"A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrow, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles."
The "house-mother,"--the mistress of servants, the wife, the mother,
the hostess,--is the first person in the art of entertaining; and
considering how busy, how hard worked, how occupied, are American men,
she is generally the first person singular. In nine cases out of ten,
American men neither know nor care much about the conduct of the house
if the wife will assume it; they only like to be made comfortable, and
to find a warm, clean home, with a good dinner awaiting them. It is
the wife who must struggle with the problems of domestic defeat or
victory.
When Washington Irving was presented at the Court of Dresden his Saxon
Majesty remarked, "Mr. Irving, with a republic so liberal, you can
have no servants in America."
"Yes, Sire, we have servants, such as they are," said the amiable
author of the "Sketchbook;" "but we do not call them servants, we call
them help."
"I cannot understand that," said the king.
The king's mental position was not illogical; for, with his experience
of the servile position of the domestic in Europe, he could not
reconcile to his mind the declaration of social equality in America.
The American hostess must, it would seem, for many centuries if not
forever, have to struggle against this difficulty. As some writer said
twenty years ago, of this question: "Rich as we are in money, profuse
in spending it to heighten the enjoyment of life, the good servant,
that essential of comfort and luxury, seems beyond our reach.
Superfine houses we have, and superfine furniture, and superfine
ladies, and all the other superfineties to excess, but the skilful
cook, the handy maid, and the trusty nurse we rarely possess."
Thus, afar from the great cities and even in them, we must forge the
instruments with which we work, instead of finding them ready to hand,
as in other countries. That is to say, the mistress of a household
must teach her cook to cook, her waiter to wait, her laundress to get
up fine linen. She is happy if she can get honest people and willing
hands, but trained servants she durst not expect away from the great
centres of life.
Considering what has been expected of the American woman, has she not
done rather well? That she must be first servant-trainer, then
housekeeper, wife, mother, and conversationist, that she must keep up
with the always advancing spirit of the times, read, write, and
cipher, be beautifully dressed, play the piano, make the wilderness to
blossom as the rose, be charitable, thoughtful, and good, put the mind
at its ease, strive to learn how to do all things in the best way, be
a student of good taste and good manners, make a house luxurious,
ornamental, cheerful, and restful, have an inspired sense of the
fitness of things, dress and entertain in perfect accord with her
station, her means, and her husband's ambition, master, unassisted,
all the ins and outs of the noble art of entertaining,--has not this
been something of the nature of a large contract?
She must go to the cooking-lecture, come home and visit the kitchen,
go to the intelligence office, keeping her hand on all three. She must
be the mind, while the Maggies and Bridgets furnish the hands. She
must never be fussy, never grotesque; she must steer her ship through
stormy seas, and she must also learn to enjoy Wagner's music. There is
proverbially no sea so dangerous to swim in as that tumultuous one of
a new and illy regulated prosperity; and in the changeful, uncertain
nature of American fortunes an American woman must be ready to meet
any fate.
Judging from many specimens which we have seen, may we not claim that
the American woman must be stamped with an especial distinction? Has
she not conquered her fate?
Curiously enough, fashion and good taste seem to lackey to the
American woman, no matter where she was born or where educated. In
spite of all drawbacks, and the counter-currents of destiny, she is a
well bred and tasteful woman. No matter what the American woman has to
fight against, poverty or lack of opportunities, she is likely, if she
is called upon to do so, to administer gracefully the hospitalities of
the White House or to fill the difficult _rôle_ of an ambassadress.
Some of them have bad taste perhaps. "What is good taste but an
instantaneous, ready appreciation of the fitness of things?" To most
of us who observe it in others, it seems to be an instinct. We envy
those few who are always well dressed, who never buy unbecoming
stuffs, who have the gift to make their clothes look as if they had
simply blossomed out of their inner consciousness, as a rose blossoms
out of its calyx. Some women always dress their hair becomingly;
others, even if handsome, look like beautiful frights. Some wear their
clothes as if they had been hurled at them by a tornado, and remind
one of the poor husband's remark, "I feel as if I had married a
hurricane." The same exceptions, which only prove the rule, because
you notice them, may extend to the housewives who aim at more than
they can accomplish, who make their house an anguish to look at,
pretentious without beauty, overloaded or incorrect, who have not
tact, who say the awkward thing. Such people exist sometimes, sinning
from ignorance, but they are decidedly in the minority. The American
woman is generally a success. She has fought a hard battle, but she
has won. She has had her defeats, however.
Who does not remember the failure of that first dinner-party?--when
the baby began to cry so loud; when the hostess was not dressed when
the bell rang; when the cook spilled the soup all over the range and
filled the house with a bad odour; when the waitress, usually so cool,
lost all her presence of mind and fell on the basement stairs,
breaking all the plates; when one failure succeeded another until the
husband looked reproachfully at his wife, who, poor creature, had been
working day and night to get up this dinner, who was responsible for
none of the failures, and who had an attack of neuralgia afterward
which lasted all winter.
Who has not read Thackeray's witty descriptions of the dinners, poor
and pretentious, ordered in from the green-grocer's, and
uneatable,--in London? "If they would have a leg of mutton and an
apple pudding and a glass of sherry, they could do well; but they must
shine, they must outdo their neighbours." And that is the first
mistake. People with three thousand a year should not try to emulate
those who have fifty thousand a year.
And Thackeray says again: "But there is no harm done, not as regards
the dinner-givers, though the dinner-eaters may have to suffer. It
only shows that the former are hospitably inclined, and wish to do the
very best in their power. If they do badly, how can they help it? They
know no better."
The first thing at which a young housekeeper must aim is to live well
every day. Her tablecloth must be fresh, her glass and silver clean; a
few flowers must be on her table to make it dainty, a few dishes well
cooked,--such a table as will be well for her children and acceptable
to her husband; and then she has but to add a little more and it is
fit for any guest, and any guest will be glad to join such a
dinner-party.
But here I am met by the almost unanswerable argument that the
simplest dinner is the most difficult to find. Who knows how to cook a
beefsteak, to roast a piece of mutton so that its natural juices are
retained,--to roast it so that the blood shall follow the knife; to
mash potatoes and brown them; to make a perfect rice-pudding that is
said to "deserve that _cordon bleu_ which Vatel, Ude, and Bechamel
craved"?
The young housekeeper of to-day with very modest means has, however,
now to meet a condition of prosperity which even twenty-five years ago
was unknown. All extremes of luxury and every element of profusion is
now fashionable,--one may say expected.
But agreeable young people will be entertained by the man who is worth
fifty thousand dollars a day, and they will wish to return the
civility. Herein lie the difficulties in the art of entertaining; but
let them remember that there is one simple dinner which covers the
whole ground, which the poor gentleman may aspire to give, and to
which he might invite a prince. The essentials of a comfortable dinner
are but few. The beauty of a Grecian vase without ornament is perfect.
You may add cameo and intaglio, vine, acanthus leaf, satyrs, and
fauns, handles of ram's horns and circlet of gems to your vase if you
wish, and are rich enough, but unless the outline is perfect the
splendour and the arabesque but render the vase vulgar. So with the
simple dinner; it is the Grecian vase unadorned.
Remember that rich people, stifled with luxury at home, like to be
asked to these dinners. A lady in England, very much admired for her
witty conversation, said she intended to devote herself to the
amelioration of the condition of the upper classes, as she thought
them the most bored and altogether the least attended to of any
people; and we have heard of the rich man in New York who complained
that he was no longer asked to the little dinners. There is too much
worship and fear of money in our country. In England and on the
Continent there is no shame in acknowledging, "I cannot afford it." I
have been asked to a luncheon in England where a cold joint of mutton,
a few potatoes, and a plate of peaches constituted the whole repast;
and I have heard more delightful conversation and have met more
agreeable people than at more expensive feasts. Who in America would
dare to give such a lunch?
The simple dinner might be characterized, giving the essentials, as a
soup, a fish, a roast, one _entrée_, and a salad, an ice and fruit
(simply the fruit in season), a cup of coffee afterward, with a glass
of sherry, claret, or champagne. Such a dinner is good enough for
anybody, and is possible to the person of moderate means.
From this up to the splendid dinners of millionnaires, served on gold
and silver and priceless Sèvres, Dresden, Japanese, and Chinese
porcelain, with flagons of ruby glass bound in gold, with Benvenuto
Cellini vases, and silver candelabra, the ascent may be gradual. In
the one the tablecloth is of spotless damask; in the other it may be
of duchesse lace over red. The very mats are mirrors, the crystal
drops of the epergne flash like diamonds. It may be served in a
picture-gallery. Each lady has a bouquet, a fan, a ribbon painted with
her name, a basket or _bonbonnière_ to take home with her. The courses
are often sixteen in number, the wines are of fabulous value,
antiquity, and age. Each drop is like the River Pactolus, whose sands
were of gold. The viands may come from Algiers or St. Petersburg;
strawberries and peaches in January, the roses of June in February,
fruit from the Pacific, from the Gulf, artichokes from Marseilles,
oranges and strawberries from Florida, game from Arizona and
Chesapeake Bay, mutton and pheasants from Scotland, luxury from
everywhere. The primal condition of this banquet is, that everything
should be unusual.
But remember that, after all, it is only the Grecian vase heavily
ornamented. No one person can taste half the dishes; it takes a long
time, and the room may be too hot. The limitations of a dinner should
be considered. It is a splendid picture, no doubt, but it need not
appall the young hostess who desires to return the civility.
A vase of flowers or a basket of growing plants can replace the
epergne. Some pretty dinner-cards may be etched by herself, with a
Shakspearean quotation showing a personal thought of each guest. Her
spotless glass and silver, her good soup, her fresh fish, the haunch
of venison roasted before a wood fire, the salad mixed by her own fair
hands, perhaps a dessert over which she has lingered, a bit of cheese,
a cup of coffee, a smiling host, a composed hostess, a congenial
company, and wit withal,--who shall say that the little dinner is not
as amusing as the big dinner? To be composed: yes, that is the first
thing to be remembered on the part of a young hostess. She may be
essentially nervous and anxious, particularly if she is just beginning
to entertain, but here she must resolutely put on a mask of composure,
and assume a virtue if she have it not. Nothing is of much importance,
excepting her own demeanor. A fussy hostess who scolds the servants,
wrinkles her brow, or even forgets to listen to the man who is talking
to her is the ruin of a dinner. The author of "Cecil" tells his niece
that if stewed puppy-dog is brought to the table she must not notice
it. Few hostesses are subjected to so severe an ordeal as this, but
the remark contains a goodly hint.
As, however, it is a great intellectual feat to achieve a perfect
little dinner with a small household and small means, perhaps that
form of entertaining may be postponed a few years. Never attempt
anything which cannot be well done. There is the afternoon tea, the
musical evening, the reception, the luncheon; they are all easier to
give than the dinner. The young hostess ambitious to excel in the art
of entertaining can choose a thousand ways. Let her alone avoid
attempting the impossible; and let her remember that no success which
is not honestly gained is worth a pin. If it is money, it stings; if
it is place and position, it becomes the shirt of Nessus.
But for the well mannered and well behaved American woman what a noble
success, what a perfect present, what a delightful future there is!
She is the founder of the American nobility. All men bow down to her.
She is the queen of the man who loves her; he treats her with every
respect. She is to teach the future citizen honour, loyalty, duty,
respect, politeness, kindness, the law of love. Such a man could read
his Philip Sidney and yet not blush to find himself a follower. An
American woman wields the only rod of empire to which American men
will bow. She should try to be an empress in the best sense of the
word; and to a young woman entering society we should recommend a
certain exclusiveness. Not snobbish exclusiveness; but it is always
well to choose one's friends slowly and with due consideration. We are
not the most perfect beings in all the world; we do not wish to be
intimate with too much imperfection. A broken friendship is a very
painful thing. We should think twice before we give an intimate
friendship to any one. No woman who essays to entertain should ask
everybody to her house. The respect she owes to herself should prevent
this; her house becomes a camp unless she has herself the power of
putting a coarse sieve outside the door.
We have no such inviolable virtue that we can as yet rate Dives and
Lazarus before they are dead. Very rich people are apt to be very good
people; and in the realms of the highest fashion we find the simplest,
best, and purest of characters. It is therefore of no consequence as
to the shade of fashion and the amount of the rent-roll. It must not
be supposed because some leaders of fashion are insolent that all are.
A young hostess must try to find the good, true, honourable, generous,
well bred, well educated member of society, no matter in what
conditions of life. Read character first, and hesitate before drawing
general deductions.
A hostess is the slave of her guests after she has invited them; she
must be all attention, and all suavity. If she has nothing to offer
them but a small house, a cup of tea, and a smile, she is just as much
a hostess as if she were a queen. If she offers them every luxury and
is not polite, she is a snob and a vulgarian. There is no such
detestable use of one's privileges as to be rude on one's ground. "The
man who eats your salt is sacred." To patronize is a great necessity
to some natures. There is little opportunity for it in free, brave
America, but some mistaken hostesses have gone that way. Every one
feels pleasantly toward the woman who invites one to her house; there
is something gracious in the act. But if, after opening her doors, the
hostess refuses the welcome, or treats her guests with various degrees
of cordiality, why did she ask at all? Every young American can become
a model hostess; she can master etiquette, and create for herself a
polite and cordial manner. She should be as serene as a summer's day;
she should keep all her domestic troubles out of sight. If she
entertains, let her do it in her own individual way,--a small way if
necessary. There was much in Touchstone's philosophy,--"a poor thing,
but mine own." She must have the instinct of hospitality, which is to
give pleasure to all one's guests; and it seems unnecessary to say to
any young American hostess, _Noblesse oblige_. She should be more
polite to the shy, ill-dressed visitor from the country--if indeed
there is such a thing left in America, where, as Bret Harte says, "The
fashions travel by telegraph"--than to the sweeping city dame, that
can take care of herself. A kindly greeting to a gawky youth will
never be forgotten; and it is to the humblest that a hostess should
address her kindest attentions.
There are born hostesses, like poets, but a hostess can also be made,
in which she has the advantage of the poets; and to the very wealthy
hostess we should quote this inestimable advice:--
Si tibi deficiant medici, medici tibi fiant
Hæc tria: mens hilaris, requies, moderata diæta.
HORACE.
Do not over-feed people. Who is it that says, "If simplicity is
admirable in manners and in literary style, in the matter of dinners
it becomes exalted into one of the cardinal virtues"?
The ambitious housewife would do well to remember this when she
cumbers herself, and thinks too much about her forthcoming banquet. If
she ignores this principle of simplicity and falls into the opposite
extreme of ostentation and pretentiousness, she may bore her guests
rather than entertain them.
It is an incontestable fact that dinners are made elaborate only at a
considerable risk; as they increase in size and importance, their
character is likely to deteriorate. This is true not only with regard
to the number of guests, but with reference to the number of dishes
that go to make up a bill-of-fare.
In fact we, as Americans, generally err on the side of having too much
rather than too little. The terror of running short is agony to the
mind of the conscientious housewife. How much will be enough and no
more? It stands to reason that the fewer the dishes, the more the cook
can concentrate her attention upon them; and here is reason for
reducing the _menu_ to its lowest terms. Then to consult the proper
gradation.
Brillat Savarin recounts a rather cruel joke perpetrated on a man who
was a well-known gourmand. The idea was that he should be induced to
satisfy himself with the more ordinary viands, and that then the
choicest dishes should be presented in vain before his jaded appetite.
This treacherous feast began with a sirloin of beef, a fricandeau of
veal, and a stewed carp with stuffing. Then came a magnificent turkey,
a pike, six _entremets_, and an ample dish of macaroni and Parmesan
cheese. Nor was this all. Another course appeared, composed of
sweetbread, surrounded with shrimps in jelly, soft roes, and partridge
wings, with a thick sauce or _purée_ of mushrooms. Last of all came
the delicacies,--snipes by the dozen, a pheasant in perfect order, and
with them a slice of tunny fish, quite fresh. Naturally, the gourmand
was _hors du combat_. As a joke, it was successful; as an act of
hospitality, it was a cruelty; as pointing a moral and adorning a
tale, it may be useful.
This anecdote has its historical value as showing us that the present
procession of soup, fish, roast, _entrée_, game, and dessert was not
observed one hundred years ago, as a fish was served after beef and
after turkey.
Dr. Johnson describes a dinner at Mrs. Thrales which shows us what was
considered luxurious a hundred years ago. "The dinner was excellent.
First course: soups at head and foot, removed by fish and a saddle of
mutton. Second course: a fowl they call galenan at head, a capon
larger than our Irish turkeys at foot. Third course: four different
ices,--pineapple, grape, raspberry, and a fourth. In each remove four
dishes; the first two courses served on massive plate."
These "gentlemen of England who live at home at ease," these earls by
the king's grace, viceroys of India, clerks and rich commoners, would
laugh at this dinner to-day; so would our clubmen, our diners at
Delmonico's, our millionnaires. Imagine the feelings of that _chef_
who received ten thousand a year, with absolute power of life or
death, with a wine-cellar which is a fortress of which he alone knows
the weakest spot,--what would he say to such a dinner?
But there are dinners where the gradation is perfect, where luxury
stimulates the brain as Château Yquem bathes the throat. It would seem
as if the Golden Age, the age of Leo X. had come back; and our
nineteenth century shows all the virtues of the art of entertaining
since the days of Lucullus, purified of the enormities, including
dining at eleven in the morning, of the intermediate ages.
It must not be forgotten that this simplicity which is so commended
can only be obtained by the most studied, artful care. As Gray's Elegy
reads as the most consummately easy and plain poetry in the world, so
that we feel that we have but to sit down at the writing-desk and
indite one exactly like it, we learn in giving a little, simple,
perfect dinner that its combinations must be faultless. Gray wrote
every verse of his immortal poem over many times. The hostess who
learns enough art to conceal art in her simple dinner has achieved
that perfection in her art which Gray reached. Perfect and simple
cookery are, like perfect beauty, very rare.
However, if the art of entertaining makes hostesses, hostesses must
make the art of entertaining. It is for them to decide the _juste
milieu_ between the _not enough_ and the great _too much_.