Hospitality shares what it has. It does not attempt to _give_ what it
_has not_. The finest hospitality is that which welcomes you to the
fireside and permits you to look upon the picture of a home-life so
little disturbed by your coming that you are at once made to feel
yourself a part of the little symphony--the rare bit of color just
needed to complete the harmonic combination. With this flattering fact
impressed upon your glowing memory you will hardly be able to recall
the material adjuncts of the occasion. It is a sign of a gross nature
to measure hospitality by the loaves and fishes, forgetting the miracle
that goes with them. And it is equally a mistake for a host to be
afraid to offer humble entertainment when richer offers are beyond his
means. To a refined perception "the life is more than the meat," and
the personality of the host, not the condition of his larder, decides
whether or not it is an honor to be his guest. Delightful though it be
to be able to afford one's guest a rare and beautiful entertainment,
one must dismiss the idea that a graceful and acceptable hospitality
depends on material things. Sir Launfal, sharing his crust with the
beggar at the gate, was still Sir Launfal. The impoverished hostess
may preside at her frugal board with the spirit and the manner of a
queen, whereas the coarse-fibred vulgarian vainly heaps his platters
with choicest game and rarest fruit, the while he serves the banquet
like the churl that he is.
Whatever your entertainment, rich or poor, remember, first of all, to
give _yourself_ to your guest; then, if he is appreciative, he will not
criticise your simple dinner, nor grumble at the flavor of your wine.
One of the wits of the day has gravely reported that at a banquet in
the Athens of America, "the _menu_ consisted of two baked beans and
readings from Emerson." Despite its grotesque exaggeration, the _mot_
contains the kernel of a dignified truth: that material things are of
secondary importance on all social occasions worthy of the name.
The most expensive entertainment given by any one should be merely an
incidental illustration of his already recognized financial means. It
should never be so beyond his usual ability as to arouse among his
neighbors the wonder, how he could afford it? When people who are
known to have only a moderate income give "spreads" disproportionate to
their daily mode of living, the thoughtful observer instinctively
questions their taste and good sense. Usually such ostentatious
display brings more or less derision on the ones who are foolish enough
to spend more money to make their neighbors stare for a day than they
use to make themselves comfortable for a year. No matter how elaborate
the entertainment the guests should not be allowed to suspect that
their host has exhausted his resources, or that he might not be able to
do this same thing at any time that he chose.
As already suggested, the character of the entertainment in a private
house should never be such as to involve a total departure from the
habitual customs of the household. It is granted that provision must
be made on a grander scale for larger numbers; the _quantity_ of things
will necessarily be augmented, and mere bulk wears a certain air of the
imposing, and when to this is added the vital element--the magnetism of
a brilliant company--the participant will seem to breathe a rarified
atmosphere, and to an extent to be exalted above the level of everyday
life. Yet that level should not be lost to sight nor cease to be the
basis of measurement. The quality of elegant serving and mannerly
eating should be just what is every day observed at the family dinner
of the same household. The guest should get a correct idea of the home
atmosphere of the house, even though it be slightly congealed by the
formality and reserve which the presence of strangers naturally
inspires.
When people assume to entertain socially they should not give a false
showing of themselves or of their means. The proudest spirit
acknowledges the limitations of poverty with dignified truthfulness; it
is the moral coward who seeks to hide these limitations by a greater
display than his circumstances warrant. And he reaps as he sows. His
"entertainments" fill an idle hour for the class of visitors who
gravitate mainly to the supper-room, while the giver of the feast,
under the tension of this social effort, suffers a weariness of the
spirit as well as of the flesh, and gives a sigh of relief when the
door closes upon the last guest, and the pitiful farce is declared
"over." We wonder "Why do they thus spend their strength for that
which profiteth not?" Surely, few things in the course of a misspent
life are less profitable than such over-strained efforts at showy
entertainment. The "banquet hall deserted" presents on the following
day a grim reminder of the petty economies that for weeks hence must
secretly be contrived in order to restore the balance of an overdrawn
bank account. The folly of _living_ beyond one's means may have this
extenuating feature, that it is often an error due to generous, though
indiscreet impulse, or to inexperience; but the folly of spending money
lavishly on a few ostentatious "spreads" that are "beyond one's means"
has no redeeming points. The deception seldom long deceives. It is a
social blunder, the effect of which is to depreciate rather than to
enhance the social importance of the family thus entertaining.
It will be understood that this refers to cases when the motive of
extravagance is to gratify vanity. It does not mean to imply that the
Christmas dinner, or the birthday party, or the wedding anniversary may
not be a time when all the energies of a poor and usually frugal
household may be concentrated to prepare for one occasion of feasting
and rejoicing. The Cratchetts may have their roast goose; even the
Micawbers may be indulged in their occasional banquet. And the
carefully planned birthday party may be all the more gratefully
appreciated by the honored one when it is known that every choice
provision for the occasion represents some thoughtful contriving and
some self-sacrifice prompted by affection. Such occasions are
"red-letter days" in the homes of people of limited means; and pathos
is never more delicately suggested than when the poor man forgets his
poverty in the wealth of a home-gathering and a feast of remembrance.
"Let not a stranger intermeddle with their joy."
In the two cases the financial conditions may seem to be parallel, but
in essential spirit there is no resemblance. What is done from
sentiment and affection is above commercial measurement. What is done
for the sake of ostentation is, by its own act, made a legitimate
object of popular criticism.
Another point of good taste in entertaining is that one who is
wealthier than others of his social circle should not conspicuously
outshine his neighbors by giving them a kind and degree of
entertainment which will make their return of civilities seem poor and
mean by comparison. Unless the rich man is so greatly beyond others in
the scale of wealth that comparisons cease to be odious, it is more
considerate for him to keep within the degree of expense and display
possible to the average of his associates.
There is still another reason why the very rich should be chary of
giving magnificent entertainments.
The dazzled community, gazing spell-bound upon the spectacle of a
flower-decked mansion, brilliant with colored lights and echoing to
bewildering strains of music, is apt to forget, in this aggregation of
the energies of florist, caterer, and band-master, the one man who is
supposed to be, but is not, the author of this occasion.
George (descanting on the glories of the "crush of the season")--"The
music--the champagne--the----"