Holiday Etiquette and Privacy

When visiting this holiday season, remember some basic rules of etiquette. Respect closed doors, and don’t eavesdrop or pry into the personal belongings of others.

Privacy Vital To Everyone

“The world is too much with us,” grumbled Wordsworth 150 years ago. You can imagine how the poet would feel today, with Science bringing outer space into our very living rooms. Today's world, in fact, is more ‘with us’ in every respect. People are more with us. They have more ways to be with us. They can “drop in” by land sea or air – and pay later. They have more time to drop in – the 40-hour week provides loads of it. They have more incentive to drop in – “Togetherness” is extolled from every quarter. The result is an invasion of privacy on a monumental scale. 

While many people invite and enjoy the invasion, respect for privacy is still a cornerstone of etiquette. So don't just walk into a person's house. Knock. Better still, call first. This permits your victims to vamoose gracefully or at least tidy up the place before you arrive. If you walk into a family squabble or find they have guests already, explain you “can't stay but a second” and avoid being a nosy guest. Keep your paws out of desk drawers, medicine cabinets, record collections. Avoid asking the cost of anything. The man with the diamond stickpin may have $30 in the bank, so don't pry into finances. Beware of stirring up conversations with strangers on train, plane or bus. Some people read while traveling, others think long thoughts; neither relishes intrusions. 

Privacy is like love and freedom – it’s unimportant only when you have it. Any man who has lived in an army barracks can vouch for this fact. So will members of large families. As houses become smaller and families bigger (both are present trends), a respect for privacy becomes increasingly important. So don’t read Sister’s love letters. Don’t snoop in Dad’s den. Let Junior retire to his cubicle and mope in peace. Respect closed doors. Don’t eavesdrop or pry in personal belongings. It takes a heap of manners to make a house a home.  –Don Goodwin’s Male Polish, December, 1958

Etiquette Enthusiast, Maura J Graber, is the Site Editor for the Etiquipedia© Etiquette Encyclopedia 

Etiquette Epitomized for Women

Woman's redingote, c. 1790. Silk and cotton satin and plain weave. Los Angeles County Museum of Art

1905 in “Winter Women’s World”

A New Walk 

“A new figure and a new poise have been called into existence by the winter fashions. A slow, languorous movement of the limbs is therefore cultivated, as being more conducive to grace when wearing the long redingote coat and the newly introduced ‘Princess Styles.’ The new walk is just a little suggestive of the ‘Gibson Girl,’ but in a modified form. 

“The figure is held upright at the shoulders, with the slightest forward bend at the waist, the head is erect, the chin in, and the legs swing from the hips. The practice of sleeping on the back or one side is fatal to the new poise. If the woman of fashion would look tall and stately she must sleep face downwards, with a small pillow tightly wedged under her chin in order to avoid suffocation.”

Etiquette Epitomized

A written reply to the hostess is required to a written invitation to a dinner luncheon or card party.

The first invitation from a new acquaintance should always, where it is possible, be accepted.

When rising from the table at a dinner, luncheon, etc., It is not necessary to replace one’s chair.

At the leave-taking, it is permissible, and an act of friendship and courtesy, to shake hands with your hostess. – Los Angeles Herald, 1905

Etiquette Enthusiast, Maura J. Graber, is the Site Editor for the Etiquipedia Etiquette Encyclopedia 

Etiquette, Cards and “At Home”

Acknowledging Wedding Cards

Will you kindly tell me how to acknowledge a wedding announcement? —Grace 

Unless the wedding announcement includes the “at home” address of the happy pair, no notice need be taken. If it does, make a call upon the day mentioned, or, if that is impossible, send your card to arrive upon that date. If the announcement is from a very dear friend, a personal note of love and good wishes would not be amiss. 

Two Questions

Will you please tell me where I can get a good book on etiquette? Would it be correct to have the day of the week best suited for me to receive callers put on my calling cards? —Mrs. A. L. 

For your first question I must ask you to send me a self-addressed stamped envelope. It will be perfectly correct for you to have an “at home” day engraved upon your visiting card. But be sure you adhere strictly to the day given and remain at home all prepared for visitors. – Madame Merrk, Sausalito News, 1913

Etiquette Enthusiast, Maura J. Graber, is the Site Editor for the Etiquipedia© Etiquette Encyclopedia

Place Card Etiquette and More

Use of Place Cards

I have never used place cards, and I think them a great convenience. Do you write the names of the guests and put them at the place you wish them to sit and are they supposed to carry them home with them as souvenirs? — “Ignorant” 

The place cards bear the names of the guests and are put at the places they are to occupy. They are usually laid on the napkins and are retained by the guests to be taken home If they wish. Where there are many to be seated or few these cards certainly make it easier for everyone.

The Matter of Calling Cards

I am at present visiting here in the city, but live in a small town. Quite a few people have called on me. In returning their calls do I leave my card, providing I find them at home?—A. L. 

When returning a first call it is quite the proper thing to leave your card as a matter of record, as well as to show you know the proper thing to, do. In the case of very intimate friends whom one calls upon frequently, it is not necessary to leave a card if the person is at home. –Madame Merrk, Sausalito News, 1913

Etiquette Enthusiast, Maura J. Graber, is the Site Editor for the Etiquipedia© Etiquette Encyclopedia 

Edwardian Etiquette of First Calls

In many houses, between 4 and 5 o'clock in the afternoon, a cup of tea is always offered to visitors. The maid either brings in a tray containing a small teapot, a silver pitcher of hot water— in case the tea is too strong— a small pitcher of milk or cream, or a little dish of sliced lemon and plate of cakes, or tiny three-cornered bread-and-butter sandwiches; or, if there is a tea table in the corner of the room, the lady herself makes the tea for her guests; but the former method is now deemed the smarter. Except occasionally, on a reception or at home day, it is no longer considered good form to have a tea table in the drawing room. 

Who Makes the First Call?

When people settle in a small city or town, or in the country. It is courteous for the residents of the place to make the first call: upon the newcomers, which must, of course, be promptly returned. Even if some of these acquaintances, are not desired, really well-bred people always return first calls within a few weeks, allowing, if they so choose, all subsequent calls to be unreturned by them. And so the acquaintance can generally lapse without the cut direct and the bitter feeling that would undoubtedly be caused by the failure to return the first visit of a neighbor. 

In lax cities, the population is so dense that for obvious reasons people do not call upon their neighbors unless they have obtained introductions and have been invited to do so. In New York or Chicago, one's circle of friends is scattered all over town, and the residents of the same block, though they may live side by side for years, generally remain entire strangers to each other. In England, however, and even in diplomatic circles in Washington, the reverse is the custom, and the stranger calls first on the residents of the place without waiting for friends and acquaintances to make the first visits, as is the usual American custom. 

I once knew two charming women, one a Canadian and the other an American, who were at loggerheads for no other reason than that neither one would be the first to break this law of etiquette of her respective country. They had met perviously at a watering place and were mutually attracted to one another when the next summer, the American went to stay at a hotel in the home city of the Canadian. Now, each knew perfectly well the whereabouts of the other and longed to continue the acquaintance, but the American would not call first on Lady M___ because, as she said, it was Lady M___'s place to call first upon her. That was American etiquette, and Lady M___ knew it. And Lady M__ on her side, would make no move.

Mrs. R___ should, she declared, make the first visit. English etiquette demanded it, and Mrs. R___ was not ignorant; she had visited in Canada, and had even been to England; and she knew all about it. And so matters remained for one entire summer; neither would give in because each was firmly convinced that the very letter and not the spirit of the law of etiquette of her respective country was the only thing worthy of her consideration. It is not necessary to say that such a state of things is supremely ridiculous. A little less stubbornness and more common sense would have convinced the American that the really well-bred woman invariably follows, so far as she can consistently do so, the customs of the country in which she chances to be.– Eleanor B. Clapp, 1905

Etiquette Enthusiast, Maura J Graber, is the Site Editor for the Etiquipedia© Etiquette Encyclopedia  

Etiquette and Literary Women

A fan of the literary woman? ~ Say nothing concerning her writings, unless you chance to be alone with her. Take care not to speak of her first work as being her best; for if it is really so, she must have been retrograding from that time; a falling off that she will not like to hear of. 

Conduct Toward Literary Women

On being introduced to a female writer, it is rude to say that "you have long had a great curiosity to see her." Curiosity is not the right word. It is polite to imply that, "knowing her well by reputation, you are glad to have an opportunity of making her personal acquaintance." 

Say nothing concerning her writings, unless you chance to be alone with her. Take care not to speak of her first work as being her best; for if it is really so, she must have been retrograding from that time; a falling off that she will not like to hear of. Perhaps the truth may be, that you yourself have read only her first work; and if you tell her this, she will not be much flattered in supposing that you, in reality, cared so little for her first book, as to feel no desire to try a second. But she will be really gratified to learn that you are acquainted with most of her writings; and, in the course of conversation, it will be very pleasant for her to hear you quote something from them.

If she is a writer of fiction, and you presume to take the liberty of criticising her works, (as you may at her own request, or if you are her intimate friend,) refrain from urging that certain incidents are improbable, and certain characters unnatural. Of this it is impossible for you to judge, unless you could have lived the very same life that she has; known exactly the same people; and inhabited with her the same places. Remember always that "Truth is stranger than fiction." 

Be not too curious in questioning her as to the identity of her personages and the reality of her incidents. You have no right to expect that she will expose to you, or to any one else, her process of arranging the story, bringing out the characters, or concocting the dialogue. 

The French say—"Le vrai n'est pas toujours le plus vraisemblable,"—which, literally translated, means that "Truth is not always the most truth-like." Also, be it understood that a woman of quick perception and good memory can see and recollect a thousand things which would never be noticed or remembered by an obtuse or shallow, common-place capacity. And the intellect of a good writer of fiction is always brightened by the practice of taking in and laying up ideas with a view toward turning them to professional use.

Trust in her, and believe that she has painted from life. A sensible fictionist always does. At the same time, be not too curious in questioning her as to the identity of her personages and the reality of her incidents. You have no right to expect that she will expose to you, or to any one else, her process of arranging the story, bringing out the characters, or concocting the dialogue. The machinery of her work, and the hidden springs which set it in motion, she naturally wishes to keep to herself; and she cannot be expected to lay them bare for the gratification of impertinent curiosity, letting them become subjects of idle gossip. 

Be satisfied to take her works as you find them. If you like them, read and commend them; but do not ask her to conduct you behind the scenes, and show you the mysteries of her art—for writing is really an art, and one that cannot be acquired, to any advantage, without a certain amount of talent, taste, and cultivation, to say nothing of genius. What right have you to expect that your literary friend will trust you with "the secrets of her prison-house," and put it into your power to betray her confidence by acquainting the world that a certain popular novelist has informed you with her own lips ("but it must on no account be mentioned, as the disclosure would give mortal offence, and create for her hosts of enemies,") that by her character of Fanny Gadfly she really means Lucy Giddings; that Mr. Hardcastle signifies Mr. Stone; that Old Wigmore was modelled on no less a person than Isaac Baldwin; that Mrs. Bastings was taken from Mrs. Sunning; and Mrs. Babes from Mrs. Childers—etc, etc... Also, do not expect her to tell you on what facts her incidents were founded, and whether there was any truth in them, or if they were mere invention.    

There are persons so rude as to question a literary woman (even on a slight acquaintance) as to the remuneration she receives for her writings—in plain terms, "How much did you get for that?

Be not inquisitive as to the length of time consumed in writing this book or that—or how soon the work now on hand will be finished. It can scarcely be any concern of yours, and the writer may have reasons for keeping back the information. Rest assured that whenever a public announcement of a new book is expedient, it will certainly be made in print.

There are persons so rude as to question a literary woman (even on a slight acquaintance) as to the remuneration she receives for her writings—in plain terms, "How much did you get for that? and how much are you to have for this? And how much do you make in the course of a year? And how much a page do you get? And how many pages can you write in a day?"

To any impertinent questions from a stranger-lady concerning the profits of your pen, reply concisely, that these things are secrets between yourself and your publishers. If you kindly condescend to answer without evasion, these polite enquiries, you will probably hear such exclamations as, "Why, really—you must be coining money. I think I'll write books myself! There can't be a better trade," etc...

Ignorant people always suppose that popular writers are wonderfully well-paid—and must be making rapid fortunes—because they neither starve in garrets, nor wear rags—at least in America.             

Never tell an authoress that "you are afraid of her"—or entreat her "not to put you into a book." Be assured there is no danger.

Never ask one writer what is her real opinion of a cotemporary author. She may be unwilling to entrust it to you, as she can have no guarantee that you will not whisper it round till it gets into print. If she voluntarily expresses her own opinion of another writer, and it is unfavourable, be honourable enough not to repeat it; but guard it sedulously from betrayal, and avoid mentioning it to any oneWhen in company with literary women, make no allusions to "learned ladies," or "blue stockings," or express surprise that they should have any knowledge of housewifery, or needle-work, or dress; or that they are able to talk on "common things." It is rude and foolish, and shows that you really know nothing about them, either as a class or as individuals.

Never tell an authoress that "you are afraid of her"—or entreat her "not to put you into a book." Be assured there is no danger.

An authoress has seldom leisure to entertain morning visiters; so much of her time being professionally occupied either in writing, or in reading what will prepare her for writing. She should apprize all her friends of the hours in which she is usually engaged; and then none who are really her friends and well-wishers, will encroach upon her convenience for any purpose of their own; unless under extraordinary circumstances. 

To tell her that you were "just passing by," or "just in the neighbourhood," and "just thought you would stop in," is a very selfish, or at least a very inconsiderate excuse. Is she to suppose that you do not consider her conversation worthy of a visit made on purpose?

Recollect that to a woman who gets her living by her pen, "time is money," as it is to an artist. Therefore, encroaching on her time is lessening her income. And yet how often is this done (either heedlessly or selfishly) by persons professing to be her friends, and who are habitually in the practice of interrupting her in her writing hours, which should always be in the morning, if possible. They think it sufficient to say, like Paul Pry, "I hope I don't intrude"—knowing all the time that they do, and pretending to believe her when civility obliges her to tell them they do not. 

Even if the visit is not a long one, it is still an interruption. In one minute it may break a chain of ideas which cannot be reunited, dispel thoughts that can never be recalled, disturb the construction of a sentence, and obliterate a recollection that will not return. And to all this the literary lady must submit, because her so-called friend "chanced to be out that morning shopping"—or "happened to be visiting in that part of the town"—and therefore has called on her by way of "killing two birds with one stone." Very likely, the visiter will say to the unfortunate visited, "I know it is inconvenient to you to see your friends in the morning, but I never feel like going out in the afternoon. As soon as dinner is over I must have my nap; and by the time that is finished, it is too late for any thing else."

In consequence of these ill-timed visits, the printer may have to send in vain for "copy" that is not yet ready; and an article written expressly for a magazine may arrive too late for the next month, and be therefore deferred a month later, which may subject her not only to inconvenience, but to actual pecuniary loss—loss of money. Or, at least, the interruption may compel her to the painful effort of trying to finish it even by sitting up late at night, and straining her weary eyes by lamp-light. 

Yet this she must endure because it suits an idle and thoughtless friend to make her a long and inopportune visit. The children of the pen and the pencil might say to these intruders, like the frogs in the pond when the boys were pelting them with stones—"This may be sport to you, but it is death to us." –From The Ladies Guide to True Politeness and Perfect Manners, by Miss Leslie, 1864

Etiquette Enthusiast, Maura J. Graber, is the Site Moderator and Editor for the Etiquipedia© Etiquette Encyclopedia