MRS. BEETON AT HOME
By SYLVIA LEWIN
WE all know Mrs. Beeton. We know what she and her readers ordered—so lavishly—for dinner ; we know how well they cooked it, and how elaborately they served it. But what were their houses like, what sort of people ate those sides of beef, those dozens of eggs and quarts of cream? And what did they do, if indeed they were capable of doing anything, after dinner?
In the early 188o's there appeared a companion volume to Mrs. Beeton's immortal cook-book, a treasury of domestic information on manners and hygiene, interior decoration and feminine accomplishments, etiquette and plumbing, " children and what to do with them." No novel or social history could give so complete and convincing a picture of What Every Victorian Housewife Wanted To Know. And what she wanted to know was how much beer to allow the charwoman, what were the rival merits of the Canterbury whatnot and the modern Renaissance chiffonier, how to curl feathers, how to preserve fretwork and bow to recognise smallpox in children.
The editor was evidently a modern. He urges people to open their bedroom windows an inch or two at night, quoting Miss Nightingale's approval of fresh air, and to find space for a bathroom even if the house is a small one— and to bath in it once a week. He deplores the fact that so many children (and this refers to comparatively wealthy families) die as a result of their diet, and does not think that small girls need wear flannel next the skin in summer. And he—or, of course, she—goes so far as to say that " lady oarsmen should not have tight corsets of any kind," nor should they wear trains when playing croquet or tennis. But the picture remains a grim one, of houses full of staircases and dust, where ladies clad in genteel neutral shades of serge and ticking glide about between modern Gothic wash- stands and mediaeval gaseliers.
Still, the writer minded none of these things, and was fully conscious of living in an Age of Progress. Take the question of food: dinners, we are told, are neither so long nor so heavy as they used to be. Two soups, two kinds of fish, the first entree, the second entree, " choice of " boiled fowls or roast mutton and then of quails or ducklings, the hot sweet, the cold sweet, and a final cheese dish—this is given as a specimen example of an " ample menu." No wonder that it was considered that deep crimson or " some dark shade of green " was the most suitable colour for the dining-room walls.
The furnishing, indeed, tended to be as rich and stolid as the catering. The same motives lay behind it: you had money to spend and you knew what was what. You knew, for instance, that the width of your gilt picture-frames depended on the market value of the picture. Drawing- rooms must have looked like the junk-shops where most of their contents now lie ; they were crammed with occasional tables, jardinieres, screens, ormolu clocks, wall-brackets, fire irons, mirrors in every nook and angle, and " a hundred nick-nacks to make up the ensemble." If possible the nick- nacks had to include a parlour organ, bristling with Gothic tracery and fretwork, or of pitch-pine artistically relieved with chocolate and black and studded with gilded glass plaques. Even then no drawing-room was complete without paintings and statuary, portfolios or engravings, and instru- ments such as the stereoscope " that conduce to general amusement." The line had to be drawn somewhere, how- ever and it is drawn at wax fruits and at ceilings that ape King's College Chapel.
It was thought that the three essentials of a well-furnished home were a piano, a mousetrap and a kitchen range. The two latter speak, or spoke, for themselves, and the piano was radiogram, bridge-table and dartboard. Here, failing the parlour organ, " the introduction of a little music while playing round games produces a good effect. In the event of there being any hesitation in giving an answer, or should any pause occur, a chord or two might be struck to keep up the spirits of the players." The writer also remarks, rather more cautiously, that if any of the guests are musical the hostess may ask them to play or sing—" but this is by no means de rigueur."
With luck, of course, the gentlemen might escape from this after-dinner scene to their smoking-room or snuggery, with its peacock-blue walls and oak dado, in which, appar- ently, " a couple of neat salivariums are necessary adjuncts."
This last comes as a shock. But although the 1880's were years of meticulous and unrelenting refinement, the age had its contradictions. Even the youngest married women wore caps in the house during the morning, but the most fastidious would not think of washing their hair more than once every four or six weeks. The utmost formal courtesy was observed between men and women, but it was considered dangerous for any young lady to write even a trivial business note to a gentleman in case he were to show the signature to his friends "and make insinuations much to her disadvantage." Such pre- cautions were not relaxed when intentions were honourable ; if a girl had the horrid suspicion that she was receiving atten- tions, she should rush to her parents, who would at once launch an enquiry into the man's morals, his temper and his bank balance. If, when these were found to be satisfactory, he still did not appear to be her Mr. Right, she must refuse his hand " on the score of not feeling for him that peculiar preference necessary to the union he seeks."
The world of fashion, too, was full of pitfalls, and here the writer gives invaluable hints, such as that at least one third of our dress allowance must be spent on boots and shoes and gloves. Hair parted at one side, we are warned, is an invariable sign of coquetry, but false hair, that " supple- ment to nature's capillary gifts," need not be considered an offence against morality, and hats, as opposed to bonnets, are no longer too frivolous for women to wear in church. The Domestic Treasury, as we might expect, takes a stern attitude towards make-up, and declares that the instructions given are for theatrical purposes only.
But if beauty culture was less elaborate in those days, dressing was far more so. Today, if there is an air-raid, all you need do is to zip yourself into a siren suit, but then, if you sat down to a mere half-hour's plain sewing you first had to discard an armoury of rings, bracelets, chains, bibelots and chatelaines. The awful question of etiquette invaded fashion as it invaded everything, and so rigid were the rules that it seemed necessary to point out that frock-coats and top- hats were no longer a sine qua non at picnic parties, shooting jackets and wideawakes being quite permissible.
Quite recently one of our novelists suggested that much of the prudery of Victorian women might well be the result of the most unglamorous, reach-me-down, pull-me-in under- clothes which they wore. Here, in balancing the dress- allowance budget, ten shillings are firmly allotted to winter flannels and that is that, and the amateur dressmaker is informed that the only difference between a shirt and a night- dress is that she can put a little trimming on the nightdress.
In other directions frivolity was well catered for. Condi- tions which correspond to our black-out were met with miles of tatting and netting, by many square yards of Berlin wool- work, by rustic corner brackets of pine-cones and straw, by leaf transparencies for the hall window, and by dumb crambo and double quadrilles. Evenings were whiled away in " pleasant tricks " and forfeits and conundrums (When is a bonnet not a bonnet?—When it becomes a pretty lady ) When so many clocks are being put back it is reassuring to reflect that time marches on and that sixty years can be a very long time. " How can you pass your word," asks the domestic informer, apropos of the vexed question of servants who will demand outings at regular intervals, " how can you pass your word as to the events that shall happen in days yet unborn?"
How indeed?
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