Collected Works of E M Delafield
Page 418
Have I, Mrs. Walker instantly enquires, visited the Falls of Niagara? Am obliged to admit, feeling apologetic, that I have. Thank God for that, she surprisingly returns. We then embark on conversation, and I tell her about Canada, and make rather good story out of preposterous child Minnie. Mrs. Walker is appreciative, and we get on well.
Buffalo is under snow, and bitterly cold. House, however, delightfully warm, as usual. Mrs. Walker hopes that I won’t mind a small room: I perceive that the whole of drawing-room, dining-room and Robert’s study could easily be fitted inside it, and that it has a bath-room opening out of one end and a sitting-room the other, and say, Oh no, not in the least.
She then leaves me to rest.
November 14th. — Clothes having emerged more crumpled than ever from repeated packings, I ask if they could be ironed, and this is forthwith done by competent maid, who tells me what I know only too well already, that best black-and-white evening dress has at one time been badly stained by coffee, and will never really look the same again.
Mrs. Walker takes me for a drive, and we see as much of Buffalo as is compatible with its being almost altogether under snow, and she asks me rather wistfully if I can tell her anything about celebrated English woman pianist who once stayed with her for a fortnight and was charming, but has never answered any letters since. Am disgusted with the ingratitude of my distinguished countrywoman, and invent explanations about her having been ill, and probably forbidden by the doctor to attend to any correspondence whatever.
Mrs. Walker receives this without demur, but wears faintly cynical expression, and am by no means convinced that she has been taken in by it, especially as she tells me later on that when in London a year ago she rang up distinguished pianist, who had apparently great difficulty in remembering who she was. Feel extremely ashamed of this depth of ingratitude, contrast it with extraordinary kindness and hospitality proffered to English visitors by American hosts, and hope that someone occasionally returns some of it.
Become apprehensive towards afternoon, when Mrs. W. tells me that the Club at which I am to lecture has heard all the best-known European speakers, at one time or another, and is composed of highly cultivated members.
Revise my lecture frantically, perceive that it is totally lacking in cultivation, or even ordinary evidences of intelligence, and ask Mrs. W. whether she doesn’t think the Club would like a reading instead. Have no real hope that this will succeed, nor does it. Nothing for it but to put on my newly ironed blue, powder my nose, and go.
Mrs. W. is considerate, and does not attempt conversation on the way, except when she once says that she hopes I can eat oysters. Feel it highly improbable that I shall be able to eat anything again, and hear myself muttering for sole reply: “Who knows but the world may end to-night?”
World, needless to say, does not end, and I have to pull myself together, meet a great many Club members — alert expressions and very expensive clothes — and subsequently mount small platform on which stand two chairs, table and reading-desk.
Elderly lady in grey takes the chair — reminds me of Robert’s Aunt Eleanor, but cannot say why — and says that she is not going to speak for more than a few moments. Everyone, she knows, is looking forward to hearing something far more interesting than any words of hers can be. At this she glances benevolently towards me, and I smile modestly, and wish I could drop down in a fit and be taken away on the spot. Instead, I have presently to get on to my feet and adjust small sheet of notes — now definitely looking crumpled and dirty — on to reading-desk.
Head, as usual, gets very hot, and feet very cold, and am badly thrown off my balance by very ancient lady who sits in the front row and holds her hand to her ear throughout, as if unable to hear a word I utter. This, however, evidently not the case, as she comes up afterwards and tells me that she was one of the Club’s original members, and has never missed a single lecture. Offer her my congratulations on this achievement, and then wish I hadn’t, as it sounds conceited, and add that I hope she has found it worth the trouble. She replies rather doubtfully Yes — on the whole, Yes — and refers to André Maurois. His lecture was positively brilliant. I reply, truthfully, that I feel sure it was, and we part. Aunt Eleanor and I exchange polite speeches — I meet various ladies, one of whom tells me that she knows a great friend of mine. Rose, I suggest? No, not Rose. Dear Katherine Ellen Blatt, who is at present in New York, but hopes to be in Boston when I am. She has, says the lady, a perfectly lovely personality. And she has been saying the most wonderful things about me. Try to look more grateful than I really feel, over this.
(Query: Does not public life, even on a small scale, distinctly lead in the direction of duplicity? Answer: Unfortunately, Yes.)
Aunt Eleanor now approaches and says — as usual — that she knows an Englishwoman can’t do without her tea, and that some is now awaiting me. Am touched by this evidence of thoughtfulness, and drink tea — which is much too strong — and eat cinnamon toast, to which I am by no means accustomed, and which reminds me very painfully of nauseous drug frequently administered to Vicky by Mademoiselle.
Conversation with Aunt Eleanor ensues. She does not, herself, write books, she says, but those who do have always had a strange fascination for her. She has often thought of writing a book — many of her friends have implored her to do so, in fact — but no, she finds it impossible to begin. And yet, there are many things in her life about which whole, entire novels might well be written. Everybody devotes a moment of rather awed silence to conjecturing the nature of Aunt Eleanor’s singular experiences, and anti-climax is felt to have ensued when small lady in rather frilly frock suddenly announces in a pipy voice that she has a boy cousin, living in Oklahoma, who once wrote something for the New Yorker, but they didn’t ever publish it.
This more or less breaks u the party, and Mrs. Walker drives me home again, and says in a rather exhausted way that she thanks Heaven that’s over.
We talk about Aunt Eleanor — she has been twice married, one husband died and the other one left her, but no divorce — and she has two daughters but neither of them live at home. Can quite understand it, and say so. Mrs. Walker assents mildly, which encourages me to add that I didn’t take to Aunt Eleanor much. No, says Mrs. Walker thoughtfully, she doesn’t really think that Aunt E. and I would ever get on together very well.
Am quite surprised and hurt at this, and realise that, though I am quite prepared to dislike Aunt Eleanor, I find it both unjust and astonishing that she should be equally repelled by me. Rather interesting side-light on human nature thrown here, and have dim idea of going into the whole thing later, preferably with Rose — always so well informed — or dear Mary Kellway, full of intelligence, even though unable to write legibly — but this probably owing to stress of life in country parish, so much more crowded with activities than any other known form of existence.
Dinner-party closes the day, and I put on backless evening dress, add coatee, take coatee off again, look at myself with mirror and hand-glass in conjunction, resume coatee, and retain it for the rest of the evening.
November 15th. — Weather gets colder and colder as I approach Boston, and this rouses prejudice in me, together with repeated assurances from everybody I meet to the effect that Boston is the most English town in America, and I shall simply adore it. Feel quite unlike adoration as train takes me through snowy country, and affords glimpses of towns that appear to be entirely composed of Gasoline Stations and Motion-Picture Theatres. Towards nine-o’clock in the morning I have an excellent breakfast — food in America definitely a very bright spot — and return to railway carriage, where I see familiar figure, hat still worn at very dashing angle, and recognise Pete. Feel as if I had met my oldest friend, in the middle of a crowd of strangers, and we greet one another cordially. Pete tells me that I seem to be standing up to it pretty well — which I take to be a compliment to my powers of endurance — and unfolds terrific programme of the activities he has planned for me in Boston.
Boston is reached — step out of the train into the iciest cold that it has ever been my lot to encounter — and am immediately photographed by unknown man carrying camera and unpleasant little light-bulb which he flashes unexpectedly into my eyes. No one makes the slightest comment on this proceeding, and am convinced that he has mistaken me for somebody quite different.
Two young creatures from the Boston Transcript meet me, and enquire, more or less instantly, what I feel about the Problem of the American Woman, but Pete, with great good-feeling, suggests that we should discuss it all in taxi on our way to Hotel, which we do. One of them then hands me a cable — (announcing death of Robin or Vicky?) — and says it arrived this morning.
Cable says, in effect, that I must at all costs get into touch with Caroline Concannon’s dear friend and cousin Mona, who lives in Pinckney Street, would love to meet me, has been written to, everything all right at flat, love from Caroline.
Am quite prepared to get into touch with dear friend and cousin, but say nothing to Pete about it, for fear of similar disconcerting reaction to that produced by suggestion of visiting Alcott House.
Am conducted to nice little Hotel in Charles Street, and told once by Pete, and twice by each of the Boston Transcript young ladies, that r am within a stone’s-throw of the Common Chief association with the Common is An Old-Fashioned Girl, in which heroine goes tobogganing, but do not refer to this, and merely reply that That is very nice. So it may be, but not at the moment when Common, besides being deep in snow, is quite evidently being searched from end to end by ice-laden north-east wind.
Pete, with firmness to which I am by now accustomed, says that he will leave me to unpack but come and fetch me again in an hour’s time, to visit customary book-shops.
Telephone bell in sitting-room soon afterwards rings, and it appears that dear Rose — like Caroline Concannon — has a friend in Boston, and that the friend is downstairs and proposes to come up right away and see me. I say Yes, yes, and I shall be delighted, and hastily shut suit-cases which I have this moment opened, and look at myself in the glass instead.
Results of this inspection are far from encouraging, but nothing can be done about it now, and can only concentrate on trying to remember everything that Rose has ever told me about her Boston friend called, I believe, Fanny Mason. Sum-total of my recollections is that the friend is very literary, and has written a good deal, and travelled all over the world, and is very critical.
Am rather inclined to become agitated by all this, but friend appears, and has the good-feeling to keep these disquieting attributes well out of sight, and concentrate on welcoming me very kindly to Boston — (exactly like England and all English people always love it on that account) — and enquiring affectionately about Rose. (Am disgusted to learn from what she says that dear Rose has written to her far more recently, as well as at much greater length, than to myself. Shall have a good deal to say to Rose when we meet again.)
Friend then announces that she has A Girl downstairs. The Girl has brought a car, and is going to show me Boston this morning, take me to lunch at a Women’s Club, and to a tea later. This more than kind, but also definitely disconcerting in view of arrangements made by Pete, and I say Oh, Miss Mason — and then stop, rather like heroine of a Victorian novel.
Miss M. at once returns that I must not dream of calling her anything but Fanny. She has heard of me for years and years, and we are already old friends. This naturally calls for thanks and acknowledgments on my part, and I then explain that publishers’ representative is in Boston, and calling for me in an hour’s time, which I’m afraid means that I cannot take advantage of kind offer.
Miss M. — Fanny — undefeated, and says it is Important that I should see Boston, no one who has not done so can be said to know anything whatever about America, and The Girl is waiting for me downstairs. Suggest — mostly in order to gain time — that The Girl should be invited to come up, and this is done by telephone.
She turns out to be very youthful and good-looking blonde, introduced to me as “Leslie” — (first names evidently the fashion in Boston) — and says she is prepared to take me anywhere in the world, more or less, at any moment.
Explain all over again about Pete and the booksellers. Fanny remains adamant, but Leslie says reasonably: What about tomorrow instead, and I advance cherished scheme for visiting Alcott House. This, it appears, is fraught with difficulties, as Alcott House is impenetrably shut at this time of year. Feel that if Pete comes to hear of this, my last hope is gone. Leslie looks rather sorry for me, and says perhaps something could be arranged, but anyway I had better come out now and see Boston. Fanny is also urgent on this point, and I foresee deadlock, when telephone rings and Pete is announced, and is told to come upstairs.
Brilliant idea then strikes me; I introduce everybody, and tell Pete that there has been rather a clash of arrangements, but that doubtless he and Miss Mason can easily settle it between themselves. Will they, in the meanwhile, excuse me, as I positively must see about my unpacking? Retreat firmly into the bedroom to do so, but spend some of the time with ear glued to the wall, trying to ascertain whether Pete and Miss M. — both evidently very strong personalities — are going to fly at one another’s throats or not. Voices are certainly definitely raised, usually both at once, but nothing more formidable happens, and I hope that physical violence may be averted.
Decide that on the whole I am inclined to back Pete, as possessing rock-like quality of immovability once his mind is made up — doubtless very useful asset in dealing with authors, publishers and so on.
Subsequent events prove that I am right, and Pete walks me to book-shop, with laconic announcement to Leslie and Miss M. — Fanny — that I shall beat their disposal by 12.30.
November 16th. — Most extraordinary revolution in everybody’s outlook — excepting my own — by communication from Mr. Alexander Woollcott. He has, it appears, read in a paper (Boston Transcript?) that my whole object in coming to America was to visit the Alcott House, and of this he approves to such an extent that he is prepared to Mention It in a Radio Talk, if I will immediately inform him of my reactions to the expedition.
Entire volte-face now takes place in attitude of Pete, Fanny and everybody else. If Alexander Woollcott thinks I ought to visit Alcott House, it apparently becomes essential that I should do so and Heaven and earth must, if necessary, be moved in order to enable me to. Am much impressed by the remarkable difference between enterprise that I merely want to undertake for my own satisfaction, and the same thing when it is advocated by Mr. A. W.
Result of it all is that the members of the Alcott-Pratt family are approached, they respond with the greatest kindness, and offer to open the house especially for my benefit. Fanny says that Leslie will drive me out to Concord on Sunday afternoon, and she will herself accompany us, not in order to view Alcott House — she does not want to see it, which rather shocks me — but to visit a relation of her own living there. Pete does not associate himself personally with the expedition, as he will by that time have gone to New York, Charleston, Oshkosh or some other distant spot — but it evidently meets with his warmest approval, and his last word to me is an injunction to take paper and pencil with me and send account of my impressions red-hot to Mr.
Alexander Woollcott.
November 18th. — Go to see football game, Harvard v. Army. Am given to understand — and can readily believe — that this is a privilege for which Presidents, Crowned Heads and Archbishops would one and all give ten years of life at the very least. It has only been obtained for me by the very greatest exertions on the part of everybody.
Fanny says that I shall be frozen — (can well believe it) but that it will be worth it, and Leslie thinks I may find it rather difficult to follow — but it will be worth it — and they both agree that there is always a risk of pneumonia in this kind of weather. Wonder if they are going to add that it will still be worth it, because if so, shall disagree with them forcibly — but they heap coals of fire on my head for this unworthy thought by offering to lend me rugs, furs, mufflers and overshoes. Escort has been provided for me in the person of an admirer of Fanny’s — name unknown to me from first to last — and we set out together at one o’clock. Harvard stadium is enormous — no roof, which I think a mistake — and we sit in open air, and might be comfortable if temperature would only rise above zero. Fanny’s admirer is extremely kind to me, and can only hope he isn’t thinking all the time how much pleasanter it would be if he were only escorting Fanny instead.