Etiquette

In the days when our great-grandparents went to Europe on a clipper ship carrying at most a score of voyagers and taking a month perhaps to make the crossing, those who sat day after day together, and evening after evening around the cabin lamp, became necessarily friendly; and in many instances not only for the duration of the voyage but for life. More often than not, those who had "endured the rigors" of the Atlantic together, joined forces in engaging the courier who was in those days indispensable, and set out on their Continental travels in company. Dashing to Europe and back was scarcely to be imagined, and travelers who had ventured such a distance, stayed at least a year or more. Also in those slower days of crawling across the earth's surface by post-chaise and diligence and horseback, travelers meeting in inns and elsewhere, fell literally on each other's neck at the sound of an American accent! And each retailed to the other his news of home; to which was added the news of all whom they had encountered. It is also from these "traveling ancestors" that families inherit their Continental visiting lists. Friends they made in Europe, in turn gave letters of introduction to friends coming later to America. And to them again their American hosts sent letters by later American friends.

But to-day when going to Europe is of scarcely greater importance than going into another State, and when the passenger list numbers hundreds, "making friends with strangers" is the last thing the great-grandchildren of those earlier travelers would think of.

It may be pretty accurately said that the faster and bigger the ship, the less likely one is to speak to strangers, and yet—as always—circumstances alter cases. Because the Worldlys, the Oldnames, the Eminents,—all those who are innately exclusive—never "pick up" acquaintances on shipboard, it does not follow that no fashionable and well-born people ever drift into acquaintanceship on European-American steamers of to-day—but they are at least not apt to do so. Many in fact take the ocean-crossing as a rest-cure and stay in their cabins the whole voyage. The Worldlys always have their meals served in their own "drawing-room" and have their deck chairs placed so that no one is very near them, and keep to themselves except when they invite friends of their own to play bridge or take dinner or lunch with them.

But because the Worldlys and the Eminents—and the Snobsnifts who copy them—stay in their cabins, sit in segregated chairs and speak to no one except the handful of their personal friends or acquaintances who happen to be on board, it does not follow that the Smiths, Joneses and Robinsons are not enlarging their acquaintance with every revolution of the screws. And if you happen to like to be talked to by strangers, and if they in turn like to talk to you, it can not be said that there is any rule of etiquette against it.

Very fashionable people as a rule travel a great deal, which means that they are known very well to the head steward, who reserves a table, or they engage a table for themselves when they get their tickets. Mr. and Mrs. Gilding for instance, if they know that friends of theirs are sailing on the same steamer, ask them to sit at their table and ask for a sufficiently large table on purpose. Or if they are traveling alone, they arrange to have one of the small tables for two, to themselves.

People of wide acquaintance in big cities are sure to find friends on board with whom they can arrange, if they choose, to sit on deck or in the dining saloon, but most people, unless really intimate friends are on board, sit wherever the head steward puts them. After a meal or two people always speak to those sitting next to them. None but the rudest snobs would sit through meal after meal without ever addressing a word to their table companions. Well-bred people are always courteous, but that does not mean that they establish friendships with any strangers who happen to be placed next to them.

In crossing the Pacific, people are more generally friendly because the voyage is so much longer, and on the other long voyages, such as those to India and South Africa, the entire ship's company become almost as intimate as in the old clipper days.

There are certain constant travelers who, it is said, count on a European voyage to increase their social acquaintance by just so much each trip! Richan Vulgar, for instance, has his same especial table every time he crosses, which is four times a year! Walking through a "steamer train" he sees a "celebrity," a brilliant, let us say, but unworldly man. Vulgar annexes him by saying, casually, "Have you a seat at table? Better sit with me, I always have the table by the door; it is easy to get in and out." The celebrity accepts, since there is no evidence that he is to be "featured," and the chances are that he remains unconscious to the end of time that he served as a decoy. Boarding the steamer, Vulgar sees the Lovejoys, and pounces: "You must sit at my table! Celebrity and I are crossing together—he is the most delightful man! I want you to sit next to him." They think Celebrity sounds very interesting; so, not having engaged a table for themselves, they say they will be delighted. On the deck, the Smartlys appear and ask the Lovejoys to sit with them. Vulgar, who is standing by (he is always standing by) breaks in even without an introduction and says: "Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy and Celebrity are sitting at my table, won't you sit with me also?" If the Smartlys protest they have a table, he is generally insistent and momentarily overpowering enough to make them join forces with him.

As the Smartlys particularly want to sit next to the Lovejoys and also like the idea of meeting Celebrity, it ends in Vulgar's table being a collection of fashionables whom he could not possibly have gotten together without just such a maneuver.

The question of what he gets out of it is puzzling since with each hour the really well-bred people dislike him more and more intensely, and at the end of a day or so, his table's company are all eating on deck to avoid him. Perhaps there is some recompense that does not appear on the surface, but to the casual observer the satisfaction of telling others that the Smartlys, Lovejoys and Wellborns sat at his table would scarcely seem worth the effort.

There is another type of steamer passenger and hotel guest who may, or may not, be a climber. This one searches out potential acquaintances on the passenger list and hotel register with the avidity of a bird searching for worms. You have scarcely found your own stateroom and had your deck chair placed, when one of them swoops upon you: "I don't know whether you remember me? I met you in nineteen two, at Countess della Robbia's in Florence." Your memory being woefully incomplete, there is nothing for you to say except, "How do you do!" If a few minutes of conversation, which should be sufficient, proves her to be a lady, you talk to her now and again throughout the voyage, and may end by liking her very much. If, however, her speech breaks into expressions which prove her not a lady, you become engrossed in your book or conversation with another when she approaches. Often these over-friendly people are grasping, calculating and objectionable, but sometimes like Ricki Ticki Tavi they are merely obsessed with a mania to run about and see what is going on in the world.

For instance, Miss Spinster is one of the best-bred, best-informed, most charming ladies imaginable. But her mania for people cannot fail on occasions to put her in a position to be snubbed—never seriously because she is too obviously a lady for that. But to see her trotting along the deck and then darting upon a helpless reclining figure, is at least an illustration of the way some people make friends. It can't be done, of course, unless you have once known the person you are addressing, or unless you have a friend in common who, though absent, can serve in making the introduction.

As said in "Introductions," introducing oneself is often perfectly correct. If you, sharing Miss Spinster's love of people, find yourself on a steamer with the intimate friend of a member of your family, you may very properly go up and say, "I am going to speak to you because I am Celia Lovejoy's cousin—I am Mrs. Brown." And Mrs. Norman, who very much likes Celia Lovejoy, says cordially, "I am so glad you spoke to me, do sit down, won't you?" But to have your next chair neighbor on deck insist on talking to you, if you don't want to be talked to, is very annoying, and it is bad form for her to do so. If you are sitting hour after hour doing nothing but idly looking in front of you, your neighbor might address a few remarks to you, and if you receive them with any degree of enthusiasm, your response may be translated into a willingness to talk. But if you answer in the merest monosyllables, it should be taken to mean that you prefer to be left to your own diversions.

Even if you are agreeable, your neighbor should show tact in not speaking to you when you are reading or writing, or show no inclination for conversation. The point is really that no one must do anything to interfere with the enjoyment of another. Whoever is making the advance, whether your neighbor or yourself, it must never be more than tentative; if not at least met halfway, it must be withdrawn at once. That is really the only rule there is. It should merely be granted that those who do not care to meet others have just as much right to their seclusion as those who delight in others have a right to be delighted—as long as that delight is unmistakably mutual.

Each ordinary first class passenger, now as always, gives ten shillings ($2.50) to the room steward or stewardess, ten shillings to the dining-room steward, ten shillings to the deck steward, ten shillings to the lounge steward. Your tip to the head steward and to one of the chefs depends on whether they have done anything especial for you. If not, you do not tip them. If you are a bad sailor and have been taking your meals in your room, you give twenty shillings ($5.00) at least to the stewardess (or steward, if you are a man). Or if you have eaten your meals on deck, you give twenty shillings to the deck steward, and ten to his assistant, and you give five to the bath steward. To any steward who takes pains to please you, you show by your manner in thanking him that you appreciate his efforts, as well as by giving him a somewhat more generous tip when you leave the ship.

If you like your bath at a certain hour, you would do well to ask your bath steward for it as soon as you go on board (unless you have a private bath of your own), since the last persons to speak get the inconvenient hours—naturally. To many the daily salt bath is the most delightful feature of the trip. The water is always wonderfully clear and the towels are heated.

If you have been ill on the voyage, some ship's doctors send in a bill; others do not. In the latter case you are not actually obliged to give them anything, but the generously inclined put the amount of an average fee in an envelope and leave it for the doctor at the purser's office.

On the de luxe steamers nearly every one dresses for dinner; some actually in ball dresses, which is in worst possible taste, and, like all over-dressing in public places, indicates that they have no other place to show their finery. People of position never put on formal evening dress on a steamer, not even in the à la carte restaurant, which is a feature of the de luxe steamer of size. In the dining saloon they wear afternoon house dresses—without hats—for dinner. In the restaurant they wear semi-dinner dresses. Some smart men on the ordinary steamers put on a dark sack suit for dinner after wearing country clothes all day, but in the de luxe restaurant they wear Tuxedo coats. No gentleman wears a tail-coat on shipboard under any circumstances whatsoever.

In every country of Europe and Asia are Americans who combine the brilliancy which none can deny is the birthright of the newer world, with the cultivation and good breeding of the old. These Americans of the best type go all over the world, fitting in so perfectly with their background that not even the inhabitants notice they are strangers; in other words they achieve the highest accomplishment possible.

But in contrast to these, the numberless discordant ones are only too familiar; one sees them swarming over Europe in bunches, sometimes in hordes, on regular professionally run tours. This, of course, does not mean that all personally conducted tourists are anything like them. The objectionables are loud of voice, loud in manner; they always attract as much attention as possible to themselves, and wave American flags on all occasions.

The American flag is the most wonderful emblem in the whole world, and ours is the most glorious country too, but that does not mean that it is good taste to wave our flag for no reason whatever. At a parade or on an especial day when other people are waving flags, then let us wave ours by all means—but not otherwise. It does not dignify our flag to make it an object of ridicule to others, and that is exactly the result of the ceaseless flaunting of it by a group of people who talk at the top of their voices, who deliberately assume that the atmosphere belongs to them, and who behave like noisy, untrained savages trying to "show off." In hotels, on excursions, steamers and trains, they insist on talking to everyone, whether everyone wants to talk or not. They are "all over the place"—there is no other way to express it—and they allow privacy to no one if they can help it.

Numberless cultivated Americans traveling in Europe never by any chance speak English or carry English books on railroad trains, as a protection against the other type of American who allows no one to travel in the same compartment and escape conversation. The only way to avoid unwelcome importunities is literally to take refuge in assuming another nationality.

Strangely enough, these irrepressibles are seldom encountered at home; they seem to develop on the steamer and burst into full bloom only on the beaten tourist trails—which is a pity, because if they only developed at home instead, we might be intensely annoyed but at least we should not be mortified before our own citizens about other fellow-citizens. But to a sensitive American it is far from pleasant to have the country he loves represented by a tableful of vulgarians noisily attracting the attention of a whole dining-room, and to have a European say mockingly, "Ah, and those are your compatriots?"

"Your country puzzles me! How can it be possible that it holds without explosion such antagonistic types as the many charming Americans we are constantly meeting, and at the same time—" looking at a group who were actually singing and beating time on their glasses with knives and forks—"those!"

"You an American? Impossible! Why, you speak French like a Parisian, you have the manner of a great gentleman!" (un grand seigneur,) which would indicate that the average American does not speak perfect French nor have beautiful manners. There is much excuse for not speaking foreign languages, but there is no excuse whatever for having offensive manners and riding rough-shod over people who own the land—not we, who seem to think we do.

As for "souvenir hunters," perhaps they can explain wherein their pilfering of another's property differs from petty thieving—a distinction which the owner can scarcely be expected to understand. Those who write their names, defacing objects of beauty with their vainglorious smudges and scribblings, are scarcely less culpable.

In France, in Spain, in Italy, grace and politeness of manner is as essential to merest decency as being clothed. In the hotels that are "used to us" (something of a commentary!) our lack of politeness is tolerated; but don't think for a moment it is not paid for! The officer referred to above, who had had the advantage of summer after summer spent in Europe as a boy, was charged just about half what another must pay who has "the rudeness of a savage."

But good manners are good manners everywhere, except that in Latin and Asiatic countries we must, as it seems to us, exaggerate politeness. We must, in France and Italy, bow smilingly; we must, in Spain and the East, bow gravely; but in any event, it is necessary everywhere, except under the American and British flags, to bow—though your bow is often little more than a slight inclination of the head, and a smile—and to show some ceremony in addressing people.

When you go into a shop in France or Italy, you must smile and bow and say, "Good morning, madam," or "Good evening, monsieur," and "Until we meet again," when you leave. If you can't say "Au revoir," say "Good afternoon" in English, but at all events say something in a polite tone of voice, which is much more important than the words themselves. To be civilly polite is not difficult—it is merely a matter of remembering. To fail to say "good morning" to a concierge, a chambermaid, or a small tradesman in France, treating him (or her) as though he did not exist, is not evidence of your grandeur but of your ignorance. A French duchess would not think of entering the littlest store without saying, "Good morning, madame," to its proprietress, and if she is known to her at all, without making enquiries concerning the health of the various members of her family. Nor would she fail to say, "Good morning, Auguste," or "Marie," to her own servants.