Idle Ideas in 1905 | Page 4

To Solve The Servant Problem Why We Hate The
Foreigner

ARE WE AS INTERESTING AS WE THINK WE ARE?

"Charmed. Very hot weather we've been having of late--I mean cold.
Let me see, I did not quite catch your name just now. Thank you so
much. Yes, it is a bit close." And a silence falls, neither of us being able
to think what next to say.
What has happened is this: My host has met me in the doorway, and
shaken me heartily by the hand.
"So glad you were able to come," he has said. "Some friends of mine
here, very anxious to meet you." He has bustled me across the room.
"Delightful people. You'll like them--have read all your books."
He has brought me up to a stately lady, and has presented me. We have
exchanged the customary commonplaces, and she, I feel, is waiting for
me to say something clever, original and tactful. And I don't know
whether she is Presbyterian or Mormon; a Protectionist or a Free Trader;
whether she is engaged to be married or has lately been divorced!
A friend of mine adopts the sensible plan of always providing you with
a short history of the person to whom he is about to lead you.
"I want to introduce you to a Mrs. Jones," he whispers. "Clever woman.
Wrote a book two years ago. Forget the name of it. Something about

twins. Keep away from sausages. Father ran a pork shop in the
Borough. Husband on the Stock Exchange. Keep off coke.
Unpleasantness about a company. You'll get on best by sticking to the
book. Lot in it about platonic friendship. Don't seem to be looking too
closely at her. Has a slight squint she tries to hide."
By this time we have reached the lady, and he introduces me as a friend
of his who is simply dying to know her.
"Wants to talk about your book," he explains. "Disagrees with you
entirely on the subject of platonic friendship. Sure you'll be able to
convince him."
It saves us both a deal of trouble. I start at once on platonic friendship,
and ask her questions about twins, avoiding sausages and coke. She
thinks me an unusually interesting man, and I am less bored than
otherwise I might be.
I have sometimes thought it would be a serviceable device if, in Society,
we all of us wore a neat card--pinned, say, upon our back-- setting forth
such information as was necessary; our name legibly written, and how
to be pronounced; our age (not necessarily in good faith, but for
purposes of conversation. Once I seriously hurt a German lady by
demanding of her information about the Franco-German war. She
looked to me as if she could not object to being taken for forty. It
turned out she was thirty-seven. Had I not been an Englishman I might
have had to fight a duel); our religious and political beliefs; together
with a list of the subjects we were most at home upon; and a few facts
concerning our career--sufficient to save the stranger from, what is
vulgarly termed "putting his foot in it." Before making jokes about
"Dumping," or discussing the question of Chinese Cheap Labour, one
would glance behind and note whether one's companion was ticketed
"Whole-hogger," or "Pro-Boer." Guests desirous of agreeable
partners--an "agreeable person," according to the late Lord
Beaconsfield's definition, being "a person who agrees with you"--could
make their own selection.
"Excuse me. Would you mind turning round a minute? Ah, 'Wagnerian
Crank!' I am afraid we should not get on together. I prefer the Italian
school."
Or, "How delightful. I see you don't believe in vaccination. May I take
you into supper?"

Those, on the other hand, fond of argument would choose a suitable
opponent. A master of ceremonies might be provided who would stand
in the centre of the room and call for partners: "Lady with strong views
in favour of female franchise wishes to meet gentleman holding the
opinions of St. Paul. With view to argument."
An American lady, a year or two ago, wrote me a letter that did me real
good: she appreciated my work with so much understanding, criticised
it with such sympathetic interest. She added that, when in England the
summer before, she had been on the point of accepting an invitation to
meet me; but at the last moment she had changed her mind; she felt so
sure--she put it pleasantly, but this is what it came to--that in my own
proper person I should fall short of her expectations. For my own sake I
felt sorry she had cried off; it would have been worth something to
have met so sensible a woman. An author introduced to people who
have read--or