Conversation with Aunt Eleanor ensues. She does not, herself, write books, she says, but those who do have always had a strange fascination for her. She has often thought of writing a book – many of her friends have implored her to do so, in fact – but no, she finds it impossible to begin. And yet, there are many things in her life about which whole, entire novels might well be written. Everybody devotes a moment of rather awed silence to conjecturing the nature of Aunt Eleanor’s singular experiences, and anti-climax is felt to have ensued when small lady in rather frilly frock suddenly announces in a pipy voice that she has a boy cousin, living in Oklahoma, who once wrote something for the New Yorker, but they didn’t ever publish it.
This more or less breaks up the party, and Mrs Walker drives me home again, and says in a rather exhausted way that she thanks Heaven that’s over.
We talk about Aunt Eleanor – she has been twice married, one husband died and the other one left her, but no divorce – and she has two daughters but neither of them live at home. Can quite understand it, and say so. Mrs Walker assents mildly, which encourages me to add that I didn’t take to Aunt Eleanor much. No, says Mrs Walker thoughtfully, she doesn’t really think that Aunt E. and I would ever get on together very well.
Am quite surprised and hurt at this, and realise that, though I am quite prepared to dislike Aunt Eleanor, I find it both unjust and astonishing that she should be equally repelled by me. Rather interesting side-light on human nature thrown here, and have dim idea of going into the whole thing later, preferably with Rose – always so well informed – or dear Mary Kellway, full of intelligence, even though unable to write legibly – but this probably owing to stress of life in country parish, so much more crowded with activities than any other known form of existence.
Dinner-party closes the day, and I put on backless evening dress, add coatee, take coatee off again, look at myself with mirror and hand-glass in conjunction, resume coatee, and retain it for the rest of the evening.
November 15th. – Weather gets colder and colder as I approach Boston, and this rouses prejudice in me, together with repeated assurances from everybody I meet to the effect that Boston is the most English town in America, and I shall simply adore it. Feel quite unlike adoration as train takes me through snowy country, and affords glimpses of towns that appear to be entirely composed of Gasoline Stations and Motion-Picture Theatres. Towards nine-o’clock in the morning I have an excellent breakfast – food in America definitely a very bright spot – and return to railway carriage, where I see familiar figure, hat still worn at very dashing angle, and recognise Pete. Feel as if I had met my oldest friend, in the middle of a crowd of strangers, and we greet one another cordially. Pete tells me that I seem to be standing up to it pretty well – which I take to be a compliment to my powers of endurance – and unfolds terrific programme of the activities he has planned for me in Boston.
Assent to everything, but add that the thing I want to do most of all is to visit the Alcott House at Concord, Mass. At this Pete looks astounded, and replies that this is, he supposes, merely a personal fancy, and so far as he knows no time for anything of that kind has been allowed in the schedule. Am obliged to agree that it probably hasn’t, but repeat that I really want to do that more than anything else in America. (Much later on, compose eloquent and convincing speech, to the effect that I have worked very hard and done all that was required of me, and that I am fully entitled to gratify my own wishes for one afternoon at least. Am quite clear that if I had only said all this at the time, Pete would have been left without a leg to stand upon. Unfortunately, however, I do not do so.)
Boston is reached – step out of the train into the iciest cold that it has ever been my lot to encounter – and am immediately photographed by unknown man carrying camera and unpleasant little light-bulb which he flashes unexpectedly into my eyes. No one makes the slightest comment on this proceeding, and am convinced that he has mistaken me for somebody quite different.
Two young creatures from the Boston Transcript meet me, and enquire, more or less instantly, what I feel about the Problem of the American Woman, but Pete, with great good-feeling, suggests that we should discuss it all in taxi on our way to Hotel, which we do. One of them then hands me a cable – (announcing death of Robin or Vicky?) – and says it arrived this morning.
Cable says, in effect, that I must at all costs get into touch with Caroline Concannon’s dear friend and cousin Mona, who lives in Pinckney Street, would love to meet me, has been written to, everything all right at flat, love from Caroline.
Am quite prepared to get into touch with dear friend and cousin, but say nothing to Pete about it, for fear of similar disconcerting reaction to that produced by suggestion of visiting Alcott House.
Am conducted to nice little Hotel in Charles Street, and told once by Pete, and twice by each of the Boston Transcript young ladies, that I am within a stone’s-throw of the Common. Chief association with the Common is An Old-Fashioned Girl, in which heroine goes tobogganing, but do not refer to this, and merely reply that That is very nice. So it may be, but not at the moment when Common, besides being deep in snow, is quite evidently being searched from end to end by ice-laden north-east wind.
Pete, with firmness to which I am by now accustomed, says that he will leave me to unpack but come and fetch me again in an hour’s time, to visit customary book-shops.
Telephone bell in sitting-room soon afterwards rings, and it appears that dear Rose – like Caroline Concannon – has a friend in Boston, and that the friend is downstairs and proposes to come up right away and see me. I say Yes, yes, and I shall be delighted, and hastily shut suit-cases which I have this moment opened, and look at myself in the glass instead.
Results of this inspection are far from encouraging, but nothing can be done about it now, and can only concentrate on trying to remember everything that Rose has ever told me about her Boston friend called, I believe, Fanny Mason. Sum-total of my recollections is that the friend is very literary, and has written a good deal, and travelled all over the world, and is very critical.
Am rather inclined to become agitated by all this, but friend appears, and has the good-feeling to keep these disquieting attributes well out of sight, and concentrate on welcoming me very kindly to Boston – (exactly like England and all English people always love it on that account) – and enquiring affectionately about Rose. (Am disgusted to learn from what she says that dear Rose has written to her far more recently, as well as at much greater length, than to myself. Shall have a good deal to say to Rose when we meet again.)
Friend then announces that she has A Girl downstairs. The Girl has brought a car, and is going to show me Boston this morning, take me to lunch at a Women’s Club, and to a tea later. This more than kind, but also definitely disconcerting in view of arrangements made by Pete, and I say Oh, Miss Mason – and then stop, rather like heroine of a Victorian novel.
Miss M. at once returns that I must not dream of calling her anything but Fanny. She has heard of me for years and years, and we are already old friends. This naturally calls for thanks and acknowledgments on my part, and I then explain that publishers’ representative is in Boston, and calling for me in an hour’s time, which I’m afraid means that I cannot take advantage of kind offer.
Miss M. – Fanny – undefeated, and says it is Important that I should see Boston, no one who has not done so can be said to know anything whatever about America, and The Girl is waiting for me downstairs. Suggest – mostly in order to gain time – that The Girl should be invited to come up, and this is done by telephone.
She turns out to be very youthful and good-looking blonde, introduced to me as ‘Leslie’ – (first names evidently the fashion in Boston) – and says she is prepared to take me anywhere in the world, more or less, at any moment.
Explain all over again about Pete and the booksellers. Fanny remains adamant, but Leslie says reasonably: What about to-morrow instead, and I advance cherished scheme for visiting Alcott Hou
se. This, it appears, is fraught with difficulties, as Alcott House is impenetrably shut at this time of year. Feel that if Pete comes to hear of this, my last hope is gone. Leslie looks rather sorry for me, and says perhaps something could be arranged, but anyway I had better come out now and see Boston. Fanny is also urgent on this point, and I foresee deadlock, when telephone rings and Pete is announced, and is told to come upstairs.
Brilliant idea then strikes me; I introduce everybody, and tell Pete that there has been rather a clash of arrangements, but that doubtless he and Miss Mason can easily settle it between themselves. Will they, in the meanwhile, excuse me, as I positively must see about my unpacking? Retreat firmly into the bedroom to do so, but spend some of the time with ear glued to the wall, trying to ascertain whether Pete and Miss M. – both evidently very strong personalities – are going to fly at one another’s throats or not. Voices are certainly definitely raised, usually both at once, but nothing more formidable happens, and I hope that physical violence may be averted.
Decide that on the whole I am inclined to back Pete, as possessing rock-like quality of immovability once his mind is made up – doubtless very useful asset in dealing with authors, publishers and so on.
Subsequent events prove that I am right, and Pete walks me to book-shop, with laconic announcement to Leslie and Miss M. – Fanny – that I shall be at their disposal by 12.30.
November 16th. – Most extraordinary revolution in everybody’s outlook – excepting my own – by communication from Mr Alexander Woollcott. He has, it appears, read in a paper (Boston Transcript?) that my whole object in coming to America was to visit the Alcott House, and of this he approves to such an extent that he is prepared to Mention It in a Radio Talk, if I will immediately inform him of my reactions to the expedition.
Entire volte-face now takes place in attitude of Pete, Fanny and everybody else. If Alexander Woollcott thinks I ought to visit Alcott House, it apparently becomes essential that I should do so and Heaven and earth must, if necessary, be moved in order to enable me to. Am much impressed by the remarkable difference between enterprise that I merely want to undertake for my own satisfaction, and the same thing when it is advocated by Mr A. W.
Result of it all is that the members of the Alcott-Pratt family are approached, they respond with the greatest kindness, and offer to open the house especially for my benefit. Fanny says that Leslie will drive me out to Concord on Sunday afternoon, and she will herself accompany us, not in order to view Alcott House – she does not want to see it, which rather shocks me – but to visit a relation of her own living there. Pete does not associate himself personally with the expedition, as he will by that time have gone to New York, Charleston, Oshkosh or some other distant spot – but it evidently meets with his warmest approval, and his last word to me is an injunction to take paper and pencil with me and send account of my impressions red-hot to Mr Alexander Woollcott.
November 18th. – Go to see football game, Harvard v. Army. Am given to understand – and can readily believe – that this is a privilege for which Presidents, Crowned Heads and Archbishops would one and all give ten years of life at the very least. It has only been obtained for me by the very greatest exertions on the part of everybody.
Fanny says that I shall be frozen – (can well believe it) – but that it will be worth it, and Leslie thinks I may find it rather difficult to follow – but it will be worth it – and they both agree that there is always a risk of pneumonia in this kind of weather. Wonder if they are going to add that it will still be worth it, because if so, shall disagree with them forcibly – but they heap coals of fire on my head for this unworthy thought by offering to lend me rugs, furs, mufflers and overshoes. Escort has been provided for me in the person of an admirer of Fanny’s – name unknown to me from first to last – and we set out together at one o’clock. Harvard stadium is enormous – no roof, which I think a mistake – and we sit in open air, and might be comfortable if temperature would only rise above zero. Fanny’s admirer is extremely kind to me, and can only hope he isn’t thinking all the time how much pleasanter it would be if he were only escorting Fanny instead.
(Reminiscence here of once-popular song: I am dancing with tears in my eyes ’Cos the girl in my arms isn’t you. Have always felt this attitude rather hard on girl actually being danced with at the moment of singing.)
Ask questions that I hope sound fairly intelligent, and listen attentively to the answers. Escort in return then paralyses me by putting to me various technical points in regard to what he calls the English Game. Try frantically to recall everything that I can ever remember having heard from Robin, but am only able to recollect that he once said Soccer was absolutely lousy and that I rebuked him for it. Translate this painful reminiscence into civilised version to the effect that Rugger is more popular than Soccer with Our Schoolboys.
Presently a mule appears and is ridden round the field by a member of one team or the other – am not sure which – and I observe, idiotically, that It’s like a Rodeo – and immediately perceive that it isn’t in the least, and wish I hadn’t spoken. Fortunately a number of young gentlemen in white suddenly emerge on to the ground, turn beautiful back somersaults in perfect unison, and cheer madly through a megaphone. Am deeply impressed, and assure Fanny’s admirer that we have nothing in the least like that at Wembley, Twickenham, nor, so far as I know, anywhere else. He agrees, very solemnly, that the cheers are a Great Feature of the Game.
Soon afterwards we really get started, and I watch my first game of American football. Players all extensively padded and vast numbers of substitute-players wait about in order to rush in and replace them when necessary. Altogether phenomenal number of these exchanges takes place, but as no stretchers visible, conclude that most of the injuries received fall short of being mortal.
Fanny’s admirer gives me explanations about what is taking place from time to time, but is apt to break off in the middle of a phrase when excitement overcomes him. Other interruptions are occasioned by organised yellings and roarings, conducted from the field, in which the spectators join.
At about four o’clock it is said to be obvious that Harvard hasn’t got a chance, and soon afterwards the Army is declared to have won.
Escort and I look at each other and say Well, and Wasn’t it marvellous? and then stand up, and I discover that I am quite unable to feel my feet at all, and that all circulation in the rest of my body has apparently stopped altogether – probably frozen.
We totter as best we can through the crowd – escort evidently just as cold as I am, judging by the colour of his face and hands – and over bridge, past buildings that I am told are all part of the College, and to flat with attractive view across the river. As I have not been warned by anybody that this is in store, I remain unaware throughout why I am being entertained there, or by whom. Hot tea, for once, is extraordinarily welcome, and so is superb log-fire; and I talk to unknown, but agreeable, American about President Roosevelt, the state of the dollar – we both take a gloomy view of this – and extreme beauty of American foliage in the woods of Maine – where I have never set foot, but about which I have heard a good deal.
November 19th. – Expedition to Concord – now smiled upon by all, owing to intervention of dear Alexander W. – takes place, and definitely ranks in my own estimation higher than anything else I have done in America.
All is snow, silence and loveliness, with frame-houses standing amongst trees, and no signs of either picture-houses, gasoline-stations, or hot-dog stalls. Can think of nothing but Little Women, and visualise scene after scene from well-remembered and beloved book. Fanny, sympathetic, but insensible to appeal of Little Women, is taken on to see her relations, and I remain with Mrs Pratt, surviving relative of Miss Alcott, and another elderly lady, both kind and charming and prepared to show me everything there is to see.
Could willingly remain there for hours and hours.
Time, however, rushes by with its usual speed when I am absorbed and h
appy, and I am obliged to make my farewells, collect postcards and pictures with which I have most kindly been presented, and book given me for Vicky which I shall, I know, be seriously tempted to keep for myself.
Can think of nothing but the March family for the remainder of the day, and am much annoyed at being reminded by Fanny and Leslie that whatever happens, I must send my impressions to Mr Alexander Woollcott without delay.
November 20th. – Just as day of my departure from Boston arrives, weather relents and suddenly becomes quite mild. I go and call on Caroline Concannon’s friend, and am much taken with her. She has no party, which is a great relief, and we talk about England and C. C. Very amusing and good company, says the friend, and I agree, and add that Caroline is looking after my flat during my absence. Slight misgiving crosses my mind as to the literal accuracy of this statement, but this perhaps ungenerous, and make amends by saying that she is Very Good with Children – which is perfectly true.
Walk back across Common, and see very pretty brick houses, Queen Anne style. Old mauve glass in many window-panes, but notice cynically that these always appear in ground-floor windows, where they can be most easily admired by the passers-by.
Decide that this is certainly a good moment for taking Rose’s advice to buy myself a Foundation Garment in America, as they understand these things, says Rose, much better than we do in England. I accordingly enter a shop and find elderly saleswoman, who disconcerts me by saying in a sinister way that I certainly can’t wear the ordinary suspender-belt, that’s very evident. She supplies me with one that is, I suppose, removed from the ordinary, and her last word is an injunction to me not to forget that whatever I do, I mustn’t wear an ordinary belt. It’ll be the complete ruin of my figure if I do. Depart, in some dejection.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 42
