FAMILIAR OR INTIMATE?
"What makes the difference between those two carriages?" I asked a
wagon builder, while examining two light vehicles of the same general
build and design. One cost twice as much as the other, and looked as
if it were worth four times as much.
"Some of it is in the material, but more in the finishing," was the
response. "This is of pretty fair wood, but simply planed and painted,
while this"--pointing to the more costly equipage--"is as hard as a
rock, and has been rubbed smooth, then polished until the surface is
as fine as silk. Then it is flowed all over with the best varnish,
left to dry ten days, and over-flowed again. That makes all the
difference in the look of wagons. Two of them may be built just alike,
and one will look like a grocer's errand-cart, while the other is a
regulation gentleman's turnout. It is all the effect of polish and
finish."
Involuntarily my mind reverted to Mr. Turveydrop and his modest
assurance that "we do our best to polish, polish, polish."
The carriage builder struck the right chord when he affirmed that
"finish made all the difference," and it applies as truly to flesh and
blood as to insensate wood. Only the wood has sometimes the advantage
of taking more kindly to improvement than do human free agents.
The rough places on which the effects of polish have not showed are
too numerous for me to touch upon more than a few of them in this
talk. We will acknowledge that the paint and varnish are not all that
is necessary. The wood must be hard and prepared for the flowing
process, if the wagon is to stand the scrutiny of critical eyes. Too
often the paint is laid on thickly--perhaps too thickly--over
indifferent material, and the first shock or scratch makes it scale
and flake off.
As the test of the genuineness of the polish must be its durability,
so intimacy is the standard by which we may judge of the finish of the
so-called well-bred man or woman. If the refinement be ingrain, the
familiarity which inevitably breeds contempt will never intrude
itself.
To come down to everyday particulars: One of the unwarrantable
familiarities is to enter a friend's house without ringing her
door-bell,--unless you have been especially requested to do so. No
ground of intimacy on which you and your friend may stand justifies
this liberty. The housekeepers are few and far between who, in their
inmost souls, will not resent this invasion of their domain. It argues
an enormous amount of self-conceit on your part when you fancy that
you are considered so entirely one of the family that your unannounced
presence will _never_ prove an unwelcome intrusion.
In country places neighbors contract the habit of "running in" to see
one another. Were the truth known, many a housekeeper, deep in
pie-making and bread-kneading, would gladly give her handsomest loaf
for two minutes in which to smooth her rumpled hair and change her
soiled apron.
It is only in books that the heroine always looks so charming, no
matter in what labor she may be engaged, that she would be glad to
receive any acquaintance. Of course our housewife's husband may see
her when she is baking, and our domestic moralist would argue that
what is good enough for him is good enough for callers. Perhaps it
does not occur to her that the husband has so often found his wife
dressed "neatly and sweetly" that the cooking costume will not make
upon him the disagreeable impression it might produce upon a caller
who sees her hostess once in this guise where the husband has hundreds
of opportunities of beholding her in company clothes.
It may be remarked in this connection that the persons who are guilty
of lapses like that of entering your front door unannounced are of the
same class as those who enter your bed-chamber or sanctum without
knocking. This is a rudeness which nothing warrants. There are times
when we wish to be alone in our own rooms, and when we want to feel
that we are safe from sudden interruption during the processes of
bathing and dressing, even if the door of our apartment is not locked.
One's own room should be so completely her own that her nearest and
dearest will not feel at liberty to enter without permission. Of
course it is frequently the case that two persons, sisters, or husband
and wife, or mother and daughter, occupy the same chamber. When this
is the case, it is _theirs_ wholly and completely, and they are right
to insist that other members of the household shall knock before
entering.
Another evidence of lack of finish is offering gratuitous advice. If
your opinion is asked, it is kind and right that you should give it;
but a safe rule to go by is that unless your advice is requested it is
not wanted. It is one of the strangest problems in human nature that
one should of her own accord implicate herself in other people's
affairs and take upon herself onerous responsibility by giving her
unsolicited opinion in matters which do not concern her. It is a
disagreeable task, and a very thankless one. Viewed from this
standpoint, I am hardly surprised at the price demanded by lawyers for
their advice. Perhaps the secret of their high fees may be that they
decline to give a judgment unless asked for it. Our "own familiar
friends" might learn a lesson from them.
It is a pity that any well-bred intimate should so far forget herself
as to correct another person's child in the presence of the little
one's father or mother. That this is frequently done will be certified
to by hundreds of mothers who have been made irate by such untimely
aids to their discipline. Johnny's mother tells him to stop making
that noise, and her visitor adds severely, "Now, Johnny, do not make
that noise any more!" Susie is saucy to her mamma, and her mamma's
friend reprovingly remarks to the little girl that she is pained and
surprised to hear her speak so naughtily to her dear mamma. Children
resent this, and are far more keen and observant of these matters
than their elders think.
Little four-year-old and his mamma were spending the day at
grandpapa's last week. The family was seated on the veranda when the
small man announced his intention to his mamma of going out upon the
grass to pick wild flowers. Before the mother could reply, the
grandfather stated his objection:
"No, child, the grass is too wet. I am afraid you will get your feet
damp."
Four-year-old was equal to the occasion, as Young America generally
is.
"Thank you, grandpa," was the calm response, "but my mamma is here.
She can manage me."
Undoubtedly he was extremely impertinent; but did not the interference
of the grandparent justify the rebuke?
Every one, even the lower classes, those who are considered
under-bred, know that it is an atrocious impertinence to make
inquiries of one's best friend as to the state of his finances. But
like questions in the form of "feelers" are of such frequent
occurrence that a reminder of this kind is scarcely out of place.
There are few persons who deliberately ask you the amount of your
income, but how often does one hear the queries:
"How much did you pay for that horse of yours?" "Was that gown very
expensive?" "Have you a mortgage on that place?" "How much is the
mortgage?" "What rent do you pay?" "How much does your table cost you
per week?" etc., etc., until the unfortunate being at whom this
battery of inquiries is aimed feels tempted to forget _his_ "polish"
and "finish," and retort as did the sobbing street boy when questioned
by the elderly philanthropic woman as to the cause of his tears:
"None of your blamed business."
The etiquette of the table is supposed to be so thoroughly rooted and
grounded into our children from infancy, and is, as a rule, so well
understood by all ladies and gentlemen, that the visitor though a
fool, could scarcely err therein. But this is not the case. At my own
board, a man of the world, accustomed to excellent society, told me
that he saw no mustard on the table, and as he always liked it with
his meat he would trouble me to order some; while another man, a
brilliant scholar, asked at a dinner party, "Will you tell your butler
to bring me a glass of milk?" With these men the sandpaper of parental
admonition or the flowing varnish of early association had evidently
been neglected.
Intimacy, and even tender friendship may, and do, exist between men
and women who are bound to one another by no family tie. Familiarity
can never decently enter into such a relationship. If you, as a
refined woman, have a man friend who slaps you on the back, squeezes
your arm to attract your attention, holds your hand longer than
friendship ought to dictate, and, without your permission, calls you
in public or in private by your first name, you need not hesitate to
drop him from your list of intimates. He is neither a gentleman nor
does he respect you as you deserve. He may be, in his way, an
estimable man, but it is not in _your_ way, and he belongs to the rank
of very ordinary acquaintanceship.
If a man asks you to call him by his first name, and your friendship
with him justifies it, do not hesitate to do so; but if he is the
"finished" article, he will not imagine that this concession on your
part gives him the right to drop unbidden the "Miss" or "Mrs." from
_your_ name.
A true gentleman does not speak of a lady, even his betrothed, to
strangers without what boys call "the handle" to her name. Nor should
a woman mention men by their last names only. When a young or elderly
woman speaks of "Smith," "Brown" or "Jones," you may make up your mind
that the last coat of varnish was neglected when she was "finished."
Always be cautious in making advances toward familiarity. Be certain
that your friendship is desired before going more than halfway. Not
long ago I heard a woman say gravely of an uncongenial acquaintance
whose friendship had been forced upon her:
"She is certainly my _familiar_ friend. We can never be _intimate_."