Speak-easy de luxe turns out to be everything that its name implies—all scarlet upholstery, chromium-plating and terrible noise—and we are privileged to meet, and talk with, the proprietor. He says he comes from Tipperary—(I have to stifle immediately impulse to say that It's a long, long way to Tipperary)—and we talk about Ireland, London night-clubs and the Empire State Building. Charlie is suddenly inspired to say—without foundation—that I want to know what will happen to the speak-easy when Prohibition is repealed? To this the proprietor replies—probably with perfect truth—that he is, he supposes, asked that question something like one million times every evening—and shortly afterwards he leaves us.
Dinner is excellent, we dance at intervals, and Eugene talks to me about books and says he is a publisher.
We then depart in a taxi for night-club, and I admire—not for the first time—the amount of accommodation available in American taxis. We all talk, and discuss English food, of which Ramona and her friend Helen speak more kindly than it deserves—probably out of consideration for my feelings. Eugene and Charlie preserve silence—no doubt for the same reason—but Taylor, evidently a strong-minded person, says that he has suffered a good deal from English cabbage. Savouries, on the other hand, are excellent. They are eaten, he surprisingly adds, with a special little knife and fork, usually of gold. Can only suppose that Taylor, when in England, moves exclusively in ducal circles, and hastily resolve never in any circumstances to ask him to my own house where savouries, if any, are eaten with perfectly ordinary electro-plate.
Night-club is reached—name over the door in electric light is simply but inappropriately—Paradise. It is, or seems to me, about the size of the Albert Hall, and is completely packed with people all screaming at the tops of their voices, orchestra playing jazz, and extremely pretty girls with practically no clothes on at all, prancing on a large stage.
We sit down at a table, and Charlie immediately tells me that the conductor of the band is Paul Whiteman, and that he lost 75 lbs. last year and his wife wrote a book. I scream back Really? and decide that conversationally I can do no more, as surrounding noise is too overwhelming.
Various young women come on and perform unnatural contortions with their bodies, and I indulge in reflections on the march of civilisation, but am roused from this by Taylor, who roars into my ear that the conductor of the orchestra is Whiteman and he has recently lost 75 lbs. in weight. Content myself this time with nodding in reply.
Noise continues deafening, and am moved by the sight of three exhausted-looking women in black velvet, huddled round a microphone on platform and presumably singing into it—but no sound audible above surrounding din. They are soon afterwards eclipsed by further instalment of entirely undressed houris, each waving wholly inadequate feather-fan.
Just as I am deciding that no one over the age of twenty-five should be expected to derive satisfaction from watching this display, Taylor again becomes my informant. The proprietors of this place, he bellows, are giving the selfsame show, absolutely free, to four hundred little newsboys on Thanksgiving Day. Nothing, I reply sardonically, could possibly be healthier or more beneficial to the young—but this sarcasm entirely wasted as it is inaudible, and shortly afterwards we leave. Air of Broadway feels like purity itself, after the atmosphere prevalent inside Paradise, which might far more suitably be labelled exactly the opposite.
Now, I enquire, are we going to Harlem? Everyone says Oh no, it's no use going to Harlem before one o'clock in the morning at the very earliest. We are going to another night-club on Broadway. This one is called Montmartre, and is comparatively small and quiet.
This actually proves to be the case, and am almost prepared to wager that not more than three hundred people are sitting round the dance-floor screaming at one another. Orchestra is very good indeed—coloured female pianist superlatively so—and two young gentlemen, acclaimed as "The Twins" and looking about fifteen years of age, are dancing admirably. We watch this for some time, and reward it with well-deserved applause. Conversation is comparatively audible, and on the whole I can hear quite a number of the things we are supposed to be talking about. These comprise Mae West, the World Fair in Chicago, film called Three Little Pigs, and the difference in programmes between the American Radio and the British Broadcasting Corporation.
Charlie tells me that he has not read my book—which doesn't surprise me—and adds that he will certainly do so at once—which we both know to be a polite gesture and not to be taken seriously.
Conviction gradually invades me that I am growing sleepy and that in another minute I shan't be able to help yawning. Pinch myself under the table and look round at Helen and Ramona, but both seem to be perfectly fresh and alert. Involuntary and most unwelcome reflection crosses my mind that age will tell. Yawn becomes very imminent indeed and I set my teeth, pinch harder than ever, and open my eyes as widely as possible. Should be sorry indeed to see what I look like, at this juncture, but am fortunately spared the sight. Taylor is now talking to me—I think about a near relation of his own married to a near relation of an English Duke—but all reaches me through a haze, and I dimly hear myself saying automatically at short intervals that I quite agree with him, and he is perfectly right.
Situation saved by orchestra, which breaks into the "Blue Danube", and Eugene, who invites me to dance. This I gladly do and am restored once more to wakefulness. This is still further intensified by cup of black coffee which I drink immediately after sitting down again, and yawn is temporarily defeated.
Eugene talks about publishing, and I listen with interest, except for tendency to look at his enormous eyelashes and wonder if he has any sisters, and if theirs are equally good.
Presently Ramona announces that it is two o'clock, and what about Harlem? We all agree that Harlem is the next step, and once more emerge into the night.
By the time we are all in a taxi, general feeling has established itself that we are all old friends, and know one another very well indeed. I look out at the streets, marvellously lighted, and remember that I must get Christmas presents for the maids at home. Decide on two pairs of silk stockings for Florence, who is young, but Cook presents more difficult problem. Cannot believe that silk stockings would be really acceptable, and in any case feel doubtful of obtaining requisite size. What about hand-bag? Not very original, and could be equally well obtained in England. Book out of the question, as Cook has often remarked, in my hearing, that reading is a sad waste of time.
At this juncture Taylor suddenly remarks that he sees I am extremely observant, I take mental notes of my surroundings all the time, and he has little doubt that I am, at this very moment, contrasting the night life of America with the night life to which I am accustomed in London and Paris. I say Yes, yes, and try not to remember that the night life to which I am accustomed begins with letting out the cat at half-past ten and winding the cuckoo-clock, and ends with going straight to bed and to sleep until eight o'clock next morning.
Slight pause follows Taylor's remark, and I try to look as observant and intelligent as I can, but am relieved when taxi stops, and we get out at the Cotton Club, Harlem.
Coloured girls, all extremely nude, are dancing remarkably well on stage, coloured orchestra is playing—we all say that Of course they understand Rhythm as nobody else in the world does—and the usual necessity prevails of screaming very loudly in order to be heard above all the other people who are screaming very loudly.
(Query: Is the effect of this perpetual shrieking repaid by the value of the remarks we exchange? Answer: Definitely, No.)
Coloured