Of course I don't try to give dinners at home. The difficulties and
anxieties are too enormous. First there is inviting the people. I like
to have none but very clever men and very pretty women, but nobody's
acquaintance is limited to those rare beings, and, if I did invite
them, they would all have previous engagements: I do not blame them.
But suppose that two or three of the wits and beauties accept, that
is worse than ever, because the rest are a Q.C. (who talks about
his cases) and his wife, who talks about her children. An old
school-fellow, who has no conversation that does not begin, "I say, do
you remember old JACK WILLIAMS." This does not entertain the beauty,
who sits next him.
A Dowager Duchess, she knows none of the other people and wonders
audibly (to me) who they are. A clever young man, whose language is
the language of the future, and whose humour is of a date to which I
humbly hope my own days may not be prolonged. A Psychical Researcher,
with a note-book; he gets at the Duchess at once, and cross-examines
her about a visionary Piper who plays audible pibrochs through Castle
Blawearie, her ancestral home. Does she think the pibroch could be
taken down in a phonograph. Could the Piper be snapped in a kodak?
The Duchess does not know what a phonograph is; never heard of a
kodak. She does not like the note-book any more than _Mr. Pickwick's_
cabman liked it. She is afraid of getting into print. Then there is
the Warden of St. Jude's, a great scholar; he pricks up his ears,
not the keenest, at the word kodak, and begins to talk about a
newly-discovered _Codex_ of PODONIAN the Elder. Nobody knows what
a _Codex_ is. There is a School-board Lady, but, alas, she is next
the Warden of St. Jude's, not next the enthusiastic Clergyman, who
proses about a Club for Milliners. There is GRIGSBY, who develops an
undesirable interest in the Milliners' Club. Have they a Strangers'
Room? Do they give suppers? Are they Friendly Girls? Everyone thinks
GRIGSBY flippant and coarse; I wish I had not asked him to come. There
is a Positivist, who sneers at the Clergyman; there are a Squire and
his wife from Rutlandshire: she is next the Radical Candidate for the
Isle of Dogs. They do not seem to get on well together. GRIGSBY and
the humorist of the future are chaffing each other across the table:
nobody understands them; I don't know whether they are quarrelling
or not. Miss JONES, the authoress of _Melancholy Moods_ (in a
Greek dress, with a _pince-nez_: a woman should not combine these
attributes) is next the Squire: he has never heard of any of her
friends the Minor Poets: she takes no interest in Hay, nor in Tithes.
I see the Guardsman and the Beauty looking at each other across the
flowers and things: the language of their eyes is not difficult, nor
pleasant, to read. Why is the champagne so hot, and why are the ices
so salt and hard? I know something is the matter with the claret:
something is always the matter with the claret. It has been iced, and
the champagne has been standing for days in an equable temperature of
65°.
[Illustration: "It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, Bielby
_will_ have something to drink, and another cigar--a very large one."]
When they want to go away, it is a wet night, and those who have come
in cabs cannot get cabs to go back in. The Duchess's coachman lost his
way, coming here, she was half-an-hour late: she is anxious about his
finding his way home. GRIGSBY has got at the Psychical-Researcher, and
I hear him telling stories, as personal experiences, which I know are
not true. Psychical-Researchers have no sense of humour. "S.P.R.,"
why not "S.P.Q.R.?" I hear GRIGSBY asking, and suggesting "Society for
Propagating Rubbish." It is very rude of him, and not at all funny.
However, they do go away at last, that advantage a dinner at home
has over a dinner at the Club, there they often seem as if they would
never go away at all.
On the other hand, the wine is all right at the Club, I believe, for
I know nothing about wine myself. Some men talk of nothing else, and
seem to know the vintages without looking at the names on the bottles.
The worst of giving a dinner at the Club is, that I never know how
many men I have asked, nor even who they are. It is enough if I
remember the date. It might be a good thing to write these matters
down in a Diary, or on a big sheet of paper, pinned up in one's room.
I know I have written to ask some Americans whom I have not seen:
they brought letters of introduction. I forget their names--there is a
Professor who has written a novel, there is a General, I think, and a
Mad Doctor.
My best plan will be to stand about in the drawing-room, and try to
select them as they come in. Here is WILKINSON, who was at St. Jude's
with me: I shake hands with him warmly. He looks blank. It is not
WILKINSON, after all; it is a stranger, he is dining with somebody
else. Some other men have come in while I am apologising. One of them
comes up and says, "Mr. McDUFFER!" He must be an American. Which? He
tells me: he is the Mad Doctor. He introduces his countrymen; they
all say "Mr. McDUFFER!" How am I to remember which is the General and
which is the Professor? Other people drop in. Here is CRIMPTON. He
is a Reviewer. Clever fellow, CRIMPTON. Here is old BEILBY--he is hot
from the University Match. He begins to tell me all about it. JONES
was awfully well set, but that muff SMITH ran him out. BEILBY does
not believe it _was_ out. Odd the spite umpires always have at our
side. Feel that I must tear myself from BEILBY, the only man whose
conversation really interests me. Here is an English writer on
military subjects. I introduce him to the American General. Find he
is the Professor, after all. We get down-stairs somehow. BEILBY is
opposite me. CRIMPTON is next the Professor. The Military Writer is
next the General. Things do not appear to go very smoothly. It seems
that the Military one has said something about General BEAUREGARD
which he should not have said. The General is getting red. I hate it,
when men begin to talk about the American War. Any other war they
are welcome to: the Danish War, the war of 1866, the war of 1870, the
glorious affair of Majuba. But Americans are touchy about their war,
not easy to please them whatever you say. Much best to say nothing.
CRIMPTON is laughing at American novels. He does not know that the
Professor is an American novelist. What am I to do? I try to kick him
under the table. I kick the Mad Doctor, and apologise. Was feeling
about for a footstool. BEILBY is trying to talk about Base Ball to
the General, who is still red. Nothing is more disagreeable than these
international discussions at dinner.
Now, a clever host would know how to get out of this; he would start
some other subject. I can think of no other subject. Happy thought:
gradually glide into American cookery, clams, canvas-backed ducks,
what is that dish with a queer name--Jumbo? I don't feel as if it
were Jumbo. Squambo? Terapin soup? It sounds rather like the Hebrew
for a talisman, or an angel of some sort. However, they are talking
about cookery now, and wines. Is there not an American wine called
Catawampus? The Mad Doctor has his eye on me; he seems interested.
I thought I heard him murmur Aspasia, or Aphasia, or something
like that. It is not Catawampus--it is Catawba. I feel that I
_patauge_--flounder, I mean. I am getting quite nervous; feel like a
man in a powder-magazine, with lighted cigarettes everywhere. If one
can withdraw them to the smoking-room, they will settle down somehow.
They do. The Military Critic gets into a corner with BEILBY. The
Americans and I consort together. Most agreeable fellows; have been
everywhere, and seen everything. CRIMPTON, luckily, is reading one of
his own reviews in the evening paper. I glance at it; it is a review
of the Professor's novel. Not a kind review--rather insulting than
otherwise. He hates BEILBY, and he does not know the Military Critic.
If he joins us, there will be more international discussion. I get
them on to the balcony, and pretend to go to ring the bell for coffee.
I whisper to CRIMPTON. He is quite taken aback. "Awfully sorry; never
dreamed the Professor was not English." He wants to tell the Professor
that, thinks he will be pleased. He apologises to me; it is dreadfully
disagreeable to be apologised to by a guest. "All my fault," I say;
and, really, so it is. CRIMPTON remembers an evening engagement, and
goes off _à l'Anglaise_.
[Illustration: A PENNY FOR THE MEMBER'S THOUGHTS.]
The Americans go off; say they have enjoyed themselves. I feel
inclined to apologise for CRIMPTON. On second thoughts, I don't. They
do not look like men who write about their adventures in their native
newspapers. Ladies do that. A weight is off my mind. The Military
Writer goes home. He asks, "Who was that old man who fancied himself
so about SHERMAN's March?" "That was General HOME, who held a command
under SHERMAN." The Military Writer whistles; wishes I had told him
that before dinner. I wish I had, but I got so flurried and confused.
It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, BEILBY _will_ have something
to drink, and another cigar--a very large one. He begins to talk about
the University Match, about all University Matches, about old scores,
and old catches, from MITCHELL's year to the present day.
It is three o'clock before I get home; the Americans _may_ have
enjoyed themselves, I have not. I dream about the Mad Doctor; perhaps
he will put me into his next book on _Incipient Insanity_. Serve me
right.
* * * * *