home of our own ambassador, and is thrown open for a great reception on
the afternoon of every Fourth of July.
As my hansom took its place in the long line of waiting carriages I
glanced up at the noble old stone mansion, and was thrilled with a new
sort of patriotism when I saw our own Stars and Stripes wave grandly out
against the blue English sky. Our flag at home is a blessed,
matter-of-fact affair; but our flag proudly topping our Embassy in
another land is a thrilling proposition, and I suddenly realized the
aptness of the homely old phrase “so gallantly streaming.”
Chiding myself for what I called purely emotional patriotism (but still
quivering with it), I entered the marble halls of Dorchester House.
A compact, slowly-moving mass of people exactly fitted the broad and
truly magnificent marble staircase.
Adjusting myself as part of this ambulatory throng, we moved on,
mechanically, a step at a time, toward the top. On each landing, as the
great staircase turned twice, were footmen in pink satin and silver
lace, who looked like valentines. They are very wonderful, those English
footmen, and sometimes I think I’d rather have one than a Teddy bear.
[Illustration: We moved on, mechanically, a step at a time.]
At the top of the staircase our ambassador and his reception party
greeted each guest with a cordial perfunctoriness, that exactly suited
the occasion, and then an invisible force, assisted here and there by a
very visible footman, gently urged us on.
Although the thought seems inappropriate to the splendor of the
occasion, yet to me the marvel of the affair was the “neatness and
despatch” with which it was managed. No crowding, no herding, no audible
directions, yet the shifting thousands moved as one, and the route
through the mansion, and down another staircase, was followed leisurely,
by all. One might pause in any apartment to view the pictures or the
decorations, or to chat with chance-met friends. By the admirable magic
of the management, this made no difference in the manipulation of the
throng. Eventually one came into a great marquee, built on terraces, and
exquisitely draped inside with white and pale green. Here a sumptuous
feast was served with the iron hand of neatness and despatch hidden in
the velvet glove of suavity and elegant leisure. Here, again, one met
hundreds of acquaintances, and made hundreds of new ones, the orchestra
played national airs under two flags, and the scene was one of the
brightest phases of kaleidoscopic London.
Then on, out into the great garden, full of delightful walks, seats,
flowers, music, and rainbow-garbed humanity. More meetings of friends
and strangers; more invitations for future going on; more introductions
to kindly celebrities; more pleasant exchange of international
compliment, and, above it all, the Stars and Stripes waving over
Dorchester House!
From here I tore myself away to keep an engagement to Tea on the Terrace
of the House of Commons.
This invitation had greatly pleased me, as it is esteemed a very
worth-while experience, and, further, I was very fond of the genial M.
P. and of his charming wife who had invited me. A bit belated, I reached
the Lobby, where I was to meet my host, several minutes after the
appointed time.
Unappalled by this disaster, because of my ignorance of its magnitude, I
asked an official to conduct me to Mr. Member of Parliament.
“Impossible,” he replied, “Mr. Member has already gone to the Terrace,
accompanied by his guests.”
“Yes,” said I, still not understanding; “I am one of his guests. Please
show me the way to the Terrace.”
He looked at me pityingly.
“I’m sorry, madame; but it is impossible for you to join them now. No
one may go there unless accompanied by a Member, and the Member you
mention may not be sent for.”
This seemed ludicrous, but so final was his manner, that I became
frightened lest I had really lost my entertainment.
[Illustration: So final was his manner that I became frightened.]
Whether my look of utter despair appealed to his better nature, or
whether he feared I was about to burst into tears, I don’t know,—but I
could see that he began to waver a little.
I thought of bribery and corruption, and wondered if so austere an
individual ought to be approached along those lines. I remembered that
an Englishman had spoken to me thus:
“I don’t know of anybody in London who would refuse a fee, except a club
servant or the King, and,” he added reflectively, “I’ve never tried the
King—personally.”
Assisted by this knowledge, I somehow found myself being led down dark
and devious staircases which gave suddenly out upon the broad, light
Terrace. My guide then disappeared like an Arab, and I happily sauntered
along in search of Mr. and Mrs. M. P.
The scene was unique. The long Terrace, looking out upon the Thames at
the very point of which Wordsworth wrote,
Earth has not anything to show more fair,
was filled with tea tables, at each of which sat a group of prominent
London tea-drinkers and their friends. The background, the Perpendicular
architecture of Parliament House, is crumbling in places, and I looked
quickly away, with a feeling of apology for having viewed it so closely
as to see its slight defects.
My host greeted me with an air of unbounded amazement.
“But how did you get down here?” he exclaimed.
“American enterprise,” I responded, but I learned that it had been an
extraordinary and reprehensible act on the part of the official who had
guided me.
[Illustration: My host greeted me with an air of unbounded amazement.]
I was sorry to learn this, but glad that I had persevered to success.
Twelve people were at table, and that Tea is among my fairest London
recollections.
The very atmosphere of the Terrace is Parliamentarian, though, of
course, not in a literal sense, and vague, unmeaning visions of woolsack
and wig seem to mingle with the visible realities. On the one side the
Thames, trembling with traffic; on the other the silent altitude of
stone, that seems to grow hospitable and confidential as you sit longer
at its feet. And between these, the tea-table, with its merry group,
laughing at each other’s jests, and carelessly throwing about those
precious invitations which keep one going on.
My right-hand neighbor proved to be a large-minded editor of delightful
personality.
We talked of books, and he said quite casually: “Yes, I fancy Henry
James’s works. And, moreover, he’s a charming man, personally. Would you
care to go motoring down to Rye to-morrow, and spend the day at his
place?”
While almost simultaneously on my other side a lady was saying, “Yes,
indeed, I’ll be glad to send you a card to the Annual Dinner of the
Women Authors of Great Britain.”
Truly, hospitality is the keynote of the Leaders of London Society. An
apparent lack of warmth may sometimes be noticeable in their manner, but
they deal out delightful invitations with a free and willing hand, the
acceptance of which keeps one forever going on.
And, after all, one is too prone to generalize.
Hostesses are human beings, and, therefore, there are no two alike.
One may classify,—and the types fall easily into classes,—but one may
not make sweeping assertions. And, too, in society, which the world over
is a sham and purveyor of shams, are kind hearts always more than
coronets?
And when one is gayly, perhaps flippantly, going on, one wants to see
all sorts, and I went from my Terrace Tea to a private view of some
paintings.
Then, after suitable robing, to a dinner; then to the opera, where the
delicious incongruity of _Madame Butterfly_ set to Italian grand opera
music, was heightened by the dear baby who sat flat on the stage and
waved the American flag into the very faces of the boxes full of English
royalty.
And so, as Pepys would say, home, and to bed, feeling that there was
certainly a fascinating exhilaration in London’s game of Going On.
[Illustration] _XIII._ _A French Week-End_
In London I met an American friend, a busy New York man of letters.
“I come to London every season,” said he, “for six week-ends. These are
spent at country-houses, and are planned for a long time ahead.”
At first, I wondered what he did between the week-ends, but I soon
learned that what with getting to and from one country-place, and
arranging to go to and from another, the insignificant Wednesday or
Thursday in between is totally lost sight of.
Distance to a week-end Mecca is counted as nothing; and so, when I was
invited to a house-party at a villa some twelve miles out of Paris, I
prepared to go as casually as if my destination were within the
Dominions of the Unsetting Sun.
There seemed to be several routes from London to Paris, and each was
recommended to me as “the only possible way”; but I decided upon the
Dover-Calais route, and left Victoria station on the special train.
A friend who came to “see me off” insisted on providing me with a put-up
luncheon, saying the only preventive of Channel bothers was to take a
bite before embarking.
So persistent was he, that I accepted his offer to put an end to his
argument, and waited in my compartment while he ran for the “bite.”
He returned, followed by a porter, who wheeled on a truck a “put-up
luncheon”! It was in a hamper, shaped like a large-sized wicker
suit-case. This stupendous affair was pushed under the seat, and before
I had time to remonstrate, my train started.
Impelled alike by hunger and curiosity, I finally opened the gigantic
lunch-basket. Inside were carefully planned compartments containing
several courses of a delicious cold luncheon. Ample provision of
serviettes and oiled paper protected the viands from possible dust or
cinders, and the array of flat silver was bewildering. Plates and cups
fitted into their niches, and the whole collection was of a completeness
beyond compare. This is as yet an untried field for American enterprise,
but I suppose it will come.
[Illustration: I finally opened this gigantic lunch basket.]
The disposition of the emptied hamper was simply to restore it to its
place under the seat, and leave it there. Apparently it had the
instincts of a homing pigeon.
Leaving Dover was like backing away from a picture post-card. I have
sometimes thought lithographed colors unnaturally bright, but the green
and white and blue of receding Dover on a sunshiny day make aniline dyes
seem dull by comparison.
The crossing on the Channel steamer was delightful, and I now know the
dreadful tales I have heard of this experience to be mere peevish
malignity. I sat on the deck of the dancing boat, and when the spray
grew mischievous, kind-hearted attendants wrapped me in tarpaulin
mackintoshes, or whatever may be the French for their queer raincoats.
I ruined my hat and feathers, but, in the exhilaration of that mad dash
through the tumbling, rioting sea, who could think of personal economy?
All too soon we reached Calais, and here, again, a living, breathing
picture confronted me. Unlike Dover, the harbor at Calais is like an
exquisite aquarelle. The high lights and half-tones are marvellous, and
the composition is a masterpiece. But (and here I made my two rules that
should be invariably observed by the traveller from London to Paris)
there is not a more fearful wild-fowl living than your French customs
inspector.
Troubles of all sorts cropped up, and the porters and officials talked
such strange French that they couldn’t understand mine!
But the troubles were all because of my luggage, which they divided into
two classes. And hence my two rules:
(1) When crossing the English Channel, on no account take with you any
luggage except hand-luggage.
(2) On no account take any hand-luggage.
These rules, carefully observed, will insure a happy, peaceful journey,
for the accommodations for personal comfort are admirable.
The railroad train from Calais to Paris is a clean marvel of light gray
upholstery, and white antimacassars sized like a pillow-sham. The cars
are exceedingly comfortable and the whole ride a delight.
I reached the _Gare du Nord_ about seven o’clock in the evening, and,
after a maddening experience with criminally imperturbable officials, I
took a cab to my hotel.
Accustomed, all my life, to the few scattering cabs of New York City, I
had thought London possessed a great many cabs; but Paris contains as
many as London and New York put together. The French capital is paved
with cabs, and of such a cheapness of fare that I soon discovered it was
more economical to stay in them than to get out.
I well knew I must fight against the insistence of “first impressions”;
but after all it _was_ Paris, and I had never been there before, and the
ride from the station to the _Place Vendôme_ might therefore be allowed
to thrill me a little.
Some of the streets seemed rather horrid, but after we swung into the
Boulevard and came at last to the Vendôme Column, with a pale little
French moon just appearing above it, I was ready to admit that Paris
might go to my head, even as London went to my heart.
My chosen hotel, The Ritz, was once the old palace of the Castiglione,
and still retains much of the palatial manner.
Exquisite in the modernness of its appointments, it possesses an
atmosphere of historic France, and the combination comes perilously near
perfection. The urbane proprietor, who looked like the hero of a French
play, personally conducted me to my rooms and was solicitous for my
welfare in the best of English. From my windows I could see _al fresco_
diners in a garden which looked like Marie Antoinette’s idea of Luna
Park.
[Illustration: The urbane proprietor . . . personally conducted me to my
rooms.]
Noble old trees rose as high as the house, and from their branches hung
great globes of vari-colored electric light. Statues guarded a fountain
at one end, flower-beds surrounded the place, and at many tables gay
humanity was toying with _chef d’œuvres_ of French cooking.
The scene allured me. I hastily donned a dinner gown, and descended to
take my seat at an attractively-placed table.
As I was alone, this might in New York have seemed indiscreet; in
London, at least undiscreet; but in Paris, being a guest of the house,
and under the protection of the august and benignant proprietor, it all
seemed the most natural proceeding in the world.
The dinner was a dream; I mean, a sort of comic opera dream, where
lights and flowers and gayety made a chimerical effect of happiness.
Of course, this pause over night at the hotel was part of my journey to
the week-end party.
The next day my hostess would send for me, but these vicissitudes of
travel were not at all unpleasant.
As I finished my dinner, and sauntered through the delicately ornate
salons, callers’ cards were brought me, and I was delighted to welcome
some English friends who were passing through Paris on a motor tour.
“Come with us,” they said; “our car is at the door, and we will go out
and see ‘Paris by night’ in our own way.”
Incongruous this, for Emily Emmins!
But my adaptability claimed me for its own, and, with what I fancied a
French shrug of my shoulders, I mispronounced a French phrase of
acquiescence, and declared myself ready to go.
[Illustration: With what I fancied a French shrug of my shoulders I
mispronounced a French phrase of acquiescence.]
Three stalwart Englishmen, and the dignified wife of one of them, might
seem a strange party with which to visit Montmartre by night; but it was
an ideal way to go. In the motor-car we could whiz from one ridiculous
“Cabaret Unique” to another. We could look in at the absurd illusions of
“Le Ciel,” we could jeer at the flimsy foolishness of “L’Enfer,” and
make fun of its _attractions diaboliques_, yet all the time we were
seeing the heart of Parisian Folly, and a very gay, good-humored,
harmless little heart it is. Evil there might be, but none was
observable, and the foolish young French people sat around with much the
same air as that of young Americans at Coney Island.
The “Cabaret du Neant” is supposed to be a fearsome place, where guests
sit around coffins and see ghosts. But so like substantial tables were
the coffins, and so sociable and human the ghosts, that awe gave place
to amusement.
Home we whizzed, through the poorly lighted streets, which are indeed an
anachronism in Gay Paris By Night.
Next day came the great touring-car of my week-end hostess, to take me
to her villa, at St. Germain-en-Laye.
The villa being a fascinating old French mansion, self-furnished, the
house party being composed of most delightful people, the host and
hostess past grand masters in the art of entertaining, the visit was, as
might have been expected, merely a kaleidoscope of week-end delights.
One absorbing entertainment followed another, but perhaps the picture
that remains most clearly in my memory is the dinner on the terrace. A
French country-house terrace is so much more frivolous than an English
one. The outlook, over a formal garden, of modified formality; the
splashing little fountains here and there; the decorated table on the
decorated terrace; the shaded candles, flowers, and foreign service; the
French moon, that has such a sophisticated paleness; the birds singing
French songs in what are doubtless ilex trees—all go to make a peculiar
charm that no other country may ever hope to attain.
The days were devoted to motoring to Versailles, Fontainebleau, and
through Paris itself, and by this subtle method, one could sight-see
without realizing it. To motor over to Chantilly, for the sole purpose
of feeding the carp, is a different matter from seeing “sights which
should on no account be omitted”; and to go with one’s host for a day’s
run among the tiny French villages is a personally conducted tour with
the sting entirely extracted.
The week-end over, I must needs pause a day or two in Paris, to rest
myself on my journey back to London.
The shops offered wonderful attractions in the way of souvenirs to take
to the dear ones at home. For the value of a foreign-bought “souvenir”
lies in the fact of its non-existence in American shops, and such are
hard to find, indeed. For the novelty in London to-day is the “reduced
goods” in the New York department store to-morrow.
Moreover, the shops contained feminine raiment of wonderful glory! Only
the fear of my “first impressions” of our American custom-house officers
prevented my realizing my wildest dreams of extravagance.
Parisian clothes are marked by that quality which the London
sales-people call “dynety”—they having no more idea of the meaning than
of the pronounciation of the word.
But the Parisian woman, from the richest to the poorest, is first of all
dainty; after that, correct, _chic_, modish—what you will.
[Illustration: The Parisian woman . . . is first of all dainty.]
And the French money is so easy to compute. My sovereign rule is to
multiply by two. If the price be in francs multiply by two, shift a
decimal point, and you have dollars. If centimes, multiply by two,
decimal point again, and you have cents.
This simple rule made Paris shopping easy.
I had determined, as this time Paris was a means and not an end, being
merely incidental to my week-end trip, I would not go into the
galleries, and perhaps become unduly attached to something I might find
there.
A casual visit to the Louvre let me go through several rooms of pictures
and statues unmoved, when suddenly I met my Waterloo.
All unexpectedly I came upon the _Venus of Milo_. It was a revelation.
The casts and photographs I had hitherto seen of it I now discovered to
be no more like the original statue than the moon is like the sun.
The form, perhaps, is not so inadequately represented, but the face, as
shown in cast or picture, is a sadly futile attempt at imitation.
The real _Venus_ has the most marvellous face in the world. There is an
ineffable beauty of feature, and an exquisite repose of expression, that
betokens no one affection, but the glorification of all that is great
and beautiful.
But the fascination is unexplainable. I only know that into that
wonderful face I could gaze for hours; but never again do I want to see
a reproduction of it, of any sort.
In the Louvre, too, I found the _Mona Lisa_. Here again I had been
misled by photographs and “art prints,” and was all unprepared for the
witchery of that baffling, bewildering smile. By a queer correlation of
ideas, my mind reverted to the _Laughing Cavalier_, and I wondered if
these two were smiling at the same thought.
Undesirous of seeing more at this time, I returned to my open,
victoria-like cab. Those foolish Paris cabs! They seem so exactly like
the vehicle in which Bella Wilfer elegantly sat, when she begged her
parent, “Loll, ma, loll!”
But they are fine to see out of, and a city like Paris, made for show,
should have cabs of wide outlook.
Paris is an achievement. Its coherent, consequent civic beauty ranks it
among the seven beauties of the world. It is as systematically and
methodically laid out as Philadelphia—but with a difference!
It is discreet and tactful, and ever puts its best foot foremost, the
other probably being down at heel.
It is trim and tripping, where London is solidly lumbering,—but, give
me London!
Paris is adorable; London is lovable. Paris is bewitching; London is
satisfying.
Paris is to London as lime-light unto sunlight, and as absinthe unto
wine. But as the very essence of Paris, is ephemeral, so the nature of
London makes for perpetuity; and London is, of all things, a place to go
back to.
* * * * *
“_A collection of wholesome and_
_delightful tales_”
The Folk Afield
_By_
Eden Phillpotts
Author of
“CHILDREN OF THE MIST,” “SONS OF THE MORNING,” etc.,
Crown, 8vo. $1.50
The variety that characterizes
these stories is one of both
scene and character, containing
stories of love and adventure on sea
and land. The backgrounds, laid in
with vividness and opulence of color,
have for the most part the sunny luxuriance
of the South of France, of Italy,
and of North Africa. The types of
character—heroes, heroines, and
supernumeraries are as varied as the
settings of the stories. Mr. Phillpotts’
heroines are singularly attractive,
now by their beauty and their ardor,
now by their gentleness and purity.
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London
* * * * *
_A New Book by the Author of “Lavender_
_and Old Lace”_
LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITERARY MEN
By MYRTLE REED
Author of “A Spinner in the Sun,” “The Master’s Violin,” etc.
The love affairs of literary men seem to have an unfailing
hold upon the general sympathy, and a stronger hold, it might be
said, than the sentimental experiences of any other class of
people. In this book, Miss Reed has briefly retold the stories
of the lovers of the group of writers who are assured, all of
them, of immortal places in English literature. Here we may read
of the mysterious, double love affair of Swift with Stella and
Vanessa, of Pope’s almost grotesque attempts at the role of
lover, of Dr. Johnson’s ponderous affections, of Sterne’s
sentimental philanderings, and of Cowper’s relations with the
fair sex. We are told too of the loves of Keats and Shelley, a
story in the former case distressingly painful, in the latter a
tale in which the tragic and the joyous are woven in a mingled
web. Here, too, we meet Edgar Allan Poe as a lover; and we read
of Carlyle’s wooing, and peruse the unpleasant, but not
uninteresting, chronicle of his married life which resulted so
unhappily for Mrs. Carlyle.
Crown 8vo, with 20 Portraits, printed in two colors. Cloth,
gilt top, net $1.75. Full red leather, net $2.50. Antique Calf,
net $3.00. Lavender Silk, net $4.00.
_A complete descriptive circular of Miss Reed’s books sent on
application._
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London
* * * * *
“_A Delightful and Dramatic Story_”
Brown of Harvard
By
Rida Johnson Young and Gilbert P. Coleman
A delightful and dramatic story of modern college life based
upon the successful play of the same name. It will be found true
to both local color and spirit of the University where the scene
is laid. A lively and stirring plot, with ingenious and
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