Many apologies to all ten of you who may actually read this for my recent lapse of effort. It’s been a nasty couple of weeks, what with pollen and insistent useless meetings at work. More happily, the home front has been filled with garden preparation, and it’s almost time to change the rugs and drapes over for warm weather, which always sends me into a very Prussian whirl of activity.
I learn from the Sunpapers today that there are several newcomers to my neighborhood. Although I’ve always been fond of the gargantuan, dilapidated houses in St. Paul Street’s 1900 block, I’d really not taken much notice of the fact that they were getting inexorably spruced up and shoved back into style. Now, though, the paper has made an issue of it. While I’m delighted to see the more tatty end of my neighborhood returning to the eye of Fashion, this has produced an unpleasant side effect.
I am going to have to pay social calls on people who are probably not from here, whom I do not know, and who decidedly do not know that courtesy demands that they call upon me first.
I realize that very few people actually bother with the full-blown ritual of social calls anymore, but I look askance at those who don’t observe the more basic proprieties of the custom. Only very old ladies in Baltimore, middle-aged and older ladies in Richmond, and thirty-two Philadelphian cave-dwellers still practice the form in its entirety—except, of course, those associated with the United States military. Perhaps this is the foundation of my longstanding and unhealthy fascination with the Marine Corps—they might not know which end is up, but they damned well know which corner of their cards to turn down.
The basis of the social call is simple. It is a plain courtesy designed to let the callee know that the caller recognizes his existence. Simultaneously, it allows the caller a chance to curry the favor of the one called upon—thus the better for securing dinner invitations and introductions, particularly desirable when one moves to a new city, and most especially desirable when that city is one that peers cautiously at newcomers from behind its fan.
The modern form of social calling is, of course, constrained by the fact that practically everybody, including those with the most illustrious bloodlines, now has to work for a living. That pretty much axes weekday mornings and afternoons; now if one wants to be “At Home” at a specific time, evenings and weekends are the only option. As most people are entertaining or being entertained on Saturday night and will at least make the pretense of being at church on Sunday morning, the available times are cut down again. The "At Home” custom simply isn’t practical anymore; one must call at random.
Naturally, the calling card itself is of paramount importance. Since almost no one has a household staff anymore, one no longer has to present a card to a footman or butler who will in turn deliver it to the master or mistress of the house. It is now sufficient for everyone to have a little tray in the hall to receive cards; when calling, you drop your card in the tray. The card itself is easy enough. A man’s card should be small with his name only; a lady’s is bigger and might include her address and her “At Home” time, in the unlikely event that she observes one. It’s acceptable now to use your business card if you have one (even when I had reason to have one, I didn’t, figuring that anybody who really wanted to do business with me would probably be in my social circle anyway). For those who give a good Goddamn, I’ll list basic etiquette after this rant.
Most moderns claim that they don’t like unannounced calls because they haven’t time to provide entertainment. A great advantage of the calling system is that you do not, as a rule, provide entertainment or even refreshments. On the off chance that you have a pot of tea or a shaker of Manhattans (guess which I prefer), so much the better, but anybody brought up nicely won’t think less of you if you don’t.
The supreme advantage of social calls is that, unless you are calling upon a good friend, the proscribed length of a call is about fifteen minutes. This is precisely long enough for both parties to acknowledge each other and compliment each other’s house/attire/business/children, but not quite long enough to embark on any discussion likely to provoke gunfire.
The evenings of this week will find me with my card case in my breast pocket and unwillingly, but very properly, trudging down St. Paul a few blocks.
HOW TO PAY A SOCIAL CALL:
1. Ring doorbell.
2. If a servant answers, present your card; he will inform you if the gentleman/lady of the house is receiving. If he or she is, he will present your card and then show you in. If he or she is not, you simply leave your card. Remember that you may be calling at an inopportune time (dinner, sex, childbirth).
3. Since no one has servants anymore the previous scenario is unlikely, but I don’t want you telling people that you weren’t adequately prepared. The head of the house may very well answer; in which case you simply state that you wanted to drop by and pay a call to say hello (dropping your card in the tray that they hopefully have the sense to provide).
4. Make polite—but banal—conversation. You’re here to be polite, not to change the world. Don’t talk too much about other people; you never know who formed alliances at last week’s dinner parties. More significantly, you don’t know who formed unmentionable alliances afterwards at the nightclubs.
5. Claim you must run downtown, and leave. You should expect a return call, or some form of acknowledgement, within the next month. If you don’t, you may officially declare the person “Not Our Kind, Dear”, and you have no obligation to call on him in the future.
I learn from the Sunpapers today that there are several newcomers to my neighborhood. Although I’ve always been fond of the gargantuan, dilapidated houses in St. Paul Street’s 1900 block, I’d really not taken much notice of the fact that they were getting inexorably spruced up and shoved back into style. Now, though, the paper has made an issue of it. While I’m delighted to see the more tatty end of my neighborhood returning to the eye of Fashion, this has produced an unpleasant side effect.
I am going to have to pay social calls on people who are probably not from here, whom I do not know, and who decidedly do not know that courtesy demands that they call upon me first.
I realize that very few people actually bother with the full-blown ritual of social calls anymore, but I look askance at those who don’t observe the more basic proprieties of the custom. Only very old ladies in Baltimore, middle-aged and older ladies in Richmond, and thirty-two Philadelphian cave-dwellers still practice the form in its entirety—except, of course, those associated with the United States military. Perhaps this is the foundation of my longstanding and unhealthy fascination with the Marine Corps—they might not know which end is up, but they damned well know which corner of their cards to turn down.
The basis of the social call is simple. It is a plain courtesy designed to let the callee know that the caller recognizes his existence. Simultaneously, it allows the caller a chance to curry the favor of the one called upon—thus the better for securing dinner invitations and introductions, particularly desirable when one moves to a new city, and most especially desirable when that city is one that peers cautiously at newcomers from behind its fan.
The modern form of social calling is, of course, constrained by the fact that practically everybody, including those with the most illustrious bloodlines, now has to work for a living. That pretty much axes weekday mornings and afternoons; now if one wants to be “At Home” at a specific time, evenings and weekends are the only option. As most people are entertaining or being entertained on Saturday night and will at least make the pretense of being at church on Sunday morning, the available times are cut down again. The "At Home” custom simply isn’t practical anymore; one must call at random.
Naturally, the calling card itself is of paramount importance. Since almost no one has a household staff anymore, one no longer has to present a card to a footman or butler who will in turn deliver it to the master or mistress of the house. It is now sufficient for everyone to have a little tray in the hall to receive cards; when calling, you drop your card in the tray. The card itself is easy enough. A man’s card should be small with his name only; a lady’s is bigger and might include her address and her “At Home” time, in the unlikely event that she observes one. It’s acceptable now to use your business card if you have one (even when I had reason to have one, I didn’t, figuring that anybody who really wanted to do business with me would probably be in my social circle anyway). For those who give a good Goddamn, I’ll list basic etiquette after this rant.
Most moderns claim that they don’t like unannounced calls because they haven’t time to provide entertainment. A great advantage of the calling system is that you do not, as a rule, provide entertainment or even refreshments. On the off chance that you have a pot of tea or a shaker of Manhattans (guess which I prefer), so much the better, but anybody brought up nicely won’t think less of you if you don’t.
The supreme advantage of social calls is that, unless you are calling upon a good friend, the proscribed length of a call is about fifteen minutes. This is precisely long enough for both parties to acknowledge each other and compliment each other’s house/attire/business/children, but not quite long enough to embark on any discussion likely to provoke gunfire.
The evenings of this week will find me with my card case in my breast pocket and unwillingly, but very properly, trudging down St. Paul a few blocks.
HOW TO PAY A SOCIAL CALL:
1. Ring doorbell.
2. If a servant answers, present your card; he will inform you if the gentleman/lady of the house is receiving. If he or she is, he will present your card and then show you in. If he or she is not, you simply leave your card. Remember that you may be calling at an inopportune time (dinner, sex, childbirth).
3. Since no one has servants anymore the previous scenario is unlikely, but I don’t want you telling people that you weren’t adequately prepared. The head of the house may very well answer; in which case you simply state that you wanted to drop by and pay a call to say hello (dropping your card in the tray that they hopefully have the sense to provide).
4. Make polite—but banal—conversation. You’re here to be polite, not to change the world. Don’t talk too much about other people; you never know who formed alliances at last week’s dinner parties. More significantly, you don’t know who formed unmentionable alliances afterwards at the nightclubs.
5. Claim you must run downtown, and leave. You should expect a return call, or some form of acknowledgement, within the next month. If you don’t, you may officially declare the person “Not Our Kind, Dear”, and you have no obligation to call on him in the future.
posted by Daniel | 12:35 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home