[Illustration]
It may be that "Party," in the sense of a hospitable entertainment, is
an obsolete word, and that those who speak of "giving a party" prove
themselves, by the mere expression, to be fogeys whom the rushing
stream of London amusements has long since thrown up on the sandy bank
of middle age, there to grow dull and forget that their legs were
ever apt for the waltz, or their digestions able to cope with lobster
mayonnaise at 2 A.M. Yet, though he who thus speaks may not be as
smart as a swell, or as much up to date as a church-parade-goer, the
expression will serve, for it indicates comprehensively enough every
variety of entertainment known to the London Season--the dance, the
dinner, the reception, the music at home, the tea-party, and the
theatre-party, for all these in her benevolence does the Giver of
Parties offer to us, and all these does she find the world of London
eager to accept. Now it would seem, one would imagine, to be the
easiest thing in the world, if only the money be not wanting, to give
a party. A hostess, so someone may say, has but to invite her friends,
to light her rooms, to spread her tables, to set the champagne
flowing, to order an awning, and to hire music and a linkman, and the
thing is done. The result of all this will no doubt be a party--of a
sort, but of a sort far different, however gorgeous it may be, from
the splendid and widely-advertised gatherings which the genuine Giver
of Parties organises. For in the one variety it is just possible that
enjoyment may be one of the main objects sought and attained; in the
latter it is certain that enjoyment, though it is not always absent,
must yield the precedence to social success and promotion in the scale
of Society. These are the objects that the Giver of Parties, as it is
proposed to describe her, has at heart, and to their attainment she
devotes herself with a persistent and all-embracing energy which no
disappointment is capable of daunting. The envy of her friends, the
smiles and the presence of Royalty, may be hers, but there is always
some loftier height to which she must climb before she can say to
herself, "_J'y suis, j'y reste_," and be thankful.
Her life has known many changes. Her parents were county people of
good descent and position, but of a reduced income, for which they
apparently sought compensation in an increasing family, mostly
daughters. It was necessary that she should marry young, and she
submitted to necessity by accepting the proposal of a man some ten
years her senior, who had already come to be favourably spoken off for
the success of his commercial ventures. It is needless to add that all
her relations took good care to impress upon her mind the fact that
the alliance was an honour to her husband, whose wealth, even though
it might in time rival that of the ROTHSCHILDS, could never make him
fit to be mentioned in the same breath with one who numbered among her
remoter ancestors a Baron, who had fought and bled on many fields for
King CHARLES THE FIRST. However, the marriage took place in spite of
the inequality of rank, and the much-honoured husband bore his wife
with him to London, where for a time the modest comfort of a house in
distant Bayswater satisfied them. Business prospered, and money came
pouring in. The wife, who, it must be said, had undeniable beauty,
excellent manners, and the trick of intuitively adapting herself to
any society, was taken up by a great lady who happened to see her
holding a stall at a large bazaar in which the fashionable world
took some interest. Acting upon the great lady's suggestion, she was
photographed in the becoming Tyrolese peasant's costume which she
wore as a stall-holder, and the photograph was in some mysterious way
engraved in all the illustrated papers of the following week. Her name
was enshrined in paragraphs, she was observed in the Royal Enclosure
at Ascot, she was introduced to a Royal personage who was pleased to
confer upon her the distinction of his smiles, and to mention her to
the select circle of his intimates as "a very pretty, pleasant little
woman." And thus she was started upon the thorny path of ambitious
pleasure.
It is well known that the sacred fire of fashion burns--or is supposed
to burn--in Belgravia alone. Its warmth drew her irresistibly.
Bayswater became too cold to hold her, and early in the following
year it was announced that a large house in the purlieus of Grosvenor
Square had been purchased by her husband. However, she was content to
climb by degrees, and, in her first season of social brilliancy, she
restricted herself to a small and early dance, and a musical evening.
At the dance, universal admiration was excited by the lavish profusion
of the flowers with which her staircase was adorned, by the excellent
quality of the champagne, and the inexhaustible supply of oysters.
At the musical evening the music was as admirably rendered as it
was completely neglected. And at both parties only those people were
present as to whose social status and absolute "rightness" there could
be no question. Indeed the dancer, whose foot had been trodden upon
at the former, might console herself with the thought that none but
a noble boot had caused her pain; while at the latter the sounds of
heavy breathing, which mingled inharmoniously with Mlle. FALSETTI's
_bravura_, were forgiven, in consideration of the exalted rank of
their producer. Her success seemed now to be assured, and even the
muttered discontent of a neglected husband, who was foolish enough to
prefer comfort to smartness, began to subside. In the following year
her entertainments became even more splendid, and less comfortable.
She took a house at Ascot, and, triumph of triumphs! a scion of
Royalty deigned to accept her hospitality.
After this, one would have supposed that she might have reposed for
a space. But the penalty of social life is its never-ending necessity
for movement. Jealous rivals abound to dispute a hardly-won supremacy,
and the least sign of faltering may involve extinction. Yet it must
be said that she is kind to her own, even when she is most brilliant.
She brings out a daughter to be the delight of young Guardsmen, and
marries her to a widowed Peer; she furbishes up forgotten relations,
and allows them to shine in the rays of her glory; she is charitable
after the manner of fancy fairs, and the hospitality of her house
becomes proverbial. But, in the midst of all the bustle, the
confusion, and the rattling turmoil of her career, she sometimes sighs
for the undistinguished ease of her life in the pre-Royal days, sighs,
and returns with fresh vigour to the struggle.
And so the pleasureless days of the pleasure-seeker follow one
another, each with its particular legacy of little strivings, until,
at the last, consolation may come from the thought that there is
at least one place where there are many mansions, but no social
ambitions.
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NEW PRAYER-BOOK REVISION.--Several alterations will now have to be
made in the marriage service. If it be permissible for the bride to
omit her promise "to obey," as is reported to have been the case at a
wedding last week, why should any undertaking "to love," "to honour,"
"to cherish," and so forth remain in the text? With all this left
out, a marriage, which, of course, will no longer be an ecclesiastical
rite, will hardly be a very civil ceremony. In course of time all the
promises will be made either explicitly or implicitly conditional, the
only question being what is the least possible obligation that can be
incurred by both contracting parties at the smallest possible expense.
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[Illustration: FIN DE SIÈCLE CHILDREN.
_He_. "I SAY, HILDA, I _SHOULD_ SO LIKE TO GIVE YOU A KISS!"
_She_ (_who WILL pick up such strange expressions from the Boys_).
"WOULD YOU, INDEED? 'I LIKE YOUR CHEEK'!"
_He_. "I'M SURE I SHOULD LIKE _YOURS_!"]
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