The Greatest Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
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.
Can quite see what fun this must be for the speaker, and tell Miss H. that I do not think I can possibly go to the Colony Club at all but she takes no notice.
November 28th. New York.—Return to New York, in company with Miss Herdman, and arrive at Essex House once more. Feel that this is the first step towards home, and am quite touched and delighted when clerk at bureau greets me as an old habituée. Feel, however, that he is disappointed in me when I am obliged to admit, in reply to enquiry, that I did not get to Hollywood—and was not, in fact, invited to go there. Try to make up for this by saying that I visited World Fair at Chicago extensively—but can see that this is not at all the same thing.
Letters await me, and include one from Mademoiselle, written as usual in purple ink on thin paper, but crossed on top of front page in green—association here with Lowell Thomas—who says that she is all impatience to see me once more, it seems an affair of centuries since we met in "ce brouhaha de New-York", and she kisses my hand with the respectful affection.
(The French given to hyperbolical statements. No such performance has ever been given by Mademoiselle, or been permitted by myself to take place. Am inclined to wonder whether dear Vicky's occasional lapses from veracity may not be attributed to early influence of devoted, but not flawless, Mademoiselle?)
Just as I come to this conclusion, discover that Mademoiselle has most touchingly sent me six American Beauty roses, and immediately reverse decision as to her effect on Vicky's morals. This possibly illogical, but definitely understandable from feminine point of view.
Ring up Mademoiselle—who screeches a good deal and is difficult to hear, except for Mon Dieu! which occurs often thank her for letter and roses, and ask if she can come and see a film with me to-morrow afternoon. Anything she likes, but not Henry VIII. Mais non, mais non, Mademoiselle shrieks, and adds something that sounds like "ce maudit roi", which I am afraid refers to the Reformation, but do not enter on controversial discussion and merely suggest Little Women instead.
Ah, cries Mademoiselle, voilà une bonne idée! Cette chère vie de famille—ce gentil roman de la jeunesse—cette drôle de Jo—coeur d'or—tête de linotte—and much else that I do not attempt to disentangle.
Agree to everything, suggest lunch first but this, Mademoiselle replies, duty will not permit—appoint meeting-place and ring off.
Immediate and urgent preoccupation, as usual, is my hair, and retire at once to hotel Beauty-parlour, where I am received with gratifying assurances that I have been missed, and competently dealt with.
Just as I get upstairs again telephone bell rings once more, and publishers demand—I think unreasonably—immediate decision as to which boat I mean to sail in, and when. Keep my head as far as possible, turn up various papers on which I feel sure I have noted steamship sailings—(but which all turn out to be memos about buying presents for the maids at home, pictures of America for the Women's Institute, and evening stockings for myself)—and finally plump for the Berengaria.
Publishers, with common sense rather than tenderness, at once reply that they suppose I had better go tourist class, as purposes of publicity have now been achieved, and it will be much cheaper.
Assent to this, ring off, and excitedly compose cable to Robert.
November 29th.—Gratifying recrudescence of more or less all the people met on first arrival in New York, who ring up and ask me to lunch or dine before I sail.
Ella Wheelwright sends round note by hand, lavishly invites me to lunch once, and dine twice, and further adds that she is coming to see me off when I sail. Am touched and impressed, and accept lunch, and one dinner, and break it to her that she will have to see me off—if at all—tourist section. Morning filled by visit to publishers' office, where I am kindly received, and told that I have Laid Some Very Useful Foundations, which makes me feel like a Distinguished Personage at the opening of a new Town Hall.
Lecture-agent, whom I also visit, is likewise kind, but perhaps less enthusiastic, and hints that it might be an advantage if I had more than two lectures in my repertoire. Am bound to admit that this seems reasonable. He further outlines, in a light-hearted way, scheme by which I am to undertake lengthy lecture-tour next winter, extending—as far as I can make out—from New York to the furthermost point in the Rockies, and including a good deal of travelling by air.
Return modified assent to all of it, graciously accept cheque due to me, and depart.
Lunch all by myself in a Childs', and find it restful, after immense quantities of conversation indulged in of late. Service almost incredibly prompt and efficient, and find myself wondering how Americans can endure more leisurely methods so invariably prevalent in almost every country in Europe.
Soon afterwards meet Mademoiselle, and am touched—but embarrassed by her excessive demonstrations of welcome. Have brought her small present from Chicago World Fair, but decide not to bestow it until moment immediately preceding separation, as cannot feel at all sure what form her gratitude might take.
We enter picture-house, where I have already reserved seats—Mademoiselle exclaims a good deal over this, and says that everything in America is un prix fou—and Mademoiselle takes off her hat, which is large, and balances it on her knee. Ask her if this is all right, or if she hadn't better put it under the seat, and she first nods her head and then shakes it, but leaves hat where it is.
Comic film precedes Little Women and is concerned with the misadventure of a house-painter. Am irresistibly reminded of comic song of my youth: "When Father papered the parlour, You couldn't see Pa for paste". Am unfortunately inspired to ask Mademoiselle if she remembers it too. Comment? says Mademoiselle a good many times.
Explain that it doesn't matter, I will tell her about it later, it is of no importance. Mademoiselle, however, declines to be put off and I make insane excursion into French: Quand mon père—? and am then defeated. Mais oui, says Mademoiselle, quand votre père—? Cannot think how to say "papered the parlour" in French, and make various efforts which are not a success.
We compromise at last on Mademoiselle's suggestion that mon père was perhaps avec le journal dans le parloir? which I know is incorrect, but have not the energy to improve upon.
Comic film, by this time, is fortunately over, and we prepare for Little Women.
Well-remembered house at Concord is thrown on the screen, snow falling on the ground, and I dissolve, without the slightest hesitation,