Take one look at myself in the glass on reaching my room again, and decide that gay life is far from becoming to me, at any rate at four o’clock in the morning.
Last thought before dropping to sleep is that any roaring that may be indulged in by the lions of Central Park under my window will probably pass unnoticed by me, after hearing the orgy of noise apparently inseparable from the night life of New York.
December 1st. – Attend final lunch-party, given by Ella Wheelwright, and at which she tells me that I shall meet Mr Allen. Experience strong inclination to scream and say that I can’t, I’m the only person in America who hasn’t read his book – but Ella says No, no – she doesn’t mean Hervey Allen at all, she means Frederick Lewis Allen, who did American Procession. This, naturally, is a very different thing, and I meet Mr Allen and his wife with perfect calm, and like them both very much. Also meet English Colonel Roddie, author of Peace Patrol, which I haven’t read, but undertake to buy for Robert’s Christmas present, as I think it sounds as though he might like it.
Female guests consist of two princesses – one young and the other elderly, both American, and both wearing enormous pearls. Am reminded of Lady B. and experience uncharitable wish that she could be here, as pearls far larger than hers, and reinforced with colossal diamonds and sapphires into the bargain. Wish also that convention and good manners alike did not forbid my frankly asking the nearest princess to let me have a good look at her black pearl ring, diamond bracelet and wrist-watch set in rubies and emeralds.
Remaining lady strikes happy medium between dazzling display of princesses, and my own total absence of anything except old-fashioned gold wedding-ring – not even platinum – and modest diamond ring inherited from Aunt Julia – and tells me that she is the wife of a stockbroker. I ought, she thinks, to see the New York Exchange, and it will be a pleasure to take me all over it. Thank her very much, and explain that I am sailing at four o’clock to-morrow. She says: We could go in the morning. Again thank her very much, but my packing is not finished, and am afraid it will be impossible. Then, she says indomitably, what about this afternoon? It could, she is sure, be managed. Thank her more than ever, and again decline, this time without giving any specific reason for doing so.
She is unresentful, and continues to talk to me very nicely after we have left the dining-room. Ella and the two princesses ignore us both, and talk to one another about Paris, the Riviera and clothes.
Ella, however, just before I take my leave, undergoes a slight change of heart – presumably – and reminds me that she has promised to come and see me off, and will lunch with me at the Essex and take me to the docks. She unexpectedly adds that she is sending me round a book for the voyage – Anthony Adverse. Am horrified, but not in the least surprised, to hear myself thanking her effusively, and saying how very much I shall look forward to reading it.
Stockbroking lady offers me a lift in her car, and we depart together. She again makes earnest endeavour on behalf of the Stock Exchange, but I am unable to meet her in any way, though grateful for evidently kind intention.
Fulfil absolutely final engagement, which is at Colony Club, where I naturally remember recent information received, that the members do nothing but look at their wrist-watches. This, fortunately for me, turns out to be libellous, at least so far as present audience is concerned. All behave with the utmost decorum, and I deliver lecture, and conclude by reading short extract from my own published work.
Solitary contretemps of the afternoon occurs here, when I hear lady in front row enquire of her neighbour: What is she going to read? Neighbour replies in lugubrious accents that she doesn’t know, but it will be funny. Feel that after this no wit of mine, however brilliant, could be expected to succeed.
Day concludes with publisher calling for me in order to take me to a party held at Englewood, New Jersey. He drives his own car, with the result that we lose the way and arrive very late. Host says, Didn’t we get the little map that he sent out with the invitation? Yes, my publisher says, he got it all right, but unfortunately left it at home. Feel that this is exactly the kind of thing I might have done myself.
Pleasant evening follows, but am by now far too much excited by the thought of sailing for home to-morrow to give my mind to anything else.
December 2nd. – Send purely gratuitous cable to Robert at dawn saying that I am Just Off – which I shan’t be till four o’clock this afternoon – and then address myself once more to packing, with which I am still struggling when Ella Wheelwright is announced. She is, she says, too early, but she thought she might be able to help me.
This she does by sitting on bed and explaining to me that dark-red varnish doesn’t really suit her nails. Coral, yes, rose-pink, yes. But not dark-red. Then why, I naturally enquire – with my head more or less in a suit-case – does she put it on? Why? Ella repeats in astonishment. Because she has to, of course. It s the only colour that anyone is wearing now, so naturally she has no alternative. But it’s too bad, because the colour really doesn’t suit her at all, and in fact she dislikes it.
I make sounds that I hope may pass as sympathetic – though cannot really feel that Ella has made out a very good case for herself as a victim of unkind Fate – and go on packing and – still more – unpacking.
Impossibility of fitting in present for Our Vicar’s Wife, besides dressing-slippers and travelling-clock of my own, overcomes me altogether, and I call on Ella for help. This she reluctantly gives, but tells me at the same time that her dress wasn’t meant for a strain of any kind, and may very likely split under the arms if she tries to lift anything.
This catastrophe is fortunately spared us, and boxes are at last closed and taken downstairs, hand-luggage remaining in mountainous-looking pile, surmounted by tower of books. Ella looks at these with distaste, and says that what I need is a Strap, and then immediately presents me with Anthony Adverse. Should feel much more grateful if she had only brought me a strap instead.
We go down to lunch in Persian Coffee Shop, and talk about Mrs Tressider, to whom Ella sends rather vague messages, of which only one seems to me at all coherent – to the effect that she hopes The Boy is stronger than he was. I promise to deliver it, and even go so far as to suggest that I should write and let Ella know what I think of The Boy next time I see him. She very sensibly replies that I really needn’t trouble to do that, and I dismiss entire scheme forthwith. Discover after lunch that rain is pouring down in torrents, and facetiously remark that I may as well get used to it again, as I shall probably find the same state of affairs on reaching England. Ella makes chilly reply to the effect that the British climate always seems to her to be thoroughly maligned, especially by the English – which makes me feel that I have been unpatriotic. She then adds that she only hopes this doesn’t mean that the Berengaria is in for a rough crossing.
Go upstairs to collect my belongings in mood of the deepest dejection. Books still as unmanageable as ever, and I eventually take nine of them, and Ella two, and carry them downstairs.
Achieve the docks by car, Ella driving. She reiterates that I ought to have got a strap – especially when we find that long walk awaits us before we actually reach gangway of the Berengaria.
Hand-luggage proves too much for me altogether, and I twice drop various small articles, and complete avalanche of literature. Ella – who is comparatively lightly laden – walks on well ahead of me and has sufficient presence of mind not to look behind her – which is on the whole a relief to me.
Berengaria looks colossal, and thronged with people. Steward, who has been viewing my progress with – or without – the books, compassionately, detaches himself from the crowd and comes to my assistance. He will, he says, take me – and books – to my cabin.
Ella and I then follow him for miles and miles, and Ella says thoughtfully that I should be a long way from the deck if there was a fire.
Cabin is filled, in the most gratifying way, with flowers and telegrams. Also several parcels which undoubtedl
y contain more books. Steward leaves us, and Ella sits on the edge of the bunk and says that when she took her last trip to Europe her state-room was exactly like a florist’s shop. Even the stewardess said she’d never seen anything like it, in fifteen years’ experience.
Then, I reply with spirit, she couldn’t ever have seen a film star travelling. Film stars, to my certain knowledge, have to engage one, if not two, extra cabins solely to accommodate flowers, fruit, literature and other gifts bestowed upon them. This remark not a success with Ella – never thought it would be – and she says very soon afterwards that perhaps I should like to unpack and get straight, and she had better leave me.
Escort her on deck – lose the way several times and thoughts again revert to probable unpleasant situation in the event of a fire – and we part.
Ella’s last word to me is an assurance that she will be longing to hear of my safe arrival, and everyone always laughs at her because she gets such quantities of night letters and cables from abroad, but how can she help it, if she has so many friends? Mine to her is – naturally – an expression of gratitude for all her kindness. We exchange final reference to Mrs Tressider, responsible for bringing us together – she is to be given Ella’s love – The Boy should be outgrowing early delicacy by this time – and I lean over the side and watch Ella, elegant to the last in hitherto unknown grey squirrel coat, take her departure.
Look at fellow-travellers surrounding me, and wonder if I am going to like any of them – outlook not optimistic, and doubtless they feel the same about me. Suddenly perceive familiar figure – Mademoiselle is making her way towards me. She mutters Dieu! quelle canaille! – which I think is an unnecessarily strong way of expressing herself – and I remove myself and her to adjacent saloon, where we sit in armchairs and Mademoiselle presents me with a small chrysanthemum in a pot.
She is in very depressed frame of mind, sheds tears, and tells me that many a fine ship has been englouti par les vagues and that it breaks her heart to think of my two unhappy little children left without their mother. I beg Mademoiselle to take a more hopeful outlook, but at this she shows symptoms of being offended, so hastily add that I have often known similar misgivings myself – which is true. Ah, replies Mademoiselle lugubriously, les pressentiments, les pressentiments! and we are again plunged in gloom.
Suggest taking her to see my cabin, as affording possible distraction, and we accordingly proceed there, though not by any means without difficulty.
Mademoiselle, at sight of telegrams, again says Mon Dieu! and begs me to open them at once, in case of bad news. I do so, and am able to assure her that they contain only amiable wishes for a good journey from kind American friends. Mademoiselle – evidently in overwrought condition altogether – does not receive this as I had hoped, but breaks into floods of tears and says that she is suffering from mal du pays and la nostalgie.
Mistake this for neuralgia, and suggest aspirin, and this error fortunately restores Mademoiselle to comparative cheerfulness. Does not weep again until we exchange final and affectionate farewells on deck, just as gang-plank is about to be removed. Vite! shrieks Mademoiselle, dashing down it, and achieving the dock in great disarray.
I wave good-bye to her, and Berengaria moves off. Dramatic moment of bidding Farewell to America is then entirely ruined for me by unknown Englishwoman who asks me severely if that was a friend of mine?
Yes, it was.
Very well. It reminds her of an extraordinary occasion when her son was seeing her off from Southampton. He remained too long in the cabin – very devoted son, anxious to see that all was comfortable for his mother – and when he went up on deck, what do I think had happened?
Can naturally guess this without the slightest difficulty, but feel that it would spoil the story if I do, so only say What? in anxious tone of voice, as though I had no idea at all. The ship, says unknown Englishwoman impressively, had moved several yards away from the dock. And what do I suppose her son did then?
He swam, I suggest.
Not at all. He jumped. Put one hand on the rail, and simply leapt. And he just made it. One inch less, and he would have been in the water. But as it was, he just landed on the dock. It was a most frightful thing to do, and upset her for the whole voyage. She couldn’t get over it at all. Feel rather inclined to suggest that she hasn’t really got over it yet, if she is compelled to tell the story to complete stranger – but have no wish to be unsympathetic, so reply instead that I am glad it all ended well. Yes, says Englishwoman rather resentfully – but it upset her for the rest of the voyage.
Can see no particular reason why this conversation should ever end, and less reason still why it should go on, so feel it better to smile and walk away, which I do. Stewardess comes to my cabin later, and is very nice and offers to bring vases for flowers. Some of them, she thinks, had better go on my table in dining-saloon.
I thank her and agree, and look at letter, telegrams and books. Am gratified to discover note from Mr Alexander Woollcott, no less. He has, it appears, two very distinguished friends also travelling on the Berengaria, and they will undoubtedly come and introduce themselves to me, and make my acquaintance. This will, writes Mr W. gracefully, be to the great pleasure and advantage of all of us.
Am touched, but know well that none of it will happen, (a) because the distinguished friends are travelling first-class and I am not, and (b) because I shall all too certainly be laid low directly the ship gets into the open sea, and both unwilling and unable to make acquaintance with anybody.
Unpack a few necessities – am forcibly reminded of similar activities on S. S. Statendam and realise afresh that I really am on my way home and need not become agitated at mere sight of children’s photographs – and go in search of dining-saloon.
Find myself at a table with three Canadian young gentlemen who all look to me exactly alike – certainly brothers, and quite possibly triplets – and comparatively old acquaintance whose son performed athletic feat at Southampton Docks.
Enormous mountain of flowers decorates the middle of the table – everybody says Where do these come from? and I admit ownership and am evidently thought the better of thenceforward.
Much greater triumph, however, awaits me when table-steward, after taking a good look at me, suddenly proclaims that he and I were on board S. S. Mentor together in 1922. Overlook possibly scandalous interpretation to which his words may lend themselves, and admit to S. S. Mentor. Table-steward, in those days, was with the Blue Funnel line. He had the pleasure, he says, of waiting upon my husband and myself at the Captain’s table. He remembers us perfectly, and I have changed very little.
At this my prestige quite obviously goes up by leaps and bounds, and English fellow-traveller – name turns out to be Mrs Smiley – and Canadian triplets all gaze at me with awe-stricken expressions.
Behaviour of table-steward does nothing towards diminishing this, as he makes a point of handing everything to me first, and every now and then breaks off in the performance of his duties to embark on agreeable reminiscences of our earlier acquaintance.
Am grateful for so much attention, but feel very doubtful if I shall be able to live up to it all through voyage.
December 4th. – Flowers have to be removed from cabin, and books remain unread, but stewardess is kindness itself and begs me not to think of moving.
I do not think of moving.
December 5th. – Stewardess tells me that storm has been frightful, and surpassed any in her experience. Am faintly gratified at this – Why? – and try not to think that she probably says exactly the same thing more or less every voyage to every sea-sick passenger.
Practically all her ladies, she adds impressively, have been laid low, and one of the stewardesses. And this reminds her: the table-steward who looks after me in the dining-saloon has enquired many times how I am getting on, and if there is anything I feel able to take, later on, I have only to let him know.
Am touched by this, and decide that I could manage a bake
d potato and a dry biscuit. These are at once provided, and do me a great deal of good. The stewardess encourages me, says that the sea is now perfectly calm, and that I shall feel better well wrapped up on deck.
Feel that she is probably right, and follow her advice. Am quite surprised to see numbers of healthy-looking people tramping about vigorously, and others – less active, but still robust – sitting in chairs with rugs round their legs. Take up this attitude myself, but turn my back to the Atlantic Ocean, which does not seem to me quite to deserve eulogies bestowed upon it by stewardess. Canadian triplets presently go past – all three wearing black berets – and stop and ask how I am. They have, they say, missed me in the dining-room. I enquire How they are getting on with Mrs Smiley? and they look at one another with rather hunted expressions, and one of them says Oh, she talks a good deal.
Can well believe it.
Alarming thought occurs to me that she may be occupying the chair next mine, but inspection of card on the back of it reveals that this is not so, and that I am to be privileged to sit next to Mr H. Cyril de Mullins Green. Am, most unjustly, at once conscious of being strongly prejudiced against him. Quote Shakespeare to myself in a very literary way – What’s in a Name? – and soon afterwards doze.
Day passes with extreme slowness, but not unpleasantly. Decide that I positively must write and thank some of the people who so kindly sent me flowers and books for journey, but am quite unable to rouse myself to the extent of fetching writing materials from cabin. Take another excursion into the realms of literature and quote to myself from Mrs Gamp: ‘Rouge yourself, Mr Chuffey’ – but all to no avail.
Later in the afternoon Mr H. Cyril de Mullins Green materialises as pale young man with horn-rimmed glasses and enormous shock of black hair. He tells me – in rather resentful tone of voice – that he knows my name, and adds that he writes himself. Feel inclined to reply that I Thought as Much – but do not do so. Enquire instead – though not without misgivings as to tactfulness of the question – with whom the works of Mr H. C. de M. G. are published? He mentions a firm of which I have never heard, and I reply Oh really? as if I had known all about them for years, and the conversation drops. Remain on deck for dinner, but have quite a good one nevertheless, and immediately afterwards go down below.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 46
