The Victorians, for all their moral high-mindedness, still
did at table what might best be done elsewhere – consider, for example, this account of a 19th
century dinner party.
Suddenly there came a
loud unmistakable noise and then an overpowering odour… I stole a glance at
Lady Marriott; she was as white as a ghost and her first helping of meat still
lay untouched upon her plate. The quiet lady avoided my eyes and had evidently
made up her mind to endure to the end.
But the atmosphere got
worse and worse, the smells stronger and stronger, till I rejoiced every time a
servant opened the door, whether to go out or come in…
Another unmistakeable
explosion and I could not but look again at my hostess. She was as pale as
death, and this time her eyes met mine in despairing appeal.
“I’m not very well,”
she said in a low tone. “I don’t think I can see it through!”
“Why should you?” I
responded, getting up. “Come upstairs; we’ll never be missed!’ We got up quietly and left the room and in
fact were not missed by anyone. As soon as Lady Marriott breathed the pure air
of the hall and stairway she began to revive, while the change taught me how
terrible the putrid atmosphere of the dining-room had become. “That’s my first
City dinner,” said Lady Marriott, drawing a long breath as we sat down in the
drawing-room, “and I hope devoutly it may be my last. How perfectly awful men
can be!”
(Frank Harris – My
Life and Loves 1922)
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