The Twentieth Century
The preceding chapters describe established customs in home entertaining. Such rules remain in force for the home conditions.
But who can live in this electric-motor age without noting the gradual variation in “the ways of doing things”—changes that are directly traceable to the influence of modern inventions? The trolley lines have brought large areas within the city limits; the swift automobile has reduced miles to furlongs. Town and country are intermingled as never before, and each is sensibly modified by the other. By its very name, the “Town and Country” club recognizes this new community of interests. Its members, living even twenty miles away, outdo Sheridan’s ride, in arriving at the club on time for luncheon, golf, or dinner.
Which brings to mind this fact: that to-day a large part of formal entertaining in cities is no longer at home. Elaborate dinners, teas, and luncheons are given at one’s club, or at cafes, exclusive “tea rooms,” and in the elegantly appointed private dining-rooms now provided by the best hotels. After-theatre suppers are almost invariably taken at a fashionable restaurant—doubtless greatly to the relief of both the hostess and her housemaids. While cooperative housekeeping is still an undeveloped scheme, things seem to be trending that way.
The multiplication of huge apartment houses (and diminutive apartments) is the other prime factor in the case. While the hotel dinner may have come into fashion first as the dire necessity of the “cliff dwellers,” its convenience appeals to many householders who formerly would not have dreamed of offering their guests the hospitality of a cafe. Many conservative people still deplore the innovation; but fashion approves, and the custom grows.
Entertaining at one’s club is governed by the rules of that particular club. When entertaining at tea rooms, or cafes, one has simply to arrange with the superintendent or the head waiter, for tables or private dining-room, for the date chosen; to choose the menu, and order the decorations. This done, the entertainers and their friends have but to appear at the stated hour and play their respective roles with care-free grace. These dinners may be given by a bachelor, to a mixed company, or to a bevy of the debutantes, with the co-operation of a society matron or a married couple to chaperone the affair. This is a very pleasant way for a bachelor to make return for the social attentions showered on himself.
This way of entertaining may be lavishly expensive, but it is not necessarily so; all things considered, it may not greatly exceed the cost of similar entertaining at home. In this land of the free, any one who will may give a tea room luncheon. But the semi-publicity of these functions invites criticism; and people of moderate income discreetly forbear attempting anything too ambitious for their obvious means. Elegant simplicity is always good form.
The universal use of the telephone is another factor in the modification of social customs. Among familiar friends, the little chat over the ‘phone largely takes the place of the informal call. Also, invitations to any but strictly formal functions are now sent by telephone, if agreeable to both parties; though it is still considered better to adhere to the more respectful written form if there is any doubt about the new way being acceptable to the party of the second part. While I counsel conservatism in these changes, I am convinced that the new dynasty of wire and wireless is destined to dominate us; and as discovery continues and inventions multiply, the time is near when immediate communication will be had at long range; possibly telepathy—who knows? Or, possibly tele-photography with it—why not? Then, the slow, laborious writing of messages will be as much out of date as the super-annuated stage-coach.
But—not yet; we are still in the process of evolution. It is still safe to heed Pope’s famous advice:
“Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”
“THE STRANGER THAT IS WITHIN THY GATES”
It is the duty of the host or hostess to give a polite and cheerful welcome to the guest whom they have invited to cross their threshold. During the time that she remains under their roof they have the responsibility of making her comfortable, and as happy as possible. To do this, attention to details is of the greatest consequence. It is possible to give dinners, and musicales, and receptions for a guest, and to introduce her to a choice circle of friends; to plan drives and excursions for sight-seeing to points of interest; to bring out the best preserves from the store-room, and put on the table all the delicacies of the season; and yet something may be lacking. A subtle expression of discomfort may at times cloud the face of the guest, and greatly disturb the anxious hostess, who redoubles her efforts to think of something else in the way of entertainment and diversion. If this well-meaning hostess will accompany me to the guest-room while its temporary occupant is reading on the “front porch,” perhaps I can point out to her some things that will give a clue to the mystery.
The guest-room is large and airy, and “well-furnished,” as the phrase goes, with a soft carpet prevailingly blue, and a prettily carved oaken “set.” The bed is covered with a lace counterpane over a blue silk quilt, and downy pillows invite to slumber. Curtains of blue silk and white lace are draped at the windows; cushions, tidies, sachets, gim-cracks of every description load the bureau, and lie around in profusion; a pretty rug of fluffy fur is spread before a comfortable couch, and a rocking-chair and foot-stool are in the cozy window recess. A small table with a vase of flowers upon it occupies one space against the wall. The wash-stand bears the regulation “toilet set,” bowl and pitcher, soap-dish, etc., with the china jar set in the corner. Plenty of damask towels hang on the rack, and the “splasher” is a marvel of needlework. Well, is not this a pretty comfortable room?
It seems ungracious to answer nay; but truth compels me to say that it proves to be a most uncomfortable room, as managed. Since the guest arrived, this three-quart pitcher has been filled each morning with cold water. Beyond this, no offer of the aqueous element in any form has been made. The guest, accustomed at home to an abundance of hot water, and the luxury of a bath daily—or oftener, at will—has been suffering the greatest privation rather than trouble her hostess with a request for something which is so evidently not thought of in this house. With soap that “chaps,” and a stiff nail-brush she has painfully scrubbed her cold knuckles to remove the grime which several days of imperfect ablution has rendered almost immovable—except as the skin comes with it. And as to her customary bath, she has substituted so much of hasty sponging as chattering teeth will allow, finishing off with a dry polish when prudence forbids further risk of a chill; and she has completed her toilet with a sense of self-disgust, and a dissatisfaction with her surroundings which makes her long for the day set for the termination if this visit, which might have been so pleasant, if she had been made physically comfortable. When she goes home she will answer, to the kind inquiries of her mother: “Oh! yes; I had a lovely time!—or that is, I should have had, if only I could have had a bath!”
Whether it is that some people do not care for bathing, and therefore do not realize its necessity to the comfort of other people; or whether they have an idea that a “guest” is a being who, while in that role, needs none of the ordinary comforts of every-day life; or, whatever the reason may be, this failure to provide bath facilities is one of the most common and flagrant neglects of hospitality.
When the guest-room has no private bath attached, and it is impracticable to offer the use of the family bath-room, a small tub of zinc or granite ware should be included in the furnishing of the guest-room, together with a square of thin oil-cloth to spread on the carpet. The guest should be informed that hot water is always in readiness to be brought to her room whenever she requires it. In country houses having no “modern conveniences,” every kitchen stove may have an ample boiler always filled with clean water, so that at all times hot water may be available for bathing purposes. It is unpardonable to live without at least this much provision for an essential condition of civilized life—“the cleanliness that is next to godliness.”
In addition to the water supply, the guest-room should contain other requisites for a comfortable toilet. Presumably, every guest who comes for a several-days’ stay brings with her the small articles she will need; but oversights are frequent in hurried packing, and the resources of the guest-room should be equal to any such emergency, even though only a part of the provision is required in any one case. A neat, close cabinet, with a closet beneath and shelves above, is a desirable piece of furniture. In the closet the bath-tub can be stored, and bath-brushes, “loofahs,” and sponges can be hung up while the shelves may hold a supply of toilet sundries; for example, a flask of bay rum, and one of violet-water; a bottle of spirits of ammonia, a bottle of alcohol, a spirit lamp and curling tongs, tooth-powder, rosewater, and glycerine; a jar of fine cold-cream, hair-brush and combs, a clothes-brush, a whisk broom, a reserve supply of soap—“Ivory” (if the water is hard, this soap is superior for the bath) and fine castile, and a delicately-scented soap of first quality. The cheap “scented” abominations should not be inflicted on a guest.
The dressing-table should have a supply of pins in variety, including hairpins; a work-box, containing needles and thread, a thimble, scissors, tape, shoe-buttons, etc. A bottle of cologne and also of some first-class “triple extract” should stand on the bureau.
With all this provided, one is not likely to lack any comfort for the toilet; yet, with it all, the hostess should make her guest understand that the motto is: “If you don’t see what you want, ask for it.” This freedom will not be taken by a sensitive guest unless it is clearly invited. The self-complacent way in which a hostess sometimes ushers a guest into the “best room,” and then leaves her to the mercy of what she can find—or, rather, cannot find—forestalls all requests for additional supplies. In the midst of all the satin and lace flummery, it is pathetic to suffer in silence for the lack of a little beggarly hot water. And yet, such is the experience of many an “honored guest.”
Beside the toilet comforts, there are other things that may well be added to the equipment of the guest-room. One, in particular, is a well-appointed little writing-desk, containing all the requisites for letter-writing, including stamps. Perhaps the guest has brought these things with her, more likely she has forgotten them, and it may be a matter of great convenience to her to find this little desk awaiting her. If there is a shelf above, a selection of standard and entertaining books may be placed thereon. The Bible, a book of Common Prayer, a hymnal, may be included; a copy of Shakespeare, a dictionary, some clever and interesting book, like Curious Questions, and a volume or two of sketches and essays, ranging in style from Emerson to Jerome K. Jerome, may agreeably fill the mid-day hour of rest which the guest takes in her room before dressing for the afternoon. The only trouble is that the guest who is made so thoroughly comfortable may forget to go home. At all events, she will no doubt hail with delight a second invitation to come.
It may be objected that to keep the guest-room supplied to this extent would involve a considerable expense; but that would depend on the character of the guest. No well-bred woman would depend on these “supplies” for the entire period of a long visit. They are there to meet the emergency of a belated trunk, of something forgotten or overlooked, or the delays in making necessary purchases after her arrival. She will gratefully accept the cologne until her own flask is unpacked, but she leaves the guest-room supply but little diminished when she departs.
The hostess who has been embittered by seeing only a train of empty bottles in the wake of a departing guest may naturally feel discouraged about offering unlimited hospitality in the matter of druggists’ sundries. But it is merely that she has been unfortunate in her guests. She should revise her visiting list. In entertaining the right sort of people, she will have no such experience. She will be fully rewarded for every care she bestows to make her house a home-like resort, and she will find that the cost amounts to very little compared with the large return it brings in the way of social appreciation, to say nothing of the satisfaction afforded to her own benevolent impulses. “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” as the ideal hostess can testify.