To one examining the society notes of the various cities, it is very
evident that never before were we, who are in society, living so
sumptuously as at present. Our dinners have become banquets, our teas
feasts. The magnificence, the notoriety, the cost, are astounding. One
involuntarily rubs his eyes and looks to see some gallant dissolving
pearls for his liege lady. This elaborate effort to feast one’s guests is
not only prevalent among the millionaires and epicureans of our cities,
it is a feature of entertaining which prevails even in small communities.
In a village of some six hundred people, well known to us, we have
had the opportunity to study the effect of extravagant hospitality
upon the society. The people almost without exception are well-to-do,
well educated, congenial, a set in every way suited to form a pleasant
society. Among them are a few wealthy families. In such a town one would
expect to find almost ideal social life—full of good will, of pleasant
thought, new amusements, not overcrowded, thoroughly enjoyable; but to
our surprise we found very little. A few evenings out, a few questions,
and we understand the cause. At a small party given by a leading lady, we
were astounded to be called out to a table loaded with every conceivable
delicacy; meats, salads, cakes, creams, fruits in every variety. The
supper was a work of art, a mammoth undertaking, and it had been prepared
by the lady herself and her one servant, with such assistance as is
to be found in a small village, off the railroad. Further experience
taught us that when any one entertained friends there such refreshments
were considered necessary. The effects upon the social life of the town
were disastrous. Where there was the possibility of most delightful
companionships there was an absolute dearth of social gatherings. A lady
of culture remarked: “I can not entertain, simply because I can not
afford it. If it were possible I should receive weekly, but our customs
demand such outlays for all social affairs that I am obliged to deny
myself what otherwise would be a pleasure.” Another, a lady of wealth
remarked: “I am handicapped in my social life by the extravagant habits
of our people. What I would be glad to do, were I in a city where I
could obtain efficient help, it is impossible to do with our servants.
I can not prepare my own dinners, and our town requires such extensive
preparations for even a small company, that I have ceased entertaining.”
But even this feature is not the worst. Social life is virtually killed
when the table becomes the feature of the evening, when on the merits of
pastry and salads depends the social status of the family. The hostess
comes to her guest’s room, worn with the care of the thousand details of
a great dinner. The possibility of friction or failure destroys the ease,
the mirth, the abandon, that makes her charm. Her spirit oftentimes is
contagious, and her guests, too, feel the responsibility which oppresses
her. It comes to be true that the most elaborate dinner-givers are the
poorest entertainers, that instead of new ideas, pleasant memories and
the ring of music, all one carries away from the house where they have
been feasted is indigestion and their _menu_ card.
This extravagance is a feature of social life which sensible people can
not afford to countenance. There is too great danger that by it the truly
desirable and helpful features will be injured; that while epicureans
will support the elegance, people of simple habits will be driven in a
measure from society; that social life will be changed to feasting, and
conversation, wit and music placed a step below eating and drinking.