A Tea Reader (7 page)

Five O'Clock Tea

BY
A
NNE
T
HACKERAY
R
ITCHIE

Excerpted from
From an Island: A Story and Some Essays
,
1877.
¹

“For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned!
On shining Altars of Japan they raise
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze;
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
While China's earth receives the smoking tide.
At once they gratify their scent, and taste,
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.”

—
Alexander Pope
,
Rape of the Lock

Five o'clock tea is rarely good. It is either strongly flavored with that peculiar bitter taste which shows that the tea has been kept waiting and neglected too long, or else it is cold, weak, and vapid. These remarks apply strictly to the tea itself; for, as a general rule, it is the pleas-antest hostess who provides the worst tea, and it would almost seem, notwithstanding a few noticeable exceptions, that a lively conversation and a pleasant wit are incompatible with boiling water, and a sufficient supply of cream, and sugar, and
souchong
.
But, fortunately, the popularity of five o'clock tea does not depend upon its intrinsic merits. Five o'clock friendship, five o'clock gossip, five o'clock confidence and pleasant confabulation, are what people look for in these harmless cups; a little sugar dexterously dropped in, a little human kindness, and just enough pungency to give a flavor to the whole concoction, is what we all like sometimes to stir up together for an hour or so, and to enjoy, with the addition of a little buttered muffin, from five to six o'clock, when the day's work is over, and a pleasant, useless, comfortable hour comes round.

Everybody must have observed that there are certain propitious hours in the day when life appears under its best and most hopeful aspects. Five o'clock is to a great many their golden time, when the cares which haunt the early rising have been faced and surmounted; when the mid-day sun is no longer blazing down and exhibiting all the cracks and worn places which we would fain not see; when the labors of the day are over for many, and their vigils have not yet begun; and when a sense of soon-coming rest and refreshment has its unconscious effect upon our spirits. Whether for work or for play, five o'clock is one of the hours that could be the least spared out of the twenty-four we have to choose from. Two o'clock might be sacrificed; and I doubt whether from ten o'clock to eleven is not a difficult pass to surmount for many: neither work nor play comes congenially just after breakfast, but both are welcome at this special five o'clock tea-time. A painter told me once that just a little before sunset, at the close of a long day's toil, there comes a certain light which is more beautiful and more clear and still than any other, and in which he can do better work than at any other time during the day. It is so, I believe, with some people who make writing their profession, and who often find that after wrestling and struggling with intractable ideas and sentences all through a long and wearisome task, at the close, just as they are giving up in despair, a sudden inspiration comes to them, thoughts and suggestions rush upon them, words fall into their places, and the pen flies along the paper. Miss Martineau
²
says in one of her essays that after writing for seven hours, the eighth hour is often worth all the others put together.

There is no comparison, to my mind, between the merits of luncheons and breakfasts and five o'clock tea, in a social point of view. People sometimes experimentalize upon the practicabilities of the minor meals, but pleasant as luncheons or breakfasts may be at the time, a sense of remorse and desolation when the entertainment is over generally prevents anything like an agreeable reminiscence. One has wasted one's morning; one has begun at the wrong end of the day; what is to be the next step on one's downward career? Is one to go backwards all through one's usual avocations, and wind up at last by ordering dinner just before going to bed? The writer can call to mind several such meetings, where persons were present whom it was an honor and a delight to associate with, and where the talk was better worth listening to than commonly happens when several remarkable people are brought together; and yet, when all was over, and one came away into the mid-day sunshine, an uncomfortable feeling of remorse and general dissatisfaction, of not knowing exactly what to do next or how to get through the rest of the day, seemed almost to overpower any pleasant remembrances. It was like the afternoon of a wedding-breakfast, without even a wedding. No such subtle Nemesis attends the little gathering round the three-legged five o'clock tea-tables. You know exactly the precise right thing to do when the tea party is over. You go home a little late, you hurriedly dress for dinner with the anticipation of an agreeable evening, to which your own spirits, which have been cheered and enlivened already, may possibly contribute; and the knowledge that each other member of the party is also hurrying away with a definite object, instead of straggling out into the world all uncertain and undecided, must unconsciously add to your comfort.

Two o'clock is much more the hour of friendship than of sentiment. Sentimental scenes take place (it would seem) more frequently in the morning and evening, or out of doors in the afternoon. One can quite imagine that after breakfasts or luncheons the stranded guests might fly to sentiment to fill up the ensuing blank vacancy. But although one has never heard of an offer being made at five o'clock tea, the story of the engagement—more or less interesting—and all the delightful particulars of the trousseau, and settlements, and wedding presents, are more fully discussed then than at any other time. What is
not
discussed at five o'clock tea, besides the usual gossip and chatter of the day? How much of sympathy, confidence, wise and kindly warning and encouragement it has brought to us, as well as the pleasure of companionship in one of its simplest forms! It is now the fashion in some houses to play at whist
³
at five o'clock, but this seems a horrible innovation and interruption to confidence and friendship. If the secret which Belinda has to impart is that she happens to hold four trumps in her hand, if the advice required is whether she shall play diamonds or hearts; if Florio is only counting his points, and speculating on his partner's lead, then, indeed, all this is a much ado about nothing. Let us pull down the little three-legged altars, upset the cream jugs and sugar-basins, and extinguish the sacred flames of spirits of wine with all the water in the tea kettle.

I do not know whether to give the preference to summer or winter for these entertainments. At this time of the year one comes out of the chill tempests without to bright hearths, warmth, comfort, and kindly welcome. The silver kettle boils and bubbles, the tea table is ready spread, your frozen soul melts within you, you sink into a warm fireside corner, and perhaps one of the friends that you love best begins with a familiar voice to tell you of things which mutually concern and interest you both, until the door opens and one or two more come in, and the talk becomes more general. In summer time Lady de Coverley has her tea-table placed under the shade of the elm trees on the lawn. There is a great fragrance of flowering azaleas and rhododendrons all about; there are the low seats and the muslin dresses in a semicircle under the bright green branches; shadows come flickering, and gusts of summer sweetness; insects buzzing and sailing away, silver and china wrought in bright array, and perhaps a few vine-leaves and strawberries to give color to the faint tints of the equipage. You may almost see the summer day spreading over the fields and slopes, where the buttercups blaze like a cloth of gold, and the beautiful cattle are browsing.

Five o'clock is also the nursery tea-time, when a little round-eyed company, perched up in tall chairs, struggles with mugs, and pinafores, and large slices of bread and butter. I must confess that the nursery arrangements have always seemed to me capable of improvement, and I have never been able to understand why good boys and girls should be rewarded with such ugly mugs, or why the bread and butter should always pervade the whole atmosphere as it does nowhere else. It is curious to note what very small things have an unconscious influence upon our comfort at times, and I could quite understand what a friend meant the other day when she told me that whenever anybody came to see her with whom she wished to have a comfortable talk, she was accustomed to move to a certain corner in her drawing-room, where there was a snug place for herself and an easy chair which her guest was certain to take. Those who have been so fortunate as to occupy that easy chair can certify to the complete success of the little precaution.

Of the sadder aspect of my subject, of the tea parties over and dispersed for ever, of old familiar houses now closed upon us, of friends parted and estranged, who no longer clink their cups together, I do not care to write.

The readers of
Pendennis
may remember Mrs. Shandon and little Mary at their five o'clock tea, and the extract with which I conclude:

“So Mrs. Shandon went to the cupboard, and in lieu of a dinner made herself some tea. And in those varieties of pain of which we spoke anon, what a part of confidante has that poor teapot played ever since the kindly plant was introduced among us! What myriads of women have cried over it, to be sure! what sick-beds it has smoked by! what fevered lips have received refreshment from out of it! Nature meant very gently by women when she made that tea plant; and with a little thought, what a series of pictures and groups the fancy may conjure up, and assemble round the teapot and cup.”

1
[Certain British spellings have been amended. Ed.]

2
Harriet Martineau (1802–1876), a noted writer and sociologist.

3
“Whist” is a classic English card game.

Easy on the Ice

BY
J
ULIE
L. C
ARNEY

I first noticed my dad putting lemon juice in his iced tea about two months ago. I'm 45 years old and I see my parents every day. I heard the telltale sound of a long-handled spoon stirring something in a tall glass and wondered, “What could he be stirring?”

My dad is a creature of habit. With some people, “creature of habit” would be a quaint expression to describe someone who tends to wear poplin or who has a regular coffee klatch in the mornings. With my dad, his habits are more like rituals, hard and fast rules, compulsions. Though never officially diagnosed, he's been known to joke with people about his “obsessive-compulsive” tendencies. My siblings and I talk about his “o.c.” behavior.

That's why I was so struck by the simple stirring sound; it was an anomaly. My mom was at work and the dog, who at age 15 has become a nearly full-time patient, was asleep. I wandered into the kitchen and watched the stirring. I can't remember if I asked him about it or not, but sure enough, the next time we were at a restaurant, his drink order, which had been the same for 70-plus years, had changed. It used to be, “Do you have brewed iced tea, not made from a mix or powder? Unsweetened?” And if they did: “Easy on the ice.” Or, if it's a “regular” joint, like Morey's, the family-owned diner my parents eat at every Friday, simply, “Iced tea, easy on the ice.” He doesn't really want any ice, just cold tea, but the phrase sticks. Suddenly, lemon has been added to the order.

For as long as I can remember, our house has had brewed, un-sweetened, iced tea available in the fridge year-round. The sound of a tea kettle roaring to a boil and finally working up to a whistle is a near-daily experience. My dad has his own glass—a tall, yellowed, mildly patterned glass filled with cold tea—which accompanies him around the house. Sometimes in the summer, I have iced tea at my parents' house. Sometimes my sister will visit and have cold tea with lemon juice. My dad eschewed both ice and lemon, at least until recently.

As kids, we realized the tea thing was different from the habits of other parents who drank coffee, water, milk, or even wine with their dinner. Our dad never drank any of those things, just tea, morning to evening. The big old teapot was a fixture by the stove from year to year. Four tea bags (five if the tea was a weak one that someone had given as a gift) or sometimes loose tea carefully measured into a large tea ball, sat in the pot awaiting the boiling water. After the tea steeped—How many American kids grow up knowing that word?—it was poured into the one-gallon clear glass jug which always resided in the refrigerator. With a metal lid and no label, this jug may have contained orange juice in its previous life, but has now held tea longer than it ever held anything else.

My dad was a professor at our local state university for most of his career. For reasons we never understood, all of his classes were in the mornings, so he would be home when we returned from school. But he would still be “at work” in his office. Long before homes were built with “home offices” for people to stow their PCs, in fact, long before PCs, our dad had an office that was exclusively his work zone. Found off our parents' bedroom, accessed from the dining room, dad's office holds a huge wooden desk, multiple file cabinets, and bookshelves on every wall loaded to the ceiling with books. And always on the desk, at the upper left hand corner of the blotter, is what I always thought of as his tea-holder: a shallow, round ceramic piece, the likes of which I have never seen anywhere else, which perfectly cups the bottom of my dad's regular tea glass, keeping the sweat off his papers. The office doesn't get much use these days, my dad having retired 20 years ago. The blotter rarely sees the light of day, papers piled atop it, forgotten.

In the afternoons of our childhood, until dinnertime, my dad worked at his desk, grading papers, writing letters, reading. Occasionally rising to go to the bathroom or to make tea or refill his tea glass, he was otherwise ensconced there, not to be disturbed. At dinnertime, the tea glass accompanied him to his spot at the table; after dinner, it went to his spot on the couch. Sometime during our teenage years, the dining area changed from the dining room to the living room, as Americans learned to watch TV during all activities, even meals. The tea didn't change, however: brewed, unsweetened, cold but un-iced, unadorned tea.

As we grew up, we were sometimes asked to refill the tea glass. Occasionally we'd be asked to go in search of the glass if my dad had worked in the garden and left the tea glass out back, for instance. We had to be tall and strong enough to be allowed to pour the boiling water from the kettle into the pot. We had to be coordinated enough to be allowed to pour the cooled, steeped tea into the refrigerator jug.

Birthdays, Father's Day, Christmas, we always knew we could gift my dad some tea—though we eventually figured out he preferred the strong classic flavors of Irish or English breakfast teas. Teapots also became an easy gift and began to accumulate around the house; not ones he would use, mind you, they were just interesting specimens of the art of the drink he drank. When his teapot collection became unruly, he hired a local carpenter to build him shallow shelves around the dining room wall, near the ceiling, to display his pots. Later, when his collection reached into the hundreds, shelves were added around the perimeter of the kitchen too. Some homes have plate rails; ours has teapot shelves. The pots themselves were made in England, Ireland, China, Germany, even “Occupied Japan.” They range from functional pots that look like standard-issue, restaurant serving-ware to whimsical pots that appeared to be made by artists with no interest in tea to a pot shaped like the classic teapot, only apparently made of grass.

Of the four kids, I am the only one who returned to our hometown, eventually buying a house a block away from our parents who still lived in our old family home. As our parents have entered their 70s, I find myself spending more and more time at their house, helping with daily tasks. I helped clean out our grandfather's house when he died. I walk our old dog every day, help my dad unload the groceries from the car, and help my mom file her taxes electronically. Sometimes it frightens me when they don't recognize one of their old friends or seem not to be their old selves. The constants are reassuring: teapots keep accumulating and tea keeps getting brewed and consumed. But the lemon has me worried.