THE ENTREE.
A lady is said to have the _entree_ of her friend's room, when she is
allowed or assumes the privilege of entering it familiarly at all times,
and without any previous intimation--a privilege too often abused. In
many cases, the visited person has never really granted this privilege,
(and after growing wise by experience, she rarely will;) but the
visiter, assuming that she herself must, under all circumstances, be
welcome, carries her sociability so far as to become troublesome and
inconvenient. Consequently, their friendship begins to abate in its
warmth. No one likes to be annoyed, or be intruded on at all hours. So
the visited begins to think of the adage, "My room is my castle," and
the visiter finds that seeing a friend under all circumstances somewhat
diminishes respect, and that "familiarity brings contempt."
There are few occasions on which it is well, on entering a house, to run
directly to the chamber of your friend, and to bolt into her room
without knocking; or the very instant _after_ knocking, before she has
time to desire you to enter, or to make the slightest arrangement for
your reception. You may find her washing, or dressing, or in bed, or
even engaged in repairing clothes,--or the room may be in great
disorder, or the chambermaid in the act of cleaning it. No one likes
unseasonable interruptions, even from a very dear friend. That friend
would be dearer still, if she had sufficient tact and consideration to
refrain from causing these annoyances. Also, friendships are not always
lasting--particularly those that become inordinately violent, and where
both parties, by their excessive intimacy, put themselves too much into
each other's power. Very mortifying disclosures are sometimes made after
a quarrel, between two Hermias and Helenas, when recrimination begins to
come, and mutual enmity takes the place of mutual kindness.
A familiar visit will always begin more pleasantly, if the visiter
enquires of the servant at the door if the lady she wishes to see is at
home, and then goes into the parlour, and stays there till she has sent
her name, and ascertained that she can be received up-stairs.[3] Then
(and not till then) let her go to her friend's room, and still remember
to knock at the door before she enters. Let her have patience till her
friend bids her come in, or has time to rise, cross the room, and come
to open the door, if it is fastened.
It is extremely rude, on being admitted to a private apartment, to look
curiously about, as if taking an inventory of all that is to be seen. We
have known ladies whose eyes were all the time gazing round, and even
slily peering under tables, sofas, &c.; turning their heads to look
after every person who chanced to be moving about the room, and giving
particular attention to whatever seemed to be in disorder or out of
place. Nay, we have known one who prided herself upon the gentility of
her forefathers and foremothers, rise from her seat when her hostess
opened a bureau-drawer, or a closet-door, and cross the room, to stand
by and inspect the contents of said bureau or closet, while open--a
practice very common with ill-taught _children_, but which certainly
should be rebuked out of them long before they are grown up.
Make no remark upon the work in which you find your friend engaged. If
she lays it aside, desire her not to quit it because of your presence;
but propound no questions concerning it. Do not look over her books, and
ask to borrow them. In short, meddle with nothing.
Some ladies never enter the room of an intimate friend without
immediately exclaiming against its heat or its cold--seldom the latter,
but very frequently the former, as it is rather fashionable to be always
too warm; perhaps because it makes them seem younger. If they really are
uncomfortably warm on a very cold day, we think it can only be from the
glow produced by the exercise of walking. This glow must naturally
subside in a few minutes, if they would sit down and wait with a little
patience, or else avail themselves of the fan which ought to be at hand
in every room. We have known ladies of this warm temperament, who had
sufficient consideration always to carry a pocket-fan in winter as well
as summer. This is far better than to break out instantly with a
complaint of the heat of the room, or to run and throw up a window-sash,
or fling open the door, at the risk of giving cold to others. No
intimacy can authorize these freedoms in a cold day, unless permission
has first been asked, and sincerely granted.
If you are perfectly certain that you have really the entree of your
friend's room, and even if she has the same of yours, you have no right
ever to extend that privilege to any other person who may chance to be
with you when you go to see her. It is taking an unjustifiable liberty
to intrude a stranger upon the privacy of her chamber. If another lady
is with you, waive your privilege of entree for that time, take your
companion into the parlour, and send up the names of both, and do not
say, "Oh! come up, come up--I am on no ceremony with her, and I am sure
she will not _mind you_." And how can you be sure? Perhaps in reality,
she _will_ mind her very much, and be greatly discomfited, though too
polite to appear so.
There are certain unoccupied females so over-friendly as to take the
entree of the whole house. These are, generally, ultra-neighbourly
neighbours, who run in at all hours of the day and evening; ferret out
the ladies of the family, wherever they may be--up-stairs or down; watch
all their proceedings when engaged, like good housewives, in inspecting
the attics, the store-rooms, the cellars, or the kitchens. Never for a
moment do they seem to suppose that their hourly visits may perhaps be
inconvenient or unseasonable; or too selfish to abate their frequency,
even when they suspect them to be so, these inveterate sociablists make
their incursions at all avenues. If they find that the front-door is
kept locked, they glide down the area-steps, and get in through the
basement. Or else, they discover some back-entrance, by which they can
slip in at "the postern-gate"--that is, alley-wise:--sociablists are not
proud. At first, the sociablist will say, on making her third or fourth
appearance for the day, "Who comes to see you oftener than I?" But after
awhile even this faint shadow of an apology is omitted--or changed to
"Nobody minds _me_." She is quite domesticated in your house--an
absolute _habitue_. She sees all, hears all, knows all your concerns. Of
course she does. Her talk _to_ you is chiefly gossip, and therefore her
talk _about_ you is chiefly the same. She is _au-fait_ of every thing
concerning your table, for after she has had her dinner at her own home,
she comes bolting into your dining-room and "sits by," and sees you eat
yours. It is well if she does not begin with "a look in" upon you before
breakfast. She finds out everybody that comes to your house; knows all
your plans for going to this place or that; is well acquainted with
every article that you wear; is present at the visits of all your
friends, and hears all their conversation. Her own is usually "an
infinite deal of nothing."
A sociablist is commonly what is called good-natured, or else you would
not endure her at all--and you believe, for a time, that she really has
an extraordinary liking for you. After awhile, you are undeceived. A
coolness ensues, if not a quarrel, and you are glad to find that she
carries her sociability to another market, and that a new friend is now
suffering all that you have experienced. To avoid the danger of being
overwhelmed by the sociability of an idle neighbour, discourage the
first indications of undue intimacy, by making your own visits rather
few, and rather far between. A young lady of good sense, and of proper
self-respect, will never be too lavish of her society; and if she has
pleasant neighbours, will visit them always in moderation. And their
friendship will last the longer.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] If the visiter has been properly announced, a well-trained servant
will, in all probability, run up before her, and open the room-door.