A Brief History of Life in Victorian Britain (27 page)

Visits were not made before three o’clock in the afternoon, and never after five unless the visitor knew the family extremely well. The convention was that from three to four was the most formal time to visit, suitable for strangers or slight acquaintances; from four to five was a somewhat more relaxed period, fitting for those who may have known the hostess for some time. From five to six was for relations or old friends. In spite of all this, the practice of visiting was referred to as ‘morning calls’. Each woman involved knew exactly what was expected of her, either as visitor or hostess. A lady would let it be known among her circle of acquaintance that she was ‘at home’ to callers on one, or perhaps two, particular days every week. This saved her the trouble of having to remain in her house on the other afternoons. She, and often her female relatives, would then sit in the drawing-room waiting to be visited, while a maid, or in grander houses a butler, would be stationed by the front door. The servants might have prepared some light refreshments, but this was by no means necessary. Calls were brief, and the time was to be spent in conversation. The necessity of feeding a stream of guests – and the guests’ need to juggle a teacup and plate while talking – would have made such arrangements difficult, while the fact that callers visited several houses in an afternoon would also have involved the risk of overeating.

The ladies who called would be specially, and very smartly, dressed for visiting, and would change once they got home.
Those that were not ‘carriage folk’ – unable to afford to keep a vehicle of their own – might have hired one for the occasion, especially if the houses they were visiting were some distance out in the suburbs. Like her hostess, a caller might be accompanied by a sister or daughter. For girls who were not well-connected enough to be presented at Court, taking part in these occasions was their first venture into the adult world and something of a rite of passage. The necessity of sitting without fidgeting in a series of drawing rooms while her mother went repeatedly through the same conversations was probably something of a trial, but there was compensation in the wearing of new dresses or in the feeling that one was now considered an adult.

The girls would be armed with that important symbol of maturity, their own visiting cards. According to established practice and as advised in books on etiquette: ‘A lady’s visiting card should be printed in a small, clear copper plate type, and free from any kind of embellishment. It should be thin card, and three and a half inches in depth or even smaller. The name of the lady should be printed in the left-hand corner.’
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Such young women would long since have been schooled in how to behave when making calls, and they would naturally have learned the corresponding etiquette for receiving visitors – how, for instance, to greet new acquaintances by holding out their right arm with two fingers extended, while family friends and relatives were offered three.

This custom was universal and was in some circumstances also followed by men. Today the use of ‘two fingers’ has entirely different connotations, and it therefore seems curious to read references to it, as in this account of a visit to Harrow School by Prince Albert: ‘The Prince, preceded by the Marquis of Abercorn and two others, advances, bowing low, presents two fingers to [the Headmaster] and is bowed up the steps.’
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To us it may seem trivial that anyone should care how many fingers are thrust at them, but to contemporaries it was a small but significant matter, and offence could easily be caused. At the court of the German Emperor – for this practice, like many points of nineteenth-century etiquette, was understood throughout Europe – a visiting Russian princess created outrage in this way. A memoir recalls that: ‘she is no favourite with Their Majesties. She gives herself insufferable airs, and only deigns to give the Empress, her hostess, two fingers when they meet, which infuriates both the Emperor and the Empress. It is strange how often princesses forget to behave like ladies!’
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Calling was obligatory under some circumstances – to thank those who had shown hospitality, to offer congratulations on a birth or marriage, to commiserate with those who had illness in the family or to offer condolences where illness had proved fatal. Any call paid upon a family had to be returned within a week, or ten days at the most, and failure to do so could cause considerable offence – at least to social equals. A feud that rumbled for many years in one London family apparently began because two daughters had failed to visit their cousins after being invited to a ball. Sometimes, if the caller were extremely fastidious, they might abort a visit for some reason. Ernest Shepard remembered that his maiden aunts used to exchange calls with the clergy of their parish church, but that their violent disapproval of smoking once got the better of their sense of correct form: ‘Mr Paget was the rector of St Pancras, and the curates used to make duty calls on the Aunts. It is recorded that on one occasion, while they were returning the call of a newcomer, and were waiting in the sitting room, the Aunts saw on the mantelpiece a TOBACCO PIPE! And that was the end of that call.’
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By no means all social calls involved actually meeting anyone. It was extremely common to find that the person one was visiting was out – or at least ‘not at home’. This meant a further ritual, for a caller would leave a card or, if she were a married woman, three. As ladies were advised in the nineties: ‘It is now considered old-fashioned for husbands and wives to have their names printed on the same card: they should have separate cards of their own.’
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The caller would present one of her own cards and two from her spouse – one for the hostess and one for her husband, who could expect to find a pile of these on a tray in the entrance hall when he returned that evening. It was part of this ceremony that if the mistress of the house had one or more grown-up daughters the visitor would turn down one corner of the cards – by custom the top right-hand one – to show that they had been included in the call. Another aspect of this practice was that a turned-down corner meant the card had been delivered in person by someone who had intended to call, rather than merely handed in by a servant.

If the lady were not at home, her visitor would save time, and could go on to the next address on her list (on an average day, a caller might expect to pay between three and six visits). In the grandest circles, even the simple act of leaving cards could be carried out almost with the pomp of a diplomatic mission. An aristocratic lady would be accompanied on her round of calls by a pair of liveried footmen (always chosen for impressive – and matching – height) who would sit or stand at the back of her carriage. On reaching her destination they would dismount in unison and proceed in step to the front door where, after knocking, they would enquire if the lady of the house was at home. If she were not, they would return to
their mistress to receive the necessary number of cards, which they would then march back and deliver to the butler.

Should the hostess be at home, they would fold down the carriage steps and assist their mistress to dismount, then remain outside awaiting her return (and probably spend the time in gossiping with other servants, who were gathered for the same purpose). At the end of the call the departing visitor would leave two of her husband’s cards on the hall table, but, the socially unwary were warned: ‘Neither put them in the card basket nor leave them on the drawing room table, nor offer them to the hostess, all of which is very incorrect.’
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The practice of leaving visiting cards did not date from time immemorial. The use of pasteboard slips bearing one’s name and address had developed in France only at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and had attained its level of elaborate complexity in British society by the fifties. However difficult we may find it to understand these formalities, they served a useful purpose. Visiting cards became widespread and popular in Britain for the same reason that the business card continues to be essential today: it was a quick and convenient way of introducing oneself, either to people met in the flesh or to those to whom it had to be sent. It ensured that they had one’s details to hand, and perhaps provided some piece of information that would pique curiosity or excite interest.

The present writer’s great-grandfather, a tea planter, used a card when in London that simply read: ‘Mr George Paterson, Ceylon’. Since tea was the most important business carried out on that island, it gave others a fairly accurate idea of his occupation, and the fact that he had no address in Britain indicated that he was still involved in it. Many such cards, whether used for business or social reasons, would be sent in to someone before their owner was admitted. They were a useful way of assessing a visitor and deciding whether their call was
to be received. They thus saved time, trouble and possible embarrassment.

Once inside a house, and after being relieved of outer clothing, the caller would follow the butler or maid to the drawing room. The servant would knock, go in, and announce the name of the visitor before standing aside to let her enter. The hostess was expected to rise and come forward to greet her caller, but under no circumstances to utter such vulgarities as ‘take a seat’. Nor was she expected to ask where her guest would
like
to sit. She should simply indicate a chair near her own.

A call would be required to last at least fifteen minutes – the minimum that politeness allowed – but never longer than thirty. By convention nothing but small-talk was permitted. For those who enjoyed serious discussion it would be something of an ordeal, and the more educated and aggressive ‘new women’ of Victoria’s latter years were often impatient with the conversational froth that seemed to satisfy their more traditional counterparts. There was, however, a good reason for this understanding: no subject must be brought up that would either arouse strong feelings or result in lengthy conversation, for both hostess and visitor had to get on.

The filling of the brief interlude would present no difficulty if the hostess were well practised in the social arts, though time might hang heavy in the company of a young and inexperienced wife. It was against the rules to rely on conversational props to sustain a dialogue, as the manuals explained:

A hostess betrays that she is not much accustomed to society when she attempts to amuse her visitors by the production of
albums of photographs, books, illustrated newspapers, portfolios of drawings, and artistic efforts of members of the family, and the like. She should rely solely upon her own powers of conversation to make the short quarter of an hour pass pleasantly for the visitor. She should not offer her visitor any refreshments, wine and cake for instance. But if tea is brought in while the visitor is in the drawing room, or if the visitor calls while the hostess is having tea, she should naturally offer her visitor tea.
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Men were not excluded from these events, but it was taken for granted that they would seldom be present, for it was the duty of women to maintain this institution, and a man might seem as out of place as he would in a milliner’s shop. Men would either be earning their living or socializing – at their clubs or on a sports-field – in masculine company. Indeed although women at the end of the Victorian era began to have West End clubs of their own, the afternoon call was in a sense their equivalent. Nevertheless there were, as we have seen, instances where clergymen and others paid social calls on ladies (in an army garrison, newly arrived officers were expected to visit, or leave cards with, the wives of their married colleagues), and the day on which masculine callers – usually young or single – paid their visits was Sunday (confusingly also a day kept for relations and family friends). Should a man arrive, his behaviour was equally circumscribed:

A gentleman calling should take his hat and stick with him into the drawing room, and hold them until he has seen the mistress of the house and shaken hands with her. He should either place them on a chair or table near at hand, according as to whether
he feels at ease or the reverse, until he takes his leave. He should not put on his hat in the presence of his mistress.

To leave his hat on in the hall would be considered a liberty and in very bad taste, only members of the family residing in the same house leave their hats in the hall, or enter the drawing room without their hats in their hands. The fact of hanging up the hat in the hall proves the owner of the hat is at home there.
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Should another visitor arrive, it was customary for the first caller to take leave as quickly as politeness allowed, and it is interesting to note that this custom is still often followed in what is perhaps the only remaining situation that resembles a Victorian ‘morning call’ – the visiting of a patient in hospital, where the length of stay, the possibly stilted small-talk and the sense of obligation to leave once another visitor has arrived are much the same. When a visitor announced her intention to depart, the hostess would shake hands, ring the bell for a servant and see her to the door of the room. The maid, butler or footman would be waiting in the hall to fetch her coat and summon her carriage.

Where, instead of a series of fleeting calls, the hostess actually invited guests to a ‘five o’clock tea’, the company was more likely to be mixed. Should members of the sterner sex be in attendance, their obligations were explained in a volume called
Manners for Men
:

Their duties are rather onerous if there are but one or two men and the usual crowd of ladies. They have to carry teacups about, hand sugar, cream, and cakes or muffins, and keep up all the time a stream of small-talk, as amusing as they can make it. As regards the viands, a man helps himself, but not till he has seen that all the ladies in his vicinity have everything they can
possibly want. He must rise every time a lady enters or leaves the room, opening the door for her exit if no one else is nearer to it and, if the hostess requests him, they must see the lady downstairs to her carriage or cab.
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