Читать книгу The Art of Entertaining - M. E. W. Sherwood - Страница 5

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"A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrow, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles."

The "house-mother,"—the mistress of servants, the wife, the mother, the hostess—is the first person in the art of entertaining; and considering how busy, how hard worked, how occupied, are American men, she is generally the first person singular. In nine cases out of ten, American men neither know nor care much about the conduct of the house if the wife will assume it; they only like to be made comfortable, and to find a warm, clean home, with a good dinner awaiting them. It is the wife who must struggle with the problems of domestic defeat or victory.

When Washington Irving was presented at the Court of Dresden his Saxon Majesty remarked, "Mr. Irving, with a republic so liberal, you can have no servants in America."

"Yes, Sire, we have servants, such as they are," said the amiable author of the "Sketchbook;" "but we do not call them servants, we call them help."

"I cannot understand that," said the king.

The king's mental position was not illogical; for, with his experience of the servile position of the domestic in Europe, he could not reconcile to his mind the declaration of social equality in America.

The American hostess must, it would seem, for many centuries if not forever, have to struggle against this difficulty. As some writer said twenty years ago, of this question: "Rich as we are in money, profuse in spending it to heighten the enjoyment of life, the good servant, that essential of comfort and luxury, seems beyond our reach. Superfine houses we have, and superfine furniture, and superfine ladies, and all the other superfineties to excess, but the skilful cook, the handy maid, and the trusty nurse we rarely possess."

Thus, afar from the great cities and even in them, we must forge the instruments with which we work, instead of finding them ready to hand, as in other countries. That is to say, the mistress of a household must teach her cook to cook, her waiter to wait, her laundress to get up fine linen. She is happy if she can get honest people and willing hands, but trained servants she durst not expect away from the great centres of life.

Considering what has been expected of the American woman, has she not done rather well? That she must be first servant-trainer, then housekeeper, wife, mother, and conversationist, that she must keep up with the always advancing spirit of the times, read, write, and cipher, be beautifully dressed, play the piano, make the wilderness to blossom as the rose, be charitable, thoughtful, and good, put the mind at its ease, strive to learn how to do all things in the best way, be a student of good taste and good manners, make a house luxurious, ornamental, cheerful, and restful, have an inspired sense of the fitness of things, dress and entertain in perfect accord with her station, her means, and her husband's ambition, master, unassisted, all the ins and outs of the noble art of entertaining—has not this been something of the nature of a large contract?

She must go to the cooking-lecture, come home and visit the kitchen, go to the intelligence office, keeping her hand on all three. She must be the mind, while the Maggies and Bridgets furnish the hands. She must never be fussy, never grotesque; she must steer her ship through stormy seas, and she must also learn to enjoy Wagner's music. There is proverbially no sea so dangerous to swim in as that tumultuous one of a new and illy regulated prosperity; and in the changeful, uncertain nature of American fortunes an American woman must be ready to meet any fate.

Judging from many specimens which we have seen, may we not claim that the American woman must be stamped with an especial distinction? Has she not conquered her fate?

Curiously enough, fashion and good taste seem to lackey to the American woman, no matter where she was born or where educated. In spite of all drawbacks, and the counter-currents of destiny, she is a well bred and tasteful woman. No matter what the American woman has to fight against, poverty or lack of opportunities, she is likely, if she is called upon to do so, to administer gracefully the hospitalities of the White House or to fill the difficult rôle of an ambassadress.

Some of them have bad taste perhaps. "What is good taste but an instantaneous, ready appreciation of the fitness of things?" To most of us who observe it in others, it seems to be an instinct. We envy those few who are always well dressed, who never buy unbecoming stuffs, who have the gift to make their clothes look as if they had simply blossomed out of their inner consciousness, as a rose blossoms out of its calyx. Some women always dress their hair becomingly; others, even if handsome, look like beautiful frights. Some wear their clothes as if they had been hurled at them by a tornado, and remind one of the poor husband's remark, "I feel as if I had married a hurricane." The same exceptions, which only prove the rule, because you notice them, may extend to the housewives who aim at more than they can accomplish, who make their house an anguish to look at, pretentious without beauty, overloaded or incorrect, who have not tact, who say the awkward thing. Such people exist sometimes, sinning from ignorance, but they are decidedly in the minority. The American woman is generally a success. She has fought a hard battle, but she has won. She has had her defeats, however.

Who does not remember the failure of that first dinner-party?—when the baby began to cry so loud; when the hostess was not dressed when the bell rang; when the cook spilled the soup all over the range and filled the house with a bad odour; when the waitress, usually so cool, lost all her presence of mind and fell on the basement stairs, breaking all the plates; when one failure succeeded another until the husband looked reproachfully at his wife, who, poor creature, had been working day and night to get up this dinner, who was responsible for none of the failures, and who had an attack of neuralgia afterward which lasted all winter.

Who has not read Thackeray's witty descriptions of the dinners, poor and pretentious, ordered in from the green-grocer's, and uneatable—in London? "If they would have a leg of mutton and an apple pudding and a glass of sherry, they could do well; but they must shine, they must outdo their neighbours." And that is the first mistake. People with three thousand a year should not try to emulate those who have fifty thousand a year.

And Thackeray says again: "But there is no harm done, not as regards the dinner-givers, though the dinner-eaters may have to suffer. It only shows that the former are hospitably inclined, and wish to do the very best in their power. If they do badly, how can they help it? They know no better."

The first thing at which a young housekeeper must aim is to live well every day. Her tablecloth must be fresh, her glass and silver clean; a few flowers must be on her table to make it dainty, a few dishes well cooked—such a table as will be well for her children and acceptable to her husband; and then she has but to add a little more and it is fit for any guest, and any guest will be glad to join such a dinner-party.

But here I am met by the almost unanswerable argument that the simplest dinner is the most difficult to find. Who knows how to cook a beefsteak, to roast a piece of mutton so that its natural juices are retained—to roast it so that the blood shall follow the knife; to mash potatoes and brown them; to make a perfect rice-pudding that is said to "deserve that cordon bleu which Vatel, Ude, and Bechamel craved"?

The young housekeeper of to-day with very modest means has, however, now to meet a condition of prosperity which even twenty-five years ago was unknown. All extremes of luxury and every element of profusion is now fashionable—one may say expected.

But agreeable young people will be entertained by the man who is worth fifty thousand dollars a day, and they will wish to return the civility. Herein lie the difficulties in the art of entertaining; but let them remember that there is one simple dinner which covers the whole ground, which the poor gentleman may aspire to give, and to which he might invite a prince. The essentials of a comfortable dinner are but few. The beauty of a Grecian vase without ornament is perfect. You may add cameo and intaglio, vine, acanthus leaf, satyrs, and fauns, handles of ram's horns and circlet of gems to your vase if you wish, and are rich enough, but unless the outline is perfect the splendour and the arabesque but render the vase vulgar. So with the simple dinner; it is the Grecian vase unadorned.

Remember that rich people, stifled with luxury at home, like to be asked to these dinners. A lady in England, very much admired for her witty conversation, said she intended to devote herself to the amelioration of the condition of the upper classes, as she thought them the most bored and altogether the least attended to of any people; and we have heard of the rich man in New York who complained that he was no longer asked to the little dinners. There is too much worship and fear of money in our country. In England and on the Continent there is no shame in acknowledging, "I cannot afford it." I have been asked to a luncheon in England where a cold joint of mutton, a few potatoes, and a plate of peaches constituted the whole repast; and I have heard more delightful conversation and have met more agreeable people than at more expensive feasts. Who in America would dare to give such a lunch?

The simple dinner might be characterized, giving the essentials, as a soup, a fish, a roast, one entrée, and a salad, an ice and fruit (simply the fruit in season), a cup of coffee afterward, with a glass of sherry, claret, or champagne. Such a dinner is good enough for anybody, and is possible to the person of moderate means.

From this up to the splendid dinners of millionnaires, served on gold and silver and priceless Sèvres, Dresden, Japanese, and Chinese porcelain, with flagons of ruby glass bound in gold, with Benvenuto Cellini vases, and silver candelabra, the ascent may be gradual. In the one the tablecloth is of spotless damask; in the other it may be of duchesse lace over red. The very mats are mirrors, the crystal drops of the epergne flash like diamonds. It may be served in a picture-gallery. Each lady has a bouquet, a fan, a ribbon painted with her name, a basket or bonbonnière to take home with her. The courses are often sixteen in number, the wines are of fabulous value, antiquity, and age. Each drop is like the River Pactolus, whose sands were of gold. The viands may come from Algiers or St. Petersburg; strawberries and peaches in January, the roses of June in February, fruit from the Pacific, from the Gulf, artichokes from Marseilles, oranges and strawberries from Florida, game from Arizona and Chesapeake Bay, mutton and pheasants from Scotland, luxury from everywhere. The primal condition of this banquet is, that everything should be unusual.

But remember that, after all, it is only the Grecian vase heavily ornamented. No one person can taste half the dishes; it takes a long time, and the room may be too hot. The limitations of a dinner should be considered. It is a splendid picture, no doubt, but it need not appall the young hostess who desires to return the civility.

A vase of flowers or a basket of growing plants can replace the epergne. Some pretty dinner-cards may be etched by herself, with a Shakspearean quotation showing a personal thought of each guest. Her spotless glass and silver, her good soup, her fresh fish, the haunch of venison roasted before a wood fire, the salad mixed by her own fair hands, perhaps a dessert over which she has lingered, a bit of cheese, a cup of coffee, a smiling host, a composed hostess, a congenial company, and wit withal—who shall say that the little dinner is not as amusing as the big dinner? To be composed: yes, that is the first thing to be remembered on the part of a young hostess. She may be essentially nervous and anxious, particularly if she is just beginning to entertain, but here she must resolutely put on a mask of composure, and assume a virtue if she have it not. Nothing is of much importance, excepting her own demeanor. A fussy hostess who scolds the servants, wrinkles her brow, or even forgets to listen to the man who is talking to her is the ruin of a dinner. The author of "Cecil" tells his niece that if stewed puppy-dog is brought to the table she must not notice it. Few hostesses are subjected to so severe an ordeal as this, but the remark contains a goodly hint.

As, however, it is a great intellectual feat to achieve a perfect little dinner with a small household and small means, perhaps that form of entertaining may be postponed a few years. Never attempt anything which cannot be well done. There is the afternoon tea, the musical evening, the reception, the luncheon; they are all easier to give than the dinner. The young hostess ambitious to excel in the art of entertaining can choose a thousand ways. Let her alone avoid attempting the impossible; and let her remember that no success which is not honestly gained is worth a pin. If it is money, it stings; if it is place and position, it becomes the shirt of Nessus.

But for the well mannered and well behaved American woman what a noble success, what a perfect present, what a delightful future there is! She is the founder of the American nobility. All men bow down to her. She is the queen of the man who loves her; he treats her with every respect. She is to teach the future citizen honour, loyalty, duty, respect, politeness, kindness, the law of love. Such a man could read his Philip Sidney and yet not blush to find himself a follower. An American woman wields the only rod of empire to which American men will bow. She should try to be an empress in the best sense of the word; and to a young woman entering society we should recommend a certain exclusiveness. Not snobbish exclusiveness; but it is always well to choose one's friends slowly and with due consideration. We are not the most perfect beings in all the world; we do not wish to be intimate with too much imperfection. A broken friendship is a very painful thing. We should think twice before we give an intimate friendship to any one. No woman who essays to entertain should ask everybody to her house. The respect she owes to herself should prevent this; her house becomes a camp unless she has herself the power of putting a coarse sieve outside the door.

We have no such inviolable virtue that we can as yet rate Dives and Lazarus before they are dead. Very rich people are apt to be very good people; and in the realms of the highest fashion we find the simplest, best, and purest of characters. It is therefore of no consequence as to the shade of fashion and the amount of the rent-roll. It must not be supposed because some leaders of fashion are insolent that all are. A young hostess must try to find the good, true, honourable, generous, well bred, well educated member of society, no matter in what conditions of life. Read character first, and hesitate before drawing general deductions.

A hostess is the slave of her guests after she has invited them; she must be all attention, and all suavity. If she has nothing to offer them but a small house, a cup of tea, and a smile, she is just as much a hostess as if she were a queen. If she offers them every luxury and is not polite, she is a snob and a vulgarian. There is no such detestable use of one's privileges as to be rude on one's ground. "The man who eats your salt is sacred." To patronize is a great necessity to some natures. There is little opportunity for it in free, brave America, but some mistaken hostesses have gone that way. Every one feels pleasantly toward the woman who invites one to her house; there is something gracious in the act. But if, after opening her doors, the hostess refuses the welcome, or treats her guests with various degrees of cordiality, why did she ask at all? Every young American can become a model hostess; she can master etiquette, and create for herself a polite and cordial manner. She should be as serene as a summer's day; she should keep all her domestic troubles out of sight. If she entertains, let her do it in her own individual way—a small way if necessary. There was much in Touchstone's philosophy—"a poor thing, but mine own." She must have the instinct of hospitality, which is to give pleasure to all one's guests; and it seems unnecessary to say to any young American hostess, Noblesse oblige. She should be more polite to the shy, ill-dressed visitor from the country—if indeed there is such a thing left in America, where, as Bret Harte says, "The fashions travel by telegraph"—than to the sweeping city dame, that can take care of herself. A kindly greeting to a gawky youth will never be forgotten; and it is to the humblest that a hostess should address her kindest attentions.

There are born hostesses, like poets, but a hostess can also be made, in which she has the advantage of the poets; and to the very wealthy hostess we should quote this inestimable advice:—