THE WOES OF "WALLFLOWERS."

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIII, Issue 242, 11 October 1902, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE WOES OF "WALLFLOWERS."

"Ballrooms should have a lining of hot-water pipes," complained a wallflower lately. It is so difficult to keep a pleasant, nonchalant expression on one's face while one's shoulders are freezing, and horrid little goose shivers chase each other up and down cDe's spine. And just when it seems absolutely certain that bronchitis and pleurisy are sure to follow the evening's — so-called — enjoyment, some wretched girl, who has been capering and bounding through the lancers, passes with her partner and says to me with malice, "Oh, isn't it hot. I'm just baked—l must have an ice or I'll die."

No arrangements are ever made for the comfort 'of "wallflowers," whether they be temporary or permanent. The hostess who will provide not only a smoking-room for her male guests, but also a cosy sittingroom for girls where men may not intrude, will earn the thanks of all those damsels who have occasion to sit out one or more dances.

"I don't actually mind not dancing," says Clorinda, "but every one fancies I mind, so what worries me is the fact that I am supposed to be worrying. That is the real reason why you see girls dancing with little unfledged boys and podgy old men. Half a man is better than none. Hostesses won't ask you out if you don't g-et partners, and men won't dance with you if you have the reputation of being a wallflower. Oh, I know how they talk —I have six brothers and hundreds of cousins, and the airs they give themselves are something amazing. Said George, aiged nineteen, to Lionel, aged eighteen, the other day, 'I danced with the girl; 'pon my soul, I felt sorry for her, she hadn't had a single dance. It was a dance I. was keeping vacant, too. I wanted a smoke badly, but I always feel sorry for the old girls, so I carted her round, and got Teddy to do the same.'

"'Good iron!' returned Lionel, '1 let my duty dances slide. I was going it pretty hot with Mrs Blank — real good sort she is, and I never gave a thought to another woman. But a feUow ought to think of the wallflowers now and a.gain.'

"So," continued. Clorinda, "I have determined to dance no more. My last ball produced eight partners, all of them married men jounger than my self, who tod me anecdotes about their children —it was most depressing, I assure you. I will go to a final ball, my going-in ball. I will wear all black, and carry a funeral wreath. •After that I wil. refuse all invitations, and stay at home with my feet on the fender, and think with amused contempt of my contemporaries who are still striving to sparkle and look young for the benefit of pompous little boys, whose whole attitude is one of benign condescension."

The dancer is provided with every luxury. , A good floor, cosy sittingout corners, and little comfortable nooks. The "wallflower" is condemned to the ballroom benches, and her rescue can only be effected by a male being, who, in the manner of the children in that soul-stirring game | "French and English" leaves his own j bounds for the attempts Without his j assistance the wallflower is condemn- I ed to the benches. She may not stir hand and foot in her own cause. When a possible Perseus draws near. Andromeda must show no signs of weariness; she must not look too pathetic, she must wear her rue with an amiable smile, and act as if a hard bench and a cold wall to lean against constituted her idea of felicity. "Indeed!" cries Elizabeth, "if it were merely the wall behind one, it would not be so bad, but there are all kinds of uncomfortable decorations, that pull at one's hair and drag oil one's fringe net. One night I leant against a long blackberry spray. My back looked as if I had been tattooed for days after. Of course," she went on, "I have not sat out many dances in my life, but I have sat out enough to know the feeling. The anxiety at the vary beginning, when things are settled for the evening. The endeavour to be seen by a favourite partner, and the necessary coquetry of pretending not to see him when he is close by. The reckless refusal of bores, whom, later in the eveninig, with several dances to spare, one regards with considerable regret. One's lot is decided in that first twenty minutes in the ballroom, and the girl who keeps her head is to be envied. Of course, I do not believe in manipulating one's programme with a view to deceiving undesirable partners. That is crude, and it is not truthful. I prefer to depend on manner and tact. Certainly, it is advisable now and again to take home a manipulated programme for mamma to see, but that is only to save her worry." "Worry?" "Yes, if I've danced nine times with any one partner, you kn_w, that would worry her. " It is selfish to grieve your parents when it can he so easily avo-' _cd." "But, talking of 'wallflowers'-—*>' "Yes, the permanent ones are the ones I am sorry for. They are so brave; they go to dance after dance, and are so grateful if they don't sit out more than two-thirds of the evening. They even go to subscription dances. Fancy paying- ten and six for the privilege of dancing four dances with four different men. That is two and sevenpenec halifpenny- a man, besides the cost of dress, gloves, shoes and cabs. No wonder they grow spiteful about other girls, and say, "A pity her arms are red,' anrf 'What he sees in her 1 can't think.' 'She just throws herself at men's heads. Anyone could get on if they cared to behave as she does.' " However, it is difficult to give genuine pity to the permanent wallflower. When a girl has tested her fate at eighteen or twenty balls, and discovers that she is not a success, she should give up. She should bow to the ' inevitable, and take refuge ih her pride and dignity. It is for the little new bantling "wallflower" that one may be genuinely concerned. The sad little soul who leaves the ba_l-

room with her mother before 11 o'clock because no one has asked her to dance. One such cried surreptitious tears of mortification as she took her place in -the almost empty tram on her way home. She was very pretty and shy-looking, her hair had bean dressed at a hairdresser's, herfrock was quite new and dainty. She carried a great bouquet, and attached to it her quite blank programme. It was her first ball, and all the delightful anticipations that she had indulged in were now a source of added woe.

"The ;wise wallflower,'" put in Elizabeth, "you will find in the dress-ing-room. Go and look. Her nonsuccess is hidden there." The dressing-room is certainly the haven. Here fly the halt, torn, and unclaimed -with really exquisite excuses.

"I don't know when I've sat out a dance before, really I don't. Last Tuesday I was rushed, positively rushed. If I had had four programmes I could not possibly have danced with all the men who asked me. To-night there are no men, no .men at all, except creatures whom I have been cutting for years. What are you doing in- here?" turning to a meek little girl. "I came in to have my dresss mended; the woman is getting some cotton."

"I made such a muddle of my programme, and slipped Arthur for a dance, and now he won't dance with me at all, so that leaves three vacant spaces on my programme. I'm so angry with myself," puts in another girl. One leaning- against the wall opens her eves. "I had such a headache, and I can't go home till the others are ready."

No one believes what the other says, though affecting to do so, and the more spitefully inclined will remark afterwards: "So-and-So was in the dressing-room quite half the evening. She was there when I went in on two separate occasions to put hairpins in my hair." At this instant a gay butterfly dashes in for a pin to put in the genuinely and badly torn flounce/of her dress. "Goo'dneS-, gracious; what on earth are all you girls doing here?" she exclaims, as she hastily thrusts pins into her skirt. "There are crowds of men; why aren't you dancing?" The excuses are produced hurriedly and perfunctorily. No .one expects to be believed, but it would be indelicate to -make no excuse. The gay girl dashes off without listening. Her partner is for her, but the group of girls know well that she will make capital out of their trouble. A sad little pipe comes from the corner from a hitherto silen. sufferer. "I think it's a great shame. I came with the Dashes, and they have not introduced me to a living soul, and they are dancing all the evening the-_u-„ selves. I've only been asked for three, and I have been sitting here all the rest of the time, and I haven't had a bite of supper, because my three dances are numbers 1, 5 and the very last extra. I will have to declare I've had refreshments, because it seems so utterly wretched not to have had any, and I'm just dyi_i£ for a cup of coffee.''—-"Lino," in the "Melbourne Argus."