Life — January 23, 1896 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘LIFE: THAT SORT OF THING YOU CALL If CRUELTY. CONFESSIONS OF A BUD. “TTHE Society Reporter came some daysago. He hada bad cold in his head—poor thing—for he had been sitting on a fire escape in Fifth Avenue all night, listening to a Society quarrel between a shortly to" be divorced couple. I complimented him on the brave and perilous life that he leads—(Mama says it's best to keep solid with him). “But,” I said, ‘‘ what if you get pneumonia through your zeal?” “It's worth it,” he said, huskily. ‘*It'll be a scoop.” ‘*What's that?” IT asked. (They use such quaint lan- guage—these journalists). “Why, I'll be the first to tell it,” he said, proudly. I sympathized with him—I know that feeling so well. Then he went on to tell me that he wanted to take the liberty of giving me a hint. “There's a swell Society clique—getting up a Circus— called a ‘Literary Salon,’ at the Waldorf. You want to be in it,” he said. “‘You must get into the brainy set. Then it’s dead easy.” (His language is so droll). “But how can I get into the brainy set,” I asked. “You've got to give a hen—beg rardon—dove party—to brainy women,” he replied. ‘‘If you are nice to them, they will drag you into this Literary Society Combina- tion affair somehow.” “But I don’t like brainy women,” I objected. ‘* They say things which I don’t understand, and ask me if I've read books which I haven't.” The Society Reporter took a list from his pocket and handed it to me, simply remarking: “These people will be in the Waldorf Affair.” The list was this: Mr, and Mrs, Elisha Dwyer, Jr., Mr. and Mrs. Henry Clews, Mrs. W. K. Vanderbilt, Mr. and Mrs. John Jacob Astor, Mrs, Astor, Mr. and Mrs. I, Townsend Burden, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Goelet, Mrs. Ogden Mills, Mr. and Mrs. Butler Duncan, Mr. and Mrs. T. Suffern Tailor. I handed it back. “T will give the Woman's Lunch Party,” I said. I did. It was awful—simply awful! In the first place one felt that one’s gown was wasted—just women to look at it— and women who wear ready-made clothes, too. Then everyone talked at once, and nobody listened. They re- cited their own poems, too. It was very exhausting ! The conversation seemed all about ‘‘ Well-rounded Lives,” and ** Re-incarnation,” and other dry and unin- teresting things. Nobody mentioned the Goelet’s last dance, or Newport, or the ‘‘ Patriarchs.” Women kept on asking each other ‘‘ Have you read my book?” The woman questioned generally answered that she hadn't had time yet. One woman, who actually wore lace in a tailor-made gown, turned to me and said: ‘Do you enjoy threshing the sense from the lovely word foliage of George Meredith ?” ** Well, to tell you the truth,” I replied, ‘I prefer to buy my translations. I haven't time to make them.” **T see you are not a brainy woman,” she remarked. ; “Tama Society Woman.” she said, ‘*that accounts for you having said a bright thing. We clever women never do. We only write them.” “Did you clever women invent hen parties?” And I asked she said, studying her finger-nails, which were I asked, curiously, ‘‘did you invent parties without men?" “Necessity is the Mother of Invention,” she replied. ‘We couldn't get men.” Then she relapsed into silence and washed the ink off her fingers in the finger-bowl. I was glad when it was over. I look on it as the pen- alty paid to get into that Waldorf affair. But when I think of the names on that list which the Society Repor- ter gave me to read, I do not regret the penalty. Butall the same, I will never give another owl—no, I mean dove —party,