I have to confess to mingled emotions at the sight of President Obama flubbing his toast to Queen Elizabeth II. There he stood, raising a glass “to Her Majesty the Queen,” whereupon the band — in keeping with the usual signal — began playing “God Save the Queen” and the other guests stood glassless, according to protocol, while Obama finished his remarks over the music. It was a brief but embarrassing hiccup for Mr. Obama, to be filed in the dossier along with his curiously submissive bows to foreign monarchs. But it was also embarrassing for the rest of us, if for no other reason than it reinforced the reputation for bumptiousness that Americans have been trying to shed ever since Thomas Jefferson went to Paris. The president ought to have known better – and if he didn’t, his people ought to have briefed him.
Yet my scorn was more than matched by compassion, for in some ways you can’t blame the man. An American raised in ordinary fashion is a person forever at a disadvantage in formal settings, never mind in a white tie at Buckingham Palace.
Checking etiquette books ahead of time will get you a certain distance, but if the instinct isn’t there, it is all too easy to appear provincial and tone-deaf to the nuances of tradition and custom.
Watching the president’s eyes dart about uncertainly as he tried to pull off the mortifying moment, I felt a rush of fellow feeling. He realized that he was out of step, in front of everyone, but what could he do? When you have embarked on a mistake, there’s often no alternative but bravely to push on.
I can still remember the terrible squeak my chair made the moment I embarked on my own most disastrous etiquette breach. My face burns, even writing about it, though I can laugh now.
It happened in Tokyo, when my husband and I were the guests of a European ambassador at an elegant dinner for a very important Japanese magnate. It is crucial to point out that we had been seated near the end of the table, far from the prestigious center where sat the ambassador, his wife, and Mr. & Mrs. Magnate. Dessert was done, and it was time to leave the glittering dining room.
The ambassador rose, and said, “Shall we go next door for coffee?” There was a pause. No one moved. This was the cue for Mrs. Magnate to rise and begin the exodus. But to me, in my ignorance and bumptiousness, it looked like an awkward moment for our kind host. Acting on an ill-conceived impulse to assist the ambassador socially, I pushed back my chair and stood up.
Squeak, went the chair! Swoosh, went 40 amazed faces turning toward me. And too late, like Obama in London, I realized my blunder. Yet what could I do? Just what Mr. Obama did: I bravely pushed on.
Click, click, click, went the lonely sound of my heels in the silence as I walked across the shining floor to the surprised ambassador. Thanks to decades of training and a proper upbringing, he quickly recovered and said, “Yes, why don’t I escort Mrs. Gurdon through to coffee?”
With my face flushed, I took his arm and out we went.
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
