In its August 1930 issue, British Vogue introduced “Miss Elsa Maxwell” as “one of the world’s most brilliant party-givers”, adding delightedly that “her mystery dinner party was a sensation of the London season.” Indeed, Maxwell, who counted everyone from Cole Porter to Maria Callas as a friend, had taken over Lady Ribblesdale’s townhouse, staged a “murder”, then hired actors to play detectives fixated on determining who was responsible—scandalizing and delighting the British upper crust in equal measure. Over the course of her career, the Iowa native invented the concept of the scavenger hunt, was described as “the eighth wonder of the world” by George Bernard Shaw, and made theme events de rigueur. Take her “come as you are” soirées, which saw invitations delivered at strange hours of the day or night, instructing guests to attend the party in exactly what they were wearing at that moment—complete with smears of shaving cream and hair curlers in some cases.
Ahead of New Year’s Eve, revisit her personal essay for Vogue on what makes a truly spectacular party, below.
What makes or breaks a party? How often have I been asked this poignant, heartrending question—by sadly disillusioned hostesses of dismal and dreary parties that have been, and by aspiring but fearful hostesses of parties yet to be.
What a delicate analysis is necessary to dissect the different component parts of a really good party! The making of a successful party is like the baking of a wonderful soufflé: the ingredients and proportions must be weighed and measured by the hand of an artist, should be taken out of the oven at exactly the psychological moment, and served hot.
So many parties begin well, only to die, alas, but too soon, owing to the fact that the hostess has taken her own party so seriously that the guests end by taking it seriously, too—and the cloakroom stampeded by those certain “bright young people” in a panic to depart for brighter fields and newer pastures, while the plaintive, tearful voice of the hostess is heard remonstrating thus to the unheeding waves of fleeing guests drowning her in their efforts to escape: “Oh, you can’t go before supper. Won’t you have just one little egg, please.”
But the brutal, callous guests of the over-serious hostess push her aside, still expostulating, and, with grim determination, leave her special Pommery frappéd 1915 champagne—to relax happily in the stuffy, unbelievable atmosphere of a nightclub, where the band is bad, the drink undrinkable, the people unthinkable, and everybody completely happy. “What is the use of entertaining?” sobs the unhappy hostess of a most lamentable soirée. “I sent out invitations a month ago. I have spent weeks in preparation and hundreds of what Daddy makes in the City—and not a cat stayed after 12.” This is the epitaph of most parties, carefully arranged and prepared long in advance—when the edge of spontaneity has been rubbed off and the delicate flower of anticipation has withered with so long an interval between desire and fulfillment.
Carefully studied effects must appear just to happen, and the joy of the hostess in her own party must be the first element encountered by a guest. I have often been moved to sudden inward unholy laughter when, upon entering salon or ballroom, I first catch sight of the harassed and anguished face of an unhappy hostess, so obviously suffering at being trapped by her own party in the doorway, and, as the hordes of that vast vacuity known as the “Visiting List” troop in, her last hope dies, and she knows all is lost.
For the “Visiting List” sounds the death knell of every party where it is employed. How often I have heard a charming, gay, debonair butterfly anxiously demand from her friend the loan of her visiting list when she is about to issue invitations for a party. Poor butterfly.
One should never have to ask people to a party just because they are on one’s list. Guests should be selected with as much care as a new Reboux hat, and should be equally becoming, for a hostess should wear her guests at a party as she wears a hat—with an air! Also, people should not be invited because one dined with them last week—or because you owe them a lunch—or because your father plays backgammon with their father at the club—or because a friend asks to bring a friend—or because you feel sorry for those “poor things” next door: “Let’s ask them just this once,” and the “poor things” instantly become your deadliest enemies on the spot, murdering your party merely by being there. No—the gravest menace to a good party is the dangerous, emotional kindness of most hostesses in the extension of their invitations.
Ruthlessness is the first attribute towards the achievement of a perfect party. Also, one should have practically no really established “position”—by that, I mean in the world of finance, religion, or diplomacy. If you are officially associated with any one of these worthy métiers, then give up the idea forever of achieving a party, for official functions should be added to the list of Horrors of the Inquisition.
Snobs, also, are curiously incapable of gaiety, perhaps because gaiety comes from the soul, and snobs only take their soul “a la Meunière.” Also, snobs are as busy nicking notches on each rung of the social ladder as the gangster nicks each kill on his gun. I have always thought that snobs are as cruel as gangsters, anyway—certainly, they hold up a party in the same way.
Wealth does not play a large role, either, toward the giving of a good party. Many of the great and glorious artists in that wonderful world of make-believe—without whom no party can be a success—with that true generosity known to them alone, will step immediately into the breach, should a party lag ever so little, and with royal prodigality scatter their genius or their laughter in the face of impending ennui. The party immediately takes on a new lease of life and never ends—that is, if it is the party of a friend. Money cannot buy this—it can only be given.
Then there is the deliberately casual hostess, who prides herself in letting her guests do what they want. This is a great mistake. No guests want to do what they want—everything must be done for them at a successful party.
Also, guests should be selected for their human attributes. If celebrities, they should be human ones, and never, under any consideration, should one dull person be allowed to darken your doors, no well-known bores, nor tiresome snobs.
A good party should occur in one room only, and that room should always be too small for the number of guests invited. A party given in a house where there are several small rooms, though adjoining one another, has no possibility of success. That is why a party given in a large house is generally a failure. Also, the room in which the party is given should be brightly illuminated. It is a mistake to have dim and soothing lights.
One should enter a party to sounds of some kind, for the psychology of sound is an important thing to study in the giving of a successful party. I once gave a party in a room too cold and cavernous, where I knew the band would reverberate in hollow cacophony and smite the eardrums too unpleasantly upon entering, so I hastily procured some beehives, and, successfully concealing them in the room, the ears of the guests were assailed by a pleasant buzzing during lulls in the music.
Never show the slightest anxiety about the ultimate success of your own party. Show, by your attitude, that you are convinced it will be the best party ever given, and your guests will believe it too, and help to make it so.
Always endeavor to incur the opposition of one or two of the so-called “social powers that be” in whatever place you happen to be giving your party. This will inevitably ensure its complete success. People will violently take sides at one. Feeling will run high; excitement will ensue. Courage will be shown—courage to go to the party or to stay away—particularly if it is based on a new idea. Which brings me back to that poignant query: “What makes or breaks a party?”
A new idea, plus a sense of humor, makes a party—and the bores break it.