Collected works of e m d.., p.420
Collected Works of E M Delafield, page 420
(Query: Is this a cast-iron resolution, to be put into effect directly I get home in whatever mood I may happen to find Cook — or is it merely one of those rhetorical flashes, never destined to be translated into action? Answer, all too probably: The latter.)
Reflect with satisfaction that I can actually claim friendship with official in the State Department, met several times in London, and whom I now propose to ring up on the telephone as soon as the day is respectably advanced. Recollect that I liked him very much, and hope that this may still hold good after lapse of five years, and may also extend to newly acquired wife, whom I have never met, and that neither of them will take a dislike to me.
(Query: Has rebuff at first Hotel visited slightly unnerved me? If so, morale will doubtless be restored by breakfast. Order more coffee and a fresh supply of toast on the strength of this thought.)
Greatly surprised as I leave dining-room to find myself presented with small card on which is printed name hitherto totally unknown to me: General Clarence Dove. I say to the waiter — not very intelligently — What is this? and he refrains from saying, as he well might, that It’s a visiting-card, and replies instead that It’s the gentleman at the table near the door.
At this I naturally look at the table near the door, and elderly gentleman with bald head and rather morose expression makes half-hearted movement towards getting up, and bows. I bow in return, and once more scrutinise card, but it still looks exactly the same, and I am still equally unable to wake any association in connection with General Clarence Dove. Feel constrained to take one or two steps towards him, which courtesy he handsomely returns by standing up altogether and throwing his table-napkin on the floor.
Cannot help wishing the waiter would put things on a more solid basis by introducing us, but this feeling probably only a manifestation of British snobbishness, and nothing of the kind occurs. Elderly gentleman, however, rises to the occasion more or less, and tells me that he has been written to by Mrs. Wheelwright, of Long Island, and told to look out for me, and that I am writing a book about America. He has therefore ventured to make himself known to me.
Express my gratification, and beg him to go on with his breakfast. This he refuses to do, and says — obviously untruly — that he has finished, but that we could perhaps take a little turn together in the sunshine. This hope rather optimistic, as sunshine though present turns out to be of poor quality, and we hastily retire to spacious hall, furnished with alternate armchairs and ashtrays on stands. Central heating, undeniably, far more satisfactory than sunshine, at this time of year, but doubtful if this thought would appeal to General Clarence Dove — aspect rather forbidding — so keep it to myself.
Just as I am preparing to make agreeable speech anent the beauties of Washington, the General utters.
He hears, he says, that I am writing a book about America. Now, he may be old-fashioned, but personally he finds this rather difficult to understand.
I say, No, no, in great agitation, and explain that I am not writing a book about America, that I shouldn’t ever dream of doing such a thing, after a six months’ visit, and that on the contrary —
A book about America, says the General, without paying the slightest attention to my eloquence, is not a thing to be undertaken in that spirit at all. Far too many British and other writers have made this mistake. They come over — whether invited or not — and are received by many of the best people in America, and what do they do in return? I again break in and say that I know, and I have often thought what a pity it is, and the last thing I should ever dream of doing would be to —
Besides, interrupts the General, quite unmoved, America is a large country. A very large country indeed. To write a book about it would be a very considerable task. What people don’t seem to understand is that no person can call themselves qualified to write a book about it after a mere superficial visit lasting less than two months.
Am by now almost frantic, and reiterate in a subdued shriek that I agree with every word the General is saying, and have always thought exactly the same thing — but all is in vain. He continues to look straight in front of him, and to assure me that there can be no greater mistake than to come over to a country like America, spend five minutes there, and then rush home and write a book about it. Far too many people have done this already.
Can see by now that it is completely useless to try and persuade General Clarence Dove that I am not amongst these, and have no intention of ever being so — and I therefore remain silent whilst he says the same things all over again about five times more.
After this he gets up, assures me that it has been a pleasure to meet me, and that he will certainly read my book about America when it comes out, and we part — never, I hope, to meet again.
Am completely shattered by this extraordinary encounter for several hours afterwards, but eventually summon up enough strength to ring up Department of State — which makes me feel important — and get into touch with friend James. He responds most agreeably, sounds flatteringly pleased at my arrival, and invites me to lunch with himself and his wife and his baby.
Baby?
Oh yes, he has a daughter aged two months. Very intelligent. I say, quite truthfully, that I should love to see her, and feel that she will be a much pleasanter companion than General Clarence Dove — and much more on my own conversational level into the bargain.
James later fetches me by car, and we drive to his apartment situated in street rather strangely named O. Street. I tell him that he hasn’t altered in the very least — he says the same, though probably with less truth, about me, and enquires after Robert, the children, Kolynos the dog — now, unfortunately, no longer with us — and Helen Wills the cat. I then meet his wife, Elizabeth — very pretty and attractive — and his child, Katherine — not yet pretty, but I like her and am gratified because she doesn’t cry when I pick her up — and we have peaceful and pleasant lunch.
Conversation runs on personal and domestic lines, and proves thoroughly congenial, after recent long spell of social and literary exertions. Moreover, Anthony Adverse motif entirely absent, which is a relief.
Reluctantly leave this agreeable atmosphere in order to present myself at Department Store, in accordance with explicit instructions received from Pete.
Arrange, however, to go with James next day and be shown house of George Washington.
Store is, as usual, large and important, and I enter it with some trepidation, and very nearly walk straight out again on catching sight of large and flattering photograph of myself, taken at least three years ago, propped up in prominent position. Printed notice below says that I am Speaking at Four O’clock this afternoon.
Memory transports me to village at home, and comparative frequency with which I Speak, alternately with Our Vicar’s Wife, at Women’s Institute, Mothers’ Union, and the like organisations, and total absence of excitement with which both of us are alike hailed. Fantastic wonder crosses my mind as to whether photograph, exhibited beforehand, say in Post Office window, would be advisable, but on further reflection decide against this.
(Photograph was taken in Bond Street, head and shoulders only, and can distinctly recollect that Vicky, on seeing it, enquired in horrified tones if I was all naked?)
Enquire for book department, am told to my confusion that I am in it, and realise with horror that I am, but have been completely lost in idiotic and unprofitable reverie. Make no attempt to explain myself, but simply ask for Mrs. Roberta Martin, head of department. She appears — looks about twenty-five but is presumably more — and welcomes me very kindly.
Would I like tea before I speak, or after?
She asks this so nicely that I am impelled to candour, and say that I wouldn’t really like tea at all, but could we have a cup of coffee together afterwards?
We could, and do.
Find ourselves talking about boys. Mrs. R. M. says she has a son of fourteen, which I find quite incredible, and very nearly tell her so, but am restrained by sudden obscure association with extraordinary behaviour of General Clarence Dove.
Boys a great responsibility, we agree, but very nice. Her Sidney and my Robin have points in common. Did Sidney like parties in early childhood? No, not at all. Wild horses wouldn’t drag him to one. Am relieved to hear it, especially when his mother adds that It All Came Later.
Have vision of Robin, a year or two hence, clamouring for social life. (Probably finding it very difficult to get, now I come to think of it, as neighbourhood anything but populous.)
Time, with all this, passes very agreeably, and Mrs. Roberta Martin and I part with mutual esteem and liking.
Take a look round various departments as I go out, and see several things I should like to buy, but am already doubtful if funds are going to hold out till return to New York, so restrict myself to small sponge, pad of note-paper, and necklace of steel beads that I think may appeal to Mademoiselle and go with her Grey.
November 22nd. — Home of George Washington inspected, and am much moved by its beauty. Enquire where historical cherry-tree can be seen, but James replies — surely rather cynically? — that cherry-tree episode now practically discredited altogether. Find this hard to believe.
(Mem.: Say nothing about it at home. Story of George W. and cherry-tree not infrequently useful as illustration when pointing out to dear Vicky the desirability of strict truthfulness. Moreover, entire story always most popular when playing charades.)
On leaving George Washington, we proceed to home of General Robert E. Lee, but unfortunately arrive there too late and have to content ourselves with pressing our noses against the windows. Subsequently miss the way, in terrific maze of avenues that surround the house, find gate at last and discover that it is locked, have visions of staying there all night, but subsequently unfastened gate is reached, and we safely emerge.
James shows me the Lincoln Memorial, and I definitely think it the most beautiful thing, without exception, that I have seen in America.
Tour is concluded by a drive through Washington, and I see the outside of a good many Embassies, and am reluctantly obliged to conclude that the British one is far indeed from being the most beautiful amongst them. Decide that the Japanese one is the prettiest.
Evening spent with James and Elizabeth. Katherine still engaging, but slightly inclined to scream when left alone in bed-room. (Am forcibly reminded of dear Robin’s very early days.)
Leave early, as I fancy James and Elizabeth both kept thoroughly short of sleep by infant Katherine. Cannot, however, deter James from driving me back to Hotel. Am greatly impressed with this chivalrous, and universal, American custom.
James and I part at the door, strawberry-clad negro porters spring to attention as I enter, and I perceive, to my horror, that General Clarence Dove is sitting in the hall, doing nothing whatever, directly between me and elevator. Turn at once to the newspaper-stand and earnestly inspect motion-picture magazines — in which I am not in the least interested — cigars, cigarettes and picture-postcards. Take a long time choosing six of these, and paying for them. Cannot, however, stand there all night, and am at last compelled to turn round. General Clarence Dove still immovable. Decide to bow as I go past, but without slackening speed, and this proves successful, and I go up to bed without hearing more of my book about America.
November 23rd. — Am introduced by James to important Head of Department, Miss Bassell, who kindly takes me to the White House, where I am shown State Rooms and other items of interest.
Portraits of Presidents’ Wives in long rows present rather discouraging spectacle. Prefer not to dwell on these, but concentrate instead on trying to remember Who was Dolly Madison? Decide — tentatively — that she must have been an American equivalent of Nell Gwyn, but am not sufficiently sure about it to say anything to Miss B. In any case, have no idea which, if any, of America’s Presidents would best bear comparison with King Charles II.
Lunch-party brings my stay in Washington to a close, and James and Elizabeth — kind-hearted and charming to the last — take me and my luggage to the station. Am relieved to find that both look rested, and are able to assure me that dear little Katherine allowed them several hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Say good-bye to them with regret, and promise that I will come and stay with them in their first Consulate, but add proviso — perhaps rather ungraciously? — that it must be in a warm climate.
Find myself wondering as train moves out what dear Robert will say to the number of future invitations that I have both given and accepted?
November 25th. — Philadelphia reached yesterday, and discover in myself slight and irrational tendency to repeat under my breath: “I’m off to Philadelphia in the morning”. Do not know, or care, where this quotation comes from.
Unknown hostess called Mrs. Elliot receives me, and I join enormous house-party consisting of all her relations. Do not succeed, from one end of visit to the other, in discovering the name of any single one of them.
Mrs. E. says she likes The Wide Wide World. Am pleased at this, and we talk about it at immense length, and I tell her that a Life of Susan Warner exists, which she seems to think impossible, as she has never heard of it. Promise to send her a copy from England, and am more convinced than ever — if possible — that we are none of us prophets in our own country.
(Mem.: Make note of Mrs. Elliot’s address. Also send postcard to favourite second-hand bookseller to obtain copy of Susan Warner for me. Shall look extremely foolish if it isn’t forthcoming, after all I’ve said. But must not meet trouble half-way.)
Lecture — given, unfortunately, by myself — takes place in the evening at large Club. Everyone very kind, and many intelligent questions asked, which I do my best to answer. Secretary forgets to give me my fee, and lack courage to ask for it, but it subsequently arrives by special delivery, just as I am going to bed.
November 27th. — Unexpected arrival of guardian angel Ramona Herdman from New York. Am delighted to see her, and still more so when she gives me collection of letters from England. As usual, am on my way to book-store where I have to make short speech, and am unable to read letters in any but the most cursory way — but ascertain that no calamity has befallen anybody, that Robert will be glad to hear when he is to meet me at Southampton, and that Caroline Concannon has written a book, and it has instantly been accepted by highly superior publishing-house. Am not in the least surprised at this last piece of information. C. C. exactly the kind of young person to romp straight to success. Shall probably yet see small blue oval announcement on the walls of 57 Doughty Street, to the effect that they once sheltered the celebrated writer, Caroline Concannon. Feel that the least I can do is to cable my congratulations, and this I do, at some expense.
Miss Ramona Herdman and I then proceed to book-store, where we meet head of department, Mrs. Kooker. Talk about Vera Brittain — Testament of Youth selling superbly, says Mrs. K. — also new film, Little Women, which everyone says I must see in New York — (had always meant to, anyway) — and recent adoption by American women of tomato-juice as a substitute for cocktails.
Conversation then returns to literature, and Mrs. Kooker tells me that Christmas sales will soon be coming on, but that Thanksgiving interferes with them rather badly. Try and look as if I thoroughly understood and sympathised with this, but have to give it up when she naively enquires whether Thanksgiving has similar disastrous effect on trade in England? Explain, as delicately as I can, that England has never, so far as I know, returned any particular thanks for occasion thus commemorated in the United States, and after a moment Mrs. K. sees this, and is amused.
Customary talk takes place — shall soon be able to say it in my sleep — and various listeners come up and speak to me kindly afterwards. Completely unknown lady in brown tells me that we met years ago, and she remembers me so well, and is so glad to see me again. Respond to this as best I can, and say — with only too much truth — that the exact whereabouts of our last encounter has, temporarily, escaped me. What! cries the lady reproachfully, have I forgotten dear old Scarborough?
As I have never in my life set foot in dear old Scarborough, this proves very, very difficult to answer. Do not, in fact, attempt to do so, but merely shake hands with her again and turn attention to someone who is telling me that she has a dear little granddaughter, aged five, who says most amusing things. If only, grandmother adds wistfully, she could remember them, she would tell them to me, and then I should be able to put them into a book.
Express regrets — unfortunately civil, rather than sincere — at having to forgo this privilege, and we separate. Miss Herdman — has mysteriously produced a friend and a motor-car — tells me that I am going with her to tea at the house of a distinguished critic. Alexander Woollcott? I say hopefully, and she looks rather shocked and replies No, no, don’t I remember that A. W. lives in unique apartment in New York, overlooking the East River? There are, she adds curtly, other distinguished critics besides Alexander Woollcott, in America. Have not the courage, after this gaffe, to enquire further as to my present destination.
Tea-party, however, turns out pleasantly — which is, I feel, more than I deserve — and I enjoy myself, except when kind elderly lady — mother of hostess — suddenly exclaims that We mustn’t forget we have an Englishwoman as our guest, and immediately flings open two windows. Ice-cold wind blows in, and several people look at me — as well they may — with dislike and resentment.
Should like to tell them that nobody is more resentful of this hygienic outburst than I am myself — but cannot, of course, do so. Remind myself instead that a number of English people have been known to visit the States, only to die there of pneumonia.
Am subsequently driven back to Mrs. Elliot’s by R. Herdman and friend, Miss H. informing me on the way that a speaking engagement has been made for me at the Colony Club in New York. At this the friend suddenly interposes, and observes morosely that the Colony Club is easily the most difficult audience in the world. They look at their wrist-watches all the time.
Reflect with satisfaction that I can actually claim friendship with official in the State Department, met several times in London, and whom I now propose to ring up on the telephone as soon as the day is respectably advanced. Recollect that I liked him very much, and hope that this may still hold good after lapse of five years, and may also extend to newly acquired wife, whom I have never met, and that neither of them will take a dislike to me.
(Query: Has rebuff at first Hotel visited slightly unnerved me? If so, morale will doubtless be restored by breakfast. Order more coffee and a fresh supply of toast on the strength of this thought.)
Greatly surprised as I leave dining-room to find myself presented with small card on which is printed name hitherto totally unknown to me: General Clarence Dove. I say to the waiter — not very intelligently — What is this? and he refrains from saying, as he well might, that It’s a visiting-card, and replies instead that It’s the gentleman at the table near the door.
At this I naturally look at the table near the door, and elderly gentleman with bald head and rather morose expression makes half-hearted movement towards getting up, and bows. I bow in return, and once more scrutinise card, but it still looks exactly the same, and I am still equally unable to wake any association in connection with General Clarence Dove. Feel constrained to take one or two steps towards him, which courtesy he handsomely returns by standing up altogether and throwing his table-napkin on the floor.
Cannot help wishing the waiter would put things on a more solid basis by introducing us, but this feeling probably only a manifestation of British snobbishness, and nothing of the kind occurs. Elderly gentleman, however, rises to the occasion more or less, and tells me that he has been written to by Mrs. Wheelwright, of Long Island, and told to look out for me, and that I am writing a book about America. He has therefore ventured to make himself known to me.
Express my gratification, and beg him to go on with his breakfast. This he refuses to do, and says — obviously untruly — that he has finished, but that we could perhaps take a little turn together in the sunshine. This hope rather optimistic, as sunshine though present turns out to be of poor quality, and we hastily retire to spacious hall, furnished with alternate armchairs and ashtrays on stands. Central heating, undeniably, far more satisfactory than sunshine, at this time of year, but doubtful if this thought would appeal to General Clarence Dove — aspect rather forbidding — so keep it to myself.
Just as I am preparing to make agreeable speech anent the beauties of Washington, the General utters.
He hears, he says, that I am writing a book about America. Now, he may be old-fashioned, but personally he finds this rather difficult to understand.
I say, No, no, in great agitation, and explain that I am not writing a book about America, that I shouldn’t ever dream of doing such a thing, after a six months’ visit, and that on the contrary —
A book about America, says the General, without paying the slightest attention to my eloquence, is not a thing to be undertaken in that spirit at all. Far too many British and other writers have made this mistake. They come over — whether invited or not — and are received by many of the best people in America, and what do they do in return? I again break in and say that I know, and I have often thought what a pity it is, and the last thing I should ever dream of doing would be to —
Besides, interrupts the General, quite unmoved, America is a large country. A very large country indeed. To write a book about it would be a very considerable task. What people don’t seem to understand is that no person can call themselves qualified to write a book about it after a mere superficial visit lasting less than two months.
Am by now almost frantic, and reiterate in a subdued shriek that I agree with every word the General is saying, and have always thought exactly the same thing — but all is in vain. He continues to look straight in front of him, and to assure me that there can be no greater mistake than to come over to a country like America, spend five minutes there, and then rush home and write a book about it. Far too many people have done this already.
Can see by now that it is completely useless to try and persuade General Clarence Dove that I am not amongst these, and have no intention of ever being so — and I therefore remain silent whilst he says the same things all over again about five times more.
After this he gets up, assures me that it has been a pleasure to meet me, and that he will certainly read my book about America when it comes out, and we part — never, I hope, to meet again.
Am completely shattered by this extraordinary encounter for several hours afterwards, but eventually summon up enough strength to ring up Department of State — which makes me feel important — and get into touch with friend James. He responds most agreeably, sounds flatteringly pleased at my arrival, and invites me to lunch with himself and his wife and his baby.
Baby?
Oh yes, he has a daughter aged two months. Very intelligent. I say, quite truthfully, that I should love to see her, and feel that she will be a much pleasanter companion than General Clarence Dove — and much more on my own conversational level into the bargain.
James later fetches me by car, and we drive to his apartment situated in street rather strangely named O. Street. I tell him that he hasn’t altered in the very least — he says the same, though probably with less truth, about me, and enquires after Robert, the children, Kolynos the dog — now, unfortunately, no longer with us — and Helen Wills the cat. I then meet his wife, Elizabeth — very pretty and attractive — and his child, Katherine — not yet pretty, but I like her and am gratified because she doesn’t cry when I pick her up — and we have peaceful and pleasant lunch.
Conversation runs on personal and domestic lines, and proves thoroughly congenial, after recent long spell of social and literary exertions. Moreover, Anthony Adverse motif entirely absent, which is a relief.
Reluctantly leave this agreeable atmosphere in order to present myself at Department Store, in accordance with explicit instructions received from Pete.
Arrange, however, to go with James next day and be shown house of George Washington.
Store is, as usual, large and important, and I enter it with some trepidation, and very nearly walk straight out again on catching sight of large and flattering photograph of myself, taken at least three years ago, propped up in prominent position. Printed notice below says that I am Speaking at Four O’clock this afternoon.
Memory transports me to village at home, and comparative frequency with which I Speak, alternately with Our Vicar’s Wife, at Women’s Institute, Mothers’ Union, and the like organisations, and total absence of excitement with which both of us are alike hailed. Fantastic wonder crosses my mind as to whether photograph, exhibited beforehand, say in Post Office window, would be advisable, but on further reflection decide against this.
(Photograph was taken in Bond Street, head and shoulders only, and can distinctly recollect that Vicky, on seeing it, enquired in horrified tones if I was all naked?)
Enquire for book department, am told to my confusion that I am in it, and realise with horror that I am, but have been completely lost in idiotic and unprofitable reverie. Make no attempt to explain myself, but simply ask for Mrs. Roberta Martin, head of department. She appears — looks about twenty-five but is presumably more — and welcomes me very kindly.
Would I like tea before I speak, or after?
She asks this so nicely that I am impelled to candour, and say that I wouldn’t really like tea at all, but could we have a cup of coffee together afterwards?
We could, and do.
Find ourselves talking about boys. Mrs. R. M. says she has a son of fourteen, which I find quite incredible, and very nearly tell her so, but am restrained by sudden obscure association with extraordinary behaviour of General Clarence Dove.
Boys a great responsibility, we agree, but very nice. Her Sidney and my Robin have points in common. Did Sidney like parties in early childhood? No, not at all. Wild horses wouldn’t drag him to one. Am relieved to hear it, especially when his mother adds that It All Came Later.
Have vision of Robin, a year or two hence, clamouring for social life. (Probably finding it very difficult to get, now I come to think of it, as neighbourhood anything but populous.)
Time, with all this, passes very agreeably, and Mrs. Roberta Martin and I part with mutual esteem and liking.
Take a look round various departments as I go out, and see several things I should like to buy, but am already doubtful if funds are going to hold out till return to New York, so restrict myself to small sponge, pad of note-paper, and necklace of steel beads that I think may appeal to Mademoiselle and go with her Grey.
November 22nd. — Home of George Washington inspected, and am much moved by its beauty. Enquire where historical cherry-tree can be seen, but James replies — surely rather cynically? — that cherry-tree episode now practically discredited altogether. Find this hard to believe.
(Mem.: Say nothing about it at home. Story of George W. and cherry-tree not infrequently useful as illustration when pointing out to dear Vicky the desirability of strict truthfulness. Moreover, entire story always most popular when playing charades.)
On leaving George Washington, we proceed to home of General Robert E. Lee, but unfortunately arrive there too late and have to content ourselves with pressing our noses against the windows. Subsequently miss the way, in terrific maze of avenues that surround the house, find gate at last and discover that it is locked, have visions of staying there all night, but subsequently unfastened gate is reached, and we safely emerge.
James shows me the Lincoln Memorial, and I definitely think it the most beautiful thing, without exception, that I have seen in America.
Tour is concluded by a drive through Washington, and I see the outside of a good many Embassies, and am reluctantly obliged to conclude that the British one is far indeed from being the most beautiful amongst them. Decide that the Japanese one is the prettiest.
Evening spent with James and Elizabeth. Katherine still engaging, but slightly inclined to scream when left alone in bed-room. (Am forcibly reminded of dear Robin’s very early days.)
Leave early, as I fancy James and Elizabeth both kept thoroughly short of sleep by infant Katherine. Cannot, however, deter James from driving me back to Hotel. Am greatly impressed with this chivalrous, and universal, American custom.
James and I part at the door, strawberry-clad negro porters spring to attention as I enter, and I perceive, to my horror, that General Clarence Dove is sitting in the hall, doing nothing whatever, directly between me and elevator. Turn at once to the newspaper-stand and earnestly inspect motion-picture magazines — in which I am not in the least interested — cigars, cigarettes and picture-postcards. Take a long time choosing six of these, and paying for them. Cannot, however, stand there all night, and am at last compelled to turn round. General Clarence Dove still immovable. Decide to bow as I go past, but without slackening speed, and this proves successful, and I go up to bed without hearing more of my book about America.
November 23rd. — Am introduced by James to important Head of Department, Miss Bassell, who kindly takes me to the White House, where I am shown State Rooms and other items of interest.
Portraits of Presidents’ Wives in long rows present rather discouraging spectacle. Prefer not to dwell on these, but concentrate instead on trying to remember Who was Dolly Madison? Decide — tentatively — that she must have been an American equivalent of Nell Gwyn, but am not sufficiently sure about it to say anything to Miss B. In any case, have no idea which, if any, of America’s Presidents would best bear comparison with King Charles II.
Lunch-party brings my stay in Washington to a close, and James and Elizabeth — kind-hearted and charming to the last — take me and my luggage to the station. Am relieved to find that both look rested, and are able to assure me that dear little Katherine allowed them several hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Say good-bye to them with regret, and promise that I will come and stay with them in their first Consulate, but add proviso — perhaps rather ungraciously? — that it must be in a warm climate.
Find myself wondering as train moves out what dear Robert will say to the number of future invitations that I have both given and accepted?
November 25th. — Philadelphia reached yesterday, and discover in myself slight and irrational tendency to repeat under my breath: “I’m off to Philadelphia in the morning”. Do not know, or care, where this quotation comes from.
Unknown hostess called Mrs. Elliot receives me, and I join enormous house-party consisting of all her relations. Do not succeed, from one end of visit to the other, in discovering the name of any single one of them.
Mrs. E. says she likes The Wide Wide World. Am pleased at this, and we talk about it at immense length, and I tell her that a Life of Susan Warner exists, which she seems to think impossible, as she has never heard of it. Promise to send her a copy from England, and am more convinced than ever — if possible — that we are none of us prophets in our own country.
(Mem.: Make note of Mrs. Elliot’s address. Also send postcard to favourite second-hand bookseller to obtain copy of Susan Warner for me. Shall look extremely foolish if it isn’t forthcoming, after all I’ve said. But must not meet trouble half-way.)
Lecture — given, unfortunately, by myself — takes place in the evening at large Club. Everyone very kind, and many intelligent questions asked, which I do my best to answer. Secretary forgets to give me my fee, and lack courage to ask for it, but it subsequently arrives by special delivery, just as I am going to bed.
November 27th. — Unexpected arrival of guardian angel Ramona Herdman from New York. Am delighted to see her, and still more so when she gives me collection of letters from England. As usual, am on my way to book-store where I have to make short speech, and am unable to read letters in any but the most cursory way — but ascertain that no calamity has befallen anybody, that Robert will be glad to hear when he is to meet me at Southampton, and that Caroline Concannon has written a book, and it has instantly been accepted by highly superior publishing-house. Am not in the least surprised at this last piece of information. C. C. exactly the kind of young person to romp straight to success. Shall probably yet see small blue oval announcement on the walls of 57 Doughty Street, to the effect that they once sheltered the celebrated writer, Caroline Concannon. Feel that the least I can do is to cable my congratulations, and this I do, at some expense.
Miss Ramona Herdman and I then proceed to book-store, where we meet head of department, Mrs. Kooker. Talk about Vera Brittain — Testament of Youth selling superbly, says Mrs. K. — also new film, Little Women, which everyone says I must see in New York — (had always meant to, anyway) — and recent adoption by American women of tomato-juice as a substitute for cocktails.
Conversation then returns to literature, and Mrs. Kooker tells me that Christmas sales will soon be coming on, but that Thanksgiving interferes with them rather badly. Try and look as if I thoroughly understood and sympathised with this, but have to give it up when she naively enquires whether Thanksgiving has similar disastrous effect on trade in England? Explain, as delicately as I can, that England has never, so far as I know, returned any particular thanks for occasion thus commemorated in the United States, and after a moment Mrs. K. sees this, and is amused.
Customary talk takes place — shall soon be able to say it in my sleep — and various listeners come up and speak to me kindly afterwards. Completely unknown lady in brown tells me that we met years ago, and she remembers me so well, and is so glad to see me again. Respond to this as best I can, and say — with only too much truth — that the exact whereabouts of our last encounter has, temporarily, escaped me. What! cries the lady reproachfully, have I forgotten dear old Scarborough?
As I have never in my life set foot in dear old Scarborough, this proves very, very difficult to answer. Do not, in fact, attempt to do so, but merely shake hands with her again and turn attention to someone who is telling me that she has a dear little granddaughter, aged five, who says most amusing things. If only, grandmother adds wistfully, she could remember them, she would tell them to me, and then I should be able to put them into a book.
Express regrets — unfortunately civil, rather than sincere — at having to forgo this privilege, and we separate. Miss Herdman — has mysteriously produced a friend and a motor-car — tells me that I am going with her to tea at the house of a distinguished critic. Alexander Woollcott? I say hopefully, and she looks rather shocked and replies No, no, don’t I remember that A. W. lives in unique apartment in New York, overlooking the East River? There are, she adds curtly, other distinguished critics besides Alexander Woollcott, in America. Have not the courage, after this gaffe, to enquire further as to my present destination.
Tea-party, however, turns out pleasantly — which is, I feel, more than I deserve — and I enjoy myself, except when kind elderly lady — mother of hostess — suddenly exclaims that We mustn’t forget we have an Englishwoman as our guest, and immediately flings open two windows. Ice-cold wind blows in, and several people look at me — as well they may — with dislike and resentment.
Should like to tell them that nobody is more resentful of this hygienic outburst than I am myself — but cannot, of course, do so. Remind myself instead that a number of English people have been known to visit the States, only to die there of pneumonia.
Am subsequently driven back to Mrs. Elliot’s by R. Herdman and friend, Miss H. informing me on the way that a speaking engagement has been made for me at the Colony Club in New York. At this the friend suddenly interposes, and observes morosely that the Colony Club is easily the most difficult audience in the world. They look at their wrist-watches all the time.
