Those who accept a social invitation virtually pledge themselves to
bear a part in making the entertainment an agreeable success. Whether
one's talent lies in conversation, or music, or in the rare gift for
_commingling_ and promoting harmonies in a social gathering, he or she
should feel bound to make some effort to add to the pleasure of the
occasion. Young men who attend private balls should be obliging about
dancing, and amiably assist the hostess in finding partners for the shy
or unattractive girls, who are liable to be neglected by selfish young
people.
_Not_ to make an effort to contribute to the success of the affair is a
negative fault, perhaps. But what shall we say of those whose
influence is positively adverse?--those who attend a party with curious
eyes bent upon picking flaws, and who indulge in jealous depreciation;
or who, in a spirit of social rivalry, make a note of "points," with a
view to outdoing the hostess in the near future. Such a spirit--and
its presence is not easily veiled--is a veritable Achan in the camp;
and a few such rude people can poison the atmosphere of an otherwise
genial reception. Verily, they have their reward, for the stamp of
ill-breeding is set on their querulous _little_ faces.
But, if such spirits contribute nothing to the social fund,--because
they have nothing to contribute,--you, who have, must do double duty.
And nothing is more needed than tactful conversation.
The oddest criticism that I have ever encountered from a reviewer was
the laconic and cynical remark (commenting upon my rather altruistic
belief in the duty of giving one's best thought to the conversational
circle), that "Nowadays, people don't _talk_: if they have any good
ideas, they save them and write them out and _sell them_." The critic
implied that, otherwise, in this age of universal scribbling, some
plagiarist would appropriate these ideas and hurry them to the magazine
market before the original thinker had time to fix the jewel in a
setting of his own.
Of course, the little brain thief is common enough; but it had never
occurred to me to be so wary. It struck me "with the full force of
novelty," that any one should be deterred from speech by such a
consideration. I have since wondered whether that particular phase of
serpent-wisdom accounts for the non-committal silences with which some
well-known wits entertain the social circle, the while a despairing
hostess is making the best of such help as a few lively chatterboxes
can give her. Not that I ever saw any notably superior talkers struck
dumb in this way; Richard Brinsley Sheridan never was, if I recall
correctly. Why should _you_ be? If your bright idea is stolen, you
can spare it; if you are truly bright, you have many more where that
one came from.
But beware of forced brightness. Wit is nothing if not spontaneous.
If nature has not endowed you with the instantaneous perception of
contrasts and incongruities, out of which flashes the swift conceit
called wit, do not imagine you are "dull" or uninteresting. There are
other gifts and graces less superficial, far more rare, and ultimately
more influential, than wit.
And though you are witty, do not talk nonsense over-much. Remember
that it is the "_little_ nonsense now and then" that is "relished by
the best of men." It is perilously easy to weary people with the
"smart" style of talk. But let your cheerful sense, grave or gay, be
as good an offering to your friends as you know how to make. Your next
special occasion--for which you might have "saved" all these
things--will lose nothing of value. It may rather gain fourfold, by
the reflex inspiration that replenishes every unselfish outpouring of
the nobler social spirit.