Sept. 25th. – Attend dinner-party of most distinguished people, given by celebrated young publisher connected with New York house. Evening is preceded by prolonged mental conflict on my part, concerning – as usual – clothes. Caroline C. urges me to put on new backless garment, destined for America, but superstitious feeling that this may be unlucky assails me, and I hover frantically between very old blue and comparatively new black-and-white stripes. Caroline is sympathetic throughout, but at seven o’clock suddenly screams that she is due at a sherry party and must rush, she’d forgotten all about it.
(Extraordinary difference between this generation and my own impresses me immensely. Should never, at C. C.’s age – or probably any other – have forgotten even a tea-party, let alone a sherry one. This no time, however, for indulging in philosophical retrospective studies.)
Baby Austin, as usual, is at the door; C. C. leaps into it and vanishes, at terrific pace, into Guilford Street, leaving me to get into black-and-white stripes, discover that black evening shoes have been left at home, remember with relief that grey brocade ones are here and available, and grey silk stockings that have to be mended, but fortunately above the knee. Result of it all is that I am late, which I try to feel is modern, but really only consider bad-mannered.
Party is assembled when I arrive, am delighted to see Distinguished Artist, well known to me in Hampstead days, whom I at once perceive to have been celebrating the occasion almost before it has begun – also famous man of letters next whom I am allowed to sit at dinner, and actor with whom I have – in common with about ninety-nine per cent of the feminine population – been in love for years. (This state of affairs made much worse long before the end of the evening.)
Party is successful from start to finish, everybody wishes me a pleasant trip to America, I am profoundly touched and feel rather inclined to burst into tears – hope this has nothing to do with the champagne – but fortunately remember in time that a scarlet nose and patchy face can be becoming to no one. (Marked discrepancy here between convention so prevalent in fiction, and state of affairs common to everyday life.)
Am escorted home at one o’clock by Distinguished Artist and extraordinarily pretty girl called Dinah, and retire to sofa-bed in sitting-room, taking every precaution not to wake Caroline C., innocently slumbering in bedroom.
Just as I have dropped asleep, hall-door bangs, and I hear feet rushing up the stairs, and wonder if it can be burglars, but decide that only very amateurish ones, with whom I could probably deal, would make so much noise. Point is settled by sudden appearance of light under bedroom door, and stifled, but merry rendering of ‘Stormy Weather’ which indicates that C. C. has this moment returned from belated revels no doubt connected with sherry party. Am impressed by this fresh evidence of the gay life lived by the young to-day, and go to sleep again.
Oct. 1st. – Return home yesterday coincides with strong tendency to feel that I can’t possibly go to America at all, and that most likely I shall never come back alive if I do, and anyway everything here will go to rack and ruin without me. Say something of these premonitions to Robert, who replies that (a) It would be great waste of money to cancel my passage now, (b) I shall be quite all right if I remember to look where I’m going when I cross the streets, and (c) he dares say Cook and Florence will manage very well. I ask wildly if he will cable to me if anything goes wrong with the children, and he says Certainly and enquires what arrangements I have made about the servants’ wages? Remainder of the evening passes in domestic discussion, interrupted by telephone call from Robert’s brother William, who says that he wishes to see me off at Southampton. Am much gratified by this, and think it tactful not to enquire why dear William’s wife Angela has not associated herself with the scheme.
Oct. 7th. – Long and agitating day, of which the close finds me on board s.s. Statendam, but cannot yet feel wholly certain how this result has been achieved, owing to confusion of mind consequent on packing, unpacking – for purpose of retrieving clothes-brush and cheque-book, accidentally put in twenty-four hours too early – consulting numbers of Lists and Notes, and conveying self and luggage – six pieces all told, which I think moderate – to boat-train at Waterloo.
Caroline Concannon has handsomely offered to go with me to Southampton, and I have accepted, and Felicity Fairmead puts in unexpected and gratifying appearance at Waterloo. I say, Isn’t she astonished to find me travelling first-class? and she replies No, not in the least, which surprises me a good deal, but decide that it’s a compliment in its way.
Caroline C. and I have carriage to ourselves, but label on window announces that H. Press is to occupy Corner Seat, window side, facing engine. We decide that H. P. is evidently fussy, probably very old, and – says Caroline with an air of authority – most likely an invalid. The least we can do, she says, is to put all hand-luggage up on the rack and leave one side of carriage entirely free, so that he can put his feet up. Felicity says, Suppose he is lifted in on a wheel-chair? but this we disregard, as being mere conjecture. All, however, is wasted, as H. Press fails to materialise, and train, to unbounded concern of us all three, goes off without him.
Robert and William meet us at Southampton, having motored from Devonshire and Wiltshire respectively, and take us on board tender, where we all sit in a draught, on very hard seats. Robert shows me letters he has brought me from home – one from Our Vicar’s Wife, full of good wishes very kindly expressed, and will I, if absolutely convenient, send photograph of Falls of Niagara, so helpful in talking to schoolchildren about wonders of Nature – the rest mostly bills. I tell Robert madly that I shall pay them all from America – which I know very well that I shan’t – and we exchange comments, generally unfavourable, about fellow-passengers. Tender gets off at last – draught more pervasive than ever. Small steamers rise up at intervals, and Caroline says excitedly: There she is! to each of them. Enormous ship with four funnels comes into view, and I say: There she is! but am, as usual, wrong, and Statendam only reached hours later, when we are all overawed by her size, except Robert.
On board Robert takes charge of everything – just as well, as I am completely dazed – conducts us to Cabin 89, miraculously produces my luggage, tells me to have dinner and unpack the moment the tender goes off – (this advice surely strikes rather sinister note?) – and shows me where dining-saloon is, just as though he’d been there every day for years.
He then returns me to cabin, where William is quietly telling Caroline the story of his life, rings for steward and commands him to bring a bottle of champagne, and my health is drunk.
Am touched and impressed, and wonder wildly if it would be of any use to beg Robert to change all his plans and come with me to America after all? Unable to put this to the test, as bell rings loudly and dramatically, tender is said to be just off, and farewells become imminent. Robert, William and Caroline are urged by various officials to Mind their Heads, please, and Step this way – I exchange frantic farewells with all three, feel certain that I shall never see any of them again, and am left in floods of tears in what seems for the moment to be complete and utter solitude, but afterwards turns out to be large crowd of complete strangers, stewards in white jackets and colossal palms in pots.
Can see nothing for it but to follow Robert’s advice and go to dining-saloon, which I do, and find myself seated next to large and elderly American lady who works her way steadily through eight-course dinner and tells me that she is on a very strict diet. She also says that her cabin is a perfectly terrible one, and she knew the moment she set foot on the ship that she was going to dislike everything on board. She is, she says, like that. She always knows within the first two minutes whether she is going to like or dislike her surroundings. Am I, she enquires, the same? Should like to reply that it never takes me more than one minute to know exactly what I feel, not only about my surroundings, but about those with whom I have to share them. However, she waits for no answer, so this mot, as so many others, remains unuttered.
> Friend of Mrs Tressider, whom I have forgotten all about, comes up half-way through dinner, introduces herself as Ella Wheelwright – Chickhyde evidently a mistake – and seems nice. She introduces married sister and husband, from Chicago, and tells me that literary American, who says he has met me in London, is also on board. Would I like to sit at their table for meals? I am, however, to be perfectly honest about this. Am perfectly honest and say Yes, I should, but wonder vaguely what would happen if perfect honesty had compelled me to say No?
Elderly American lady seems faintly hurt at prospect of my desertion, and says resentfully how nice it is for me to have found friends, and would I like to come and look at her cabin? Question of perfect honesty not having here been raised, I do so, and can see nothing wrong with it whatever. Just as I am leaving it – which I do as soon as civility permits – see that name on door is H. Press. Must remember to send Felicity and Caroline postcards about this.
Oct. 9th. – Interior of my own cabin becomes extremely familiar, owing to rough weather and consequent collapse. Feel that I shall probably not live to see America, let alone England again.
Oct. 11th. – Emerge gradually from very, very painful state of affairs. New remedy for sea-sickness provided by Rose may or may not be responsible for my being still alive, but that is definitely the utmost that can be said for it.
Remain flat on my back, and wish that I could either read or go to sleep, but both equally impossible. Try to recall poetry, by way of passing the time, and find myself involved in melancholy quotations: Sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things alternating with A few more years shall roll. Look at snapshots of Robert and the children, but this also a failure, as I begin to cry and wonder why I ever left them. Have died and been buried at sea several times before evening and – alternatively – have heard of fatal accident to Robin, dangerous illness of Vicky, and suicide of Robert, all owing to my desertion. Endless day closes in profound gloom and renewed nausea.
Oct. 12th. – Situation improved, I get up and sit on deck, eat raw apple for lunch, and begin to feel that I may, after all, live to see America. Devote a good deal of thought, and still more admiration, to Christopher Columbus who doubtless performed similar transit to mine, under infinitely more trying conditions.
Ella Wheelwright comes and speaks to me – she looks blooming in almond-green dress with cape, very smart – and is compassionate. We talk about Mrs Tressider – a sweet thing, says Ella W., and I immediately acquiesce, though description not in the least applicable to my way of thinking – and agree that The Boy does not look strong. (Perceive that this is apparently the only comment that ever occurs to anybody in connection with The Boy, and wonder if he is destined to go through life with this negative reputation and no other.)
Just as I think it must be tea-time, discover that all ship clocks differ from my watch, and am informed by deck steward that The Time Goes Back an Hour every night. Pretend that I knew this all along, and had merely forgotten it, but am in reality astonished, and wish that Robert was here to explain.
Day crawls by slowly, but not too unpleasantly, and is enlivened by literary American, met once before in London, who tells me all about English authors in New York, and gives me to understand that if popular, they get invited to cocktail parties two or three times daily, and if unpopular, are obliged to leave the country.
Oct. 14th. – America achieved. Statue of Liberty, admirably lit up, greets me at about seven o’clock this evening, entrance to harbour is incredibly beautiful, and skyscrapers prove to be just as impressive as their reputation, and much more decorative.
Just as I am admiring everything from top deck two unknown young women suddenly materialise – (risen from the ocean, like Venus?) – also young man with camera, and I am approached and asked if I will at once give my views on The United States, the American Woman and Modern American Novels. Young man says that he wishes to take my photograph, which makes me feel like a film star – appearance, unfortunately, does nothing to support this illusion – and this is duly accomplished, whilst I stand in dégagé attitude, half-way down companion-ladder on which I have never before set foot throughout the voyage.
Exchange farewells with fellow-passengers – literary American, now known to me as Arthur, is kindness itself and invites me on behalf of his family to come and visit them in Chicago, and see World Fair – Ella Wheelwright also kind, and gives me her card, but obviously much preoccupied with question of Customs – as well she may be, as she informs me that she has declared two hundred dollars’ worth of purchases made in Europe, and has another five hundred dollars’ worth undeclared.
American publisher has come to meet me and is on the Dock, I am delighted to see him, and we sit on a bench for about two hours, surrounded by luggage, none of which seems to be mine. Eventually, however, it appears – which slightly surprises me – publisher supports me through Customs inspection, and finally escorts me personally to Essex House, where I am rung up five times before an hour has elapsed, with hospitable greetings and invitations. (Nothing from Ella Wheelwright, and cannot help wondering if she has perhaps been arrested?)
Am much impressed by all of it, including marvellous view from bedroom on sixteenth story, but still unable to contemplate photographs of children with complete calm.
Oct. 16th. – Come to the conclusion that everything I have ever heard or read about American Hospitality is an understatement. Telephone bell rings incessantly from nine o’clock onwards, invitations pour in, and complete strangers ring up to say that they liked my book, and would be glad to give a party for me at any hour of the day or night. Am plunged by all this into a state of bewilderment, but feel definitely that it will be a satisfaction to let a number of people at home hear about it all, and realise estimation in which professional writers are held in America.
(Second thought obtrudes itself here, to the effect that, if I know anything of my neighbours, they will receive any such information with perfect calm and probably say Yes, they’ve always heard that Americans were Like That.)
Am interviewed by reporters on five different occasions – one young gentlemen evidently very tired, and droops on a sofa without saying much, which paralyses me, and results in long stretches of deathly silence. Finally he utters, to the effect that John Drinkwater was difficult to interview. Experience forlorn gleam of gratification at being bracketed with so distinguished a writer, but this instantly extinguished, as reporter adds that in the end J. D. talked for one hour and fifteen minutes. Am quite unable to emulate this achievement, and interview ends in gloom. Representative of an evening paper immediately appears, but is a great improvement on his colleague, and restores me to equanimity.
Three women reporters follow – am much struck by the fact that they are all good-looking and dress nicely – they all ask me what I think of the American Woman, whether I read James Branch Cabell – which I don’t – and what I feel about the Problem of the Leisured Woman. Answer them all as eloquently as possible, and make mental note to the effect that I have evidently never taken the subject of Women seriously enough, the only problem about them in England being why there are so many.
Lunch with distinguished publisher and his highly decorative wife and two little boys. Am not in the least surprised to find that they live in a flat with black-velvet sofas, concealed lighting, and three diagonal glass tables for sole furniture. It turns out, however, that this is not a typical American home, and that they find it nearly as remarkable as I do myself. We have lunch, the two little boys behave like angels – reputation of American children evidently libellous, and must remember to say so when I get home – and we talk about interior decoration – dining-room has different-coloured paint on each one of its four walls – books and sea voyages. Elder of the two little boys suddenly breaks into this and remarks that he just loves English sausages – oh boy! – which I accept as a compliment to myself, and he then relapses into silence. Am much impressed by this display of social competence, a
nd feel doubtful whether Robin or Vicky could ever have equalled it.
Afternoon is spent, once more, in interviews, and am taken out to supper-party by Ella Wheelwright, who again appears in clothes that I have never seen before. At supper I sit next elderly gentleman wearing collar exactly like Mr Gladstone’s. He is slightly morose, tells me that times are not at all what they were – which I know already – and that there is No Society left in New York. This seems to me uncivil, as well as ungrateful, and I decline to assent. Elderly Gentleman is, however, entirely indifferent as to whether I agree with him or not, and merely goes on to say that no club would dream of admitting Jews to its membership. (This, if true, reflects no credit on clubs.) It also appears that, in his own house, cocktails, wireless, gramophones and modern young people are – like Jews – never admitted. Should like to think of something really startling to reply to all this, but he would almost certainly take no notice, even if I did, and I content myself with saying that that is Very Interesting – which is not, unfortunately, altogether true.
Ella Wheelwright offers to drive me home, which she does with great competence, though once shouted at by a policeman who tells her: Put your lights on, sister!
Ella is kind, and asks me to tell her all about my home, but follows this up by immediately telling me all about hers instead. She also invites me to two luncheons, one tea, and to spend Sunday with her on Long Island.
Return to my room, which is now becoming familiar, and write long letter to Robert, which makes me feel homesick all over again.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 36
