Poison Penmanship: The Gentle Art of Muckraking

by Jessica Mitford

  It is she, I think, who sets the tone for our psychological handling—the “good child” routine. We are treated ever, ever so gently and kindly by everyone—like half-witted children aged seven. You ask an attendant the way to the gym. Instead of pointing it out, she drops whatever she is doing, takes your arm, and leads you there. You are put into the Ardena bath for the first time (the thought “boiled in oil” dismally occurring to you), and the attendant soothes you, cajoles you, gets you in, wraps you up tenderly as you have never been wrapped since childhood bronchitis. We do not put on our shoes after a foot treatment, we do not pour our own potassium broth at 11 a.m., nor our grapefruit juice at 4 p.m. We do not fetch our own towels after swimming. Willing hands do it all.

  The patrons seem to enjoy this kid-glove handling, they fall right in with the intense self-solicitude fostered by our custodians. I heard one woman arranging to be moved from her predominantly pink room, which she found somewhat too stimulating, to a blue room, a more tranquil color.

  The second in command, and the only other staff member who takes her meals with us, is a very nice English governess type—she was in fact a schoolmistress in the north of England for many years. While she has gone far in acquiring the Maine Chance manner (the soothing, dulcet tones that could drive you faintly dotty in time), there is something a little incongruous in her presence here. I visualize her being more at home in a stout mackintosh, walking down a sopping-wet country lane with an assortment of cocker spaniels and retrievers.

  She puts me in mind of my own far-off childhood in England— unsoothed and unlulled we were by our governess, who saw her primary task as knocking some sense into our heads. “Nobody’s going to look at you,” she would say if I was fussing about the way my sash was tied; or, approaching the drawing room at teatime, “Now, Jessica, remember you are the least important person in the room.”

  Maine Chance would not, I think, be a success in England. The aristocratic dowager, nearest English equivalent from a class standpoint to the ladies gathered here, is a hardier bloom whose upbringing has endowed her with an intractably matter-of-fact outlook on life. “Stuff and nonsense!” she would exclaim angrily, if asked to behave like a good child. While she might patronize a Continental health spa for a specific ailment—liver disease, gout, rheumatism are perennial English favorites—she would be unlikely to disburse a small fortune on going into retreat with a group of other women purely for the sake of sagging waistline and double chin.

  In the late afternoon (the two hours of free time between the day’s activities and dinner) I return to the Upper Garden of Arden. Maids are quietly padding to and fro with freshly pressed evening clothes. I say to myself, “I usually have a VERY DRY MARTINI about now,” but settle for some tea brought by the maid to the pool.

  Others from our snug dorm are gathered there, and we discuss rival beauty farms that have recently been in the news. There is the Greenhouse in Dallas, operated by Neiman-Marcus, and the Golden Door in California, where the exercise suits are pink instead of blue and where the tab is $1,100 for two weeks. “Very hilly-haley,” says one of our little throng. “What does that mean?” I ask eagerly. “Oh, you know.... Inexpensive.”

  WEDNESDAY

  Those in the know (the old-timers) tell me that by Wednesday one is for some reason at one’s lowest ebb. I can see why: the miraculous shedding of weight has slowed down (I only lost half a pound today), the novelty of the day’s routine has worn off, and there are still three days left until Sunday.

  Perhaps reflecting the Wednesday slump, lunchtime talk today turned from food to liquor: how many calories in a whiskey sour? In an ounce of bourbon? The duenna smilingly instructed us in these matters, and added that if one must drink, plain Scotch and water is better than martinis.

  A well-known dynamo (or at least the wife of one) arrived in our midst today—Mrs. Barry Goldwater. As we tucked it in together on adjacent mats and walked our ears up the wall for posture, I observed that she is a whiz at the exercises, and in my heart I knew she was far trimmer of figure than most of us. She is a day scholar, for her home is hard by and she returns there in the evenings. Here she is surrounded by her husband’s admirers and former campaign contributors; I have yet to meet a Rockefeller supporter at Maine Chance. I asked my nice Swedish masseuse, “Do any Democrats come here?” “Ach, ja,” she answered. “Ve have very many of them, Mrs. Dwight Eisenhower, she come, and Mrs. John Foster Dulles, she always come for Christmas, and Mrs. Barry Goldwater ...” “Any Johnsons, or Kennedys, or Humphreys?” She considered a moment. “No ... I no know those names.”

  At dinner tonight there was a moment of perturbation to ruffle the calm. We had lamb chops, and the waitress, as is her custom, indicated that we might take two each. Halfway down the table, the platter was empty. Had she made a mistake? Would some diners have to go hungry? A Lord of the Flies look momentarily crossed some faces (while those who had already been served noticeably speeded up consumption, perhaps fearing the second chop would be called back); but another platter soon appeared, and the day was saved.

  THURSDAY

  As we become better acquainted, mealtime conversation takes on more range, and I am beginning to acquire some insight into the affluent mind. F. Scott Fitzgerald is supposed to have said, “The rich are different from us,” and Ernest Hemingway to have answered, “Yes, they have more money.” One wonders.

  There is the lady from Florida who has six darling poodles at home. She couldn’t bear to leave all of them for two whole weeks, so she brought her favorite one and a maid to look after it, rented an apartment for them in Phoenix, and visits twice daily. Today, at lunch, she swiped a piece of steak to take to Doggie. This set us talking about bowser bags. Another lady at our table complained about a queer thing that happens at her parties: guests bring along bowser bags, and behind her back get the servants to fill them up with food—but she knows the food isn’t really for their dogs, they take it home and eat it. I was startled into saying that I must say nothing like that has ever happened to me when I give a party; she said, “My dear, check with your butler, I’m sure he’ll admit to you that it goes on all the time.” There is the lady whose husband sends her fresh flowers every day, flown here from Honolulu. Another has just returned from Portugal where she took her eight grandchildren for a little treat—and allowed each to bring a friend along for company, so they wouldn’t fight. Yet another sometimes flies from New York to London for the day, to see the races—her race horse lives in England with its trainer.

  They are all nonstop shoppers. In the few free daytime moments they are at the boutique; after the daily routine they dash to Phoenix for more shopping before dinner. The International Setters regularly show up in the evening in darling look-alike outfits bought that day at Saks or Magnin.

  FRIDAY

  Tonight, after dinner, we played Bingo for house prizes, wrapped packages of bubble bath and other gifts in the range of $1.25 to $5. The Bingo almost led to a nasty row; it is amazing how close to the surface lurk some of the cruder passions in the bosoms of our flowers. The duenna, looking smashing in flowered organza, gaily presided and announced the games. “A straight line in any direction, horizontal, vertical, or diagonal,” she sang out. It took a little time to explain these concepts to some of the less alert ladies, but they finally got it. We played, there was a winner, her prize was ceremoniously handed.

  As the games progressed, the duenna varied the rules to add to the suspense—at one point she gave three prizes to a single winner for a full board. The rivalry soon became intense, each furiously concentrating on her board. Now Mrs. C., a large motherly lady sitting next to me, won twice in a row. Somebody said, in a stage whisper heard all over the room, “I think Mrs. C. should disqualify herself now she’s won two prizes.” There was an awkward silence. Mrs. C. looked about her uncertainly, then rose and said in frigid tones, “Very well, I’ll disqualify myself. But I think I should say Mrs. X. got three prizes for one game and she wasn’t disqu
alified.” Everybody rallied: “Oh, don’t go, Mrs. C.,” they cooed. She was persuaded, and sat down. The duenna, perhaps fearing we were getting overexcited, soon declared the fun over and we retired to bed.

  SATURDAY

  For those of us who are leaving tomorrow, this is the day for the final garnish. We are like well-done cakes, out of the oven, cooled and ready for icing. Hair is now cut, washed, tinted, and set: nails (both toe and finger) coated with pink polish. Faces are painstakingly dealt with: eyebrows are plucked, lashes touched up with black dye and mascara on top of that; foundation lotion, rouge, and powder carefully applied. Legs are coated from ankle to upper thigh with a hot thick brown wax which is ripped off after cooling, leaving the legs hairless and gleaming. Rather to my terror, the same procedure is followed for the armpits; surprisingly, it hardly hurts at all, so quickly and skillfully is it done. But (I think gloomily) it is all very much like taking old Tray to the vet for a clip and bath; he looks marvelous for a few days, but quickly reverts to his usual state.

  Now we get our report cards. I am alleged to have lost two inches round the waist and the promised half-inch off upper arm, with corresponding reduction of hips, thighs, legs. I have also lost five pounds.

  This evening, at dinner, those of us who had done well were each allowed a tiny sliver of a magnificent cheesecake, a speciality of our chef. One of the International Setters was so moved by the appearance of this dessert that she did some rapid calorie calculation and dined off cheesecake alone—forgoing her first course entirely in order to be entitled to an extra piece.

  SUNDAY

  My last day. A super-lull has fallen over these hushed precincts. The place is almost deserted: some patrons have already departed, and those who are staying on have rented cars or chartered planes for a little Sunday outing. I took advantage of the inactivity to seek out a higher-echelon staff member who told me something of the history and operation of Maine Chance.

  The original Maine Chance, a farmhouse in Mount Vernon, Maine, was acquired by Elizabeth Arden before World War II, and is open each year from June to September. The Arizona establishment, which operates in winter only, opened in 1948 with 9 clients; it has expanded over the years, several new buildings have been added, and today the average enrollment is 40 to 45. In a six-month period, some 750 flowers are processed.

  The staff numbers about 60. There are 27 beautifiers (masseuses, hairdressers, and so on), 25 household help (kitchen personnel, maids, drivers), 2 hostesses, 2 office workers, several gardeners. Most of the staff migrate to Mount Vernon in summer. They work a six-day week and for three months of the year, when both establishments are closed, they are on leave.

  My informant explained that the reason Maine Chance is never advertised is that it is “definitely noncommercial.” “You mean, it doesn’t make money?” I asked, incredulous. She said that it might break even or might lose money, but it is not a profit-making proposition. “A charitable enterprise?” “No, not exactly, more an accommodation for clients.” “Any camperships under the Poverty Program?” “You must be joking.” (I was, for once.)

  Maine Chance is, she went on, the fulfillment of a dream—an expression of Miss Arden’s personality, her beliefs, her life’s dedication to principles of health and beauty, cleanliness inside and out, serenity, simplicity of regimen carried out in beautiful, peaceful surroundings.

  Yet from the prosaic viewpoint of an innkeeper, Maine Chance has much going for it. There are no men, children, drunks, dogs, or other misusers of furnishings among the clientele. While the food is delicious (and French chefs come high), there are no substitutions on the $750 dinners, and no second servings. For the sake of restfulness and serenity, lights go out at 10 p.m. and the telephone switchboard closes for the night—a practice also highly compatible with economy.

  Later, sitting in the Phoenix airport coffee shop, I felt as though I had awakened from a curious dream. Although I had been gone from the real world for only a week, somehow it seemed much longer. It was a wonderful feeling to be once more surrounded by ordinary people with ordinary preoccupations, hurrying about carrying things, looking at watches, coping with little children. The coffee-shop hostess, with her iron-gray bouffant hairdo and lame dress, could have stepped right out of the Maine Chance dining room—right age, right clothes, same incipient figure problems—only she probably makes eighty dollars a week, paid forty dollars for the dress, sets her own hair, and really does do the Air Force exercises.

  Waiting for my plane, I did some simple sums. My week at Maine Chance, including tips (15 percent of my bill) and transportation, cost roughly $1,000. I had lost five pounds, at $200 per pound. The forty of us at Maine Chance represented a total investment of some $40,000 in a one-week effort to jack up sagging muscles and restore the fading roses to aging cheeks. A poignant thought.

  Friends met me at the airport. “Do I look different?” I asked hopefully. “Well ... not really. But you’ve lost some weight, haven’t you?” And at least I could say that, like Poor Jud in Oklahoma!, my fingernails have never been so clean.

  COMMENT

  A major part of the magazine editor’s job is to think up ideas for articles with which to fill those flapping pages of text that serve as the fragile connective tissue for the many more pages of advertisements. Some editors will bombard the “established writer” with article proposals without much regard for that particular writer’s sphere of interest or expertise. I have a large file of such proposals, ranging from a story on Queen Elizabeth’s coronation to ecological advances in the Midwest. Because I make my living by writing, I do not lightly turn down article assignments; I consider them very carefully. But I also know that if I cannot, after earnest contemplation, warm up to a subject, the finished piece will please nobody: I shall be dissatisfied, so will the editor, so will the reader.

  There are exceptional editors who have an instinct for matching the story with the writer. Such a one is Vivian Cadden of McCall’s. “Honestly! Maine Chance—for me?” I roared in astonishment when she called up to suggest this subject. Of course, she said; it will be a giggle all the way, do go; besides, you might lose some weight. That last observation, while not exactly kind, was persuasive.

  “How do I go about getting accepted?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on,” said Vivian. “You know better than that. Just do it.”

  Of course she was right. Yet a slight feeling of paranoia took hold at the moment of actually picking up the phone to call Elizabeth Arden’s for a reservation. Maine Chance would surely be, for me, enemy territory; what if my identity were discovered by the reservations people? Would they refuse my application? I could use my married name, but this would be scanty cover at the local Arden salon in San Francisco, where they might easily make the connection with Jessica Mitford. So I telephoned to the New York office and announced myself as Mrs. Robert Treuhaft, which was how I was introduced to the other slimmers at Maine Chance. One day at lunch I overheard a woman asking another, “Who is that?” “Oh, that’s Mrs. Fruehauf” came the reply. “Her husband is very big in trucking.” This, for me one of the major giggles, I omitted from the article as too much of an in-joke for McCall’s readers.

  The other giggle was the bathtub. I really loathe not having a proper bath, and had even asked Reservations if there was a bath somewhere in the building to which I could nip in my dressing gown, as is often the case in the cheap European hotels where I sometimes stay. Reservations, sounding very reserved, answered in the negative. Although McCall’s are generous about expenses —and were well aware that the outlay for this piece was going to be large—I did think it advisable to check with them about the $150 bathtub, and wrote to Vivian anxiously inquiring if they would underwrite this extra expense. The reply came by telegram:

  “MCCALL’S WOULD NOT WANT YOU TO BE WITHOUT A BATHTUB.”

  LET US NOW APPRAISE FAMOUS WRITERS

  ATLANTIC / July, 1970

  Beware of the scribes who like

  t
o go about in long robes, and

  love salutations in the market

  places ... and the places of

  honor at feasts; who devour

  widows’ houses ...

  Luke 20:46, 47

  In recent years I have become aware of fifteen Famous Faces looking me straight in the eye from the pages of innumerable magazines, newspapers, fold-out advertisements, sometimes in black-and-white, sometimes in living color, sometimes posed in a group around a table, sometimes shown singly, pipe in hand in book-lined study or strolling through a woodsy countryside: the Guiding Faculty of the Famous Writers School.*

  Here is Bennett Cerf, most famous of them all, his kindly, humorous face aglow with sincerity, speaking to us in the first person from a mini-billboard tucked into our Sunday newspaper: “If you want to write, my colleagues and I would like to test your writing aptitude. We’ll help you find out whether you can be trained to become a successful writer.” And Faith Baldwin, looking up from her typewriter with an expression of ardent concern for that vast, unfulfilled sisterhood of nonwriters: “It’s a shame more women don’t take up writing. Writing can be an ideal profession for women.... Beyond the thrill of that first sale, writing brings intangible rewards.” J. D. Ratcliff, billed in the ads as “one of America’s highest-paid free-lance authors,” thinks it’s a shame, too: “I can’t understand why more beginners don’t take the short road to publication by writing articles for magazines and newspapers. It’s a wonderful life.”