ON EVENING PARTIES.
HUMAN beings are curious creatures, and in nothing more curious than in the forms of diversion which they devise for themselves. Some of these are quite com- prehensible ; they give physical or mental pleasure. Bathing in the sea, for instance ; or watching a play ; or visiting the Zoo ; or eating agreeable food at someone else's expense, or even at one's own ; or playing some game with a ball. It is easy to understand that having one's person surrounded by water, in which one floats and swims, or watching human life enacted improbably by others on a stage, or seeing strange beasts in cages, or rolling elegant foods about the palate, or chasing after a ball, is pleasing. But, besides these simple pleasures, humanity has devised some so-called amusements which seem to depend for their reputations as entertahunents less on pleasing sensations inflicted on the participants than on some convention which has ordained that these pursuits shall be held agreeable. It speaks well, perhaps, for the kindliness and amiability of the human race that most such pursuits are of a gregarious nature. Assembling together ; dearly we love to do this. " Neglect not the assembling of yourselves together," says (I think) St. Paul somewhere ; and it was a superfluous piece of admonition. Neglect of this will never be numbered among the many omissions of mankind. Seeing one another ; meeting the others of our race ; exchanging remarks ; or merely observing in what particular garments they have elected to clothe themselves to-day ; this is so nearly universal a custom that it has become dignified into an entertain- ment, and we issue to one another invitations to attend such gatherings.
We issue them and we accept them, and, when the appointed date arrives, we assume such of our clothes as we believe to be suitable to the gathering, and sally forth to the party of pleasure. Often, indeed usually, it is in the evening. Therefore we clothe ourselves in such garb as men and women have agreed, in their strange symbolism, to consider appropriate to the hours after eight o'clock or so. And perhaps—who knows ?—it is in the exercise of this savage and primitive conventionalism that a large part of the pleasure of an evening gathering consists. We are very primitive creatures, and the mere satisfaction of self-adornment, and of assuming for a particular occasion a particular set of clothes, may well tickle our sensibilities. Pe that as it may, we arrive at our party dolled up, so to speak, and find ourselves in a crowd of our fellow-creatures, all dolled up too. Now we are off. The party of pleasure has begun. We see friends and talk to them. But this we could do with greater comfort at our own homes or in theirs ; this cannot, surely, be the promised pleasure. As a matter of fact, if you succeed in getting into a corner with a friend and talking, be sure you will be very soon torn asunder by an energetic hostess, whose motto is " Keep them moving." We are introduced to new acquaintances This may, no doubt, be very agreeable. They may be persons you are glad to know. But it is doubtful whether your acquaintanceship will prosper very much to-night. It may well be that no topics suitable for discussion will present themselves to either of you at the moment of introduction. I know someone who says that she never can think of anything to say to persons introduced to her at a party except " Do you like parties ? " And that is too crude ; it simply cannot be said. You must think of some more sophisticated remark. Having thought of it, you must launch it, in the peculiarly resonant pitch necessary to carry it above the clamour (for this clamour, which somewhat resembles the shrieking of a jazz band, is an essenf a'. accompaniment to a party, and part of the entertainment provided). A conversation will then ensue, and must be carried on until one or other of you either flags or breaks away, or until someone intervenes between you. One way and another, a very great deal gets said at a party. Let us hope that this is a good thing. It is apparent, anyhow, that the mere use of the tongue, quite apart from the words it utters, gives pleasure to many. If it gives you no pleasure, and if, further, you derive none from listening to the remarks of others, there is no need to converse. You had better then take up a position in a solitary corner (if possible on a chair, but this is a rare treat) and merely listen to the noise as to a concert, not endeavouring to form out of it sentences. As a matter of fact, if thus listened to, the noise of a party will be found a very interesting noise, containing a great variety of different sounds. If you are of those who like also to look at the clothes of others, you will, from this point of vantage, have a good view of these.
It is very possible, however, that you have only come to the party on the chance of obtaining something good to eat. This is, after all, as good a reason as another. You will, with any luck, be offered some comestible—a sandwich, or a chocolate, or some kind of a drink, or, if you are very fortunate, an ice. With a view to this, you cannot do better than to stand solitary, so that your host or hostess may, in despair of making you talk, give you to eat. If you have eaten or drunk, you have anyhow got something out of the party ; you can say, in recalling it, " I ate two chocolates, and that sandwich pleased me," or, better still, " I drank." Words spoken are empty air, and drift windily into oblivion ; and, anyhow, there are greatly too many of these ; but about food and drink there is something solid and consoling. An hour in which you have consumed nourishment is seldom an hour spent in vain.
But far be it from me to suggest that we should, or do, take such pains over attiring ourselves, and go to so much trouble, and possibly expense, in travelling from one house to another, merely for the sake of some foolish edible trifle which could be procured and consumed with greater ease in the home. I am convinced that the majority of human creatures do not go to parties for the sake of any food, or even drink, that they may get there. No ; the reason (if reason indeed there is beyond blind habit) is, fundamentally, that primitive instinct to take any chance of herding together which led our earliest forefathers to form tribes, village communities, and cities. It is the same reason for which great spaces of the countryside in all lands stand empty, while those who might live there herd, instead, in hideous, shrieking and dreadful cities. It is, in short, the gregarious instinct, based on fear of solitude, on terror of such dangers and uncanny visitant; as may, we feel, attack us unless we hide within the crowd. We are a haunted race, fleeing from silence and great spaces, .feeling safe only when surrounded by warm, comprehensible, chattering humanity like ourselves. So, when there comes for us a little pasteboard card inscribed with an address where, and a date when, we may thus surround ourselves, under some hospitable roof, we may say with our minds and lips, " Shall I go to this ? " casually, as if it mattered not at all ; but deep down in our hidden souls the primal whisper sounds- " There will be people there. There is safety in a crowd. Go ! "
This is, at least, what I presume occurs in that buried self of which we know so little. Anyhow, for one reason or another, go we do, quite often. And if anyone knows of any other reason why, I should be glad to hear it. Not that, personally, I do not enjoy parties. . . .
ROSE MACAULAY.
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