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 not 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 non-existent 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 at 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 come 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.
(Query: Is this a cast-iron resolution, to be put into effect directly I get home in whatever mood I may happen to find Cook – or is it merely one of those rhetorical flashes, never destined to be translated into action? Answer, all too probably: The latter.)
Reflect with satisfaction that I can actually claim friendship with official in the State Department, met several times in London, and whom I now propose to ring up on the telephone as soon as the day is respectably advanced. Recollect that I liked him very much, and hope that this may still hold good after lapse of five years, and may also extend to newly acquired wife, whom I have never met, and that neither of them will take a dislike to me.
(Query: Has rebuff at first Hotel visited slightly unnerved me? If so, morale will doubtless be restored by breakfast. Order more coffee and a fresh supply of toast on the strength of this thought.)
Greatly surprised as I leave dining-room to find myself presented with small card on which is printed name hitherto totally unknown to me: General Clarence Dove. I say to the waiter – not very intelligently – What is this? and he refrains from saying, as he well might, that It’s a visiting-card, and replies instead that It’s the gentleman at the table near the door.
At this I naturally look at the table near the door, and elderly gentleman with bald head and rather morose expression makes half-hearted movement towards getting up, and bows. I bow in return, and once more scrutinise card, but it still looks exactly the same, and I am still equally unable to wake any association in connection with General Clarence Dove. Feel constrained to take one or two steps towards him, which courtesy he handsomely returns by standing up altogether and throwing his table-napkin on the floor.
Cannot help wishing the waiter would put things on a more solid basis by introducing us, but this feeling probably only a manifestation of British snobbishness, and nothing of the kind occurs. Elderly gentleman, however, rises to the occasion more or less, and tells me that he has been written to by Mrs Wheelwright, of Long Island, and told to look out for me, and that I am writing a book about America. He has therefore ventured to make himself known to me.
Express my gratification, and beg him to go on with his breakfast. This he refuses to do, and says – obviously untruly – that he has finished, but that we could perhaps take a little turn together in the sunshine. This hope rather optimistic, as sunshine – though present – turns out to be of poor quality, and we hastily retire to spacious hall, furnished with alternate armchairs and ash-trays on stands. Central heating, undeniably, far more satisfactory than sunshine, at this time of year, but doubtful if this thought would appeal to General Clarence Dove – aspect rather forbidding – so keep it to myself.
Just as I am preparing to make agreeable speech anent the beauties of Washington, the General utters.
He hears, he says, that I am writing a book about America. Now, he may be old-fashioned, but personally he finds this rather difficult to understand.
I say, No, no, in great agitation, and explain that I am not writing a book about America, that I shouldn’t ever dream of doing such a thing, after a six months’ visit, and that on the contrary –
A book about America, says the General, without paying the slightest attention to my eloquence, is not a thing to be undertaken in that spirit at all. Far too many British and other writers have made this mistake. They come over – whether invited or not – and are received by many of the best people in America, and what do they do in return? I again break in and say that I know, and I have often thought what a pity it is, and the last thing I should ever dream of doing would be to –
Besides, interrupts the General, quite unmoved, America is a large country. A very large country indeed. To write a book about it would be a very con
siderable task. What people don’t seem to understand is that no person can call themselves qualified to write a book about it after a mere superficial visit lasting less than two months.
Am by now almost frantic, and reiterate in a subdued shriek that I agree with every word the General is saying, and have always thought exactly the same thing – but all is in vain. He continues to look straight in front of him, and to assure me that there can be no greater mistake than to come over to a country like America, spend five minutes there, and then rush home and write a book about it. Far too many people have done this already.
Can see by now that it is completely useless to try and persuade General Clarence Dove that I am not amongst these, and have no intention of ever being so – and I therefore remain silent whilst he says the same things all over again about five times more.
After this he gets up, assures me that it has been a pleasure to meet me, and that he will certainly read my book about America when it comes out, and we part – never, I hope, to meet again.
Am completely shattered by this extraordinary encounter for several hours afterwards, but eventually summon up enough strength to ring up Department of State – which makes me feel important – and get into touch with friend James. He responds most agreeably, sounds flatteringly pleased at my arrival, and invites me to lunch with himself and his wife and his baby.
Baby?
Oh yes, he has a daughter aged two months. Very intelligent. I say, quite truthfully, that I should love to see her, and feel that she will be a much pleasanter companion than General Clarence Dove – and much more on my own conversational level into the bargain.
James later fetches me by car, and we drive to his apartment situated in street rather strangely named O. Street. I tell him that he hasn’t altered in the very least – he says the same, though probably with less truth, about me, and enquires after Robert, the children, Kolynos the dog – now, unfortunately, no longer with us – and Helen Wills the cat. I then meet his wife, Elizabeth – very pretty and attractive – and his child, Katherine – not yet pretty, but I like her and am gratified because she doesn’t cry when I pick her up – and we have peaceful and pleasant lunch.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 43