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.
No. 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
ADMIRER.
The above note, in a rather juvenile feminine hand, and breathing a faint
perfume of _violette de Parme_, was part of the morning's mail that I
found lying on my desk a few days ago, in delightful contrast to the
bills and advertisements which formed the bulk of my correspondence. It
would suppose a stoicism greater than I possess, not to have felt a
thrill of satisfaction in its perusal. There was, then, some one who
read with pleasure what I wrote, and who had been moved to consult me on
a question (evidently to her) of importance. I instantly decided to do
my best for the edification of my fair correspondent (for no doubt
entered my head that she was both young and fair), the more readily
because that very question had frequently presented itself to my own mind
on observing the very capricious choice of Dame "Fashion" in the
distribution of her favors.
That there are people who succeed brilliantly and move from success to
success, amid an applauding crowd of friends and admirers, while others,
apparently their superiors in every way, are distanced in the race, is an
undeniable fact. You have but to glance around the circle of your
acquaintances and relations to be convinced of this anomaly. To a
reflecting mind the question immediately presents itself, Why is this?
General society is certainly cultivated enough to appreciate intelligence
and superior endowments. How then does it happen that the social
favorites are so often lacking in the qualities which at a first glance
would seem indispensable to success?
Before going any further let us stop a moment, and look at the subject
from another side, for it is more serious than appears to be on the
surface. To be loved by those around us, to stand well in the world, is
certainly the most legitimate as well as the most common of ambitions, as
well as the incentive to most of the industry and perseverance in life.
Aside from science, which is sometimes followed for itself alone, and
virtue, which we are told looks for no other reward, the hope which
inspires a great deal of the persistent efforts we see, is generally that
of raising one's self and those one loves by one's efforts into a sphere
higher than where cruel fate had placed them; that they, too, may take
their place in the sunshine and enjoy the good things of life. This
ambition is often purely disinterested; a life of hardest toil is
cheerfully borne, with the hope (for sole consolation) that dear ones
will profit later by all the work, and live in a circle the patient
toiler never dreams of entering. Surely he is a stern moralist who would
deny this satisfaction to the breadwinner of a family.
There are doubtless many higher motives in life, more elevated goals
toward which struggling humanity should strive. If you examine the
average mind, however, you will be pretty sure to find that success is
the touchstone by which we judge our fellows and what, in our hearts, we
admire the most. That is not to be wondered at, either, for we have done
all we can to implant it there. From a child's first opening thought, it
is impressed upon him that the great object of existence is to succeed.
Did a parent ever tell a child to try and stand last in his class? And
yet humility is a virtue we admire in the abstract. Are any of us
willing to step aside and see our inferiors pass us in the race? That is
too much to ask of poor humanity. Were other and higher standards to be
accepted, the structure of civilization as it exists to-day would crumble
away and the great machine run down.
In returning to my correspondent and her perfectly legitimate desire to
know the road to success, we must realize that to a large part of the
world social success is the only kind they understand. The great
inventors and benefactors of mankind live too far away on a plane by
themselves to be the object of jealousy to any but a very small circle;
on the other hand, in these days of equality, especially in this country
where caste has never existed, the social world seems to hold out
alluring and tangible gifts to him who can enter its enchanted portals.
Even politics, to judge by the actions of some of our legislators, of
late, would seem to be only a stepping-stone to its door!
"But my question," I hear my fair interlocutor saying. "You are not
answering it!"
All in good time, my dear. I am just about to do so. Did you ever hear
of Darwin and his theory of "selection?" It would be a slight to your
intelligence not to take it for granted that you had. Well, my
observations in the world lead me to believe that we follow there
unconsciously, the same rules that guide the wild beasts in the forest.
Certain individuals are endowed by nature with temperaments which make
them take naturally to a social life and shine there. In it they find
their natural element. They develop freely just where others shrivel up
and disappear. There is continually going on unseen a "natural
selection," the discarding of unfit material, the assimilation of new and
congenial elements from outside, with the logical result of a survival of
the fittest. Aside from this, you will find in "the world," as anywhere
else, that the person who succeeds is generally he who has been willing
to give the most of his strength and mind to that one object, and has not
allowed the flowers on the hillside to distract him from his path,
remembering also that genius is often but the "capacity for taking
infinite pains."
There are people so constituted that they cheerfully give the efforts of
a lifetime to the attainment of a brilliant social position. No fatigue
is too great, and no snubs too bitter to be willingly undergone in
pursuit of the cherished object. You will never find such an individual,
for instance, wandering in the flowery byways that lead to art or
letters, for that would waste his time. If his family are too hard to
raise, he will abandon the attempt and rise without them, for he cannot
help himself. He is but an atom working as blindly upward as the plant
that pushes its mysterious way towards the sun. Brains are not
necessary. Good looks are but a trump the more in the "hand." Manners
may help, but are not essential. The object can be and is attained daily
without all three. Wealth is but the oil that makes the machinery run
more smoothly. The all-important factor is the desire to succeed, so
strong that it makes any price seem cheap, and that can pay itself by a
step gained, for mortification and weariness and heart-burnings.
There, my dear, is the secret of success! I stop because I feel myself
becoming bitter, and that is a frame of mind to be carefully avoided,
because it interferes with the digestion and upsets one's gentle calm! I
have tried to answer your question. The answer resolves itself into
these two things; that it is necessary to be born with qualities which
you may not possess, and calls for sacrifices you would doubtless be
unwilling to make. It remains with you to decide if the little game is
worth the candle. The delightful common sense I feel quite sure you
possess reassures me as to your answer.
Take gayly such good things as may float your way, and profit by them
while they last. Wander off into all the cross-roads that tempt you.
Stop often to lend a helping hand to a less fortunate traveller. Rest in
the heat of the day, as your spirit prompts you. Sit down before the
sunset and revel in its beauty and you will find your voyage through life
much more satisfactory to look back to and full of far sweeter memories
than if by sacrificing any of these pleasures you had attained the
greatest of "positions."
No. 35--Living on your Friends
Thackeray devoted a chapter in "Vanity Fair" to the problem "How to Live
Well on Nothing a Year." It was neither a very new nor a very ingenious
expedient that "Becky" resorted to when she discounted her husband's
position and connection to fleece the tradespeople and cheat an old
family servant out of a year's rent. The author might more justly have
used his clever phrase in describing "Major Pendennis's" agreeable
existence. We have made great progress in this, as in almost every other
mode of living, in the latter half of the Victorian era; intelligent
individuals of either sex, who know the ropes, can now as easily lead the
existence of a multi-millionaire (with as much satisfaction to themselves
and their friends) as though the bank account, with all its attendant
worries, stood in their own names. This subject is so vast, its
ramifications so far-reaching and complicated, that one hesitates before
launching into an analysis of it. It will be better simply to give a few
interesting examples, and a general rule or two, for the enlightenment
and guidance of ingenious souls.
Human nature changes little; all that our educational and social training
has accomplished is a smoothing of the surface. One of the most striking
proofs of this is, that here in our primitive country, as soon as
accumulation of capital allowed certain families to live in great luxury,
they returned to the ways of older aristocracies, and, with other wants,
felt the necessity of a court about them, ladies and gentlemen in
waiting, pages and jesters. Nature abhors a vacuum, so a class of people
immediately felt an irresistible impulse to rush in and fill the void.
Our aristocrats were not even obliged to send abroad to fill these
vacancies, as they were for their footmen and butlers; the native article
was quite ready and willing and, considering the little practice it could
have had, proved wonderfully adapted to the work.
When the mania for building immense country houses and yachts (the owning
of opera boxes goes a little further back) first attacked this country,
the builders imagined that, once completed, it would be the easiest, as
well as the most delightful task to fill them with the pick of their
friends, that they could get all the talented and agreeable people they
wanted by simply making a sign. To their astonishment, they discovered
that what appeared so simple was a difficult, as well as a thankless
labor. I remember asking a lady who had owned a "proscenium" at the old
Academy, why she had decided not to take a box in the (then) new opera-
house.
"Because, having passed thirty years of my life inviting people to sit in
my box, I intend now to rest." It is very much the same thing with
yachts. A couple who had determined to go around the world, in their
lately finished boat, were dumbfounded to find their invitations were not
eagerly accepted. After exhausting the small list of people they really
wanted, they began with others indifferent to them, and even then filled
out their number with difficulty. A hostess who counts on a series of
house parties through the autumn months, must begin early in the summer
if she is to have the guests she desires.
It is just here that the "professional," if I may be allowed to use such
an expression, comes to the front. He is always available. It is
indifferent to him if he starts on a tour around the world or for a
winter spree to Montreal. He is always amusing, good-humored, and can be
counted on at the last moment to fill any vacant place, without being the
least offended at the tardy invitation, for he belongs to the class who
have discovered "how to live well on nothing a year." Luxury is as the
breath of his nostrils, but his means allow of little beyond necessities.
The temptation must be great when everything that he appreciates most
(and cannot afford) is urged upon him. We should not pose as too stern
moralists, and throw stones at him; for there may enter more "best French
plate" into the composition of our own houses than we imagine.
It is here our epoch shows its improvement over earlier and cruder days.
At present no toad-eating is connected with the acceptance of
hospitality, or, if occasionally a small "batrachian" is offered, it is
so well disguised by an accomplished _chef_, and served on such exquisite
old Dresden, that it slips down with very little effort. Even this
rarely occurs, unless the guest has allowed himself to become the inmate
of a residence or yacht. Then he takes his chance with other members of
the household, and if the host or hostess happens to have a bad temper as
a set-off to their good table, it is apt to fare ill with our friend.
So far, I have spoken of this class in the masculine, which is an error,
as the art is successfully practised by the weaker sex, with this shade
of difference. As an unmarried woman is in less general demand, she is
apt to attach herself to one dear friend, always sure to be a lady in
possession of fine country and city houses and other appurtenances of
wealth, often of inferior social standing; so that there is give and
take, the guest rendering real service to an ambitious hostess. The
feminine aspirant need not be handsome. On the contrary, an agreeable
plainness is much more acceptable, serving as a foil. But she must be
excellent in all games, from golf to piquet, and willing to play as often
and as long as required. She must also cheerfully go in to dinner with
the blue ribbon bore of the evening, only asked on account of his pretty
wife (by the bye, why is it that Beauty is so often flanked by the
Beast?), and sit between him and the "second prize" bore. These two
worthies would have been the portion of the hostess fifteen years ago;
she would have considered it her duty to absorb them and prevent her
other guests suffering. _Mais nous avons change tout cela_. The lady of
the house now thinks first of amusing herself, and arranges to sit
between two favorites.
Society has become much simpler, and especially less expensive, for
unmarried men than it used to be. Even if a hostess asks a favor in
return for weeks of hospitality, the sacrifice she requires of a man is
rarely greater than a cotillion with an unattractive debutante whom she
is trying to launch; or the sitting through a particularly dull opera in
order to see her to the carriage, her lord and master having slipped off
early to his club and a quiet game of pool. Many people who read these
lines are old enough to remember that prehistoric period when unmarried
girls went to the theatre and parties, alone with the men they knew. This
custom still prevails in our irrepressible West. It was an arrangement
by which all the expenses fell on the man--theatre tickets, carriages if
it rained, and often a bit of supper after. If a youth asked a girl to
dance the cotillion, he was expected to send a bouquet, sure to cost
between twenty and twenty-five dollars. What a blessed change for the
impecunious swell when all this went out of fashion! New York is his
paradise now; in other parts of the world something is still expected of
him. In France it takes the form of a handsome bag of bon-bons on New
Year's Day, if he has accepted hospitality during the past year. While
here he need do absolutely nothing (unless he wishes to), the occasional
leaving of a card having been suppressed of late by our _jeunesse doree_,
five minutes of their society in an opera box being estimated (by them)
as ample return for a dinner or a week in a country house.