Marcella says a few words — I remind myself that nothing in the world can last for ever, and anyway they need none of them ever meet me again after this afternoon — and plunge forthwith into speech.
Funny story goes well — put in another one which I have just thought of, and which isn’t so good — but that goes well too. Begin to think that I really am a speaker after all, and wonder why nobody at home has ever said anything about it, and how I am ever to make them believe it, without sounding conceited.
Sit down amidst applause and try to look modest, until I suddenly catch sight of literary friend Arthur and his friend Billy, who have evidently been listening. Am rather agitated at this, and feel that instead of looking modest I merely look foolish.
At this point Pete, who hasn’t even pretended to listen to me, for which I am grateful rather than otherwise, reappears from some quite other department where he has sensibly been spending his time, and says that I had better autograph a few books, as People will Like It.
His idea of a few books runs into hundreds, and I sit and sign them and feel very important indeed. Streams of ladies walk past and we exchange a few words. Most of them ask How does one write a book? and several tell me that they heard something a few weeks ago which definitely ought to go into a book. This is usually a witticism perpetrated by dear little grandchild, aged six last July, but is sometimes merely a Funny Story already known to me, and — probably — to everybody else in the civilised world. I say Thank you, Thank you very much, and continue to sign my name. Idle fancy crosses my mind that it would be fun if I was J. P. Morgan, and all this was cheques.
After a time Marcella retrieves me, and says that she has not forgotten I am an Englishwoman, and will want my Tea. Am not fond of tea at the best of times, and seldom take it, but cannot of course say so, and only refer to Arthur and his friend Billy, who may be waiting for me. No, not at all, says Marcella. They are buying tortoises. Tortoises? Yes, tiny little tortoises. There is, asserts Marcella, a display of them downstairs, with different flowers hand-painted on their shells. She takes advantage of the stunned condition into which this plunges me to take me back to her office, where we have tea — English note struck by the fact that it is pitch-black, and we have lemon instead of milk — and Pete rejoins us, and confirms rumour as to floral tortoises being on sale, only he refers to them as turtles. Later on, am privileged to view them, and they crawl about in a little basin filled with water and broken shells, and display unnatural-looking bunches of roses and forget-me-nots on their backs.
Sign more books after tea, and am then taken away by friend Arthur, who says that his mother is waiting for me at the English-. Speaking Union. (Why not at home, which I should much prefer?) However, the English-Speaking Union is very pleasant. I meet a number of people, they ask what I think of America, and if I am going to California, and I say in return that I look forward to visiting the Fair and we part amicably.
Interesting and unexpected encounter with one lady, dressed in black and green, who says that when in New York she met my children’s late French governess. I scream with excitement, and black-and-green lady looks rather pitying, and says Oh yes, the world is quite a small place. I say contentiously No, no, not as small as all that, and Mademoiselle and I met in New York, and I do so hope she is happy and with nice people. She is, replies black-and-green lady severely, with perfectly delightful people — Southerners — one of our very oldest Southern families. They all speak with a real Southern accent. Stop myself just in time from saying that Mademoiselle will probably correct that, and ask instead if the children are fond of her. Black-and-green lady only repeats, in reply, that her friends belong to the oldest Southern family in the South, practically, and moves off looking as though she rather disapproves of me.
This encounter, for reason which I cannot identify, has rather thrown me off my balance, and I shortly afterwards ask Arthur if we cannot go home. He says Yes, in the most amiable way, and takes me away in a taxi with his very pretty sister. Enquire of her where and how I can possibly get my hair washed, and she at once undertakes to make all necessary arrangements, and says that the place that does her hair can very well do mine. (As she is a particularly charming blonde, at least ten years’ younger than I am, the results will probably be entirely different, but keep this pessimistic reflection to myself.)
Literary friend Arthur, with great good-feeling, says that he knows there are some letters waiting for me, which I shall wish to read in peace, and that he is sure I should like to rest before dinner-party, to which he is taking me at eight o’clock. (Should like to refer Katherine Ellen Blatt to dear Arthur, for lessons in savoir-faire.)
Letters await me in my room, but exercise great self-control by tearing off my hat, throwing my coat on the floor, and dashing gloves and bag into different corners of the room before I sit down to read them.
Only one is from England: Our Vicar’s Wife writes passionate enquiry as to whether I am going anywhere near Arizona, as boy in whom she and Our Vicar took great interest in their first parish — North London, five-and-twenty years ago — is supposed to have gone there and done very well. Will I make enquiries — name was Sydney Cripps, and has one front tooth missing, knocked out at cricket, has written to Our Vicar from time to time, but last occasion nearly twelve years ago — Time, adds Our Vicar’s Wife, passes. All is well at home — very strange not to see me about — Women’s Institute Committee met last week, how difficult it is to please everybody.
Can believe from experience that this is, indeed, so.
November 1st. — Visit the World Fair in company with Arthur and his family. Buildings all very modern and austere, except for colouring, which is inclined to be violent, but aspect as a whole is effective and impressive, and much to be preferred to customary imitations of ancient Greece. Individual exhibits admirably displayed, and total area of space covered must be enormous, whether lake — of which I see large bits here and there — is included or not. Private cars not admitted — which I think sensible — but rickshaws available, drawn by University students — to whom, everybody says, It’s Interesting to Talk — and small motor-buses go quietly round and round the Fair.
Arthur and I patronise rickshaws — I take a good look at my University Student, and decide that conversation would probably benefit neither of us — and visit various buildings. Hall of Science not amongst our successes, unfortunately, as the sight of whole skeletons, portions of the human frame executed in plaster, and realistic maps of sinews and blood-vessels, all ranged against the wall in glass show-cases, merely causes me to hurry past with my eyes shut. Arthur is sympathetic, and tells me that there is an exhibit of Live Babies in Incubators to be seen, but cannot decide whether he means that this would be better than scientific, wonders at present surrounding us, or worse.
Resume rickshaws, and visit Jade Chinese Temple, which is lovely, Prehistoric Animals-unpleasant impression of primitive man’s existence derived from these, but should like to have seen a brontosaurus in the flesh nevertheless — and Belgian Village, said to be replica of fifteenth century. (If not fifteenth, then sixteenth. Cannot be sure.)
Here Arthur and I descend, and walk up and down stone steps and cobbled streets, and watch incredibly clean-looking peasants in picturesque costumes dancing hand in hand and every now and then stamping. Have always hitherto associated this with Russians, but evidently wrong.
Just as old Flemish Clock on old Flemish Town Hall clangs out old Flemish Air, and Arthur and I tell one another that this is beautifully done, rather brassy voice from concealed loudspeaker is inspired to enquire: Oh boy! What about that new tooth-paste? Old Flemish atmosphere goes completely to bits, and Arthur and I, in disgust, retire to Club, where we meet his family, and have most excellent lunch.
Everyone asks what I want to see next, and Arthur’s mother says that she has a few friends coming to dinner, but is thrown into consternation by Arthur’s father, who says that he has invited two South Americans to come in
afterwards. Everyone says South Americans? as if they were pterodactyls at the very least, and antecedents are enquired into, but nothing whatever transpires except that they are South Americans and that nobody knows anything about them, not even their names.
Return to Fair after lunch — new rickshaw student, less forbidding-looking than the last, and I say feebly that It is very hot for November, and he replies that he can tell by my accent that I come from England and he supposes it’s always foggy there, and I say No, not always, and nothing further passes between us. Am evidently not gifted, where interesting students from American Colleges are concerned, and decide to do nothing more in this line. More exhibits follow — mostly very good — and Arthur says that he thinks we ought to see the North American Indians.
He accordingly pays large sum of money which admits us into special enclosures where authentic Red Indians are stamping about — (stamping definitely discredited henceforward as a Russian monopoly) — and uttering sounds exclusively on two notes, all of which, so far as I can tell, consist of Wah Wah! and nothing else. Listen to this for nearly forty minutes but am not enthusiastic. Neither is Arthur, and we shortly afterwards go home.
Write postcards to Rose, the children, and Robert, and after some thought send one to Cook, although entirely uncertain as to whether this will gratify her or not. Am surprised, and rather disturbed, to find that wording of Cook’s postcard takes more thought than that on all the others put together.
Small dinner takes place later on, and consists of about sixteen people, including a lady whose novel won the Pulitzer Prize, a lady who writes poetry — very, very well known, though not, unhappily, to me — a young gentleman who has something to do with Films, an older one who is connected with Museums, and delightful woman in green who says that she knows Devonshire and has stayed with the Frobishers. Did she, I rashly enquire, enjoy it? Well, she replies tolerantly, Devonshire is a lovely part of the world, but she is afraid Sir William Frobisher dislikes Americans. I protest, and she then adds, conclusively, that Sir W. told her himself how much he disliked Americans. Feel that it would indeed be idle to try and get round this, so begin to talk at once about the Fair.
Dinner marvellous, as usual — company very agreeable — and my neighbour — Museums — offers to conduct me to see Chicago Historical Museum at ten o’clock next morning.
Just as dinner is over, two extremely elegant young gentlemen, with waists and superbly smooth coiffures, come in and bow gracefully to our hostess. New York friend, Billy, hisses at me: “The South Americans”, and I nod assent, and wonder how on earth they are going to be introduced, when nobody knows their names. This, however, is achieved by hostess who simply asks them what they are called, and then introduces everybody else.
Am told afterwards that neither of them speaks much English, and that Arthur’s father asked them questions all the evening. No one tells me whether they answered them or not, and I remain mildly curious on the point.
November 4th. — Singular and interesting opportunity is offered me to contrast Sunday spent on Long Island and Sunday spent in equivalent country district outside Chicago, called Lake Forest, where I am invited to lunch and spend the afternoon. Enquire of Arthur quite early if this is to be a large party. He supposes About Thirty. Decide at once to put on the Coming Molyneux’s best effort — white daisies on blue silk. But, says Arthur, country clothes. Decide to substitute wool coat and skirt, with red beret. And, says Arthur, he is taking me on to dinner with very, very rich acquaintance, also at Lake Forest. I revert, mentally, to blue silk and daisies, and say that I suppose it won’t matter if we’re not in evening dress? Oh, replies Arthur, we’ve got to take evening clothes with us, and change there. Our hostess won’t hear of anything else. I take a violent dislike to her on the spot, and say that I’m not sure I want to go at all. At this Arthur is gloomy, but firm. He doesn’t want to go either, and neither does Billy, but we can’t get out of it now. We must simply pack our evening clothes in bags and go. Have not sufficient moral courage to rebel any further, and instead consider the question of packing up my evening clothes. Suit-case is too large, and attaché-case too small, but finally decide on the latter, which will probably mean ruin to evening frock.
November 5th. — Literary friend Arthur, still plunged in gloom, takes Billy and me by car to Lake Forest, about thirty miles from Chicago. We talk about grandmothers — do not know why or how this comes to pass — and then about Scotland. Scenery very beautiful, but climate bad. Arthur once went to Holyrood, but saw no bloodstains. Billy has a relation who married the owner of a Castle in Rossunshire and they live there and have pipers every evening. I counter this by saying that I have a friend, married to a distinguished historian or something, at Edinburgh University. Wish I hadn’t said “or something” as this casts an air of spuriousness over the whole story. Try to improve on it by adding firmly that they live in Wardie Avenue, Edinburgh — but this is received in silence.
(Query: Why are facts invariably received so much less sympathetically than fictions? Had I only said that distinguished historian and his wife lived in a cellar of Edinburgh Castle and sold Edinburgh rock, reactions of Arthur and Billy probably much more enthusiastic.)
Arrive at about one o’clock. House, explains Arthur, belongs to great friends of his — charming people — Mrs. F. writes novels — sister won Pulitzer Prize with another novel. At this I interject Yes, yes, I met her the other day — and feel like a dear old friend of the family.
House, says Arthur all over again — at which I perceive that I must have interrupted him before he’d finished, and suddenly remember that Robert has occasionally complained of this — House belongs to Mr. and Mrs. F. and has been left entirely unaltered since it was first built in 1874, furniture and all. It is, in fact, practically a Museum Piece.
Discover this to be indeed no overunstatement, and am enchanted with house, which is completely Victorian, and has fretwork brackets in every available corner, and a great deal of furniture. Am kindly welcomed, and taken upstairs to leave my coat and take off my hat. Spend the time instead in looking at gilt clock under glass shade, wool-and-bead mats, and coloured pictures of little girls in pinafores playing with large white kittens. Have to be retrieved by hostess’s daughter, who explains that she thought I might have lost my way. I apologise and hope that I’m not late for lunch.
This fear turns out later to be entirely groundless, as luncheon party — about thirty-five people — assembles by degrees on porch, and drinks cocktails, and nobody sits down to lunch until three o’clock. Have pleasant neighbours on either side, and slightly tiresome one opposite, who insists on talking across the table and telling me that I must go to the South, whatever I do. She herself comes of a Southern family, and has never lost her Southern accent, as I have no doubt noticed. Am aware that she intends me to assent to this, but do not do so, and conversation turns to Anthony Adverse as usual — and the popularity of ice-cream in America. Lunch over at about four o’clock — can understand why tea, as a meal, does not exist in the U.S.A. — and we return to the porch, and everyone says that this is the Indian Summer.
Find myself sitting with elderly man, who civilly remarks that he wants to hear about the book I have written. Am aware that this cannot possibly be true, but take it in the spirit in which it is meant, and discuss instead the British Museum — which he knows much better than I do — trout-fishing — about which neither of us knows anything whatever — and the state of the dollar.
Soon afterwards Arthur, with fearful recrudescence of despair, tells me that there is nothing for it, as we’ve got another forty miles to drive, but to say good-bye and go. We may not want to, but we simply haven’t any choice, he says.
After this we linger for about thirty-five minutes longer, repeating how sorry we are that we’ve got to go, and hearing how very sorry everybody else is as well. Eventually find ourselves in car again, suit-cases with evening clothes occupying quite a lot of space, and again causing Arthu
r to lament pertinacity of hostess who declined to receive us in ordinary day clothes.
Fog comes on — is this a peculiarity of Indian Summer? — chauffeur takes two or three wrong turnings, but says that he knows where we shall Come Out — and Billy goes quietly to sleep. Arthur and I talk in subdued voices for several minutes, but get louder and louder as we become more interested, and Billy wakes up and denies that he has ever closed an eye at all.
Silence then descends upon us all, and I lapse into thoughts of Robert, the children, and immense width and depth of the Atlantic Ocean. Have, as usual, killed and buried us all, myself included, several times over before we arrive.
Just as we get out of car — Billy falls over one of the suit-cases and says Damn — Arthur mutters that I must remember to look at the pictures. Wonderful collection, and hostess likes them to be admired. This throws me off my balance completely, and I follow very superb and monumental butler with my eyes fixed on every picture I see, in series of immense rooms through which we are led. Result of this is that I practically collide with hostess, advancing gracefully to receive us, and that my rejoinders to her cries of welcome are totally lacking in empressement, as I am still wondering how soon I ought to say anything about the pictures, and what means I can adopt to sound as if I really knew something about them. Hostess recalls me to myself by enquiring passionately if we have brought evening things, as she has rooms all ready for us to change in.
Am struck by this preoccupation with evening clothes, and interesting little speculation presents itself, as to whether she suffers from obsession on the point, and if so Could psychoanalysis be of any help? Treatment undoubtedly very expensive, but need not, in this case, be considered.
Just as I have mentally consigned her to luxurious nursing home, with two specialists and a trained nurse, hostess again refers to our evening clothes, and says that we had better come up and see the rooms in which we are to dress. Follow her upstairs — more pictures all the way up, and in corridor of vast length — I hear Arthur referring to “that marvellous Toulouse-Lautrec” and look madly about, but cannot guess which one he means, as all alike look to me marvellous, except occasional still-life which I always detest — and shortly afterwards I am parted from Arthur and Billy, and shown into complete suite, with bedroom, bathroom and sitting-room. Hostess says solicitously: Can I manage?
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 415
