At this point Minnie’s mother suddenly asks What we are all here for, if not to help one another, and adds that, for her part, her motto has always been: Lend a Hand. Revulsion of feeling at once overtakes me, and I abandon all idea of impressing the Women’s Institute with the desirability of mutual good-will.
Car takes us at great speed along admirable roads – very tight squeeze on back seat, and Minnie kicks me twice on the shins and puts her elbow into my face once – and we reach house standing amongst trees.
Is this, I civilly enquire of Mrs Lee, her home? Oh dear no. The Lees live right on the other side of Toronto. This is Dr MacAfie’s place, where we are all having breakfast. And a bath, adds Mrs L., looking at me compassionately. Dr MacAfie and his wife both turn out to be Scotch. They receive us kindly, and Mrs L. at once advocates the bathroom for me.
Bath is a success, and I come down very hungry, convinced that it must be nearer lunch-time than breakfast-time. Clock, however, declares it to be just half-past seven. Find myself counting up number of hours that must elapse before I can hope to find myself in bed and asleep. Results of this calculation very discouraging.
Breakfast, which is excellent, restores me, and we talk about America – the States very unlike Canada – the Dominions – life in Canada very like life in the Old Country – snow very early this year – and my impressions of Chicago World Fair.
Minnie interrupts a good deal, and says Need she eat bacon, and If she went on a big ship to England she knows she’d be very sick. At this everybody laughs – mine very perfunctory indeed – and her mother says that really, the things that child says … and it’s always been like that, ever since she was a tiny tot. Anecdotes of Minnie’s infant witticisms follow, and I inwardly think of all the much more brilliant remarks made by Robin and Vicky. Should much like an opportunity for retailing these, and do my best to find one, but Minnie’s mother gives me no opening whatever.
Expedition to Niagara ensues, and I am told on the way that it is important for me to see the Falls from the Canadian side, as this is greatly superior to the American side. Can understand this, in a way, as representing viewpoint of my present hosts, but hope that inhabitants of Buffalo, where I go next, will not prove equally patriotic and again conduct me immense distances to view phenomenon all over again.
Am, however, greatly impressed by Falls, and say so freely. Mr Lee tells me that I really ought to see them by night, when lit up by electricity, and Mrs Lee says No, that vulgarises them completely, and I reply Yes to both of them, and Minnie’s mother asks What Minnie thinks of Niagara, to which Minnie squeaks out that she wants her dinner right away this minute, and we accordingly proceed to the Hotel.
Buy a great many postcards. Minnie watches this transaction closely, and says that she collects postcards. At this I very weakly present her with one of mine, and her mother says that I am really much too kind – with which I inwardly agree. This opinion intensified on return journey, when Minnie decides to sit on my lap, and asks me long series of complicated questions, such as Would I rather be an alligator who didn’t eat people, or a man who had to make his living by stealing, or a tiny midget in a circus? Reply to these and similar conundrums more or less in my sleep, and dimly hear Minnie’s mother telling me that Minnie looks upon her as being just a great, big, elder sister, and always tells her everything just as it pops into her little head, and don’t I feel that it’s most important to have the complete confidence of one’s children?
Can only think, at the moment, that it’s most important to have a proper amount of sleep.
Mr Lee’s house is eventually attained, and proves to be outside Toronto. Minnie and her parent are dropped at their own door, and say that they will be popping in quite soon, and I get out of car and discover that I am alarmingly stiff, very cold, and utterly exhausted.
Am obliged to confess this state of affairs to Mrs Lee, who is very kind, and advises bed. Can only apologise, and do as she suggests.
November 12th. – Spend comparatively quiet day, and feel better. Host and hostess agree that I must remain indoors, and as it snows violently I thankfully do so, and write very much overdue letters.
Quiet afternoon and evening of conversation. Mr Lee wants to know about the Royal Family – of which, unfortunately, I can tell him little except what he can read for himself in the papers – and Mrs Lee asks if I play much Bridge. She doesn’t, she adds hastily, mean on Sundays. Am obliged to reply that I play very little on any day of the week, but try to improve this answer by adding that my husband is very good at cards. Then, says Mrs Lee, do I garden? No – unfortunately not. Mrs Lee seems disappointed, but supposes indulgently that writing a book takes up quite a lot of time, and I admit that it does, and we leave it at that.
Am rather disposed, after this effort, to sit and ponder on extreme difficulty of ever achieving continuity of conversation when in the society of complete strangers. Idle fancy crosses my mind that Mr Alexander Woollcott would make nothing of it at all, and probably conduct whole conversation all by himself with complete success. Wonder – still more idly – if I shall send him a postcard about it, and whether he would like one of Niagara.
November 12th (continued). – Main purpose of Canadian visit – which is small lecture – safely accomplished. Audience kind, rather than enthusiastic. Mrs Lee says that she could tell I was nervous. Cannot imagine more thoroughly discouraging comment than this.
Mr Lee very kindly takes me to visit tallest building in the British Empire, which turns out to be a Bank. We inspect Board-rooms, offices, and finally vaults, situated in basement and behind enormous steel doors, said to weigh incredible number of tons and only to be opened by two people working in conjunction. I ask to go inside, and am aghast when I do so by alarming notice on the wall which tells me that if I get shut into the vaults by accident I am not to be alarmed, as there is a supply of air for several hours. Do not at all like the word ‘several’, which is far from being sufficiently specific, and have horrid visions of being shut into the vaults and spending my time there in trying to guess exactly when ‘several’ may be supposed to be drawing to an end. Enquire whether anyone has ever been locked into the vaults, and if they came out mad, but Mr Lee only replies No one that he has ever heard of, and appears quite unmoved by the idea.
Have often associated banking with callousness, and now perceive how right I was.
Evening is passed agreeably with the Lees until 9 o’clock, when Minnie and parent descend upon us and we all talk about Minnie for about half an hour. Take cast-iron resolution before I sleep never to make either of the dear children subjects of long conversations with strangers.
(Mem.: To let Robert know of this resolution, as feel sure he would approve of it.)
November 13th. – Five o’clock train is selected to take me to Buffalo, and am surprised and relieved to find that I have not got to travel all night, but shall arrive in four and a half hours. Luncheon-party is kindly given in my honour by the Lees – Minnie not present, but is again quoted extensively by her mother – and I am asked more than once for opinion on relative merits of Canada and the United States. Can quite see that this is very delicate ground, and have no intention whatever of committing myself to definite statement on the point. Talk instead about English novelists – Kipling evidently very popular, and Hugh Walpole looked upon as interesting new discovery – and I am told by several people that I ought to go to Quebec.
As it is now impossible for me to do so, this leads to very little, beyond repeated assurances from myself that I should like to go to Quebec, and am exceedingly sorry not to be going there. One well-informed lady tells me that Harold Nicolson went there and liked it very much. Everybody receives this in respectful silence, and I feel that Harold Nicolson has completely deflated whatever wind there may ever have been in my sails.
Morale is restored later by my host, who takes me aside and says that I have been Just a breath of fresh air from the Old Country, and that I must come again
next year. Am touched, and recklessly say that I will. Everyone says good-bye very kindly, and gentleman – hitherto unknown – tells me that he will drive me to the station, as he has to go in that direction later. Minnie’s mother heaps coals of fire on my head by telling me that she has a little present for my children, and is going just across the street to get it. This she does, and present turns out to be a Service revolver, which she thinks my boy may like. Can reply with perfect truth that I feel sure of it, and am fortunately not asked for my own reaction; or Robert’s.
Revolver, of which I am secretly a good deal afraid, is wedged with the utmost difficulty into the least crowded corner of my attaché-case, and I take my departure.
Rather strange sequel follows a good deal later, when I am having dinner on train and am called out to speak to Customs official. Cannot imagine what he wants me for, and alarming visions of Sing-Sing assail me instantly. Go so far as to decide that I shall try and brief Mr Clarence Darrow for the defence – but this probably because he is the only American barrister whose name I can remember.
Customs awaits me in the corridor, and looks very grave. Is mine, he enquires, the brown attaché-case under the fur coat in the parlour-car? Yes, it is. Then why, may he ask, do I find it necessary to travel with a revolver? Freakish impulse momentarily assails me, and I nearly – but not quite – reply that I have to do so for the protection of my virtue. Realise in time that this flippancy would be quite out of place, and might very likely land me in serious trouble, so take wiser and more straightforward course of telling Customs the whole story of the Service revolver.
He receives it sympathetically, and tells me that he is a family man himself. (Association here with Dickens – ‘I’m a mother myself, Mr Copperfull’ – but Customs perhaps not literary, or may prefer Mark Twain, so keep it to myself.)
Conversation follows, in which I learn names and ages of the whole family of Customs, and in return show him small snapshot of Robin and Vicky with dog Kolynos, playing in the garden. Customs says That’s a fine dog, and asks what breed, but says nothing about R. and V. Am slightly disappointed, but have noticed similar indifference to the children of others on the part of parents before.
November 13th (continued). – Train, in the most singular way, arrives at Buffalo ahead of time. Large and very handsome station receives me, and I walk about vast hall, which I seem to have entirely to myself. Red-capped porter, who is looking after my luggage, seems prepared to remain by it for ever in a fatalistic kind of way, and receives with indifference my announcement that Someone will be here to meet me by and by.
Can only hope I am speaking the truth, but feel doubtful as time goes on. Presently, however, tall lady in furs appears, and looks all round her, and I say ‘Dr Livingstone, I presume?’ – but not aloud – and approach her. Am I, I ask, speaking to Mrs Walker? Lady, in a most uncertain voice, replies No, no – not Mrs Walker. We gaze at one another helplessly and she adds, in a still more uncertain voice: Mrs Luella White Clarkson. To this I can think of no better reply than Oh, and we walk away from one another in silence, only, however, to meet again repeatedly in our respective perambulations. (Should much like to know what peculiar law governs this state of affairs. Station is perfectly enormous, and practically empty, and neither Mrs L. W. C. nor myself has the slightest wish ever again to come face to face with one another, yet we seem perfectly unable to avoid doing so. Eventually take to turning my back whenever I see her approaching, and walking smartly in the opposite direction.)
Mental comparison of American and English railway stations follows, and am obliged to admit that America wins hands down. Have never in my life discovered English station that was warm, clean or quiet, or at which waiting entailed anything but complete physical misery. Compose long letter to Sir Felix Pole on the subject, and have just been publicly thanked by the Lord Mayor of London for ensuing reformations, when I perceive Red-cap making signs. Mrs Walker – small lady in black, very smart, and no resemblance whatever to Mrs L. W. C. – has appeared. She apologises very nicely for being late, and I apologise – I hope also very nicely – for the train’s having been too early – and we get into her motor which is, as usual, very large and magnificent. (Remarkable contrast between cars to which I am by now becoming accustomed and ancient Standard so frequently pushed up the hills at home – but have little doubt that I shall be delighted to find myself in old Standard once more.)
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 bathroom 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 ho
t, 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.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 41