Noise continues deafening, and am moved by the sight of three exhausted-looking women in black velvet, huddled round a microphone on platform and presumably singing into it — but no sound audible above surrounding din. They are soon afterwards eclipsed by further instalment of entirely undressed houris, each waving wholly inadequate feather-fan.
Just as I am deciding that no one over the age of twenty-five should be expected to derive satisfaction from watching this display, Taylor again becomes my informant. The proprietors of this place, he bellows, are giving the selfsame show, absolutely free, to four hundred little newsboys on Thanksgiving Day. Nothing, I reply sardonically, could possibly be healthier or more beneficial to the young — but this sarcasm entirely wasted as it is inaudible, and shortly afterwards we leave. Air of Broadway feels like purity itself, after the atmosphere prevalent inside Paradise, which might far more suitably be labelled exactly the opposite.
Now, I enquire, are we going to Harlem? Everyone says Oh no, it’s no use going to Harlem before one o’clock in the morning at the very earliest. We are going to another night-club on Broadway. This one is called Montmartre, and is comparatively small and quiet.
This actually proves to be the case, and am almost prepared to wager that not more than three hundred people are sitting round the dance-floor screaming at one another. Orchestra is very good indeed — coloured female pianist superlatively so — and two young gentlemen, acclaimed as “The Twins” and looking about fifteen years of age, are dancing admirably. We watch this for some time, and reward it with well-deserved applause. Conversation is comparatively audible, and on the whole I can hear quite a number of the things we are supposed to be talking about. These comprise Mae West, the World Fair in Chicago, film called Three Little Pigs, and the difference in programmes between the American Radio and the British Broadcasting Corporation.
Charlie tells me that he has not read my book — which doesn’t surprise me — and adds that he will certainly do so at once — which we both know to be a polite gesture and not to be taken seriously.
Conviction gradually invades me that I am growing sleepy and that in another minute I shan’t be able to help yawning. Pinch myself under the table and look round at Helen and Ramona, but both seem to be perfectly fresh and alert. Involuntary and most unwelcome reflection crosses my mind that age will tell. Yawn becomes very imminent indeed and I set my teeth, pinch harder than ever, and open my eyes as widely as possible. Should be sorry indeed to see what I look like, at this juncture, but am fortunately spared the sight. Taylor is now talking to me — I think about a near relation of his own married to a near relation of an English Duke — but all reaches me through a haze, and I dimly hear myself saying automatically at short intervals that I quite agree with him, and he is perfectly right.
Situation saved by orchestra, which breaks into the “Blue Danube”, and Eugene, who invites me to dance. This I gladly do and am restored once more to wakefulness. This is still further intensified by cup of black coffee which I drink immediately after sitting down again, and yawn is temporarily defeated.
Eugene talks about publishing, and I listen with interest, except for tendency to look at his enormous eyelashes and wonder if he has any sisters, and if theirs are equally good.
Presently Ramona announces that it is two o’clock, and what about Harlem? We all agree that Harlem is the next step, and once more emerge into the night.
By the time we are all in a taxi, general feeling has established itself that we are all old friends, and know one another very well indeed. I look out at the streets, marvellously lighted, and remember that I must get Christmas presents for the maids at home. Decide on two pairs of silk stockings for Florence, who is young, but Cook presents more difficult problem. Cannot believe that silk stockings would be really acceptable, and in any case feel doubtful of obtaining requisite size. What about hand-bag? Not very original, and could be equally well obtained in England. Book out of the question, as Cook has often remarked, in my hearing, that reading is a sad waste of time.
At this juncture Taylor suddenly remarks that he sees I am extremely observant, I take mental notes of my surroundings all the time, and he has little doubt that I am, at this very moment, contrasting the night life of America with the night life to which I am accustomed in London and Paris. I say Yes, yes, and try not to remember that the night life to which I am accustomed begins with letting out the cat at half-past ten and winding the cuckoo-clock, and ends with going straight to bed and to sleep until eight o’clock next morning.
Slight pause follows Taylor’s remark, and I try to look as observant and intelligent as I can, but am relieved when taxi stops, and we get out at the Cotton Club, Harlem.
Coloured girls, all extremely nude, are dancing remarkably well on stage, coloured orchestra is playing — we all say that Of course they understand Rhythm as nobody else in the world does — and the usual necessity prevails of screaming very loudly in order to be heard above all the other people who are screaming very loudly.
(Query: Is the effect of this perpetual shrieking repaid by the value of the remarks we exchange? Answer: Definitely, No.)
Coloured dancers, after final terrific jerkings, retire, and spectators rise up from their tables and dance to the tune of “Stormy Weather”, and we all say things about Rhythm all over again.
Sleep shortly afterwards threatens once more to overwhelm me, and I drink more black coffee. At half-past three Ramona suggests that perhaps we have now explored the night life of New York sufficiently, I agree that we have, and the party breaks up. I say that I have enjoyed my evening — which is perfectly true — and thank them all very much.
Take one look at myself in the glass on reaching my room again, and decide that gay life is far from becoming to me, at any rate at four o’clock in the morning.
Last thought before dropping to sleep is that any roaring that may be indulged in by the lions of Central Park under my window will probably pass unnoticed by me, after hearing the orgy of noise apparently inseparable from the night life of New York.
December 1st. — Attend final lunch-party, given by Ella Wheelwright, and at which she tells me that I shall meet Mr. Allen. Experience strong inclination to scream and say that I can’t, I’m the only person in America who hasn’t read his book — but Ella says No, no — she doesn’t mean Hervey Allen at all, she means Frederick Lewis Allen, who did American Procession. This, naturally, is a very different thing, and I meet Mr. Allen and his wife with perfect calm, and like them both very much. Also meet English Colonel Roddie, author of Peace Patrol, which I haven’t read, but undertake to buy for Robert’s Christmas present, as I think it sounds as though he might like it.
Female guests consist of two princesses — one young and the other elderly, both American, and both wearing enormous pearls. Am reminded of Lady B. and experience uncharitable wish that she could be here, as pearls far larger than hers, and reinforced with colossal diamonds and sapphires into the bargain. Wish also that convention and good manners alike did not forbid my frankly asking the nearest princess to let me have a good look at her black pearl ring, diamond bracelet and wrist-watch set in rubies and emeralds.
Remaining lady strikes happy medium between dazzling display of princesses, and my own total absence of anything except old-fashioned gold wedding-ring — not even platinum — and modest diamond ring inherited from Aunt Julia — and tells me that she is the wife of a stockbroker. I ought, she thinks, to see the New York Exchange, and it will be a pleasure to take me all over it. Thank her very much, and explain that I am sailing at four o’clock to-morrow. She says: We could go in the morning. Again thank her very much, but my packing is not finished, and am afraid it will be impossible. Then, she says indomitably, what about this afternoon? It could, she is sure, be managed. Thank her more than ever, and again decline, this time without giving any specific reason for doing so.
She is unresentful, and continues to talk to me very nicely after we have left the
dining-room. Ella and the two princesses ignore us both, and talk to one another about Paris, the Riviera and clothes.
Ella, however, just before I take my leave, undergoes a slight change of heart — presumably — and reminds me that she has promised to come and see me off, and will lunch with me at the Essex and take me to the docks. She unexpectedly adds that she is sending me round a book for the voyage — Anthony Adverse. Am horrified, but not in the least surprised, to hear myself thanking her effusively, and saying how very much I shall look forward to reading it.
Stockbroking lady offers me a lift in her car, and we depart together. She again makes earnest endeavour on behalf of the Stock Exchange, but I am unable to meet her in any way, though grateful for evidently kind intention.
Fulfil absolutely final engagement, which is at Colony Club, where I naturally remember recent information received, that the members do nothing but look at their wrist-watches. This, fortunately for me, turns out to be libellous, at least so far as present audience is concerned. All behave with the utmost decorum, and I deliver lecture, and conclude by reading short extract from my own published work.
Solitary contretemps of the afternoon occurs here, when I hear lady in front row enquire of her neighbour: What is she going to read? Neighbour replies in lugubrious accents that she doesn’t know, but it will be funny. Feel that after this no wit of mine, however brilliant, could be expected to succeed.
Day concludes with publisher calling for me in order to take me to a party held at Englewood, New Jersey. He drives his own car, with the result that we lose the way and arrive very late. Host says, Didn’t we get the little map that he sent out with the invitation? Yes, my publisher says, he got it all right, but unfortunately left it at home. Feel that this is exactly the kind of thing I might have done myself.
Pleasant evening follows, but am by now far too much excited by the thought of sailing for home to-morrow to give my mind to anything else.
December 2nd. — Send purely gratuitous cable to Robert at dawn saying that I am Just Off — which I shan’t be till four o’clock this afternoon — and then address myself once more to packing, with which I am still struggling when Ella Wheelwright is announced. She is, she says, too early, but she thought she might be able to help me.
This she does by sitting on bed and explaining to me that dark-red varnish doesn’t really suit her nails. Coral, yes, rose-pink, yes. But not dark-red. Then why, I naturally enquire — with my head more or less in a suit-case — does she put it on? Why? Ella repeats in astonishment. Because she has to, of course. It’s the only colour that anyone is wearing now, so naturally she has no alternative. But it’s too bad, because the colour really doesn’t suit her at all, and in fact she dislikes it.
I make sounds that I hope may pass as sympathetic — though cannot really feel that Ella has made out a very good case for herself as a victim of unkind Fate — and go on packing and — still more — unpacking.
Impossibility of fitting in present for Our Vicar’s Wife, besides dressing-slippers and travelling-clock of my own, overcomes me altogether, and I call on Ella for help. This she reluctantly gives, but tells me at the same time that her dress wasn’t meant for a strain of any kind, and may very likely split under the arms if she tries to lift anything.
This catastrophe is fortunately spared us, and boxes are at last closed and taken downstairs, hand-luggage remaining in mountainous-looking pile, surmounted by tower of books. Ella looks at these with distaste, and says that what I need is a Strap, and then immediately presents me with Anthony Adverse. Should feel much more grateful if she had only brought me a strap instead.
We go down to lunch in Persian Coffee Shop, and talk about Mrs. Tressider, to whom Ella sends rather vague messages, of which only one seems to me at all coherent — to the effect that she hopes The Boy is stronger than he was. I promise, to deliver it, and even go so far as to suggest that I should write and let Ella know what I think of The Boy next time I see him. She very sensibly replies that I really needn’t trouble to do that, and I dismiss entire scheme forthwith. Discover after lunch that rain is pouring down in torrents, and facetiously remark that I may as well get used to it again, as I shall probably find the same state of affairs on reaching England. Ella makes chilly reply to the effect that the British climate always seems to her to be thoroughly maligned, especially by the English — which makes me feel that I have been unpatriotic. She then adds that she only hopes this doesn’t, mean that the Berengaria is in for a rough crossing.
Go upstairs to collect my belongings in mood of the deepest dejection. Books still as unmanageable as ever, and I eventually take nine of them, and Ella two, and carry them downstairs.
Achieve the docks by car, Ella driving. She reiterates that I ought to have got a strap — especially when we find that long walk awaits us before we actually reach gangway of the Berengaria.
Hand-luggage proves too much for me altogether, and I twice drop various small articles, and complete avalanche of literature. Ella — who is comparatively lightly laden — walks on well ahead of me and has sufficient presence of mind not to look behind her — which is on the whole a relief to me.
Berengaria looks colossal, and thronged with people. Steward, who has been viewing my progress with — or without — the books, compassionately, detaches himself from the crowd and comes to my assistance. He will, he says, take me — and books — to my cabin.
Ella and I then follow him for miles and miles, and Ella says thoughtfully that I should be a long way from the deck if there was a fire.
Cabin is filled, in the most gratifying way, with flowers and telegrams. Also several parcels which undoubtedly contain more books. Steward leaves us, and Ella sits on the edge of the bunk and says that when she took her last trip to Europe her stateroom was exactly like a florist’s shop. Even the stewardess said she’d never seen anything like it, in fifteen years’ experience.
Then, I reply with spirit, she couldn’t ever have seen a film star travelling. Film stars, to my certain knowledge, have to engage, one, if not two, extra cabins solely to accommodate flowers, fruit, literature and other gifts bestowed upon them. This remark not a success with Ella — never thought it would be — and she says very soon afterwards that perhaps I should like to unpack and get straight, and she had better leave me.
Escort her on deck — lose the way several times and thoughts again revert to probable unpleasant situation in the event of a fire — and we part.
Ella’s last word to me is an assurance that she will be longing to hear of my safe arrival, and everyone always laughs at her because she gets such quantities of night letters and cables from abroad, but how can she help it, if she has so many friends? Mine to her is — naturally — an expression of gratitude for all her kindness. We exchange final reference to Mrs. Tressider, responsible for bringing us together — she is to be given Ella’s love — The Boy should be outgrowing early delicacy by this time — and I lean over the side and watch Ella, elegant to the last in hitherto unknown grey squirrel coat, take her departure.
Look at fellow-travellers surrounding me, and wonder if I am going to like any of them — outlook not optimistic, and doubtless they feel the same about me. Suddenly perceive familiar figure — Mademoiselle is making her way towards me. She mutters Dieu! quelle canaille! — which I think is an unnecessarily strong way of expressing herself — and I remove myself and her to adjacent saloon, where we sit in armchairs and Mademoiselle presents me with a small chrysanthemum in a pot.
She is in very depressed frame of mind, sheds tears, and tells me that many a fine ship has been englouti par les vagues and that it breaks her heart to think of my two unhappy little children left without their mother. I beg Mademoiselle to take a more hopeful outlook, but at this she shows symptoms of being offended, so hastily add that I have often known similar misgivings myself — which is true. Ah, replies Mademoiselle lugubriously, les pressentiments, les pressentiments! and we are again plunged in gloom.
Mademoiselle, at sight of telegrams, again says Mon Dieu! and begs me to open them at once, in case of bad news. I do so, and am able to assure her that they contain only amiable wishes for a good journey from kind American friends. Mademoiselle — evidently in overwrought condition altogether — does not receive this as I had hoped, but breaks into floods of tears and says that she is suffering from mal du pays and la nostalgie.
Mistake this for neuralgia, and suggest aspirin, and this error fortunately restores Mademoiselle to comparative cheerfulness. Does not weep again until we exchange final and affectionate farewells on deck, just as gang-plank is about to be removed. Vite! shrieks Mademoiselle, dashing down it, and achieving the dock in great disarray.
I wave good-bye to her, and Berengaria moves off. Dramatic moment of bidding Farewell to America is then entirely ruined for me by unknown Englishwoman who asks me severely if that was a friend of mine?
Yes, it was.
Very well. It reminds her of an extraordinary occasion when her son was seeing her off from Southampton. He remained too long in the cabin — very devoted son, anxious to see that all was comfortable for his mother — and when he went up on deck, what do I think had happened?
Can naturally guess this without the slightest difficulty, but feel that it would spoil the story if I do, so only say What? in anxious tone of voice, as though I had no idea at all. The ship, says unknown Englishwoman impressively, had moved several yards away from the dock. And what do I suppose her son did then?
He swam, I suggest.
Not at all. He jumped. Put one hand on the rail, and simply leapt. And he just made it. One inch less, and he would have been in the water. But as it was, he just landed on the dock. It was a most frightful thing to do, and upset her for the whole voyage. She couldn’t get over it at all. Feel rather inclined to suggest that she hasn’t really got over it yet, if she is compelled to tell the story to complete stranger — but have no wish to be unsympathetic, so reply instead that I am glad it all ended well. Yes, says Englishwoman rather resentfully — but it upset her for the rest of the voyage.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 422