Can quite see what fun this must be for the speaker, and tell Miss H. that I do not think I can possibly go to the Colony Club at all but she takes no notice.
November 28th. New York. — Return to New York, in company with Miss Herdman, and arrive at Essex House once more. Feel that this is the first step towards home, and am quite touched and delighted when clerk at bureau greets me as an old habituée. Feel, however, that he is disappointed in me when I am obliged to admit, in reply to enquiry, that I did not get to Hollywood — and was not, in fact, invited to go there. Try to make up for this by saying that I visited World Fair at Chicago extensively — but can see that this is not at all the same thing.
Letters await me, and include one from Mademoiselle, written as usual in purple ink on thin paper, but crossed on top of front page in green — association here with Lowell Thomas — who says that she is all impatience to see me once more, it seems an affair of centuries since we met in “ce brouhaha de New-York”, and she kisses my hand with the respectful affection.
(The French given to hyperbolical statements. No such performance has ever been given by Mademoiselle, or been permitted by myself to take place. Am inclined to wonder whether dear Vicky’s occasional lapses from veracity may not be attributed to early influence of devoted, but not flawless, Mademoiselle?)
Just as I come to this conclusion, discover that Mademoiselle has most touchingly sent me six American Beauty roses, and immediately reverse decision as to her effect on Vicky’s morals. This possibly illogical, but definitely understandable from feminine point of view.
Ring up Mademoiselle — who screeches a good deal and is difficult to hear, except for Mon Dieu! which occurs often thank her for letter and roses, and ask if she can come and see a film with me to-morrow afternoon. Anything she likes, but not Henry VIII. Mais non, mais non, Mademoiselle shrieks, and adds something that sounds like “ce maudit roi”, which I am afraid refers to the Reformation, but do not enter on controversial discussion and merely suggest Little Women instead.
Ah, cries Mademoiselle, voilà une bonne idée! Cette chère vie de famille — ce gentil roman de la jeunesse — cette drôle de Jo — coeur d’or — tête de linotte — and much else that I do not attempt to disentangle.
Agree to everything, suggest lunch first but this, Mademoiselle replies, duty will not permit — appoint meeting-place and ring off.
Immediate and urgent preoccupation, as usual, is my hair, and retire at once to hotel Beauty-parlour, where I am received with gratifying assurances that I have been missed, and competently dealt with.
Just as I get upstairs again telephone bell rings once more, and publishers demand — I think unreasonably — immediate decision as to which boat I mean to sail in, and when. Keep my head as far as possible, turn up various papers on which I feel sure I have noted steamship sailings — (but which all turn out to be memos about buying presents for the maids at home, pictures of America for the Women’s Institute, and evening stockings for myself) — and finally plump for the Berengaria.
Publishers, with common sense rather than tenderness, at once reply that they suppose I had better go tourist class, as purposes of publicity have now been achieved, and it will be much cheaper.
Assent to this, ring off, and excitedly compose cable to Robert.
November 29th. — Gratifying recrudescence of more or less all the people met on first arrival in New York, who ring up and ask me to lunch or dine before I sail.
Ella Wheelwright sends round note by hand, lavishly invites me to lunch once, and dine twice, and further adds that she is coming to see me off when I sail. Am touched and impressed, and accept lunch, and one dinner, and break it to her that she will have to see me off — if at all — tourist section. Morning filled by visit to publishers’ office, where I am kindly received, and told that I have Laid Some Very Useful Foundations, which makes me feel like a Distinguished Personage at the opening of a new Town Hall.
Lecture-agent, whom I also visit, is likewise kind, but perhaps less enthusiastic, and hints that it might be an advantage if I had more than two lectures in my repertoire. Am bound to admit that this seems reasonable. He further outlines, in a light-hearted way, scheme by which I am to undertake lengthy lecture-tour next winter, extending — as far as I can make out — from New York to the furthermost point in the Rockies, and including a good deal of travelling by air.
Return modified assent to all of it, graciously accept cheque due to me, and depart.
Lunch all by myself in a Childs’, and find it restful, after immense quantities of conversation indulged in of late. Service almost incredibly prompt and efficient, and find myself wondering how Americans can endure more leisurely methods so invariably prevalent in almost every country in Europe.
Soon afterwards meet Mademoiselle, and am touched — but embarrassed by her excessive demonstrations of welcome. Have brought her small present from Chicago World Fair, but decide not to bestow it until moment immediately preceding separation, as cannot feel at all sure what form her gratitude might take.
We enter picture-house, where I have already reserved seats — Mademoiselle exclaims a good deal over this, and says that everything in America is un prix fou — and Mademoiselle takes off her hat, which is large, and balances it on her knee. Ask her if this is all right, or if she hadn’t better put it under the seat, and she first nods her head and then shakes it, but leaves hat where it is.
Comic film precedes Little Women and is concerned with the misadventure of a house-painter. Am irresistibly reminded of comic song of my youth: “When Father papered the parlour, You couldn’t see Pa for paste”. Am unfortunately inspired to ask Mademoiselle if she remembers it too. Comment? says Mademoiselle a good many times.
Explain that it doesn’t matter, I will tell her about it later, it is of no importance. Mademoiselle, however, declines to be put off and I make insane excursion into French: Quand mon père — ? and am then defeated. Mais oui, says Mademoiselle, quand votre père — ? Cannot think how to say “papered the parlour” in French, and make various efforts which are not a success.
We compromise at last on Mademoiselle’s suggestion that mon père was perhaps avec le journal dans le parloir? which I know is incorrect, but have not the energy to improve upon.
Comic film, by this time, is fortunately over, and we prepare for Little Women.
Well-remembered house at Concord is thrown on the screen, snow falling on the ground, and I dissolve, without the slightest hesitation, into floods of tears. Film continues unutterably moving throughout, and is beautifully acted and produced. Mademoiselle weeps beside me — can hear most people round us doing the same — and we spend entirely blissful afternoon.
Performances of Beth, Mrs. March and Professor Bhaer seem to me artistically flawless, and Mademoiselle, between sobs, agrees with me, but immediately adds that Amy and Jo were equally good, if not better.
Repair emotional disorder as best we can, and go and drink strong coffee in near-by drug-store, when Mademoiselle’s hat is discovered to be in sad state of disrepair, and she says Yes, it fell off her knee unperceived, and she thinks several people must have walked upon it. I suggest, diffidently, that we should go together and get a new one, but she says No, no, all can be put right by herself in an hour’s work, and she has a small piece of black velvet and two or three artificial bleuets from her hat of the summer before last with which to construct what will practically amount to a new hat.
The French, undoubtedly, superior to almost every other nationality in the world in thrift, ingenuity and ability with a needle.
Talk about the children — Vicky, says Mademoiselle emotionally, remains superior to any other child she has ever met, or can ever hope to meet, for intelligence, heart and beauty. (Can remember many occasions when Mademoiselle’s estimate of Vicky was far indeed from being equally complimentary.) Mademoiselle also tells me about her present pupils, with moderate enthusiasm, and speaks well of her employers — principally on the gr
ounds that they never interfere with her, pay her an enormous salary, and are taking her back to Paris next year.
She enquires about my lecture-tour, listens sympathetically to all that I have to say, and we finally part affectionately, with an assurance from Mademoiselle that she will come and see me off on s.s. Berengaria, Même, she adds, si ça doit me colter la vie.
Feel confident that no such sacrifice will, however, be required, but slight misgiving crosses my mind, as I walk back towards Central Park, as to the reactions of Mademoiselle and Ella Wheelwright to one another, should they both carry out proposed amiable design of seeing me off.
Cheque received from lecture-bureau, and recollection of dinner engagement at Ella’s apartment, encourage me to look in at shop-windows and consider the question of new evening dress, of which I am badly in need, owing to deplorable effects of repeated and unskilful packings and unpackings. Crawl along Fifth Avenue, where shops all look expensive and intimidating, but definitely alluring.
Venture into one of them, and am considerably dashed by the assistant, who can produce nothing but bottle-green or plum colour — which are, she informs me, the only shades that will be worn at all this year. As I look perfectly frightful in either, can see nothing for it but to walk out again.
Am then suddenly accosted in the street by young and pretty woman with very slim legs and large fur-collar to her coat. She says How delightful it is to meet again, and I at once agree, and try in vain to remember whether I knew her in Cleveland, Chicago, Buffalo or Boston. No success, but am moved to ask her advice as to purchase of frocks.
Oh, she replies amiably, I must come at once to her place — she is, as it happens, on her way there now.
We proceed to her place, which turns out a great success. No prevalence of either bottle-green or plum-colour is noticeable, and I try on and purchase black evening frock with frills and silver girdle. Unknown friend is charming, buys an evening wrap and two scarves on her own account, and declares her intention of coming to see me off on the Berengaria.
We then part cordially, and I go back to Essex House, still — and probably for ever — unaware of her identity. Find five telephone messages waiting for me, and am rather discouraged — probably owing to fatigue — but ring up all of them conscientiously, and find that senders are mostly out. Rush of American life undoubtedly exemplified here. Am full of admiration for so much energy and vitality, but cannot possibly attempt to emulate it, and in fact go quietly to sleep for an hour before dressing for Ella’s dinner-party.
This takes place in superb apartment on Park Avenue. Ella is in bottle-green — (Fifth Avenue saleswoman evidently quite right) — neck very high in front, but back and shoulders uncovered. She says that she is dying to hear about my trip. She knows that I just loved Boston, and thought myself back in England all the time I was there. She also knows that I didn’t much care about Chicago, and found it very Middle-West. Just as I am preparing to contradict her, she begins to tell us all about a trip of her own to Arizona, and I get no opportunity of rectifying her entirely mistaken convictions about me and America.
Sit next man who is good-looking — though bald — and he tells me very nicely that he hears I am a great friend of Miss Blatt’s. As I know only too well that he must have received this information from Miss Blatt and none other, do not like to say that he has been misinformed. We accordingly talk about Miss Blatt with earnestness and cordiality for some little while. (Sheer waste of time, no less.)
Leave early, as packing looms ahead of me and have still immense arrears of sleep to make up. Good-looking man — name is Julius van Adams — offers to drive me back, he has his own car waiting at the door. He does so, and we become absorbed in conversation — Miss Blatt now definitely forgotten — and drive five times round Central Park.
Part cordially outside Essex House in the small hours of the morning.
November 30th. — Final stages of American visit fly past with inconceivable rapidity. Consignment of books for the voyage is sent me, very, very kindly, by publishers, and proves perfectly impossible to pack, and I decide to carry them. Everyone whom I consult says Yes, they’ll be all right in a strap. Make many resolutions about purchasing a strap.
Packing, even apart from books, presents many difficulties, and I spend much time on all-fours in hotel bedroom, amongst my belongings. Results not very satisfactory.
In the midst of it all am startled — but gratified — by sudden telephone enquiry from publishers: Have I seen anything of the Night Life of New York? Alternative replies to this question flash rapidly through my mind If the Night Life of New York consists in returning at late hours by taxi, through crowded streets, from prolonged dinner-parties, then Yes. If something more specific, then No. Have not yet decided which line to adopt when all is taken out of my hands. Publishers’ representative, speaking through the telephone, says with great decision that I cannot possibly be said to have seen New York unless I have visited a night-club and been to Harlem. He has, in fact, arranged that I should do both. When, I ask weakly. He says, To-night, and adds — belatedly and without much sense — If that suits me. As I know, and he knows, that my engagements are entirely in the hands of himself and his firm, I accept this as a mere gesture of courtesy, and simply enquire what kind of clothes I am to wear.
(Note: Shampoo-and-set before to-night, and make every effort to get in a facial as well — if time permits, which it almost certainly won’t.)
Later: I become part of the Night Life of New York, and am left more or less stunned by the experience, which begins at seven o’clock when Miss Ramona Herdman comes to fetch me. She is accompanied by second charming young woman — Helen Something — and three men, all tall. (Should like to congratulate her on this achievement but do not, of course, do so.)
Doubt crosses my mind as to whether I shall ever find anything to talk about to five complete strangers, but decide that I shall only impair my morale if I begin to think about that now, and fortunately they suggest cocktails; and these have their customary effect. (Make mental note to the effect that the influence of cocktails on modern life cannot be exaggerated.) Am unable to remember the names of any of the men but quite feel that I know them well, and am gratified when one of them — possessor of phenomenal eyelashes — tells me that we have met before. Name turns out to be Eugene, and I gradually identify his two friends as Charlie and Taylor, but uncertainty prevails throughout as to which is Charlie and which is Taylor.
Consultation takes place — in which I take no active part — as to where we are to dine, Miss Herdman evidently feeling responsible as to impressions that I may derive of New York’s Night Life. Decision finally reached that we shall patronise a Speak-easy de luxe. Am much impressed by this extraordinary contradiction in terms.
Speak-easy is only two blocks away, we walk there, and I am escorted by Taylor — who may be Charlie but I think not — and he astounds me by enquiring if from my Hotel I can hear the lions roaring in Central Park? No, I can’t. I can hear cars going by, and horns blowing, and even whistles — but no lions. Taylor evidently disappointed but suggests, as an alternative, that perhaps I have at least, in the very early mornings, heard the ducks quacking in Central Park? Am obliged to repudiate the ducks also, and can see that Taylor thinks the worse of me. He asserts, rather severely, that he himself has frequently heard both lions and ducks — I make mental resolution to avoid walking through Central Park until I know more about the whereabouts and habits of the lions — and we temporarily cease to converse.
Speak-easy de luxe turns out to be everything that its name implies — all scarlet upholstery, chromium-plating and terrible noise — and we are privileged to meet, and talk with, the proprietor. He says he comes from Tipperary — (I have to stifle immediately impulse to say that It’s a long, long way to Tipperary) — and we talk about Ireland, London night-clubs and the Empire State Building. Charlie is suddenly inspired to say — without foundation — that I want to know what will happen to the s
peak-easy when Prohibition is repealed? To this the proprietor replies — probably with perfect truth — that he is, he supposes, asked that question something like one million times every evening — and shortly afterwards he leaves us.
Dinner is excellent, we dance at intervals, and Eugene talks to me about books and says he is a publisher.
We then depart in a taxi for night-club, and I admire — not for the first time — the amount of accommodation available in American taxis. We all talk, and discuss English food, of which Ramona and her friend Helen speak more kindly than it deserves — probably out of consideration for my feelings. Eugene and Charlie preserve silence — no doubt for the same reason — but Taylor, evidently a strong-minded person, says that he has suffered a good deal from English cabbage. Savouries, on the other hand, are excellent. They are eaten, he surprisingly adds, with a special little knife and fork, usually of gold. Can only suppose that Taylor, when in England, moves exclusively in ducal circles, and hastily resolve never in any circumstances to ask him to my own house where savouries, if any, are eaten with perfectly ordinary electro-plate.
Night-club is reached — name over the door in electric light is simply but inappropriately — Paradise. It is, or seems to me, about the size of the Albert Hall, and is completely packed with people all screaming at the tops of their voices, orchestra playing jazz, and extremely pretty girls with practically no clothes on at all, prancing on a large stage.
We sit down at a table, and Charlie immediately tells me that the conductor of the band is Paul Whiteman, and that he lost 75 lbs. last year and his wife wrote a book. I scream back Really? and decide that conversationally I can do no more, as surrounding noise is too overwhelming.
Various young women come on and perform unnatural contortions with their bodies, and I indulge in reflections on the march of civilisation, but am roused from this by Taylor, who roars into my ear that the conductor of the orchestra is Whiteman and he has recently lost 75 lbs. in weight. Content myself this time with nodding in reply.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 421