Explain that it doesn’t matter, I will tell her about it later, 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 grounds 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 coûter 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 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 speak-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.
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, wh
o 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.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 45