This article gives an insight into the remark which has often
been made, “if anybody in Manchester knew how _tenir un salon_
it was certainly Mrs. Gaskell”; she studied and practised the
art of entertaining to perfection.
Madame de Sablé had all the requisites which enabled her _tenir un salon_
with honour to herself and pleasure to her friends.
Apart from this crowning accomplishment, the good French lady seems to
have been commonplace enough. She was well-born, well-bred, and the
company she kept must have made her tolerably intelligent. She was
married to a dull husband, and doubtless had her small flirtations
after she early became a widow; M. Cousin hints at them, but they were
never scandalous or prominently before the public. Past middle life,
she took to the process of “making her salvation,” and inclined to the
Port-Royalists. She was given to liking dainty things to eat, in spite
of her Jansenism. She had a female friend that she quarrelled with, off
and on, during her life. And (to wind up something like Lady O’Looney, of
famous memory) she knew how _tenir un salon_. M. Cousin tells us that
she was remarkable in no one thing or quality, and attributes to that
single, simple fact the success of her life.
Now, since I have read these memoirs of Madame de Sablé, I have
thought much and deeply thereupon. At first, I was inclined to laugh
at the extreme importance which was attached to this art of “receiving
company”—no, that translation will not do!—“holding a drawing-room” is
even worse, because that implies the state and reserve of royalty;—shall
we call it the art of “Sabléing”? But when I thought of my experience
in English society—of the evenings dreaded before they came, and sighed
over in recollection, because they were so ineffably dull—I saw that,
to Sablé well, did require, as M. Cousin implied, the union of many
excellent qualities and not-to-be-disputed little graces. I asked some
French people if they could give me the recipe, for it seemed most likely
to be traditional, if not still extant in their nation. I offer to you
their ideas, fragmentary though they be, and then I will tell you some
of my own; at last, perhaps, with the addition of yours, oh most worthy
readers! we may discover the lost art of Sabléing.
Said the French lady: “A woman to be successful in Sabléing must be past
youth, yet not past the power of attracting. She must do this by her
sweet and gracious manners, and quick, ready tact in perceiving those who
have not had their share of attention, or leading the conversation away
from any subject which may give pain to any one present.” “Those rules
hold good in England,” said I. My friend went on: “She should never be
prominent in anything; she should keep silence as long as anyone else
will talk; but, when conversation flags, she should throw herself into
the breach with the same spirit with which I notice that the young
ladies of the house, where a ball is given, stand quietly by till the
dancers are tired, and then spring into the arena, to carry on the spirit
and the music till the others are ready to begin again.”
“But,” said the French gentleman, “even at this time, when subjects for
conversation are wanted, she should rather suggest than enlarge—ask
questions rather than give her own opinions.”
“To be sure,” said the lady. “Madame Récamier, whose salons were the most
perfect of this century, always withheld her opinions on books, or men,
or measures, until all around her had given theirs; then she, as it were,
collected and harmonised them, saying a kind thing here, and a gentle
thing there, and speaking ever with her own quiet sense, till people the
most oppressed learnt to understand each other’s point of view, which it
is a great thing for opponents to do.”
“Then the number of the people whom you receive is another consideration.
I should say not less than twelve or more than twenty,” continued the
gentleman. “The evenings should be appointed—say weekly—fortnightly at
the beginning of January, which is our season. Fix an early hour for
opening the room. People are caught then in their freshness, before they
become exhausted by other parties.”
The lady spoke: “For my part, I prefer catching my friends after they
have left the grander balls or receptions. One hears then the remarks,
the wit, the reason, and the satire which they had been storing up during
the evening of imposed silence or of ceremonious speaking.”
“A little good-humoured satire is a very agreeable sauce,” replied the
gentleman, “but it must be good-humoured, and the listeners must be
good-humoured; above all, the conversation must be general, and not
the chat, chat, chat up in a corner, by which the English so often
distinguish themselves. You do not go into society to exchange secrets
with your intimate friends; you go to render yourselves agreeable to
everyone present, and to help all to pass a happy evening.”
“Strangers should not be admitted,” said the lady, taking up the strain.
“They would not start fair with the others; they would be ignorant of
the allusions that refer to conversations on the previous evenings;
they would not understand the—what shall I call it—slang? I mean those
expressions having relation to past occurrences, or bygone witticisms
common to all those who are in the habit of meeting.”
“Madame de Duras and Madame Récamier never made advances to any stranger.
Their _salons_ were the best that Paris has known in this generation. All
who wished to be admitted had to wait and prove their fitness by being
agreeable elsewhere: to earn their diploma, as it were, among the circle
of these ladies’ acquaintances; and, at last, it was a high favour to be
received by them.”
“They missed the society of many celebrities by adhering so strictly to
this unspoken rule,” said the gentleman.
“Bah!” said the lady. “Celebrities! what has one to do with them in
society? As celebrities, they are simply bores. Because a man has
discovered a planet, it does not follow that he can converse agreeably,
even on his own subjects; often people are drained dry by one action or
expression of their lives—drained dry for all the purposes of a ‘salon.’
The writer of books, for instance, cannot afford to talk twenty pages
for nothing, so he is either profoundly silent, or else he gives you the
mere rinsings of his mind. I am speaking now of him as a mere celebrity,
and justifying the wisdom of the ladies we were speaking of, in not
seeking after such people; indeed, in being rather shy of them. Some of
their friends were the most celebrated people of their day, but they were
received in their old capacity of agreeable men; a higher character,
by far. Then,” said she, turning to me, “I believe that you English
spoil the perfection of conversation by having your rooms brilliantly
lighted for an evening, the charm of which depends on what one hears,
as for an evening when youth and beauty are to display themselves among
flowers and festoons, and every kind of pretty ornament. I would never
have a room affect people as being dark on their first entrance into
it; but there is a kind of moonlight as compared to sunlight, in which
people talk more freely and naturally; where shy people will enter upon
a conversation without a dread of every change of colour or involuntary
movement being seen—just as we are always more confidential over a fire
than anywhere else—as women talk most openly in the dimly-lighted bedroom
at curling-time.”
“Away with your shy people,” said the gentleman. “Persons who are
self-conscious, thinking of an involuntary redness or paleness, an
unbecoming movement of the countenance, more than the subject of which
they are talking, should not go into society at all. But, because
women are so much more liable to this nervous weakness than men, the
preponderance of people in a salon should always be on the side of the
men.”
I do not think I gained more hints as to the lost art from my French
friends. Let us see if my own experience in England can furnish any more
ideas.
First, let us take the preparations to be made before our house, our
room, or our lodgings can be made to receive society. Of course, I am not
meaning the preparations needed for dancing or musical evenings. I am
taking those parties which have pleasant conversation and happy social
intercourse for their affirmed intention. They may be dinners, suppers,
tea—I don’t care what they are called, provided their end is defined.
If your friends have not dined, and it suits you to give them a dinner,
in the name of Lucullus, let them dine; but take care that there shall
be something besides the mere food and wine to make their fattening
agreeable at the time and pleasant to remember, otherwise you had better
pack up for each his portions of the dainty dish, and send it separately,
in hot-water trays, so that he can eat comfortably behind a door, like
Sancho Panza, and have done with it. And yet I don’t see why we should be
like ascetics; I fancy there is a grace of preparation, a sort of festive
trumpet call, that is right and proper to distinguish the day on which
we receive our friends from common days, unmarked by such white stones.
The thought and care we take for them to set before them of our best, may
imply some self-denial on our less fortunate days. I have been in houses
where all, from the scullion-maid upward, worked double tides gladly,
because “Master’s friends” were coming; and every thing must be nice, and
good, and all the rooms must look bright, and clean, and pretty. And, as
“a merry heart goes all the way,” preparations made in this welcoming,
hospitable spirit, never seem to tire anyone half so much as where
servants instinctively feel that it has been said in the parlour, “We
must have so-and-so,” or “Oh, dear! we have never had the so-and-so’s.”
Yes, I like a little pomp, and luxury, and stateliness, to mark our happy
days of receiving friends as a festival; but I do not think I would throw
my power of procuring luxuries solely into the eating and drinking line.
My friends would probably be surprised (some wear caps, and some wigs)
if I provided them with garlands of flowers, after the manner of the
ancient Greeks; but, put flowers on the table (none of your shams, wax
or otherwise; I prefer an honest wayside root of primroses, in a common
vase of white ware, to the grandest bunch of stiff rustling artificial
rarities in a silver épergne). A flower or two by the side of each
person’s plate would not be out of the way, as to expense, and would be a
very agreeable, pretty piece of mute welcome. Cooks and scullion-maids,
acting in the sympathetic spirit I have described, would do their very
best, from boiling the potatoes well, to sending in all the dishes in the
best possible order. I think I would have every imaginary dinner sent
up on the “original” Mr. Walker’s plan; each dish separately, hot and
hot. I have an idea that, when I go to live in Utopia (not before next
Christmas), I will have a kind of hot-water sideboard, such as I think I
have seen in great houses, and that nothing shall appear on the table but
what is pleasant to the eye. However simple the food, I would do it and
my friends (and may I not add the Giver?) the respect of presenting it at
table as well-cooked, as eatable, as wholesome as my poor means allowed;
and to this end rather than to a variety of dishes, would I direct my
care. We have no associations with beef and mutton; geese may remind us
of the Capitol, and peacocks of Juno; a pigeon-pie, of the simplicity
of Venus’ doves, but who thinks of the leafy covert which has been her
home in life, when he sees a roasted hare? Now, flowers as an ornament
do lead our thoughts away from their present beauty and fragrance. I
am almost sure Madame de Sablé had flowers in her salon; and, as she
was fond of dainties herself, I can fancy her smooth benevolence of
character, taking delight in some personal preparations made in the
morning for the anticipated friends of the evening. I can fancy her
stewing sweetbreads in a silver saucepan, or dressing salad with her
delicate, plump, white hands—not that I ever saw a silver saucepan. I
was formerly ignorant enough to think that they were only used in the
Sleeping Beauty’s kitchen, or in the preparations for the marriage of
Ricquet-with-the-Tuft; but I have been assured that there are such
things, and that they impart a most delicate flavour, or no flavour to
the victuals cooked therein; so I assert again, Madame de Sablé cooked
sweetbreads for her friends in a silver saucepan; but never to fatigue
herself with those previous labours. She knew the true taste of her
friends too well; they cared for her, firstly, as an element in their
agreeable evening—the silver saucepan in which they were all to meet;
the oil in which their several ingredients were to be softened of what
was harsh or discordant—very secondary would be their interest in her
sweetbreads.
“Of sweetbreads they’ll get mony an ane,
Of Sablé ne’er anither.”