DINNER.
The hour of dinner has been said, by Dr. Johnson, to be the most
important hour in civilized life. The etiquette of the dinner-table has
a prominence commensurate with the dignity of the ceremony. Like the
historian of Peter Bell, we commence at the commencement, and thence
proceed to the moment when you take leave officially, or vanish unseen.
In order to dine, the first requisite is—to be invited. The length of
time which the invitation precedes the dinner is always proportioned to
the grandeur of the occasion, and varies from two days to two weeks. To
an invitation received less than two days in advance, you will lose
little by replying in the negative, for as it was probably sent as soon
as the preparations of the host commenced, you may be sure that there
will be little on the table fit to eat. Those abominations, y’clept
“plain family dinners,” eschew like the plague.
You reply to a note of invitation immediately, and in the most direct
and unequivocal terms. If you accept, you arrive at the house
rigorously at the hour specified. It is equally inconvenient to be too
late and to be too early. If you fall into the latter error, you find
every thing in disorder; the master of the house is in his
dressing-room, changing his waistcoat; the lady is still in the pantry;
the fire not yet lighted in the parlour. If by accident or
thoughtlessness you arrive too soon, you may pretend that you called to
inquire the exact hour at which they dine, having mislaid the note, and
then retire to walk for an appetite. If you are too late, the evil is
still greater, and indeed almost without a remedy. Your delay spoils
the dinner and destroys the appetite and temper of the guests; and you
yourself are so much embarrassed at the inconvenience you have
occasioned, that you commit a thousand errors at table. If you do not
reach the house until dinner is served, you had better retire to a
restaurateurs, and thence send an apology, and not interrupt the
harmony of the courses by awkward excuses and cold acceptances.
When the guests have all entered, and been presented to one another, if
any delay occurs, the conversation should be of the lightest and least
exciting kind; mere common-places about the weather and late arrivals.
You should not amuse the company by animated relations of one person
who has just cut his throat from ear to ear, or of another who, the
evening before, was choked by a tough beef-steak and was buried that
morning.
When dinner is announced, the inviter rises and requests all to walk to
the dining-room. He then leads the way, that they may not be at a loss
to know whither they should proceed. Each gentleman offers his arm to a
lady, and they follow in solemn order.
The great distinction now becomes evident between the host and the
guests, which distinction it is the chief effort of good breeding to
remove. To perform faultlessly the honours of the table, is one of the
most difficult things in society: it might indeed be asserted without
much fear of contradiction, that no man has as yet ever reached exact
propriety in his office as host, has hit the mean between exerting
himself too much and too little. His great business is to put every one
entirely at his ease, to gratify all his desires, and make him, in a
word, absolutely contented with men and things. To accomplish this, he
must have the genius of tact to perceive, and the genius of finesse to
execute; ease and frankness of manner; a knowledge of the world that
nothing can surprise; a calmness of temper that nothing can disturb,
and a kindness of disposition that can never be exhausted. When he
receives others, he must be content to forget himself; he must
relinquish all desire to shine, and even all attempts to please his
guests by conversation, and rather, do all in his power to let them
please one another. He behaves to them without agitation, without
affectation; he pays attention without an air of protection; he
encourages the timid, draws out the silent, and directs conversation
without Sustaining it himself. He who does not do all this, is wanting
in his duty as host; he who does, is more than mortal.
When all are seated, the gentleman at the head of the table sends soup
to every one, from the pile of plates which stand at his right hand. He
helps the person at his right hand first, and at his left next, and so
through the whole.
There are an immensity of petty usages at the dinner table, such as
those mentioned in the story of the Abbé Delille and the Abbé Cosson in
the Introduction to this volume, which it would be trifling and tedious
to enumerate hers, and which will be learned by an observing man after
assisting at two or three dinners.
You should never ask a gentleman or lady at the table to help you to
any thing, but always apply to the servants.
Your first duty at the table is to attend to the wants of the lady who
sits next to you, the second, to attend to your own. In performing the
first, you should take care that the lady has all that she wishes, yet
without appearing to direct your attention too much to her plate, for
nothing is more ill-bred than to watch a person eating. If the lady be
something of a _gourmande_, and in ever-zealous pursuit of the aroma of
the wing of a pigeon, should raise an unmanageable portion to her
mouth, you should cease all conversation with her, and look steadfastly
into the opposite part of the room.
In France, a dish, after having been placed upon the table for
approval, is removed by the servants, and carved at a sideboard, and
after. wards handed to each in succession. This is extremely
convenient, and worthy of acceptation in this country. But
unfortunately it does not as yet prevail here. Carving therefore
becomes an indispensable branch of a gentleman’s education. You should
no more think of going to a dinner without a knowledge of this art,
than you should think of going without your shoes. The gentleman of the
house selects the various dishes in the order in which they should be
cut, and invites some particular one to perform the office. It is
excessively awkward to be obliged to decline, yet it is a thing too
often occurring in,his country. When you carve, you should never rise
from your seat.
Some persons, in helping their guests, or recommending dishes to their
taste, preface every such action with an eulogy on its merits, and draw
every bottle of wine with an account of its virtues. Others, running
into the contrary extreme, regret or fear that each dish is not exactly
as it should be; that the cook, etc., etc. Both of these habits are
grievous errors. You should leave it to your guests alone to approve,
or suffer one of your intimate friends who is present, to vaunt your
wine. When you draw a bottle, merely state its age and brand, and of
what particular vintage it is.
Do not insist upon your guests partaking of particular dishes, never
ask persons more than once, and never put anything by force upon their
plates. It is extremely ill-bred, though extremely common, to press
one to eat of anything. You should do all that you can to make your
guests feel themselves at home, which they never can do while you are
so constantly forcing upon their minds the recollection of the
difference between yourself and them. You should never send away your
own plate until all your guests have finished.
Before the cloth is removed you do not drink wine unless with another.
If you are asked to take wine it is uncivil to refuse. When you drink
with another, you catch the person’s eye and bow with politeness. It is
not necessary to say anything, but smile with an air of great kindness.
Some one who sits near the lady of the house, should, immediately upon
the removal of the soup, request the honor of drinking wine with her,
which movement is the signal for all the others. If this is not done,
the master of the house should select some lady. _He_ never asks
gentlemen, but they ask him; this is a refined custom, attended to in
the best company.
If you have drunk with every one at the table, and wish more wine, you
must wait till the cloth is removed. The decanter is then sent round
from the head of the table, each person fills his glass, and all the
company drinks the Health of all the company. It is enough if you bow
to the master and mistress of the house, and to your opposite
neighbour. After this the ladies retire. Some one rises to open the
door for them, and they go into the parlour, the gentlemen remaining to
drink more wine.
After the ladies have retired, the service of the decanters is done.
The host draws the bottles which have been standing in a wine cooler
since the commencement of the dinner. The bottle goes down the left
side and up the right, and the same bottle never passes twice. If you
do not drink, always pass the bottle to your neighbour.
At dinner never call for ale or porter; it is coarse, and injures the
taste for wine.
It was formerly the custom to drink _porter_ with cheese. One of the
few real improvements introduced by the “Napoleon of the realms of
fashion” was to banish this tavern liquor and substitute _port._ The
dictum of Brummell was thus enunciated: “A gentleman never _malts_, he
_ports._”
A gentleman should always express his preference for some one sort of
wine over others; because, as there is always a natural preference for
one kind, if you say that you are indifferent, you show that you are
not accustomed to drink wines. Your preference should not of course be
guided by your real disposition; if you are afflicted by nature with a
partiality for port, you should never think of indulging it except in
your closet with your chamber-door locked. The only index of choice is
fashion;—either permanent fashion (if the phrase may be used), or some
temporary fashion created by the custom of any individual who happens
to rule for a season in society. Port was drunk by our ancestors, but
George the Fourth, upon his accession to the regency, announced his
royal preference for sherry. It has since been fashionable to like
sherry. This is what we call a _permanent_ fashion.
Champagne wine is drunk after the removal of the first cloth; that is
to say, between the meats and the dessert. One servant goes round and
places before each guest a proper-shaped glass; another follows and
fills them, and they are immediately drunk. Sometimes this is done
twice in succession. The bottle does not again make its appearance, and
it would excite a stare to ask at a later period for a glass of
champagne wine.
If you should happen to be blessed with those rely nuisances, children,
and should be entertaining company, never allow them to be brought in
after dinner, unless they are particularly asked for, and even then it
is better to say they are at school. Some persons, with the intention
of paying their court to the father, express great desire to see the
sons; but they should have some mercy upon the rest of the party,
particularly as they know that they themselves would be the most
disturbed of all, if their urgent entreaty was granted.
Never at any time, whether at a formal or a familiar dinner party,
commit the impropriety of talking to a servant: nor ever address any
remark about one of them to one of the party. Nothing can be more
ill-bred. You merely ask for what you want in a grave and civil tone,
and wait with patience till your order is obeyed.
It is a piece of refined coarseness to employ the fingers instead of
the fork to effect certain operations at the dinner table, and on some
other similar occasions. To know how and when to follow the fashion of
Eden, and when that of more civilized life, is one of the many points
which distinguish a gentleman from one not a gentleman; or rather, in
this case, which shows the difference between a man of the world, and
one who has not “the tune of the time.”* Cardinal Richelieu detected an
adventurer who passed himself off for a nobleman, by his helping
himself to olives with a fork. He might have applied the test to a vast
many other things. Yet, on the other hand, a gentleman would lose his
reputation, if he were to take up a piece of sugar with his fingers and
not with the sugar-tongs.
* Shakspeare
It is of course needless to say that your own knife should never be
brought near to the butter, or salt, or to a dish of any kind. If,
however, a gentleman should send his plate for anything near you, and a
knife cannot be obtained immediately, you may skillfully avoid all
censure by using _his_ knife to procure it.
When you send your plate for anything, you leave your knife and fork
upon it, crossed. When you have done, you lay both in parallel lines on
one side. A render who occupies himself about greater matters, may
smile at this precept. It may, indeed, be very absurd, yet such is the
tyranny of custom, that if you were to cross your knife and fork when
you have finished, the most reasonable and strong-minded man at the
table could not help setting you down, in his own mind, as a low-bred
person. _Magis sequor quam probo._
The chief matter of consideration at the dinner table, as indeed
everywhere else in the life of a gentleman, is to be perfectly composed
and at his ease. He speaks deliberately, he performs the most important
act of the day as if he were performing the most ordinary. Yet there is
no appearance of trifling or want of gravity in his manner; he
maintains the dignity which is becoming on so vital an occasion. He
performs all the ceremonies, yet in the style of one who performs no
_ceremony_ at all. He goes through all the complicated duties of the
scene, as if he were “to the manner born.”
Some persons, who cannot draw the nice distinction between too much and
too little, desiring to be particularly respectable, make a point of
appearing unconcerned and quite indifferent to enjoyment at dinner.
Such conduct not only exhibits a want of sense and a profane levity,
but is in the highest degree rude to your obliging host. He has taken a
great deal of trouble to give you pleasure, and it is your business to
be, or at least to appear, pleased. It is one thing, indeed, to stare
and wonder, and to ask for all the delicacies on the table in the style
of a person who had lived all his life behind a counter, but it is
quite another to throw into your manner the spirit and gratified air of
a man who is indeed not unused to such matters, but who yet esteems
them at their fall value.
When the Duke of Wellington was at Paris, as commander of the allied
armies, he was invited to dine with Cambaceres, one of the most
distinguished statesmen and _gourmands_ of the time of Napoleon. In the
course of the dinner, his host having helped him to some particularly
_recherché_ dish, expressed a hope that he found it agreeable. “Very
good,” said the hero of Waterloo, who was probably speculating upon
what he would have done if Blucher had not come up: “Very good; but I
really do not care what I eat.” “Good God!” exclaimed Cambaceres,—as he
started back and dropped his fork, quite “frighted from his
propriety,”—“Don’t care what you eat! What _did_ you come here for,
then?”
After the wine is finished, you retire to the drawing-room, where the
ladies are assembled; the master of the house rising first from the
table, but going out of the room last. If you wish to go before this,
you must vanish unseen.
We conclude this chapter by a word of important counsel to the
host:—Never make an apology.