The Wandering Years (1922-39)
Page 20
It was a gloomy wait on the station platform. The family looked white and drawn. I could hardly bear their words of warning: ‘Don’t be too polite; don’t let them get the better of you! If you feel ill on board, send for the doctor.’ The atmosphere was potent with suppressed emotion. Goodbyes, kisses, last hand waves. My mother, wearing a fur coat, her face worried but smiling, became smaller and smaller and smaller.
I sank back into my seat. I was off on a journey of adventure, to conquer a new world. It was to be a pleasure trip in a luxury liner; yet I felt as if I were going to my doom. In the little towns outside the window, the inhabitants were already busy with the day’s work. A painter in a white jacket stood atop a step ladder and painted a sign over a shop window: ‘Alice Grey — Milliner — Robes’. I hoped that Alice Grey would thrive.
The boat turned out to be a hotel full of dementedly rushing visitors. Its wide, imitation-marble staircase was thronged with an incessant stream of ant-like comers and goers. The gilded, super-ornate gates of the lift clanged every second.
In contrast to all this va and vient, I had nothing to do. Where to go? One couldn’t walk aimlessly. It had taken only a short while to unpack in my cabin, but what next? I explored the pseudo-Adam drawing-room, the grill room, the baronial hall of a smoking-room. Fake eighteenth-century pictures were let into the moulded panelling of various reading-rooms, and there were fake fireplaces as well. The dining-room, Louis Seize in style, had carnations at every table — at least fifty thousand tough little carnations sprouted from metal vases. The decks were bedecked with potted palms and growing chrysanthemums.
November, undated, At Sea
I wander about the ship feeling and looking unlike myself. Stripped of personality, I am just another anonymous passenger. I prowl the decks, lie in armchairs in stuffy rooms, and wonder why I hadn’t realised what a long journey I was in for. Cigarettes taste differently, perhaps because of the sea dampness. I stifle in the fuggy reception rooms, in the airless corridor leading to my cabin.
For distraction I watch my fellow passengers. There are the rampageous exercise lovers, who, with the resignation of lions in a cage, prowl the decks and suck in the ozone, snorting or marking time, bending their knees like stage policemen and going through a whole parade drill all by themselves. Others, as the first shyness wears off, nod or smile at one another. They exchange cards, play toy races, putt, ping-pong and crawl about on all fours looking for lost balls. They bet upon the slightest provocation, paying small fortunes in drinks.
A few, like myself, are odd men out. I wonder about one woman in particular, who is never without a plate of green grapes on her lap. And there is a sleeping beauty lying full length on a sofa in the Palladian lounge, with her shoes off for comfort.
I reach a zenith of boredom. I am tired of over-eating, of gazing at real flowers that look artificial, of listening to the hopeless band tooting in the lounge.
NEW YORK
November
Little white cubes shone in the sun, tug boats began the slow business of herding a giant up river to its Manhattan pier.
There were crowds waiting to welcome everyone but me. Fellow passengers pushed excitedly.
‘Excuse me for doing you out of your place, but I’m crazy to see my mother!’
‘Ah, that’s my wife!’
The taxi drive was a trail of shocks. New York’s tall buildings were lost somewhere overhead. It became dark enroute to the hotel, and the scene turned to a frozen fireworks display. From my eighteenth floor bedroom window the view appeared even more dramatic: the Hudson shining in the distance below, stars shining, brightly-lit buildings contrasted against shadowy edifices in the foreground, and rose-coloured church steeples.
November 15th
Yesterday I went to tea with Miss Elizabeth Marbury, to whom Osbert gave me a letter of introduction. I had been told much about this great figure in American theatrical life, but meeting her proved surprising nonetheless. A maid ushered me into the little house on the East River. Immediately I felt the Chelsea-ish charm of jumbled books, photographs and pictures.
Miss Marbury sat by the window in a chair heaped with cushions. She looked like a dear, enormously fat Victorian landlady. She wore her hair scraped high as any old farmer’s wife, and was in a black satin dress that Queen Victoria herself might have worn. Surrounded by rolls of fat is the face of a parrot; her arms are as thick as one’s own body, and her bolster-like legs have been strapped to iron supports to bear such colossal weight.
Bessie Marbury, as she is known, has a personality as grandiose as her figure. I felt at once that I’d made a new friend as strong as a wall. She explained about New York life, about the buildings and the plays. She told me of many ways in which she could help me.
Soon, to my regret, a stream of visitors appeared — friends who came in ceaseless numbers to pay court to her on her throne. There were an old actress and a young actor; one Italian and one English author, both of great renown; and her house guest, Elsie de Wolfe, who recently became Lady Mendl.
Bessie Marbury regaled the company, saying, ‘Oh, Arctic explorers are such bores. They are so earnest, have no sense of humour and consider their vice a service to the country. They tell one such long and boring stories. I will show you how long and boring their stories are.’ And she did.
The others roared with laughter, but I became conscious of my grimacing and theatrical pretence at listening appreciatively. I would rather have been alone with Marbury, listening to the whole story of Oscar Wilde and his trial (she was a close friend of Wilde’s at the time). I wanted, too, to hear about Bernhardt and Lillie Langtry and Mrs Vernon Castle.
At last I did have an opportunity to talk quietly and alone with this huge old Buddha. But the tête-à-tête consisted of her giving me some sound, motherly advice. She told me I shouldn’t be out with such a bad cold as I had today; I must go home and take a strong cathartic. I didn’t know what a cathartic was. She laughingly suggested I write to Osbert to say that Miss Marbury had become my grandmother, and advised me to go home and take a cathartic.
I wrote to Elizabeth Marbury this morning, thanking her so much for her friendliness. I said I had taken her advice last night, had come home and gone to bed with a very strong Catholic.
December 2nd
I saw the most sadistic incident in the street. A crippled woman, with one badly malformed foot, hobbled along leaning on a stick. Some urchins stood by, their eyes glued to the foot encased in its shining black boot. One of the little monsters inquired, ‘Shoe shine?’ The cripple shook her head and politely said, ‘No, thank you.’
ASSIGNMENTS FROM VOGUE
December 7th
Friday is a bad day for me. It marks the end of the week, and the hotel bill arrives. This week my bill seemed much higher than before. There are very few cheques left in my letter of credit book. It is terrifying and depressing. I have begun to loathe the Ambassador Hotel. 1805 is a nice room, but even if the numbers do add up to my lucky number fourteen, it has been a jolly expensive fourteen.
Suddenly the telephone went: Mrs Chase bid me go round to Vogue and see her at once. The photographs I had taken for them of Natica, Condé Nast’s daughter, were admired. I felt relieved, as I have been here already a month, and it’s time I started to work in real earnest.
I met Mrs Chase’s second-in-command, Mrs Snow, who is the American editor. This meeting was very satisfactory. Mrs Snow, looking like a fox terrier, seemed pleased with me, and we arranged that I should do various jobs for her. Around her sat Miss Case[47] and Miss Voght, taking down notes of what I was to do. My assignments included an article on New York’s night life, for which I would be taken to various joints and have an opportunity to meet Erickson, as he is to do the illustrations. I would also write another article on theatres, to be illustrated with my drawings. Vogue would supply tickets for all the plays I hadn’t seen. I wish this had been arranged before, so that I could have saved my fast depleting dollars!
LONG ISLAND
December 8th
I was asked down to Long Island to spend the day with the Harrison Williamses, whom I had never met. The prospect was terrifying. I waited in the lobby of my hotel to be picked up by an unknown quantity with a motor car.
Mr Arthur Fowler proved a harsh, glum schoolboy of sixty. Further acquaintance revealed that he is a shrewd business man, yet ‘passionately’ interested in portraiture. This struck me as being odd. He looks the least aesthetic person, and I imagine his painting is ghastly.
Snow was falling. It was a raw, ugly day. The drive through uninteresting country seemed interminable. Mr Fowler and I had so little in common that at any moment we were likely to dry up. But we eked out conversation to the bitter end, talking about American versus English humour and the people I would meet today. I was informed that our prospective host had two hundred million dollars.
The car turned through tall gates and made a semi-circle along the gravel drive, stopping before a sumptuous country house. I noticed odd, crate-like structures of canvas and wood littered all over the garden. It seemed as if a circus were pulling up stakes. But on inquiry I found that box trees (a sign of antiquity on Long Island) were put under these tents for winter protection, making the garden an eyesore for four months of the year.
The house was new and neo-Georgian, filled with English Hepplewhite and Sheraton. Among the paintings were a fine Bronzino and two Tiepolos.
Our host and hostess greeted us. Mrs Williams is fascinatingly beautiful, like a rock-crystal goddess with aquamarine eyes. She moved with pristine and smiling ease among dozens of guests. Harrison Williams has a wrinkled parchment face, a blunt mouth and tired Chinese eyes that have seen everything. His low, deep voice crackles like coke. Although I had little chance to get to know what sort of a man this great mogul was he seemed extremely sympathetic and was obviously somewhat aloof and only tolerably amused by his guests. I must admit that, for the most part, they rather put me off, especially Charlie Hayden, an old bachelor parrot who gambles on the stock market and enjoys social success. He’s almost startlingly quick, getting in his remarks with more facility than anyone. Charlie held forth about how he knew ‘everybody’, including someone who was ‘very much of a lady, not a bit Jewish-Christian faith, you know.’ He related stories about how he holed in one and had to give five dollars to the caddie and five hundred dollars to the club to build a new green. Or he went to the bicycle tournament and paid five hundred bucks for a sprint. He took a party here; he made a million dollars there.
Knowing nothing about stocks and bonds, I thought I should go mad listening to market quotations about what shares went up or were going down. Most of these people seemed to treat a hundred thousand dollars as a mere bagatelle. The loss of a million was another matter: ‘Oh I’ve known people commit suicide when that has happened.’ This depressed me very much indeed: I, who have about twenty pounds left out of the two hundred I brought to the States with me!
After lunch came tennis in the new glass-domed enclosure which is artificially lit so that people can play all night if necessary. Also enclosed here were a huge swimming pool and gymnasium. I feared the standard of tennis would be far higher than mine; as indeed it turned out to be. I watched in awe and silence while the Parrot slammed volleys and yapped, ‘Atta-boy!’
More people arrived for dinner — all celebrities of Long Island, all indefinite in appearance and definite in thoughts. They emanated self-assurance, and I felt alarmed by everyone except one fat old Mrs Tiffany, a terrific personality whom everyone calls Nannie. She was amusing and shrewd; she had a wry sense of humour. She talked like a lady in a play, offering her formula for getting thin: for three days now, she had had nothing but hot and cold water and the juice of one orange.
On my left at the dinner table was a Mrs Henry Russell. Earlier in the day she had taken no notice of me, but now seemed flattered that I should ask so many questions about the people present. She was a mine of information. That hard woman there had recently married a prince and was keeping him penniless. The overtired lady, with bloodless lips and incessantly blinking eyes, had a debutante daughter who needed closer chaperoning than she had received.
After dinner there was more talk of bull and bear markets, also bridge. Mrs Williams, Nannie Tiffany and myself begged off. We made conversation. I warmed to a sense of entente with our hostess: she was so unlike the others. She radiated serenity and sympathy; she seemed utterly selfless. Without her, I would have felt at a loss, hobnobbing with the weightiest names of Wall Street. As a matter of fact, what good did it do when one had nothing in common with them?
I sank into a car and was driven back through miles of Long Island bleakness to New York. I hoped I would see Mrs Williams again, as I felt we should become friends. If only she weren’t so rich, so sought after, it might be easier.
In my hotel room, the windows were all shut, the steam heat terrific, my puny vase of cheap flowers was quite dead. I found urgent notes and telephone messages from Elisabeth Marbury asking me to meet Amelia Earhart.
Undated
Today is the 14th, my lucky number. Then the weekly bill gets swished under the door — not so lucky! Well, let’s see the horror. Oh, good! Less than it has ever been: ninety-three dollars isn’t really much. This afternoon a sitter comes to be photographed for sixty pounds, which will pay for two weeks’ bill straightaway.
I am very pleased with life. I cannot believe that I ever felt depressed here, with nothing to do.
Undated
Quite a glut of sitters — and impressive ones too. At this afternoon’s session I was amazed at my own patter: Don’t budge an inch, I beg you. That’s fine. I do thank you for keeping so still. Now lower your chin — lower, much lower. You see, with this little camera I’m like a dog looking up at you. Still a little lower. Don’t worry about the double chins. I’ll knife them later. Pretend you’re looking down a well. Good; perfect.
Dear old Mr Frank Crowninshield appeared and, to my great delight, raved about my photographs. He liked some of the paintings, too. I felt that praise from the editor of Vanity Fair augured well. Gosh, it was good to hear him enthuse so extravagantly: myself, Steichen and de Meyer the only photographers: ‘But it’s so amazing that you can do things like this with a toy camera.’ And he stayed three times as long as he had intended.
With enticing offers of work and invitations from my new friends it was not surprising that I crossed the Atlantic again the following autumn. I discovered that, quite naturally, all picture galleries in New York were long ago booked for the winter season, and no one could exhibit my efforts. When Elsie de Wolfe offered me the boiseried showrooms of her interior decorating establishment, I accepted with gratitude; though perhaps I might have wished for a gallery of more serious standing.
A goodly number of pictures, however, were sold at prices much steeper than they were in London. When the New York exhibition closed, I took the remaining pictures to Palm Beach where the prices were marked even higher than on Fifth Avenue. Here I reaped a great harvest: a sketch of a bluebell wood, done in the Harrow sketching class under the eagle supervision of Mr Eggie Hine, was sold to Mr Ralph Beaver Strassberger for a thousand dollars; this was gratifying.
But more exciting still: a delightfu
l and witty group centring around Addison Mitzner[48] became my first real American friends. They went into peals of laughter when I tried to make a joke or relate an anecdote. They seemed to find me sympathetic. Yet in spite of their encouragement, so full of tiresome misgivings, so shy, and lacking in selfconfidence was I, that when Addison first asked me to stay around for dinner and spend the evening with Anita Loos, Marjorie Oelrichs[49] and others, I lied that I had something else to do. Although more than anything I wanted to be accepted by these vital people, I could not bring myself to believe that they really accepted me as one of them. This diffidence on my part, possibly inexplicable to others, made it difficult for people to like me, and was particularly baffing to Americans. When Marjorie telephoned to me immediately on her return to New York — in fact before calling any of her other friends — she proved conclusively that I was not just a holiday acquaintance, and gave me the most gratifying surprise of my first American winter. Altogether, with her subtle ways and acute sense of humour, Marjorie became one of my most admired human beings. More than any other woman I had met before, she was responsible for giving me a modicum of self-confidence and the satisfaction of having gained some worldly experience. Her death, giving birth to her son, left me with a sadness I shall never forget.
With a group of new friends to cheer my departure and a bulky contract to work for Condé Nast, I sailed home pleased with the fact that I had made even the slightest ripple in the life of New York.
CRITICISM FROM NOËL COWARD
April 5th, At Sea
The last week in America was stuffed to the gills with work and play. I feel exhilaratedly independent now — surrounded by people I like and who like me, whose tastes and ways are strengthening the struts of my world. I have even had one or two diversions with young women where I would never have expected such success possible. At any rate, I live at a much higher speed than I’ve ever known before.