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5. Article on "English Class" by
Mr Bob Morris
English Class: What makes the British so very
British? Bob Morris heads to London and gets a proper education
The society wedding I am attending in London takes
place at 5.00 pm in a little church on a tree-lined street in
posh Chelsea. Stepping out of a cab and into the crowd of impeccably
dressed guests, I'm delighted to be part of the festivities. Until
I notice the morning coats. They are everywhere. Although the
groom suggested in advance that tails were optional, it's now
embarrassingly clear that they're standard at a wedding of this
kind. My black Comme de Garcons suit, so perfectly understated
for all black-tie occasions in New York, feels like a skimpy pair
of pajamas. Then I commit the worst possible bungle. The groom's
father, a handsome white-haired gentleman, is standing in the
archway at the entrance to the church, I walk up to him, extending
my hand. "Hello," I chirp, "I'm Bob from New York."
He greets me cordially, but awkwardly, and I can tell I've blown
it.
In proper English society, you see, you never introduce
yourself. Why? Because there's a tacit understanding that strangers
don't really want to know your name until a degree of mutual interest
has been established. Speaking to someone without first being
introduced by a mutual acquaintance is one of dozens of unspoken
breaches of etiquette you can commit while in England. And make
no mistake, the English (like the Japanese, who gasp audibly if
you forget to take off your shoes before entering their homes)
believe the rules still matter. The most class-conscious of cultures,
they are all eyes when it comes to how a knife is held (never
like a pen), and how the language is used. "Sorry,"
for instance, is right and "Pardon" wrong, and if you
call a living room anything other than a drawing room, you're
"non'U," meaning not upper-class. Talking about yourself
or about America too much, as I did at the wedding reception,
is simply not done. Self-involvement of any sort, along with ambition,
is considered vulgar.
So what is it about the English that cows us—and
not just the upper class, with the particular accent and entrée
into society they acquire in boarding school, but the hairdressers
and waiters, too? Is it merely their reserve that makes them so
intimidating, leaving people like me (and the American movie producer
played by Bob Balaban in Gosford Park) to sound silly just
for trying to be friendly or for using the word okay?
Call them Victorian or even mean-spirited, but the
English continue to define propriety. You can't argue manners
with a nation that has given us Jane Austen and Mary Poppins.
And you can't quibble with the fact that, for all the foibles
of her children, Queen Elizabeth is an anchor for a world that
has lost its moral moorings. Yes, British expatriate Ozzy Osbourne
is leading viewers of MTV's The Osbournes to new frontiers
of rudeness, and hooliganism is a headline-making concern of Parliament
and Tony Blair's. But somehow England remains the "green
and pleasant land" of William Blake, adhering to the "wise
and kindly way of life" that Winston Churchill referred to
toward the end of his tenure. It's enough to make even the most
polite American neurotic. "I usually feel like a total idiot
here," says a Harvard graduate I know who's working in London.
"It's completely humiliating."
For this kind of traveller, there is hope. Americans
can now sign up for a three-to-eight day program called the English
Manner, which includes a weekend at home with aristocrats, a tour
with members of Parliament, and tea with royal advisers, as well
as visits with esteemed artists, architects, and even florists.
The goal? To give visitors a taste of the cultural and social
skills that make the English so English, and to help people get
ahead with these skills back in the States.
"Those who know how to behave can command a
much greater presence," says Alexandra Messervy, the entrepreneur
behind the program, who has worked for the queen and who helped
plan the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of York. "Even for
people who aren't that well-mannered, having some English reserve
can often come off as gentility." Ms Messervy is a slim redhead
whose training was as a secretary. She is not an aristocrat. But
you wouldn't know that from the way she drinks her coffee. "Coffee
cups in a drawing room are always held over the lap," she
is telling me in the lobby of the Berkeley (pronounce it "bark-ley,"
please!) hotel in Knightsbridge, where I'm getting a preview of
her program. "Teacups are always held away from the saucer,
which is left on the table." Her legs, I can't help but notice,
remain uncrossed (never cross legs while sitting).
Formal? Stuffy? Perhaps. Catnip to Americans? Absolutely.
That's why Messervy has lectured on the art of English dining
at the Smithsonian and recently presented similar courses at the
Four Seasons in London. She can tell you about everything from
table-setting minutiae ("nursery style," with utensils
above the plate, is acceptable when space is limited) to conversing
with royals. "Never introduce a topic, because it might create
an awkward situation if a member of the royal family does not
want to discuss it," she says. "Years ago, for instance,
when Mia Farrow was introduced to the Queen Mother, she asked
what advice Her Royal Highness had for the children of America."
The Queen Mother's reply? To be sure they learned
manners.
"These days, a lot of people have money but
lack breeding," Messervy says, "and those are the travellers
I would like to educate." Staying in a country house with
the lord of the manor, guests can learn to shoot properly. Talk
to the help politely, and see how the other half really lives
as opposed to how they're portrayed on TV.
"It's grandeur in a relaxed atmosphere,"
says Lord Normanton, whose 7,000-acre estate, Somerley, in Hampshire,
has been in his family for almost 200 years, and is on the English
Manner itinerary. "When my guests arrive, I insist they call
me Shaun, and we cater to whatever they want to do." For
years, the aristocracy of England have opened their homes to guests
to help pay estate taxes. But Messervy, who has several estates
(with owners in residence) to offer travellers, may be the first
to package them so aggressively. "I wanted to do something
different from straightforward etiquette classes," she explains.
Of course, having worked as an insider in what she
feels is "arguably the most polite society in the world,"
she has no trouble giving advice (though gently and only when
asked) to others. So, tea or milk in first? "Regardless of
what people say," she tells me, "one should always pour
milk in first." There are more things I'd like to ask her
about manners—my own, specifically—but we're due at
Parliament, where I am to have a private tour with Jonathan Sayeed,
a senior member of the House of Commons.
Sayeed is fastidiously groomed, and the kind of superbly
well-mannered, self-assured Englishman who inspires me to be careful
to say "Sorry" and not "Pardon." He points
out historical and architectural details as we move from the private
chapel to Westminster Hall, where the kings of England lived until
Henry VIII moved to his new palace, in Whitehall. He slips me
into the House of Commons, a small, wood-panelled room with Tony
Blair present, where opposing party members are sitting across
from one another, heckling and cheering each speaker with witty
and good-natured contentiousness. Sayeed has lots to tell me,
but it isn't the information that's intriguing. It's the access.
The members' dining room overlooking the Thames, where we have
lunch, is so exclusive that it makes me nervous. Should I be eating
my vegetables from my side plate? Am I leaving my fork and knife
at the right angle when I'm done? How do I remove the two big
blobs of chocolate syrup from my face with absolute propriety?
Maybe I worry too much. "If you do anything
with panache," Sayeed says, "it's going to be all right."
Perhaps that explains why he had his elbows on the table during
lunch. I was far too polite to ask about it. I guess my visit
to England actually taught me a little English reserve after all.
Travel and Leisure, November 2002
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