_Park Lane._
DEAREST DAPHNE,--The outstanding features of the season have certainly
been the Friendship Fête, the Kamtchatkan Scriptural opera-ballet,
"_Noé s'embarque sur l'Arche_," and the Cloak!
The Friendship Fête, to celebrate our not having had any scraps with
any foreign country for some little time, was simply immense. There
were descriptive tableaux and groups, and the one undertaken by your
Blanche--swords being turned into ploughshares and the figure of Peace
standing in the middle, with Bellona crouching at her feet--was said
to be an easy winner. I was Peace, of course, in chiffon draperies,
with my hair down. I hadn't the faintest notion what sort of thing a
ploughshare was, but I'd clever people to help me, and so it was all
right. But oh, my best one! the difficulty I had in getting a Bellona!
They all wanted to be Peace, and some of them were so absolutely
horrid about it that I couldn't help telling them they were only
showing how _fit_ they were to be Bellona! (I will tell _you_ in
confidence that I believe one of them was responsible for some of my
swords and ploughshares falling down with an immensely odious crash
just as the opening ceremony was going on.) Norty was given the group
of all nations, called, "All Men are Brothers," and he said on the
whole it was rather a rotten job; there was a lot of friction, and
at one time he was afraid things might get almost to _diplomatic_
lengths; however, it all went smoothly at last. Still he told me
_à l'oreille_ that he was glad it was well over, as two or three
Friendship Fêtes would be enough to shake the peace of Europe to its
foundations!
But nothing matters much while one can go and see the wonderful,
_wonderful_ Kamtchatkans in "_Noé s'embarque sur l'Arche_"--a feast of
beauty--a riot of colour--a mass of inner meanings. Who am I, dearest,
that I should try to word-paint it? Being an opera-ballet, there
are two Noahs, a singing one and a dancing one. While that glorious
Golliookin, the singing Noah, is giving the marvellous Flood Music in
a gallery over the stage, our dear wonderful Ternitenky, the dancing
Noah, is going into the Ark in a series of the most delicious _pas
seuls_. Then his dance of Astonishment and Alarm as he sees the waters
rising--and afterwards his dance of Joy and Thankfulness at finding
himself quite dry! The _Pas de Six_ of Noah's Sons and their Wives!
And the _ensemble_ dancing of the Animals! My dearest, you positively
must and shall leave your solitudes and come and see the Kamtchatkans
in Scriptural opera-ballet! Only second to _Noé_ is _La Femme de Lot_,
with dear Sarkavina, in clouds of white, doing a sensational whirling
dance as she turns into the Pillar, while that amazing soprano,
Scriemalona, sings the mysterious Salt Music. Bishops quite _swarm_ at
these performances. They say they consider it their _duty_ to go, and
that they never _really_ understood the true character of NOAH till
they saw Ternitenky's beautiful flying leap into the Ark, or quite
grasped the personality of LOT'S Wife before seeing Sarkavina's
Pillar-of-Salt dance.
On _Noé_ and _Lot_ nights it's correct to carry a little darling Old
Testament, bound in velvet or satin to match or contrast with
one's toilette, and generally with jewels on the cover; and the
Old Testament is quite often mentioned at dinner just now, people
pretending they've been reading it, and so on. _À propos_, Mrs.
Golding-Newman, one of the latest climbers, excused herself for being
late at dinner somewhere the other night by saying, "I was
reading Deuteronomy and didn't notice how the time was going." The
Bullyon-Boundermere woman was present and, determined to trump her
rival's trick, chipped in with, "Oh, _isn't_ Deuteronomy _charming_?
But I think of _all_ the books of the Old Testament my favourite is In
Memoriam!"
The Cloak, my Daphne, which is one of the most interesting arrivals
in town this summer, is, _à mon avis_, something quite _more_ than
a garment--it is a great big test of all that a woman most prides
herself on! You may see a thousand women with cloaks on, but how many
will be _really wearing_ them! As one criticised the cloaks and their
wearers in the Enclosure at Aswood one couldn't help murmuring with a
small sigh, "Who is sufficient for these things!" People who have the
cloak fastened on _in just any way_, my dear, are simply begging the
question; in its true inwardness, in its loftiest development, the
cloak should be a separate creation, kept in its place only by the
grace and knack of its wearer. There should be _character_ about it, a
fascinating droop, a sweat crookedness that can only happen when it is
worn with the art that--you know the rest.
Shall I confide to you my little secret, dearest? Would you know why
it is given to your Blanche to be easily best of the few women who do
really _wear_ the cloak? When I'm ready, all but nay cloak, I run away
from Yvonne down the stairs; she follows, carrying the cloak, and when
she's beginning to overtake me she throws the cloak and I catch it on
my shoulders. Result--I'm the envy and despair of all my best beloved
enemies!
People have been trying to find new places to wear their watches. A
small watch on the toe of each shoe (plain for day wear, jewelled for
the evening) had quite a little vogue, though as watches they were no
good, for no one could see the time by them. Then little teeny watches
on the tips of glove-fingers were liked a little. But the latest
development is that Time is _démodé_, and anyone mentioning hours and
half-hours is stamped as an outside person.
Isn't this a _fragrant_ idea about our not being to blame for
anything we do, because it's all owing to the _colours_ we live with?
Everybody's _charmed_ about it. Instead of going to _lawyers_
when things run off the rails a little, if one just called in a
_colour-expert_ all sorts of horrors might be avoided, for he would
prove that people are like that owing to the colours of their curtains
and upholsteries, and aren't to blame themselves, poor, dears, the
very least little bit! The Thistledown _ménage_, for instance. For
ages it's been tottery, because Thistledown never understood Fluffy,
and Fluffy, poor little thing, seemed to understand everybody except
Thistledown. We've all been so sorry for her, for several times he's
been on the point of dragging things into public. And now it turns out
that nothing is Fluffy's fault and that, if she hadn't always had her
own, own room done in pinky-bluey shades, she might have been quite a
serious domestic character! T. says, if that's so, she'd better have
her own, own room done in some other colour, but Fluffy says, No, she
likes pinky-bluey shades, only he must remember, when he's inclined to
be hard on her, that the pinky-blueys are to blame and not herself.
Then there's old Lady Humguffin, easily the most miserly old dear who
ever wore a transformation (she even has a taxi-meter thing in her
own motors and anyone driving with her is expected to pay what it
registers!). Colour-experts say that if it weren't for the frightfully
dull dusty purple in which all her rooms are furnished she might part
quite freely!
So there it is, my dear! People say there's been no such important
discovery since Gallienus--that fearful old man, you know, who said
something moved when everyone else said it didn't. (I hardly know
_how_ I know these things. Please, please don't think I'm becoming a
_femme savante_!).
Ever thine, BLANCHE.
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