Fifteen Chapters of Autobiography
in modern glasses. And, thanks to the influence of King Edward VII,
after-dinner drinking had been exorcised by cigarettes. The portentous
piles of clumsy silver which had overshadowed our fathers'
tables--effigies of Peace and Plenty, Racing Cups and Prizes for fat
cattle--had been banished to the plate-closets; bright china and
brighter flowers reigned in their stead. In short, a dinner thirty-five
years ago was very like a dinner to-day. It did not take me long to find
that (with Cardinal Grandison) "I liked dinner-society very much," and
that "you see the world there and hear things which you do not hear
otherwise."
I have already described the methods by which ball-society was, and
perhaps is, recruited. An incident which befell me in my second season
threw a similar light on the more obscure question of dinner-society.
One day I received a large card which intimated that Mr. and Mrs.
Goldmore requested the honour of my company at dinner. I was a little
surprised, because though I had been to balls at the Goldmores' house
and had made my bow at the top of the stairs, I did not really know
them. They had newly arrived in London, with a great fortune made in
clay pipes and dolls' eyes, and were making their way by entertaining
lavishly. However, it was very kind of them to ask me to dinner, and I
readily accepted. The appointed evening came, and I arrived rather late.
In an immense drawing-room there were some thirty guests assembled, and,
as I looked round, I could not see a single face which I had ever seen
before. Worse than that, it was obvious that Mr. and Mrs. Goldmore did
not know me. They heard my name announced, received me quite politely,
and then retired into a window, where their darkling undertones,
enquiring glances, and heads negatively shaken, made it only too clear
that they were asking one another who on earth the last arrival was.
However, their embarrassment and mine was soon relieved by the
announcement of dinner. As there were more male guests than women, there
was no need to give me a partner; so we all swept downstairs in a
promiscuous flood, and soon were making the vital choice between
_bisque_ and _consomme_. Eating my dinner, I revolved my plans, and
decided to make a clean breast of it. So, when we went up into the
drawing-room, I made straight for my hostess. "I feel sure," I said,
"that you and Mr. Goldmore did not expect me to-night." "Oh," was the
gracious reply, "I hope there was nothing in our manner which made you
feel that you were unwelcome." "Nothing," I replied, "could have been
kinder than your manner, but one has a certain social instinct which
tells one when one has made a mistake. And yet what the mistake was I
cannot guess. I am sure it is the right house and the right evening--Do
please explain." "Well," said Mrs. Goldmore, "as you have found out so
much, I think I had better tell you all. _We were not expecting you._ We
have not even now the pleasure of knowing who you are. We were
expecting Dr. Russell, the _Times_ Correspondent, and all these ladies
and gentlemen have been asked to meet him." So it was not my mistake
after all, and I promptly rallied my forces. "The card certainly had my
first name, initials, and address all right, so there was nothing to
make me suspect a mistake. Besides, I should have thought that everyone
who knew the _Times_ Russell knew that his first name was William--he is
always called 'Billy Russell.'" "Well"--and now the truth coyly
emerged--"the fact is that we _don't_ know him. We heard that he was a
pleasant man and fond of dining out, and so we looked him up in the
_Court Guide_, and sent the invitation. I suppose we hit on your address
by mistake for his." I suppose so too; and that this is the method by
which newcomers build up a "Dinner-Society" in London.
One particular form of dinner deserves a special word of commemoration,
because it has gone, never to return. This was the "Fish Dinner" at
Greenwich or Blackwall, or even so far afield as Gravesend. It was to a
certain extent a picnic; without the formality of dressing, and made
pleasant by opportunities of fun and fresh air, in the park or on the
river, before we addressed ourselves to the serious business of the
evening; but that was serious indeed. The "Menu" of a dinner at the Ship
Hotel at Greenwich lies before me as I write. It contains turtle soup,
eleven kinds of fish, two _entrees_, a haunch of venison, poultry, ham,
grouse, leverets, five sweet dishes, and two kinds of ice. Well, those
were great days--we shall not look upon their like again. Let a poet[28]
who knew what he was writing about have the last word on Dinner.
"We may live without poetry, music, and art;
We may live without conscience and live without heart;
We may live without friends; we may live without books;
But civilized man cannot live without Cooks.
"He may live without lore--what is knowledge but grieving?
He may live without hope--what is hope but deceiving?
He may live without love--what is passion but pining?
But where is the man that can live without dining?"
There is an exquisite truth in this lyrical cry, but it stops short of
the fulness of the subject. It must be remembered that "dining" is not
the only form of eating. Mr. Gladstone, who thought modern luxury rather
disgusting, used to complain that nowadays life in a country house meant
three dinners a day, and, if you reckoned sandwiches and poached eggs at
five o'clock tea, nearly four. Indeed, the only difference that I can
perceive between a modern luncheon and a modern dinner is that at the
former meal you don't have soup or a printed _Menu_. There have always
been some houses where the luncheons were much more famous than the
dinners. Dinner, after all, is something of a ceremony; it requires
forethought, care, and organization. Luncheon is more of a scramble,
and, in the case of a numerous and scattered family, it is the
pleasantest of reunions.
My uncle Lord John Russell (1792-1878) published in 1820 a book of
_Essays and Sketches_, in which he speaks of "women sitting down to a
substantial luncheon at three or four," and observes that men would be
wise if they followed the example. All contemporary evidence points to
luncheon as a female meal, at which men attended, if at all,
clandestinely. If a man habitually sat down to luncheon, and ate it
through, he was regarded as indifferent to the claims of dinner, and,
moreover, was contemned as an idler. No one who had anything to do could
find time for a square meal in the middle of the day. But, as years went
on, the feeling changed. Prince Albert was notoriously fond of luncheon,
and Queen Victoria humoured him. They dined very late, and the luncheon
at the Palace became a very real and fully recognized meal. The example,
communicated from the highest quarters, was soon followed in Society;
and, when I first knew London, luncheon was as firmly established as
dinner. As a rule, it was not an affair of fixed invitation; but a
hostess would say, "You will always find us at luncheon, somewhere about
two"--and one took her at her word.
The luncheon by invitation was a more formal, and rather terrible,
affair. I well remember a house where at two o'clock in June we had to
sit down with curtains drawn, lights ablaze, and rose-coloured shades to
the candles, because the hostess thought, rightly as regarded herself,
less so as regarded her guests, that no one's complexion could stand the
searching trial of midsummer sunshine.
"Sunday Luncheon" was always a thing apart. For some reason, not
altogether clear, perhaps because devotion long sustained makes a strong
demand on the nervous system, men who turned up their noses at luncheon
on weekdays devoured roast beef and Yorkshire pudding on Sundays, and
went forth, like giants refreshed, for a round of afternoon calls. The
Sunday Luncheon was a recognized centre of social life. Where there was
even a moderate degree of intimacy a guest might drop in and be sure of
mayonnaise, chicken, and welcome. I can recall an occasion of this kind
when I saw social Presence of Mind exemplified, as I thought and think,
on an heroic scale. Luncheon was over. It had not been a particularly
bounteous meal; the guests had been many; the chicken had been eaten to
the drumstick and the cutlets to the bone. Nothing remained but a huge
Trifle, of chromatic and threatening aspect, on which no one had
ventured to embark. Coffee was just coming, when the servant entered
with an anxious expression, and murmured to the hostess that Monsieur de
Petitpois--a newly-arrived attache--had come, and seemed to expect
luncheon. The hostess grasped the situation in an instant, and issued
her commands with a promptitude and a directness which the Duke of
Wellington could not have surpassed. "Clear everything away, but leave
the Trifle. Then show M. de Petitpois in." Enter De Petitpois.
"Delighted to see you. Quite right. Always at home at Sunday luncheon.
Pray come and sit here and have some Trifle. It is our national Sunday
dish." Poor young De Petitpois, actuated by the same principle which
made the Prodigal desire the husks, filled himself with spongecake,
jam, and whipped cream; and went away looking rather pale. If he kept a
journal, he no doubt noted the English Sunday as one of our most curious
institutions, and "Le Trifle" as its crowning horror.
Supper is a word of very different significances. There is the Ball
Supper, which I have described in a previous chapter. There is the
Supper after the Missionary Meeting in the country, when "The Deputation
from the Parent Society" is entertained with cold beef, boiled eggs, and
cocoa. There is the diurnal Supper, fruitful parent of our national
crudities, eaten by the social class that dines at one; and this Supper
(as was disclosed at a recent inquest) may consist of steak, tomatoes,
and tea.
And yet, again, there is the Theatrical Supper, which, eaten in
congenial company after _Patience_ or _The Whip_, is our nearest
approach to the "Nights and Suppers of the Gods." This kind of supper
has a niche of its own in my retrospects. It was my privilege when first
I came to London to know Lady Burdett-Coutts, famous all over the world
as a philanthropist, and also, in every tone and gesture, a survival
from the days when great station and great manner went together. Lady
Burdett-Coutts was an enthusiastic devotee of the drama; and, when her
Evening Parties were breaking up, she would gently glide round the great
rooms in Stratton Street, and say to a departing guest:
"I hope you need not go just yet. I am expecting Mr. Irving to supper
after the play, and I am asking a few friends to meet him."
As far as I know, I am the only survivor of those delightful feasts.
Dinner and luncheon and supper must, I suppose, be reckoned among the
permanent facts of life; but there is, or was, one meal of which I have
witnessed the unwept disappearance. It had its roots in our historic
past. It clung to its place in our social economy. It lived long and
died hard. It was the Breakfast-Party. When I first lived in London, it
was, like some types of human character, vigorous but unpopular. No one
could really like going out to breakfast; but the people who gave
Breakfast-Parties were worthy and often agreeable people; and there were
few who had the hardihood to say them Nay.
The most famous breakfast-parties of the time were given by Mr.
Gladstone, on every Thursday morning in the Session; when, while we ate
broiled salmon and drank coffee, our host discoursed to an admiring
circle about the colour-sense in Homer, or the polity of the ancient
Hittites. Around the table were gathered Lions and Lionesses of various