Part 7
Nor was it long before I became as avid as any Londoner to pursue the bewildering course known as “going on.”
There is a cumulative delight in whisking from Tea to Tea, and no two teas are ever alike.
It pleased me greatly to classify and note the difference in London Teas.
In New York all Teas are alike in quality—the only difference being in quantity. But in London one Tea differeth from another, not only in glory, but in size, shape, and color.
Yet all are enjoyable to one who understands going on. If the Tea be of the Glacial Period, there is no occasion to exert your entertaining powers. Simply assume an expression of bored superiority, and move about with a few murmured, incoherent, and not necessarily rational words.
There is a very amusing story, which I used to think an impossible exaggeration, but which I now believe to be true.
Thus runs the tale: A guest at an afternoon tea, when spoken to by any one, invariably replied, “I was found dead in my bed this morning.” As the responses to this were always, “Really?” or “Charmed, I’m sure,” or “Only fancy!” it is safe to assume that the remark was unheard or unheeded.
But this state of things is not certainly unpleasant, or to be condemned.
One does not go to a Tea to improve one’s mind, or to acquire valuable information. The remarks that are made are quite as satisfactory unheard as heard. We are not pining to be told the state of the weather; we deduce our friend’s good health from the fact of his presence; and it is therefore delightful to be left, unhampered, to pursue our own thoughts, and, if so minded, to make to ourselves our own analytic observations on the scene before us.
Again, if the Tea be of the Responsive Variety, and you are supposed to chat and be chatted to, then is joy indeed in store for you—for when Londoners do talk, they talk wonderfully well.
I went one afternoon to a Tea given for me by a well-known London novelist. The host, beside being an Englishman of the most charming type, and a clever writer, was of a genial, happy nature, which seemed to imbue the whole affair with a cosy gayety.
Though not a large Tea, many literary celebrities were present, and each gave willingly of his best mentality to grace the occasion.
Now, nothing is more truly delightful than the informal chatter of good-natured, quick-witted literary people. Their true sense of values, their quick sense of humor, their receptiveness, their responsiveness, and their instantaneous perception, combine to bring forth conversation like the words of which Beaumont wrote:
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whom they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life . . . Wit that might warrant be For the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were cancelled.
Nor are Teas of this sort rare or exceptional.
Given the entrée to London’s literary circles, occasions abound for meeting with these companions who do converse and waste the time together.
To my great regret, this is not to be said of America. A Literary Tea in New York means a lot of people, some, perhaps, bookishly inclined, invited to meet a Celebrity of Letters.
The Celebrity comes late, sometimes not at all, and he or she is often enveloped in a sort of belligerent shyness which does not make for coherent conversation of any sort. Moreover, Americans do not know how to give a Tea. We are learning, but we conduct our Teas in an amateurish, self-conscious way, and with a brave endurance born of our national do-or-die principles.
But to return to my going ons (which must by no means be confounded with goings-on).
From my Literary Tea, I went to a Musical Tea. This is distinctly a London function, and the music, while of the best, acts as a soaking wet Ostermoor laid on the feebly-burning vivacity of the occasion. The young girl sings, the long-haired gentleman plays a violin, the lady in the Greek gown plays the harp, and the guests arrive continuously, and escape as soon as possible.
But, like Kipling’s lovable tramp, I “liked it all,” and stood tranquilly holding my teacup, while I studied the Tussaud effects all about me.
Then, as it was Fourth of July, I betook myself to the reception at Dorchester House.
This is a most admirable institution. I mean the reception, not the house, though the statement really applies to both.
But it is a fine thing to celebrate our Independence Day in London. There is an incongruity about it that lends an added charm to what is in itself a stupendously beautiful affair.
Dorchester House, one of the finest residences in London, is now the 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.