Crusader for Couth

By Michael Demarest

Marjabelle Stewart's message: good manners are fun

The stylishly dressed party of eight lunching at a center table in Chicago's tony Ritz-Carlton restaurant is about to start the second course. As white-aproned waiters whisk in artichauts vinaigrette, the guests exchange amiable chitchat. Dark-haired August Walker Pelton regales the group with an anecdote about Princess Caroline of Monaco. "She tells me," he confides, "that when anyone in their family has elbows on the table, her grandmother jabs them with a fork." In the lull that follows, Bridget Dunham chews meditatively on her water goblet, picks her teeth, then dives under the table after her napkin. Garo Tokat loses a battle with his artichoke, which rockets off the plate and onto his lap. Tiffany Field, her ivory dress askew, is so absorbed in her food that her long blond tresses marinate in the vinaigrette.

Though the meal may at times have overtones of the Mad Hatter's tea party, its hostess, Marjabelle Stewart, 51, insists it will be one of the most important events in her guests' lives. August, Bridget, Garo, Tiffany and Co. range in age from five to eleven, and they are learning dining etiquette. By teaching proper behavior to children all over the country, Stewart says, she is helping bring about a revolution. "We are emerging from the rude, rebellious period," maintains Stewart, who in voluminous hot-pink chiffon gown and Margaret Thatcher coiffure is something of a period piece herself. "Manners are in again. Everyone is tired of slobs."

The daughter of a society photographer, Stewart is a woman with a mission, a crusader for couth. More than 700 department stores in 43 U.S. cities are franchised to conduct her etiquette training for children, and over the past 15 years, 160,000 clumsy charges have been coached in Marjabelle's method. The six one-hour sessions plus a seventh for graduation ceremonies, which cost up to $65, exist in spots as scattered as Little Rock, Ark., Tuscaloosa, Ala., and Tyler, Texas.

Against a background of white tablecloths and candlelight, preteen girls who sign up for "White Gloves and Party Manners" are instructed in such arcane lore as curtsying ("When you are presented to the Queen, your head should scrape the ground"). "Blue Blazer" seminars for boys omit the candlelight in favor of a clubroom atmosphere. At the Belk Tyler store in Rocky Mount, N.C., a White Gloves class, which opened in September, has been "a phenomenal success," according to Operations Manager Fred Combs. Says he: "Children are learning things they'd never learn at home."

Marjabelle, who runs her empire from her lawyer-husband's home town of Kewanee, Ill. ("Hog Capital of the World"), also works with some 60 corporations to impart the social graces to bumptious executives. For too many, nose-to-the-grindstone careers have left little time for the velvet touch. In addition, Stewart has written eleven books, three of them with Ann Buchwald, wife of Columnist Art, which sport such jaunty titles as Looking Pretty, Feeling Fine and Stand Up, Shake Hands, Say "How Do You Do."

The hotel etiquette sessions had their first tryout at the Ritz-Carlton in September. They are designed to acquaint children with the complexities of room service, restaurants, concierges, elevators, front desks and the social amenities. "Average people want their children to be a little more upper crust; upper-crust people want to be more upper crust," says Stewart. "The goal is children who are not a constant source of embarrassment." As the students arrive at a 25th-floor duplex suite, they are met by their hostess beside a sweeping spiral staircase. "How do you do?" Stewart asks a bashful Nicole Kyros. "It is so nice of you to come." As parents are tactfully but firmly dismissed, the moppets, propped up in chairs three times too big for them, look as if they are about to face a firing squad.

Marjabelle soon breaks the tension by explaining that the first lesson will be all about poise. "Pretend you are sniffing a long-stemmed red rose," she tells the girls. "It will lend the appearance of poise--that's a Jackie Kennedy trick." After burying her nose in a dark-red bloom, Marjabelle gazes ecstatically at the 30-ft. ceiling. "Ah!" she croons. "Isn't that completely invigorating?" Suddenly everyone wants to have poise--even the boys. No roses for them, though. They are told to invigorate themselves by imagining the smell of burning leaves.

Marjabelle is full of nattering etiquet-cetera. If his parents have a 50th wedding anniversary, she tells a skeptical Brook Blakslee, the neighborly Reagans just might send a congratulatory telegram. "Aren't they lovely people?" Marjabelle sighs. "It's a relief to have such gracious people leading our nation, don't you think?" Even knife-and-forkmanship becomes fun. "Let's not look like we're flying," she adjures, flapping her elbows. When the soup arrives, Marjabelle chants, "Dip away, lean forward and sip."

Like a group of Chinese doing their t'ai-chi exercises, her wards move in perfect harmony as she adds, "Let's pretend our spoons are little boats going out to sea."

Table topics are the food and new jokes. Cortney Llewellyn complains sotto voce that the tomato soup tastes "like spaghetti sauce," while Elizabeth Borland grimaces at the exotic seaweed. "It tastes just like spinach--awful." Tiffany scores big with her elevator joke (What did one elevator say to the other? Answer: I'm coming down with something). The class ends as all classes should: with diplomas and prizes. Each child receives a gold-stamped certificate and a Lucite paperweight. Saying goodbye, five-year-old Bridget wraps her arms around Marjabelle's legs and whispers dramatically: "The worst part is when the party is over." --By Michael Demarest. Reported by Ken Banta/Chicago

With reporting by Ken Banta/Chicago

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