand rain, as nothing has a worse effect than bedraggled ostrich feathers, or artificial flowers and gauze or chiffon crushed flat by a downpour. A short skirt is also an essential, and perhaps, if the purse is as short as the gown, an economy may be arrived at by having two skirts of different length to wear with the same coat. Neat boots of course “go without saying,” and plenty of gloves, a strong pair or two for every day and a store of pretty ones for occasions when they will be wanted. Tweeds and serges, cottons and foulards to suit the season—and the age of the wearer—are the best materials for morning frocks whether in black or colour. Silks and satins are quite out of it in the country except for evening. Tea-gownsversusregular dinner dresses is a question to which an answer vague as those of the Delphic Oracle can only be given, for the excellent reason that the custom in one house is no guide to it in another in the matter. At some places when the party is small and quiet, tea-gowns are quite in order even at dinner, but in others those comfortable garments are relegated to their proper sphere, appearing only at five o’clock tea, the wearers blossoming forth at a later hour in the smartest and most up-to-date of toilettes. Tea-jackets answer the purpose of tea-gowns, but one or other should be packed, although it may chance after all to stay in the wardrobe, never being required either at tea or dinner.
Some pretty frocks which would do alike for party or dinner must be taken, and a few odds and ends of ribbon, bits of lace and sprays of artificial flowers, in case real ones are not to be had from the gardener, come in useful especially if an impromptu fancy dress dinner is arranged, and “the shop” in the village, with its stock-in-trade varying from candles and ironmongery to very thin cottony ribbons of abnormal hues, bunches of scarlet geranium, and poppies with woolly buds, is the only place where anything can be got.
In deciding what to take and what to leave behind, space necessarily must be considered, and it is astonishing the quantity of things one person will bring out of a box, almost like a conjuror and his inexhaustible hat, while another woman can hardly make the same sized receptacle hold half that number of articles. The difference comes partly from natural genius and partly from habit. In any case it is better to take two or three trunks of moderate dimensions than one mountain, which taxes the strength of even railway-porters, and makes servants look askance when they see a sort of elephant in the hall, waiting to be transported somehow upstairs. More than all, have your luggage tidy, locks secure, straps ditto. Bags and portmanteaus have a way of getting out of order, as regards the spring. I have seen specimens of both, strapped certainly, but not really locked, so that an aperture was visible all along the top, which should have been closed, and I have felt sorry for the owners.
These details, although they seem hardly in touch with my subject, are yet not entirely unconnected with it, inasmuch as one rule is to encourage things pleasant, and avoid, or ignore, things disagreeable. The wheels of daily life run over rough as well as smooth ground, and the inevitable jars and concussions would be even more apparent than they are, were it not for the oil provided by the Rules of Society.