Part 19

Occasionally it happens that a young man finds himself “dropped” by some family with whom he has been on terms of intimacy. He is debarred by the rules of polite society from asking for an explanation, it being a canon of good breeding never to ask questions that are embarrassing to reply to. This has been embodied in a very outspoken and unceremonious phrase “you ask me no questions, I tell you no lies.” There is a deep truth in it, nevertheless, and even in family life it is well to observe it.

Sometimes the reason a young man is dropped in this way is that something to his disadvantage has been discovered.

But not unfrequently the true reason is that one of the daughters of the house has shown a preference for his society which the parents think should be checked. Girls of the present day do not always exercise the well-bred self-control that is the rule of good society in such matters. To love unsought is a misfortune for any girl, leading inevitably to much mortification and humiliation, but these may be minimised if she can only practice a dignified reticence about her feelings.

But should a young man thus capriciously (as it seems to him) be left out in the cold be on sufficiently good terms with a son of the house, it would be quite in rule for him to put out a feeler or two on the subject: “I say, old fellow, I wonder if I have been so unfortunate as to offend your people in any way?” He will soon discover, from the aspect of his interlocutor, whether he is likely to gain any information on the matter.

CALLS OF INQUIRY.

In calling on friends who have suffered bereavement, after having received their card of thanks for kind inquiries, it is, of course, requisite that the dress should be of the quietest description. A red tie, for instance, would be horribly out of place. Only in case of very intimate friendships is the call prolonged beyond ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. The caller takes his tone from that of the family.

It is in the worst taste to refer to the loss sustained unless the initiative is taken by one of those bereaved. This is very seldom done, and the conversation is usually conducted on lines calculated to avert any disturbing remark. No one likes to break down or lose self-command except in seclusion; and, in fact, it is only necessary to look into one’s own consciousness in order to discover what is the best course to follow in such cases.

Should a young man be invited to attend the funeral, he must wear mourning, black gloves, and black hatband. Punctuality, important at all times, is particularly essential at this dreary ceremonial. The family usually provides carriages, but in the case of friends who possess equipages, they always take their own. It is the custom to assemble at the house, or to go by fixed train should the family reside in the country.

It is better not to accept any invitations to return to the house afterwards; for, as a rule, these are only given as a matter of form.

We often see in newspapers after the announcement of a death, a request that no flowers may be sent. Failure to comply with this would argue a want of perception, but when no such intimation is made a friend may send flowers, the only essential being that they should consist as a rule of pure white flowers or orchids, pansies, or violets. Occasionally an exception is made to these in the case of favourite flowers of the lost friend. An exquisite garland of pale tea-roses appeared among the scores of wreaths seen at the funeral of one of our greatest poets.

MANNER.

It would not be easy to over-estimate the importance of a good manner from a social point of view. It ranks far above much more important qualities. The “rough diamonds” who conceal their traditional good heart under a surly exterior are seldom happy people, notwithstanding their genuine thoroughness and real goodness.

In family life and in society a gentle manner “covers a multitude of sins.” The world and the home reflect back to us the face we present to them. If we cultivate a bright and cordial manner we shall be heartily received by others, though the real nature of us lies beneath as cold and hard as salt fresh from a mine. In the home the coldness and hardness are soon found out, but they are partially condoned for the sake of the superficial courtesy and kindness. In society the quality of the heart matters little, so long as the surface is, at the same time, genial and polished.

Life is chiefly made up of small things, and if we learn to take an interest in the trifling incidents of our friends’ lives, in the everyday occurrences in the existence of our acquaintances, we supply the sympathetic element that tells so largely in our favour.

And very often the simulation of this interest induces the reality, and our own life is brightened by participating in the pleasures and the happiness of others, and deepened by sharing in their disappointments, and by doing so helping them to overcome them. With a cold, forbidding manner it is impossible to convey any such impression.

But this often comes from shyness, not only in the young, but all through life. The youthful form of shyness is self-consciousness and self-distrust. That which lasts through life is the fear of self-revelation.

Even the frankest natures have often this quality of reticence, which forbids them to reveal the inner depths of their thoughts, and makes them hate to be divined.

Rochefoucauld says we all hate to be divined, though we like to divine others; but many of us know well what a delightful thing it is to be read like an open book by those whose thoughts reflect our own, and with whom we discover ourselves to be in mental kinship.

The ideal life is that which has few friends but many acquaintances. The friends are close and firm ones, “grappled to our hearts with hooks of steel,” and the circle of acquaintances offers opportunities for adding to their number. But without an agreeable manner it is difficult to secure these inner and outer spheres of social companionship.

Were I asked to give a recipe for the formation of a good manner I should recommend an equal mixture of self-confidence and humility as the first essential, then a considerable desire to please, tempered by the self-respect which preserves from officiousness and that annoying air of “ingratiating” themselves that some men assume in society. There must be perfect self-possession, though in the very young this is scarcely expected, a little becoming shyness sitting very well upon them. “I like a shy man. He’s getting so scarce,” said a very pretty woman at a ball not long since. “Find one, quick, and introduce him.” Her laughing emissaries went off to search for the desired article, and after a while returned with the report that the only shy man in the room was engaged for every dance!

When self-possession has been acquired it is well to add on to it the saving grace of gentleness. This quality is much misunderstood by men. In women they adore it; in themselves and each other they undervalue it. But women love gentleness in men. It is a most telling piece of the necessary equipment for society. A gentle manner, a gentle voice, and the absence of all self-assertion, that is at the root of the matter, have won more love than good looks.

Carlyle called the members of upper-class society “amiable stoics,” in reference to the equable serenity of countenance and calm self-possession of manner with which they accept those occasionally trying conditions of social life which necessitate self-denial in matters great and small.

This placidity is the result of long training. Not just at first does a young man bow to the decree of his hostess which separates him from the girl he admires and tells him off to take some uninteresting dowager to the supper-room. But should he evince any sign of discontent with the arrangement he is at once convicted of ill-breeding. The man of “perfect manners” is he who is calmly courteous in all circumstances, as attentive outwardly to the plain and the elderly as he is to the young and pretty.

It is difficult to renounce the delightful tête-à-tête with a charming girl when asked by his hostess to dance with some poor wallflower who has been neglected for half-a-dozen dances. But it has to be borne, and eventually it brings its own reward. The “duty” dance is a hard thing, and good manners involve a considerable amount of self-denial; but repetition soon makes it comparatively easy, and invitations of an agreeable kind pour in on the young man who shows himself willing to practise those peculiar forms of selflessness, opportunities for which so frequently arise in society.

It is probably in imitation of this surface equanimity that the wooden stare has been adopted so universally by our golden youth.

This is useful for wearing at one’s club or in the stall of a theatre, and it at once stamps the proprietor of the stare as being “in it.” The fashion is not confined to England. It reigns in New York, and even in far Australia there is a select coterie of golden or gilded youth who are beginning to learn how to abstract every atom of expression from the countenance, and to look on vacantly or seem to do so. As yet, there is no considerable expertness achieved in the matter in Antipodean circles, but in New York a very fair impression of imbecility is conveyed in the look of the ultra-fashionable young man. There are various other important matters on which a transatlantic authority has been instructing the youth of his generation. The one involving the most serious responsibility is connected with carrying a cane or stick, as it is better form to call it.

It must be left at home when going to business, to church, or to make calls. The idea of the latter prohibition is that, if a call is made on a lady cane in hand, the inference would be that the caller is on sufficiently intimate terms to look in on her casually at any time. There is certainly subtlety in this view. It is well that the novice should be made aware that the lowest depth of vulgarity is touched by carrying an umbrella in a case. It is also an important item of information that the gloves and cane must be carried in the same hand. To do otherwise is seriously to err in social forms. Our instructor declares that to attend oratorios and philharmonic concerts is thoroughly bad form, indicating a tendency to be pedantic. It is much better to go to a horse show. It is by no means considered correct to shake hands. The proper way is to take hold of the fingers of one’s acquaintance at the second joints, and bestow upon them one or two decisive little jerks, as though testing their strength. “No, I thank you,” is a form of words no longer heard in good society, having some time since been replaced by “No, thanks.” No man with any claim to social position would consent to pronounce the “g” at the end of the present participle of verbs. “Comin’ and goin’” are the correct forms just now. “Don’t you know” is ridiculously correct. Men of perception do not care to be more accurate than others of their set. “Don’t-chi-know” is more customary, and the pronunciation marks the man as riding on the topmost crest of the social wave. There must be a staccato sound about the phrase, which alternates pleasantly with the languid drawl. The latter is still in favour, and accompanies admirably the studied lack of animation in the expression and general wooden look of the face.

To revert for a moment to the cane, or walking-stick.