IN the ’nineties the women’s clubs were beginning to offer a field for lecturers. After reading a paper before my own club in Plainfield I was emboldened2 to enter this, and during twenty-five years made lecture trips to New England and the middle West, as well as to near-by points. “The Art of Conversation,” and “Personal Reminiscences of Distinguished3 People” were among my most popular talks.
Boston was my mother’s home and also a great center of club activity. Hence I was glad to give many talks in New England, combining them with visits to her delightful4 home at 241 Beacon5 Street. On one of these trips I attended an authors’ reading where the name of Elizabeth Stewart Phelps Ward was on the program. She duly took her part, but we learned afterward7 that she had told the chairman she might not feel like speaking. “When it is my turn, do not announce me unless I spring up and come forward.” As Mrs. Ward was sitting behind the chairman, the latter had some anxious moments before the author of “Gates Ajar” decided8 to “spring up.”
If not the first to speak on the subject of manners, I was a pioneer in the field. A friend surprised me by saying that my talks at schools had become the fashion in New York. A look at my engagement-book showed that she was right.
To talk to young girls is a great pleasure. We always seemed to understand one another perfectly9; I interspersed10 my subject with anecdotes11 and with bits of fun which they cordially appreciated. My aim was to set before them the essentials of good nature rather than the formalism of mere12 etiquette13.
A speaker on manners is confronted with many difficulties. She must not speak of elementary details as if her hearers were ignorant of them, yet she must enter somewhat into particulars. I thought it perfectly safe to speak of gum-chewing in public as an odious14 custom, permissible15 only to football players. Alas16! One of my hearers always chewed gum while traveling, to avoid car-sickness!
I often asked the principals whether there were any special points they wished mentioned. One lady requested me to speak of mimicry17, as she had a pupil much given to it. I willingly did so, quoting from Miss Edgeworth’s story of “The Mimic18.” Unfortunately the girl for whom the admonition was especially intended was not feeling well. Either the other girls recognized the culprit or the weight of her own guilt19 overwhelmed her. I have a dim vision of a youthful figure reclining in an anteroom. I was never asked to speak in that school again!
If I had realized all the pitfalls20 lurking21 in the path of the speaker on manners, I should have embarked22 upon it with a less cheerful heart. But in all professions we learn by doing. To be “the Missionary23 of good manners” has been a pleasure. The principals have been kind and appreciative24 hostesses, and I have been truly glad to visit a great number of schools which afforded attractive homes as well as excellent educational advantages to the bright-faced, happy young girls of our country. It has been a privilege to see so much of the flower of young American womanhood.
Ruth McEnery Stewart has described in her inimitable way the treatment of the woman speaker in early days. Many of her experiences were also mine. She apparently25 preferred to stay with private families, and I certainly did. The cold isolation26 of a hotel in a small country town, the depressing furniture of the bedroom, the unappetizing menu and service of the dining-room, the chattering27 drummers in the distance, these were not at all to my taste.
As a guest in a private house one incurs28 additional fatigue29, but this is more than compensated30 for by the pleasure of meeting and learning to know your fellow-men and women. Is there a little desire for incense31 in all this? It may be, but there is also a genuine liking32 for one’s kind. To get a peep into the lives and thoughts of others can hardly fail to be interesting. Your material comforts are also much better attended to in the nest of the average clubwoman than in the leading hotel of the small town. The former gives you the best she has; she does everything in her power to make you comfortable under her roof. The chief danger is that of killing33 you with kindness by putting you on exhibition through unduly34 long hours.
To be considered as a being apart is flattering, even though fatiguing35. That you are like other women, capable of physical weariness, does not always occur to your kind entertainers. To find that you are to be the chief guest at a large luncheon36 given in your honor, just preceding your address, is disturbing. At such moments I sympathize with Mrs. Deland’s desire for the barbaric solitude37 of the hotel bedroom. Again, at the end of an hour, when you’ve done your best to entertain the audience, you would almost prefer not to shake hands with a couple of hundred persons.
Still, it is a pleasure to meet your audience and to hear them say the lecture interested them. You look as animated38 as you can and try to vary the expression of your voice when you say for the hundredth time, “I’m glad you liked it.” For you are genuinely glad—of that there is no doubt.
I learned ultimately to ask for a time of absolute quiet before speaking. This is more difficult to procure39 than the uninitiated suppose. It is a maxim40 with the average clubwoman that the “talent” must be on hand in very good season. Some clubs who are very secret about their affairs put you in a remote waiting-room which may or may not be warm. Others, remembering that you also are a clubwoman and likely to sympathize in their doings, give you a comfortable chair on the platform. As I am thoroughly41 in sympathy with the club idea and spirit, I like to hear the reports, provided they are not too long. At one enthusiastic club I sat during an hour or more while they thoroughly and conscientiously42 amended43 their constitution.
For these reasons the lecturer sometimes weakly desires to delay her coming. She has a subconscious44 feeling that the program proper cannot begin until she gets there, and that therefore she could take a later train. This proves to be impossible, because of the necessity of personally meeting and guiding the “talent” (who might have the wandering tendencies characteristic of genius) to the right hall. The escort, being herself a member of the club, cannot, without sin, lose any crumb45 of the afternoon’s performance.
To be obliged to await your turn, in a very cold hall, while another speaker gives an address with stereoscopic illustrations, is not enlivening to the spirits. In spite of the assurance that the first talk will be very brief, you have a dreadful foreknowledge that it will not be. You grow more and more depressed46 as he goes on and on, for you know full well that your audience will be already wearying before you begin. Those who have no sense of the passage of time should not be expected to divide the program with others. Thomas Nelson Page, when reading his own stories, is as genial47 and delightful as they are. We went to hear him speak on the literature of the South with the pleasantest anticipations48. Richard Watson Gilder49 and Sister Maud were also to make addresses—or so we hoped. But as Mr. Page went on and on, these hopes faded away. In his amiable50 desire to do justice to all the writers of his section of the country, he forgot the limitations of time and space. A gentleman in my vicinity became actually savage51 in his impatience52 and was with difficulty restrained from violence by his wife. Mr. Page must have spoken for two hours—or so it seemed,—the other speakers’ time being reduced to a few minutes. When we met him next day and complimented him on his address, he na?vely replied, “I could have done better if I could have had more time!”
Mr. Page is by no means the only person whom I have heard offend in this way. Hence the warning-bell of women’s conventions is an excellent institution. The local talent must sometimes be reckoned with. I am very fond of music, but, in my opinion, it is a mistake to present a mixed program, consisting half of concert and half of lecture, to a club audience. Such an occasion is of a mongrel order. A single song may pleasantly preface the literary exercises, but this it is difficult to have.
In the midst of a series of earnest talks on schools as social centers, or on votes for women, to have your train of thought suddenly interrupted by operatic quavers from the local soprano, with accompanying flower presentation, is disturbing.
Marion Crawford was a delightful speaker. It once happened, when we were in Boston, that several of us were to speak on the same day.
“Five of the family are going to make the platform creak to-night!” exclaimed Crawford.
At a lecture course which I arranged in Plainfield he was the great attraction. The talk was given in a hall of pleasant size, not too large to permit a certain intimacy53 between speaker and audience. Crawford was at his best. Feeling, as a lecturer so quickly does, the interest and sympathy of his hearers, he was as genial and delightful as if he had been talking to half a dozen of us in a parlor54. Among those that surrounded him after the address was an enthusiastic lady who declared him to be the equal of Thackeray. The dear fellow deprecated this praise, yet he clearly liked it, as who would not?
Another relative, who wanted him to speak at her house, for a reduced price, did not secure him.
She wished, after the fashion of women, to give her guests a real treat—ice-cream and flowers as well as an address from Crawford—cutting down his fee to pay for the rest of the entertainment. I regret to say that her point of view is quite common among clubwomen. The secretary will na?vely ask you to come for a low price because the ladies wish to give ice-cream to their guests. It does not seem to occur to them that in this case it is the lecturer who pays for the refreshments55!
It is—or was, for we will hope the bad custom is dying away—common for clubs to exact, whenever they can, cut prices from their women speakers, on the plea of their small means—and then end up the year with some very expensive man whose fee is not subject to curtailment56.
After my mother reached the age of seventy her birthday was always celebrated57 by family and friends as a joyous58 occasion. The house was transformed into a veritable bower59 of flowers, the fitting expression of the beautiful affection by which she was surrounded.
A lady from the West was invited, with her son, to one of these receptions. She endeavored to impress upon him, beforehand, the importance of the occasion when “we shall see all the élite of Boston.” The day was rainy, and in the confusion of many umbrellas, that of the Western couple was mislaid.
“Ah, mother, the élite got the better of us that time!” said her son.
In 1893 we all greatly enjoyed the Chicago World’s Fair, in spite of the fact that I had my pocket picked and that my oldest son had a very serious time with his eyes, which were half-blinded by the glare. My mother was so deeply interested in it, and especially in the parliaments connected with it, that she forgot about her lame60 knee. When she returned home this took its revenge, depressing her usually buoyant spirits.
Sister Maud, remembering our mother’s perennial61 interest in women’s clubs, invented the “Papeterie” as a restorative.
Its object, as the name implies, was an exchange of paper-covered novels. The members took these home to read, giving a report at the following meeting. We occasionally had musical, artistic62, and dramatic programs. Our most serious undertaking63 was the writing of a novel, to which each member contributed a chapter. It was full of dash and adventure, but remains64 buried in the archives of the club. Our great modesty65 forbade the seeking of a publisher. We had a great deal of delightful fun and nonsense at our meetings. Our mother, with her wit and gaiety, was the moving spirit of the little club. She seldom missed a meeting, but when she did we were like salt that has lost its savor66. The merriment which came so easily in her presence, faded and died away!
Some extracts from my minutes as recording67 secretary are given below, to show as far as may be the spirit of our meetings. Their object was to amuse the company rather than to preserve a strictly68 veracious69 record of our doings.
We had no regular fees and dues in the Papeterie, save occasional fines of five cents for some offense70, real or imaginary, and assessments71 for postage or for a new record-book. Hence jests about our treasurer72 were among our stock jokes. She was christened “butterfly,” owing to her supposed fondness for society.
The first meeting of the renowned73 Papeterie Club for the season of 1910 was held August 9th, at the house of our President, who occupied the chair, as usual. She has wielded74 the gavel, OUR gavel, with her accustomed dexterity75 and grace, rebuking76 frivolous77 members with august raps on the table.
The annual report of the Rec. Sec. was read. The Chair suggested in a voice of authority that the proper thing be done by this report, and all voted to do the proper thing. What this was no one mentioned.
The Treasurer’s report was a revelation in High Finance, as follows:
Oct. 19th, 1908. There were five cents—these five cents to be known hereafter as the Lost Chord.
In July, 1909, we began with this Lost Chord—which vanished, leaving in its place $5.61 in October of that year.
There were no expenses except $1.20 for postal78 cards. Apparently there were no receipts, but somehow the $5.61 has now become $7.36. The third degree was here mercilessly applied79 to our Butterfly Treasurer, also to the minutes, with the result that it was found $2.75 had been received for special fines. The Papeterie therefore voted NOT to burn the treasurer at the stake as a witch. We should have been under this sad necessity had not this increase in our Treasure been satisfactorily accounted for.
The election passed off with its accustomed serenity80. The Club understands so well how to re-elect the old officers, we could really do this in our sleep. The old Board is unanimously murmured into the offices which they will never leave, no never, while life lasts. The only new feature of the election was that our Treasurer, Mrs. Lyman Josephs, nobly consented to act as Cor. Sec. pro6 tem. (in the absence of Mrs. Manson Smith), as well as our eternal and brilliant Treasurer. And yet she has been called a Butterfly.
Florence H. Hall,
Rec. Sec.
In addition to the usual officers of a club, the Papeterie had a “troubadour” (our musical member), an “archiviste” in charge of the archives, and a “penologist.” Our penal81 code was in the custody82 of the latter. We had a great deal of fun over the code—but I do not remember the actual infliction83 of any punishment, except fines of five cents.
The meeting of September 27, 1910, was the last but one held before my mother’s death, in October. Mrs. William Hunter Birckhead, who succeeded me as recording secretary, gave us an interesting account of the “Passion Play” at Oberammergau, and my mother told us of Newport in the old days. It was so sadly deserted84 after the Revolution that only one lady possessed85 a diamond ring!
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1
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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incurs
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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gilder
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| 镀金工人 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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curtailment
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| n.缩减，缩短 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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assessments
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| n.评估( assessment的名词复数 )；评价；（应偿付金额的）估定；（为征税对财产所作的）估价 | |
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treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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75
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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76
rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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77
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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78
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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79
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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80
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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81
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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82
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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83
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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84
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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85
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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