(Reminiscence here of once-popular song: I am dancing with tears in my eyes ‘Cos the girl in my arms isn’t you. Have always felt this attitude rather hard on girl actually being danced with at the moment of singing.)
Ask questions that I hope sound fairly intelligent, and listen attentively to the answers. Escort in return then paralyses me by putting to me various technical points in regard to what he calls the English Game. Try frantically to recall everything that I can ever remember having heard from Robin, but am only able to recollect that he once said Soccer was absolutely lousy and that I rebuked him for it. Translate this painful reminiscence into civilised version to the effect that Rugger is more popular than Soccer with Our Schoolboys.
Presently a mule appears and is ridden round the field by a member of one team or the other — am not sure which — and I observe, idiotically, that It’s like a Rodeo — and immediately perceive that it isn’t in the least, and wish I hadn’t spoken. Fortunately a number of young gentlemen in white suddenly emerge on to the ground, turn beautiful back somersaults in perfect unison, and cheer madly through a megaphone. Am deeply impressed, and assure Fanny’s admirer that we have, nothing in the least like that at Wembley, Twickenham, nor, so far as I know, anywhere else. He agrees, very solemnly, that the cheers are a Great Feature of the Game.
Soon afterwards we really get started, and I watch my first game of American football. Players all extensively padded and vast numbers of substitute-players wait about in order to rush in and replace them when necessary. Altogether phenomenal number of these exchanges takes place, but as no stretchers visible, conclude that most of the injuries received fall short of being mortal.
Fanny’s admirer gives me explanations about what is taking place from time to time, but is apt to break off in the middle of a phrase when excitement overcomes him. Other interruptions are occasioned by organised yellings and roarings, conducted from the field, in which the spectators join.
At about four o’clock it is said to be obvious that Harvard hasn’t got a chance, and soon afterwards the Army is declared to have won.
Escort and I look at each other and say Well, and Wasn’t it marvellous? and then stand up, and I discover that I am quite unable to feel my feet at all, and that all circulation in the rest of my body has apparently stopped altogether — probably frozen.
We totter as best we can through the crowd — escort evidently just as cold as I am, judging by the colour of his face and hands — and over bridge, past buildings that I am told are all part of the College, and to flat with attractive view across the river. As I have not been warned by anybody that this is in store, I remain unaware throughout why I am being entertained there, or by whom. Hot tea, for once, is extraordinarily welcome, and so is superb log-fire; and I talk to unknown, but agreeable, American about President Roosevelt, the state of the dollar — we both take a gloomy view of this — and extreme beauty of American foliage in the woods of Maine — where I have never set foot, but about which I have heard a good deal.
November 19th. — Expedition to Concord — now smiled upon by all, owing to intervention of dear Alexander W. — takes place, and definitely ranks in my own estimation higher than anything else I have done in America.
All is snow, silence and loveliness, with frame-houses standing amongst trees, and no signs of either picture-houses, gasoline-stations, or hot-dog stalls. Can think of nothing but Little Women, and visualise scene after scene from well-remembered and beloved book. Fanny, sympathetic, but insensible to appeal of Little Women, is taken on to see her relations, and I remain with Mrs. Pratt, surviving relative of Miss Alcott, and another elderly lady, both kind and charming and prepared to show me everything there is to see.
Could willingly remain there for hours and hours.
Time, however, rushes by with its usual speed when I am absorbed and happy, and I am obliged to make my farewells, collect postcards and pictures with which I have most kindly been presented, and book given me for Vicky which I shall, I know, be seriously tempted to keep for myself.
Can think of nothing but the March family for the remainder of the day, and am much annoyed at being reminded by Fanny and Leslie that whatever happens, I must send my impressions to Mr. Alexander Woollcott without delay.
November 20th. — Just as day of my departure from Boston arrives, weather relents and suddenly becomes quite mild. I go and call on Caroline Concannon’s friend, and am much taken with her. She has no party, which is a great relief, and we talk about England and C. C. Very amusing and good company, says the friend, and I agree, and add that Caroline is looking after my flat during my absence. Slight misgiving crosses my mind as to the literal accuracy of this statement, but this perhaps ungenerous, and make amends by saying that she is Very Good with Children — which is perfectly true.
Walk back across Common, and see very pretty brick houses, Queen Anne style. Old mauve glass in many window-panes, but notice cynically that these always appear in ground-floor windows, where they can be most easily admired by the passers-by.
Decide that this is certainly a good moment for taking Rose’s advice to buy myself a Foundation Garment in America, as they understand these things, says Rose, much better than we do in England. I accordingly enter a shop and find elderly saleswoman, who disconcerts me by saying in a sinister way that I certainly can’t wear the ordinary suspender-belt, that’s very evident. She supplies me with one that is, I suppose, removed from the ordinary, and her last word is an injunction to me not to forget that whatever I do, I mustn’t wear an ordinary belt. It’ll be the complete ruin of my figure if I do. Depart, in some dejection.
Shock awaits me on return to Hotel when I discover that Miss Katherine Ellen Blatt has just arrived, and has sent up a note to my room to say so. It will, she writes, be so delightful to meet again, she revelled in our last delightful talk and is longing for another. Entertain myself for some little while in composing imaginary replies to this, but candour, as usual, is obliged to give, way to civility, and I write very brief reply suggesting that K. E. B. and I should meet in the hall for a moment before my train leaves when she, Fanny Mason — whom she doubtless knows already — and Leslie will all be privileged to see one another.
Customary preoccupation with my appearance follows, and I go in search of hotel Beauty-parlour. Intelligent young operator deals with me, and says that one of her fellow-workers is also British and would be very happy to meet me. My English accent, she adds thoughtfully, is a prettier one than hers. This definitely no overstatement, as fellow-worker turns out to be from Huddersfield and talks with strong North-country accent.
On return to ground floor — hair at least clean and wavy — Miss Blatt materialises. She greets me as an old and dear friend and tells me that one or two perfectly lovely women of her acquaintance are just crazy to meet me, and are coming to a Tea in the hotel this very afternoon in order that they may have the pleasure of doing so.
I thank her, express gratification and regret, and explain firmly that I am going on to Washington this afternoon. Oh, returns Miss Blatt very blithely indeed, I don’t have to give that a thought. She has taken it up with my publishers by telephone, and they quite agree with her that the contacts she has arranged for me are very, very important, and I can easily make the ten-thirty train instead of the six, and reach Washington in plenty of time.
All presence of mind deserts me, and I say Yes, and Very Well, to everything, and soon afterwards find myself suggesting that Miss Blatt should lunch at my table.
(Query: Why? Answer: comes there none.)
Lunch proves definitely informative: Miss Blatt tells me about dear Beverley Nichols, who has just sent her a copy of his new book, and dear Anne Parrish, who hasn’t yet sent a copy of hers, but is certainly going to do so. I say Yes, and How Splendid, and wonder what Miss Blatt can be like when she is all by herself, with no celebrities within miles, and no telephone. Strange idea crosses my mind that in such circumstances she would probably hardly exist as a personality at
all, and might actually dissolve into nothingness. Something almost metaphysical in this train of thought, and am rather impressed by it myself, but cannot, naturally, ask Miss Blatt to share in my admiration.
Talk to her instead about murder stories, which I like, and instance Mrs. Belloc Lowndes as a favourite of mine. Miss Blatt says No, murder stories make no appeal to her whatever, but Mrs. Belloc Lowndes — Marie — is one of her very dearest friends. So is another Marie — Queen of Roumania. So, oddly enough, is Marie Tempest.
On this note we part, before K. E. B. has time to think of anybody else whose name happens to be Marie.
Am obliged to extract red frock from suit-case, in which I have already carefully folded it — but perhaps not as carefully as I hoped, as it comes out distinctly creased — and put it on in honour of Miss Blatt’s tea. This duly takes place, and is handsomely attended, Miss B. no doubt as well known in Boston as in New York, London, Paris and Hong Kong. Am gratified at seeing Caroline C.’s charming friend, and should like to talk to her, but am given no opportunity.
Very large lady in black pins me into a corner, tells me to sit down, and takes her seat beside me on small sofa. She then tells me all about a local literary society, of which she is herself the foundress and the president, called the Little Thinkers. (Can only hope that in original days when name of club was chosen, this may have been less ironical than it is now.) President — hope with all my heart that she hasn’t guessed my thoughts — adds that they chose to call themselves Little Thinkers because it indicates modesty. They are none of them, she explains, really Deep and Profound — not like Darwin or Huxley — (I make effort — not good — to look surprised and incredulous at this). But they all like to think, and to ask themselves questions. They read, if she may say so, very deeply. And they meet and Discuss Things every Tuesday afternoon. Had I been staying here rather longer, says President, the Little Thinkers would have been only too pleased to invite me as Guest of Honour to one of their meetings, and perhaps I would have given them a short talk on the Real Meaning of Life.
Should like to reply flippantly: Perhaps and Perhaps Not — but President of the Little Thinkers evidently no good subject for wit of this description, so express instead respectful regret that time will not allow me to avail myself of the suggested privilege.
Moment, it now seems to me, has definitely arrived for both the President of the L. T.s and myself to move gracefully away from one another and each talk to somebody else. This turns out to be not easy of accomplishment, as President is between me and the rest of the world, and seems not to know how to get away, though am morally convinced that she would give quite a lot to be able to do so. We continue to look at one another and to say the same things over and over again in slightly different words, and I see Katherine Ellen Blatt eyeing me rather severely from the far end of the room, and evidently feeling — with justice — that I am not doing my fair share towards making a success of the party.
At last become desperate, say Well, in a frantic way, and rise to my feet. President of the L. T.s immediately leaps to hers — looking unspeakably relieved — and we exchange apologetic smiles and turn our backs on one another.
(Mem.: Surely very interesting statistics might be collected with regard to the number of such social problems and varying degrees of difficulty with which these can, or cannot, be solved? Would willingly contribute small exposé of my own, to any such symposium.Query: Approach Lord Beaverbrook on the point, or not? Sunday papers frequently very dull, and topics raised by correspondents often tedious to the last degree.)
Catch the eye of Caroline C.’s friend, Mona, and am delighted and prepare to go and talk to her, but Miss Blatt immediately stops me and says that I must meet a very old friend of hers, Mr. Joseph Ross, who has lived for fifty-three years in America.
Take this to imply that he once lived somewhere else, and after a few words have no difficulty in guessing that this was Scotland. Refer to it rather timidly — who knows what reasons Mr. J. R. may have had for leaving his native land? — but he tells me rather disconcertingly that he goes home once in every two years, and merely lives in America because the climate suits him. I say Yes, it’s very dry, and we both look out of the window, and Mr. Joseph Ross — rather to my relief — is taken away from me by a strange lady, who smiles at me winningly and says that I mustn’t mind, as millions of people are just waiting for a chance to talk to me, and it isn’t fair of Uncle Joe to monopolise me. Am struck by this flattering, if inaccurate, way of putting it, and look nervously round for the millions, but can see no sign of any of them.
Make another effort to reach Caroline’s friend, and this time am successful. She smiles, and looks very pretty, and says that Caroline never writes to her but she sometimes gets news through Jane and Maurice. Do I know Jane and Maurice and the twins?
Am obliged to disclaim any knowledge of any of them, but add madly that I do so wish I did. Friend receives this better than it deserves, and we are just going happily into the question of mutual acquaintances when the President of the Little Thinkers recrudesces, and says that She wants to have me meet one of their very brightest members, Mrs. Helen Dowling Dean. Mrs. Helen Dowling Dean is a Southerner by birth and has a perfectly wonderful Southern accent.
Caroline’s friend melts away and Mrs. Helen Dowling Dean and I confront one another, and she tells me that Boston is a very English town, and that she herself comes from the South and that people tell her she has never lost her Southern accent. She is — as usual — extremely agreeable to look at, and I reflect dejectedly that all the women in America are either quite young and lovely, or else quite old and picturesque. Ordinary female middle-age, so prevalent in European countries, apparently nonexistent over here. (Katherine Ellen Blatt an exception to this rule, but probably much older than she looks. Or perhaps much younger? Impossible to say.)
Party draws to a close — discover that, as usual, I have a sore throat from trying to scream as loud as everybody else is screaming — and Fanny Mason kindly extracts me from saying good-bye and takes me up to my room — which I shall have to leave only too soon for the station.
Take the opportunity of writing letters to Robert and to each of the children. Am obliged to print in large letters for Vicky, and this takes time, as does endeavour to be reasonably legible for Robin’s benefit. Robert’s letter comes last, and is definitely a scrawl. (Wish I had judged Mary Kellway rather less severely.)
Am seen off at station by Fanny, Leslie, Katherine Ellen Blatt, and three unidentified men — probably admirers of Fanny and Leslie. One of them, quite gratuitously and much to my surprise and gratification, presents me with large and handsome book, called American Procession, for the journey.
Train departs — extraordinary and unpleasant jerk that I have noticed before in American trains, and which I think reflects ill on their engine-drivers — and I look at American Procession, which is full of photographs and extremely interesting. Am, however, depressed to realise that I can quite well remember most of the incidents depicted, and that fashions which now appear wholly preposterous were worn by myself in youth and even early middle life.
Retire to bed, under the usual difficulties, behind curtain — always so reminiscent of film stories — though nothing could be less like heroines there depicted than I am myself.
November 21st. — Immense relief to find Washington very much warmer than Boston, even at crack of dawn. Nobody meets me, at which I am slightly relieved owing to rather disastrous effect of curtailed sleep on complexion and appearance generally, and I proceed by taxi to Hotel indicated by Pete. General impression as I go that Washington is very clean and pretty, with numbers of dazzlingly white buildings. Am rather disposed to feel certain that every house I see in turn must be the White House. Hotel is colossal building of about thirty-five stories, with three wings, and complete platoon of negro porters in pale-blue uniforms standing at the entrance. Find myself at once thinking of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and look compassionately a
t porters, but am bound to say they all seem perfectly cheerful and prosperous.
Rather disconcerting reception at the desk in office follows. The clerk is extremely sorry, but the hotel is absolutely full up. Not a bedroom anywhere. We look at one another rather blankly, and I feebly mention name of extremely distinguished publishing firm by which I have been directed to came here and not elsewhere. That don’t make a mite of difference, says the clerk, shaking his head. He’s just as sorry as he can be, but not a bed is available. Very well. I resign myself. But as I am a complete stranger, perhaps he will very kindly tell me where I can go next? Oh yes, says the clerk, looking infinitely relieved, he can easily do that. The Woodman-Park Hotel will be tickled to death to have me go there. He will phone up right away and make the reservation for me, if I like. Accept this gratefully, and in a moment all is settled, and blue-uniformed darkie has put me and my luggage into another taxi, after I have gratefully thanked hotel-clerk and he has assured me that I am very welcome. (This perhaps slightly ironical in the circumstances — but evidently not intended to be so.)
Woodman-Park Hotel also turns out to be enormous, and reflection assails me that if I am also told here that Every room is full up, I shall definitely be justified in coming to the conclusion that there is something about my appearance which suggests undesirability. Am, however, spared this humiliation. Woodman-Park — negroes this time in crushed-strawberry colour — receives me with affability, and accommodates me with room on the fifteenth floor.
I unpack — dresses creased as usual, and I reflect for the thousandth time that I shall never make a good packer, and that continual practice is, if anything, making me worse — and go down to breakfast. Excellent coffee starts, not for the first time, rather melancholy train of thought concerning Cook, and her utter inability to produce even moderately drinkable coffee. Shall make a point of telling her how much I have enjoyed all coffee in America.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 419