PLAZA HOTEL, NEW YORK,
_Friday._
Dearest Mamma,--Octavia and I feel we are growing quite "rattled." (Do
forgive me for using such a word, but it is American and describes us.) The
telephone rings from the moment we wake until we go out, and reporters wait
to pounce upon us if we leave our rooms. We are entertained at countless
feasts, and to-morrow we are going down town to lunch at a city restaurant,
after seeing the Stock Exchange, so I will tell you of that presently. We
can't do or say a thing that a totally different and garbled version of it
does not appear in the papers, often with pictures; and yesterday, while
Octavia was out with me, she was made to have given an interview upon
whether or no Mr. Roosevelt should propose a law to enforce American wives
to each have at least six children! It is printed that she asked how many
husbands they were allowed, and the reporter lady who writes the interview
expresses herself as quite shocked; but Octavia said, when she read it this
morning, that she thought whoever was speaking for her asked a very
sensible question. What do you think, Mamma? Octavia is enchanted with all
these things, and is keeping a large scrap book. But the one we like best
was in the Sunday's paper, when there was a full sheet with dark hints as
to our private lives by "One Who Knows."
All the history of the little dancer Ottalie Cheveny was tacked on to
Octavia's past! The name sounding something the same is quite enough reason
for its being Octavia's story here! Tom is having this one put with his
collection for the smoking-room, because he says when Octavia "fluffs"
(that, I think, means "ruffles") him, he will be able to look up at it and
think of "what might have been!"
I am said to be here while a divorce is being arranged by my family because
Harry has gone off to India with a fair haired widow!!! Think, Mamma, of
his rage when I send him a copy. Isn't it lovely?
We are enjoying ourselves more than I can say, and they are perfect dears,
most of the people who entertain us;--so gay and merry and kind;--and we
are growing quite accustomed to the voices and the odd grammar and
phrasing. At first you get a singing in your head from the noise of a room
full of people speaking. They simply scream, and it makes a peculiar echo,
as if the walls were metal. Everyone talks at once, and no one ever listens
to anything the person near them says.
A ladies' lunch is like this: Octavia and I arrive at a gorgeous mansion,
and are ushered into a marvellous Louis XV. morning room, with wonderful
tapestry furniture and beautiful pictures arranged rather like a museum.
There is never a look of the mistress of the house having settled anything
herself, or chosen a pillow because the colours in a certain sofa required
it; or, in fact, there is never the expression of any individuality of
ownership; anyone could have just such another house if he or she were rich
enough to give carte blanche to the best antique art shop; but the things
all being really good and beautiful do not jar like the mixture at the
Spleists did. Often whole rooms have been brought out, just as they were,
from foreign palaces, panelling, pictures and all, and it gives such a
quaint sense of unreality to feel the old atmosphere in this young,
vigorous country. The hostess's bedroom and boudoir and bath room are often
shown to us, and they are all masterpieces of decoration and luxury; and I
can't think how they can keep on feeling as good as gold in them! Perfectly
lovely luxurious surroundings always make me long for Harry to play with,
or some other nice young man--did not they you, Mamma, when you were young
and felt things?
About twenty other women are probably there besides us, all dressed in the
most expensive magnificent afternoon frocks; and they all have lovely
Cartier jewelled watches, and those beautiful black ribbon and diamond
chains round their necks, like Harry gave me last birthday. No one wears
old fashioned or ugly jewels, all are in exquisite taste, while the pearls
at one lunch would have paid for a kingdom.
When everyone has been presented to us, being the strangers, luncheon is
announced, and we go into a magnificent dining-room, sometimes with the
blinds so much drawn that we have to have electric lights. The footmen are
in full dress, with silk stockings, and one or two places they had them
powdered, and that did make Octavia smile. I don't think one ought to have
powder unless it has been the custom of the family for generations, do you,
Mamma? Well, then, beside each person's plate, beyond the countless food
implements lying on the lace-encrusted cloth, are lovely bunches of
orchids, or whatever is the most rare and difficult to get; and cocktails
have sometimes been handed in the salon before, and sometimes are handed in
the dining-room, but at the ladies' lunches in very small glasses.
With such heaps of divorces, in a very large party you can't help having
some what Mrs. Van Brounker-Courtfield (a perfect old darling of nearly
eighty whom we lunched with on Wednesday) calls "court relations,"
together; by that meaning, supposing Mrs. A. has divorced Mr. A., and
re-married Mr. B., who has been divorced by Mrs. B., who has re-married Mr.
C., who happened to be a widower with grown up married daughters--then the
daughters and the present Mrs. B., late Mrs. A., would be "court
relations," and might meet at lunch. Mr. A. himself and his present wife
would also be the late Mrs. B.'s and present Mrs. C.'s court relations. Do
you understand, Mamma? It is the sort of ones connected with the case whom
it would be unpleasant to speak about it to, but not the actual principals.
And when I asked Mrs. Van Brounker-Courtfield why she called them "court
relations" she said because the divorce court was their common ground of
connection, and it was a very good reason, and quite as true as calling
people blood relations in London or Paris! And that pleased Octavia very
much, because she said it was the first subtle thing she had heard in New
York. But I must get on with the lunch.
You begin your clam broth (such an "exquit" soup, as Ermyntrude would call
it), and the lady next you says she has been "just crazy" to meet you, and
heaps of nice things that make you pleased with yourself and ready to enjoy
your food. You are just going to say something civil in return, and get a
few words out, when your neighbour interrupts you with more nice things,
and stacks of questions, and remarks about herself, all rather
disconnected, and before you can speak again, the lady beyond, or even
across the table, has interpolated with a sentence beginning always like
this, "Now let me tell you something;" and long before she can get to the
end of that, the person at her side has interrupted her. And so it goes on.
It sounds as if I were telling you of another Mad Hatter's tea party,
Mamma, but it is not at all; and it is wonderful how much sense you can get
out of it, and what amusing and clever bright things they say, though at
the end you feel a little confused; and what with the smell of the
innumerable flowers and the steam heated rooms, and the cigarettes, I can't
think how they have wits enough left to play bridge all the afternoon, as
they do, with never a young man to wake them up. Of course it is amusing
for Octavia and me to see all this, as we are merely visitors, but fancy,
Mamma! doing it as a part of one's life! Dressing up and making oneself
splendid and attractive to meet only _women!_
They are not the least interested in politics or the pursuits of their
husbands or brothers, and hardly any of them have the duties we have to do,
like opening bazaars and giving away prizes and being heads of all sorts of
organisations, nor do they have quantities of tenants' welfare to look
after, or be responsible for anything. Of course they must pass the time
somehow, and they all have secretaries who take every sort of ordinary
trouble of notes and letters and things off their shoulders, so they ought
to be awfully happy, oughtn't they? But they often have nerves or some
imaginary disease or fad, and are frightfully restless, and Octavia says it
is because in the natural development of the female of any country, numbers
of these are really at the stage when they should be doing manual labour,
according to their ancestry, and so having nothing to occupy them and
living in every dreamed-of luxury, they get nerves instead. But I think it
is because they never have nice young men to play with, everyone being busy
working down town in the day time. We are told that even when the husbands
do come home before dinner they are too tired to talk much, and as I said
before nearly all the men, married or single, make you feel as good as
gold, so it is no wonder such numbers of beautiful Americans come to
Europe. I am quite sure if we had to lead their life we would turn into the
most awful creatures. It is greatly to their credit they remain so nice.
When you can get one or two alone to have a connected conversation they are
perfectly charming, and often very cultivated, and nearly always knowing
about music; but sometimes, supposing one is discussing a phaze of the
Renaissance, say, they will suddenly speak of something as belonging to it
of quite another period, and you feel perfectly nonplussed, it seems so
remarkable with the clever things they have just said they can make such
mistakes. Perhaps it's that they do not study any one subject very deeply.
One thing is noticeable and nice. The conversations everywhere are all
absolutely "jeune fille"; never anything the least "risqué," though it is
often amusing.
Among the "smart set" (do forgive this awful term, Mamma, but I mean by
that the ones who are "in the swim" and whose society is the goal of the
other's desire: I don't know what else to call them) they don't often tell
you about the Mayflower and their ancestors; though on Wednesday a
frightfully rich person who has only lately been admitted into this inner
circle because her daughters have both married foreign Princes, said to me,
she loved the English, and was indeed English herself and some distant
connection of our King, being descended from Queen Elizabeth!!! It was
rather unfortunate her having pitched upon our Virgin Queen, wasn't it,
Mamma!? But perhaps as she had rather an Italian look it was the affair of
the Venetian attaché, and when I suggested that to her, she gazed at me
blankly and said, "Why, no, there never has been any side-tracking in our
family; we've always been virtuous and always shall be."
Now that you know, generally, what a luncheon is, I must tell you of the
particular one at Mrs. Van Brounker-Courtfield's. She is the dearest old
lady you ever met, Mamma--witty and quaint and downright, with an immense
chic--grey hair brushed up into the most elaborate coiffure, jet black eyes
with the wickedest twinkle in them, and a strong cleft in a double chin.
She is rather stout but has Paris clothes and perfect jewels. She is not a
bit like English old ladies, sticking to their hideous early Victorian
settings for their diamonds; hers are the very latest, and although she is
seventy-eight, she crosses the ocean twice a year to have her frocks
fitted, and see what is going on.
She was of a real old Southern family, before the war, very rich and
aristocratic. She, of course, never mentions the Mayflower or the
cavaliers, but you can read all about her ancestors in any history of
America. She has such a strong sense of humour and the fitness of things,
that she has adapted herself to the present, instead of remaining aloof and
going to the wall as she told me so many of her friends and relations did.
We met at Mrs. Latour's (you know Valerie Latour, Lady Holloway's sister;
when she is in England she often stays with us at Valmond). She took to
Octavia and me at once, and we to her, and on Wednesday we lunched with
her, and when Queen Elizabeth's descendant, Mrs. Clerehart, said what I
told you, she caught my eye, and you never saw such a look of fun in a
human eye, and we became great friends at once. She says one must take New
York as it is, and one will find it a most amusing place. She never
hesitates to say what she thinks anywhere, and lots of people hate her, and
most of them are afraid of her, but all find it an honour when she will
receive them.
"My dear," she said, "in my young days there were gentle people and common
people, but now there is no distinction in society, only one of dollars and
cents, and whether you get into the right swim or not. I receive all sorts,
and some of the last risen are quite the nicest, and amuse me more than my
own old friends!"
She says the young men in New York are mostly awful, according to her
ideas, and nearly all drink too many cocktails, and that is what makes them
so unreserved when they get to their clubs, so the women can't have them
for lovers because they talk about it. She does not think it is because
American women are so cold or so good that they are so virtuous, but
because the men don't tempt them at all. Also she says it's being such a
young nation they are still dreadfully provincial. But there are other and
good qualities from being young, Mamma; it makes them have the kindest
hearts, and be more generous and hospitable, so I think I like it as well
as our old ones.
Mrs. Van Brounker-Courtfield said she had asked a sprinkling of all sorts
to meet us, and it was then she explained about the court relations,
because she found she had Mrs. Clem Busfield with the sister-in-law of Clem
Busfield's new wife, and that inadvertently her secretary, who arranged the
table, had put them side by side.
She sat in the middle, at the end of the table, with Octavia and me at her
right and left, and it was beyond Octavia these two sat. She explained it
all to me in so distinct a voice I was afraid they would hear, but she
added that Julia Busfield was really a lady and would pull through all
right!
"My dear," she said, "it is in these situations sometimes the parvenues
show the yellow streak, these and being touchy. They don't always come up
to the scratch, otherwise there is no difference in them, and that is the
glory of our country."
Then she told me that is the way she judges their advance, according to
their touchiness. They can't stand any chaff, she said, and if a stranger
dares to make any criticism of Americans to them, they are up in arms at
once and tear them to pieces! "Now, you in old countries, are amused or
supremely indifferent if foreigners laugh at you," she said, "as we are in
the South, but our parvenues in the East haven't got to that plane yet, and
resent the slightest show of criticism or raillerie. You see they are not
quite sure of themselves." Isn't that quaint of them, Mamma?
Then she asked me to look round the table and to tell her if I had ever
seen a better looking set of women, and of course I had not; they were
really charming and so exquisitely dressed, and the apparently most
aristocratic of all she told me was the daughter of a Western miner and an
English housemaid! And she even had a soft, sweet voice. I talked to her
afterwards. Is it not too wonderful to think of what such parentage would
make English people look! It must be climate and that splendid go ahead
vitality--whatever it is, I do admire it. And as Mrs. Van
Brounker-Courtfield seemed so human and not touchy I asked her why a number
of the New York men did not appear to have caught the same appearance of
wonderful refinement and breeding, and she said because the sort of life a
man leads makes him look what he does far more than blood, and that the few
that lived the life of English gentlemen looked like them, just as the rest
who live the life of our city clerks look like them, minus our City clerks'
Saturday interest in sport, and plus the cocktail. And this must be true,
Mamma, because Mr. Renour, who was what all these people would call a rough
Westerner, and would probably not speak to (until he became a trillionaire
of course) was a nature's gentleman and looked out-door and hard; and if he
had been dressed by Mr. Davis, and his hair cut by Mr. Charles, would have
been as good looking as anyone in the world.
These "reasons why" do interest me so much, and I am always collecting
them. But I must get back to what happened at lunch. I heard it from
Octavia afterwards, who made a fearful bêtise.
We had met the new Mrs. Busfield the day before but had not been told a
word of the story, so Octavia being vaguely aware that there were two
brothers Busfield, thought this one, who for the sake of non-confusion I
must speak of as "Julia," was the other brother's wife, and to be amiable
told her how charming she thought "Arma" (the new wife) was, and how
awfully devoted the husband seemed, and were they not very proud to have
such a perfect beauty in the family!
"Julia" got crimson and coughed, and then the lady from the other side
joined in telling Octavia that "Arma" was _her_ sister-in-law, but no
relation to this Mrs. Busfield! Octavia, of course, turned the conversation
and spoke to the hostess, but she said the two beside her, in spite of not
being on speaking terms chatted feverishly to each other for the rest of
lunch to avoid pauses, in case, Octavia supposes, she should ask any more
difficult questions. So you see, Mamma, even a person with as fine
perceptions as Octavia can make awkward bêtises here. It is like steering
among the Thousand Islands and hidden rocks and currents.
Mrs. Van B.-C.'s (the name is really too long to go on writing) house is
perfectly awful. She told us so before we could even formulate the thought
ourselves! It was done up about fourteen years ago, she said, when it was
one of the first houses as high up on Fifth Avenue, and was the time of the
most appalling taste in decoration. Every sort of gilding and dreadful
Louis XV., and gorged cupids sitting on cannon ball clouds, with here and
there a good picture and bit of china, and crimson brocade edged with plush
for curtains!
She told us she did not mean to change it. It is comfortable, she said, and
lots of her new people really admire it in their hearts! And it will last
her time, and when her granddaughter comes into it it will no doubt be
"down town" and turned into a shop, things move so fast.
After lunch we all came up to this fearful salon, and then we saw what a
perfect hostess she is, moving from group to group and saying exactly the
right thing in her crisp, old voice--there is nothing sleepy and Southern
about her. At last she sat down by me and she told me such an exquisite
story, showing the feeling after the war and the real aristocrats the
Southerners were. Two old aunts of hers were left absolutely destitute,
having been great heiresses, and to support themselves took in sewing,
making dresses for their friends. Their overseer became immediately rich,
and a year or so afterwards gave a grand ball for his daughter. The day
before the ball an old and not bright friend called, and found Miss Barbara
sewing a white satin frock and the tears dropping from her eyes. She
pressed her hand in sympathy, and said she felt as badly as she did to see
her making when she ought to be wearing, the frock; but Miss Barbara sat up
straight and said, "It is not that; I like the work, but what do you think!
Timothy Murran (the overseer) has had the impudence to send us an
invitation!" Isn't this a dear story, Mamma, and should not we have loved
and honoured those old ladies?
But Mrs. Van B.-C. says the modern people in New York would not in the
least understand this subtle pride, and would only think them old fools,
and she added--"which they probably were!"
She says we are not to judge of American men by most of those we have seen
in New York as yet; that there are a section of elderly, refined and
cultivated gentlemen, no longer interested in trade now, who were
contemporaries of her daughter (the beautiful Duchesse de Ville Tranche,
who died so tragically). She wants us to meet them.
But Octavia and I both told her we liked those we had seen very much
indeed; they were so kind, only not naughty like Englishmen. And she had
such a look in her eye as she said, "That is just it, my dear, and it makes
all the difference."
You see, Mamma, I am not telling you of any of the people we know in
England, because as I said before they are just like us, and not
interesting in consequence. Octavia and I feel we want to see quite others,
and next week perhaps we start for the West.
Heavens! The mail is going. I must stop!
Fondest love to my angels,
Your affectionate daughter,
ELIZABETH