American publisher has come to meet me and is on the Dock, I am delighted to see him, and we sit on a bench for about two hours, surrounded by luggage, none of which seems to be mine Eventually, however, it appears—which slightly surprises me—publisher supports me through Customs inspection, and finally escorts me personally to Essex House, where I am rung up five times before an hour has elapsed, with hospitable greetings and invitations. (Nothing from Ella Wheelwright, and cannot help wondering if she has perhaps been arrested?)
Am much impressed by all of it, including marvellous view from bedroom on sixteenth story, but still unable to contemplate photographs of children with complete calm.
Oct. 16th.—Come to the conclusion that everything I have ever heard or read about American Hospitality is an understatement. Telephone bell rings incessantly from nine o'clock onwards, invitations pour in, and complete strangers ring up to say that they liked my book, and would be glad to give a party for me at any hour of the day or night. Am plunged by all this into a state of bewilderment, but feel definitely that it will be a satisfaction to let a number of people at home hear about it all, and realise estimation in which professional writers are held in America.
(Second thought obtrudes itself here, to the effect that, if I know anything of my neighbours, they will receive any such information with perfect calm and probably say Yes, they've always heard that Americans were Like That.)
Am interviewed by reporters on five different occasions—one young gentleman evidently very tired, and droops on a sofa without saying much, which paralyses me, and results in long stretches of deathly silence. Finally he utters, to the effect that John Drinkwater was difficult to interview. Experience forlorn gleam of gratification at being bracketed with so distinguished a writer, but this instantly extinguished, as reporter adds that in the end J. D. talked for one hour and fifteen minutes. Am quite unable to emulate this achievement, and interview ends in gloom. Representative of an evening paper immediately appears, but is a great improvement on his colleague, and restores me to equanimity.
Three women reporters follow—am much struck by the fact that they are all good-looking and dress nicely—they all ask me what I think of the American Woman, whether I read James Branch Cabell—which I don't—and what I feel about the Problem of the Leisured Woman. Answer them all as eloquently as possible, and make mental note to the effect that I have evidently never taken the subject of Women seriously enough, the only problem about them in England being why there are so many.
Lunch with distinguished publisher and his highly decorative wife and two little boys. Am not in the least surprised to find that they live in a flat with black-velvet sofas, concealed lighting, and three diagonal glass tables for sole furniture. It turns out, however, that this is not a typical American home, and that they find it nearly as remarkable as I do myself. We have lunch, the two little boys behave like angels—reputation of American children' evidently libellous, and must remember to say so when I get home—and we talk about interior decoration dining-room has different-coloured paint on each one of its four walls—books and sea voyages. Elder of the two little boys suddenly breaks into this and remarks that he just loves English sausages—oh boy!—which I accept as a compliment to myself, and he then relapses into silence. Am much impressed by this display of social competence, and feel doubtful whether Robin or Vicky could ever have equalled it.
Afternoon is spent, once more, in interviews, and am taken out to supper-party by Ella Wheelwright, who again appears in clothes that I have never seen before. At supper I sit next elderly gentleman wearing collar exactly like Mr. Gladstone's. He is slightly morose, tells me that times are not at all what they were—which I know already—and that there is No Society left in New York. This seems to me uncivil, as well as ungrateful, and I decline to assent. Elderly Gentleman is, however, entirely indifferent as to whether I agree with him or not, and merely goes on to say that no club would dream of admitting Jews to its membership. (This, if true, reflects no credit on clubs.) It also appears that, in his own house, cocktails, wireless, gramophones and modern young people are—like Jews—never admitted. Should like to think of something really startling to reply to all this, but he would almost certainly take no notice, even if I did, and I content myself with saying that that is Very Interesting—which is not, unfortunately, altogether true.
Ella Wheelwright offers to drive me home, which she does with great competence, though once shouted at by a policeman who tells her: Put your lights on, sister!
Ella is kind, and asks me to tell her all about my home, but follows this up by immediately telling me all about hers instead. She also invites me to two luncheons, one tea, and to spend Sunday with her on Long Island.
Return to my room, which is now becoming familiar, and write long letter to Robert, which makes me feel homesick all over again.
October 17th.—Conference at publisher's office concerning my future movements, in which I take passive, rather than active part. Head of well-known lecture agency is present, and tells me about several excellent speaking-engagements that he might have got for me if: (a) He had had longer notice, (b) All the Clubs in America hadn't been affected by the depression, and (c) I could arrange to postpone my sailing for another three months.
Since (a) and (b) cannot now be remedied, and I entirely refuse to consider (c), deadlock appears to have been reached, but agent suddenly relents and admits that he can, by dint of superhuman exertions, get me one or two bookings in various places that none of them seem to be less than eighteen hours' journey apart. I agree to everything, only stipulating for Chicago where I wish to visit literary friend Arthur and his family, and to inspect the World Fair.
Social whirl, to which I am by now becoming accustomed, follows, and I am put into the hands of extraordinarily kind and competent guardian angel, picturesquely named Ramona Herdman. She takes me to the Vanderbilt Hotel for so-called tea, which consists of very strong cocktails and interesting sandwiches. I meet Miss Isabel Paterson, famous literary critic, by whom I am completely fascinated, but also awe-stricken in the extreme, as she has terrific reputation and is alarmingly clever in conversation.
She demolishes one or two English novelists, in whose success I have always hitherto believed implicitly, but is kind about my own literary efforts, and goes so far as to hope that we shall meet again. I tell her that I am going to Chicago and other places, and may be lecturing, and she looks at the floor and says, Yes, Clubwomen, large women with marcelled hair, wearing reception gowns.
Am appalled by this thumbnail sketch, and seriously contemplate cancelling tour altogether.
Ella Wheelwright joins us. She now has on a black ensemble, and hair done in quite a new way—and we talk about books. I say that I have enjoyed nothing so much as Flush, but Miss Paterson again disconcerts me by muttering that to write a whole book about a dog is Simply Morbid.
Am eventually taken to Essex House by Ella W., who asks, very kindly, if there is anything she can do for me. Yes, there is. She can tell me where I can go to get my hair shampooed and set, and whether it will be much more expensive than it is at home. In reply, Ella tells me that her own hair waves naturally. It doesn't curl—that isn't what she means at all but it just waves. In damp weather, it just goes into natural waves. It always has done this, ever since she was a child. But she has it set once a month, because it looks nicer. Hairdresser always tells her that it's lovely hair to do anything with, because the wave is really natural.
She then says Good-night and leaves me, and I decide to have my own inferior hair, which does not wave naturally, washed and set in the Hotel Beauty-parlour.
Oct. 23rd.—Extraordinary week-end with Ella Wheelwright on Long Island, at superb country-house which she refers to as her cottage. She drives me out from New York very kindly, but should enjoy it a great deal more if she would look in front