From the LadyHelen Poleto the Countess ofEdgeandRoss.
From the LadyHelen Poleto the Countess ofEdgeandRoss.
Boulder Lake,July 2d
THE people have been here several days now, and the lake looks very gay. When the men are not fishing the boats are filled with the children, ducky little things in white pinnys and bright ribbons. I am going to have them all over by themselves for luncheon some day, for, so far, I like them better than their “mommers.” The men are a well turned-out lot, but look tired, and—anæmic. So far, I have seen little of them, as Mr. Rogers has delayed bringing them over to call—possibly until the mountain air has made them feel a little more fit. New York is said to be unbearably hot, and, you know, the rich men in this country work as hard as the poor ones. Did I tell you that they all dine at the Club House? This cottage would have been impracticable for us did not Mr. Rogers have an invalid mother who could not leave the house—which is quite apart from the others—for days at a time. Therefore, we have here a complete kitchen, pantry, etc., and arequite independent of what would be to us all a detestable arrangement, even if Bertie were well. He is quite fit again, by the way, and has several times been fishing with Mr. Rogers. He has met a number of the men and says he likes most of them, but has taken a violent dislike to an author that this admiring circle has made a fool of, and longs to be well enough to kick him. He likes the women as little as I do.
They have all called on us. They came singly and in battalions. I have a general impression of thin carefully modulated voices, fluffy well-groomed hair, delicate features, light eyes, a discontented expression—which is reflected in their voices—an unbounded self-confidence, an annoying and persistent self-consciousness, and the most perfect gowns imaginable. In the morning they wear the triggest serge or tweed costumes, on hot days linen of various colours, in the afternoon they flit about in pretty lawns, and in the evening they are very smart indeed—several of them called after dinner.
As they will doubtless flit in and out of myletters very often I will do my poor best to introduce several of them to you that you may see some sort of object behind the names.
The four that have impressed me most so far are Mrs. Chenoweth, the wife of a “great” editor; Mrs. Hammond, the wife of a “great” art publisher; Mrs. Laurence, a “wonderfully successful” authoress, and Miss Simpson, the editor of a “great” woman’s magazine; her name is Margaret E. Simpson. She left a card!
Mrs. Chenoweth is the least objectionable of the four, because in spite of her sleepy self-content and air of gentle superiority, there is something sweet and domestic about her, and occasionally her eyes seem to fill up with sympathy; and there is a placid note in her voice, unique in her “set.” She talked about her husband most of the time, and left me wondering how the universe had room for two magazines. But if she did not show so plainly that she was used to flattery and adulation I’d like her rather.
Mrs. Hammond sits forward on the edge of the chair and talks all the time. Her small expensivelydressed figure looks as if her eager soul might burst through it at any moment, every nerve seems to be on the jump at once; and as for her face I followed its play of expression bewildered. She is what is vulgarly and aptly called a “gusher.” She gushed steadily for three quarters of an hour about literature and art. Art is her passion; she almost faints before a great painting, and etching gives her thrills which she can express in French only, so inadequate is our commonplace language. She told me with great pride that foreigners always took her for a French woman, so perfect was her mastery of the language; and when I told her it was a relief to meet an American who was not proud of being one, she looked embarrassed and said of course she wouldn’t really be anything else. She then leaped into the midst of literature, but somewhat to my surprise had little to say about American. I was given to understand how deeply read the ambitious active little lady was in English, French, Russian, German, Norwegian, Danish, Italian, and even Spanish classics, old and new, but her only reference to those ofher own country was at the end of the homily, when she gushed out eulogies of Mrs. Laurence, and Mr. Henry Walker Rolfs.
“Mrs. Laurence is quite the most brilliant woman in America,” she assured me. “Of course you know her novels—they sell immensely—so full of style and brilliant pictures and illusiveness and delicate satire and purity of thought; but she is even more fascinating herself. I don’t believe there is a woman living who can say so many clever things in the course of an hour, and she is quite a beauty, and dresses deliciously—superlatively—even for New York. And Mr. Rolfs! Of course you love his work—he has the immense sales he deserves to have—such style, such word-painting, such spiritual insight—real interpretation of God. He is so great I involuntarily lower my voice to speak to him, and I think the two most wonderful sights I ever have witnessed are Henry Walker Rolfsfishingandeating. It seems incredible that he can do anything just like other men. But indeed he spends most of his time in the woods alone—thinking,thinking, interpreting Nature and God. Oh, I know, dear Lady Helen, you will be perfectly delighted with all our friends, and find usverydifferent from those exaggerated Americans who are constantly bombarding London Society with their vulgar millions.”
“Youaredifferent,” I thought. “I never dreamed of anything in Heaven or on Earth like you.”
Now, as it happens, Mrs. Laurence’s and Mr. Rolfs’ books are Bertie’s and my pet abominations. We think the former trivial, thin, and insincere to a degree that her pretty manner in no way compensates for, and Mr. Rolfs equally insincere and anæmic, and laboured and dull in the bargain. His style certainly is polished to an unusual degree, even for an American, and heengraves—never paints—quite wonderful pictures. But his characters never come to life for a moment and there is no atmosphere or perspective in his work—it is flat against the canvas—like the paintings of the Chinese. Read —— —— ——[A]and —— ——[A]and see if you do not agree with me. By the way, he is the man Bertie wants to kick.
I will describe Miss Simpson next, for as Mrs. Laurence is always the last to arrive or to call on a new-comer, I will reserve for her theéclatshe covets. Miss Simpson is extremely handsome, tall, massive, with brown strong-looking hair, grey eyes with an expression of haughty surprise—as if lesser mortals were in the habit of taking liberties with her—a goodish complexion, a rather thick round profile, and a small hard mouth with a downward bend. Success is emblazoned upon her, as well as gratified power and ambition. She began life, I am informed by one of her enthusiastic admirers, as a clerk in a bank “out West,” but soon—feeling that her education and gifts fitted her for the higher life—“came East” and engaged in journalism. I cannot express the pride with which—Mrs. Chenoweth, I think it was—told me that Miss Simpson had never brushed her skirts against yellow journalism; although she came here quite unknown and from that hybrid region known as the “West,” it appears that her instincts werearistocratic from the first. She made herself invaluable on one of the “very best papers,” gradually wedged her way—I fear that expression is my own—into conservative circles, dropping such acquaintances as were detrimental, and finally graduated as a full-fledged editor of a woman’s magazine, capitalised by an eccentric but appreciative millionairess. It was only a year or so ago, however, that she “arrived” in this upper and rarefied stratum, and is here not as a member, but as the guest of Mrs. Chenoweth. It must be a jolly sensation to have striven for something so high above your reach and finally achieved it. What contempt for those left below, what constant self-gratulation. Miss Simpson quite chilled me with the silent hauteur of her manner, the level dissecting rays of her fine eyes. She holds herself aloft, as it were, with the rigid spine of the traditional queen; but let me confide to you, Polly dear, she looks like a successful business woman,tout même, not at all like what I fancy she wishes to resemble. And if she is a success as a business person I will venture to say she is a failure as a woman. Her ambition hasbeen so positive, so undeviating, so remorseless (I have listened to six biographies of her), that the human attributes have withered up just as unused muscles do. I asked Bertie what he thought of her, and he said he had more respect for a harlot, as women had been created for two offices only—mothers and strumpets. “If a woman fills neither of these offices she is a failure and had better be dead.” That is a nice primitive view and I’d enjoy hearing it exploded in the midst of this select camp. They exult in Miss Simpson’s virtue—it is monumental—and has flourished like a green bay tree in spite of New York and its mysterious temptations. Personally, I should say her virtue was purely a negative quality due to absence of temptation, within and without. So far, she is rather in this well-uniformed set than of it; she speaks with a slight twang and expresses herself in rather shoppy language. But she is ambitious and determined, and no doubt will adapt herself in time.
Mrs. Laurence! She was of those who called after dinner. She was in full evening dress—black—andcame into the room with a rustling of skirts I never have known equalled. I should say that her train had at least six inner silk flounces and it switched about on the bare floor like an angry tiger’s tail. I think she changed her seat seven times and always with that portentous rustling. I noticed that this occurred whenever some one else had spoken consecutively for five minutes. She is a pretty woman, and the old word “elegant” exactly expresses her; our grandmothers would have called her “most genteel.” She has a cloud of cendré hair, softly curled, and the pretty contrast of baby blue eyes, although they, as well as her red thin lips, are petulant in expression. Her features are delicate to the vanishing point and her figure very graceful. She is, undoubtedly, an old hand at aristocracy, for her voice, in spite of its fretful note, is exquisitely trained, her language polished in the extreme, with every comma and semicolon in its proper place; and her manner quite that of the grande dame of the American novel. She mentioned eighteen people of title she had met in England—among them Milly Seton—andalluded, with a fretful sigh, to her many visits in England’s “enchanting homes.”
“I wish I could marry an Englishman,” she said, with her little pout, “I have had so many offers from my own countrymen but not one from an Englishman—I think it is too bad! Of course I shall marry again, I’m so feminine and I hate work—I always am so amused when the critics rave over my quick brilliant style and verbal felicities; I grind out every sentence and hate the very sight of the paper. I want to marry a rich man who will pet me and leave me nothing to do but to be charming and to dress exquisitely. That is all a woman ever was made for, not to write tiresome books that other people think clever. Of course, I am glad I am such a success; but I’m sure I’d a great deal rather be you. You look the real thing, and we are all just creditable imitations. I am sure I was English once—in a former state—I feel soat homewhen I am in one of your old castles, surrounded by people who are all that I should like to be, and I am such a success with them; I could not be more so if I were to themanor born; I am sure I cannot understand why some flower of nobility has not fairly flung himself and his hereditary acres at my feet.”
All this before Bertie, and it reads like the most engaging candour; but as she fairly breathes insincerity and self-consciousness one does not believeanythingshe says, and I think she knows it. When she left, I asked Bertie if she was feminine enough to suit him, and he said that she was a cat, whose proper place was in a fancy basket in the drawing-room; no English Tom, at least, would ever invite her on to the roof. Bertie is coarse at times, but nobody can deny that he is expressive.
Polly, are these people merely snobs? What do you make of them? You write me, you dear thing, that my letters are profoundly interesting to you and that I pop the people I meet right into your imagination. I am so glad, for they certainly interest me. It is like living in a novel—an American one, it is true, but fresh and new, and full of unsolved problems to the mere outsider. They certainly are not snobs in the old meaning of the word, not in the least like those of their countrywho work so hard to be taken up by us, and imitate our manners and pronunciation. No, they are either snobs and something more, or not snobs at all, but a different manifestation of the struggle for the Ideal. That sounds better, at all events; let them go at that.
Mr. Rogers told me that they all admired me very much, but found me rather “cold and haughty.” I could not help laughing aloud, and of course Mr. Rogers understands. You know how shy and frightened of strangers I am, a failing I never shall get over. I suppose that makes me sit cold and rigid when, in reality, I would give a good deal to talk as fast as they do—and as I can when I know and like people well enough. I did feel myself growing stiffer and stiffer as Mrs. Hammond gushed, but that was quite natural, it seems to me. Agatha was rather bewildered at first by their facile and unrestrained speech, but she likes them all, dear soul. She takes them on their face value, and they each gave her material to admire without looking for it.
July 4th.
Yesterday I went to the Club House to dinner; Mr. Rogers rowed me over and back. The dining-room is rather pretty, with three long tables. Mr. Rogers sits at the head of the middle table and I sat on his right. Mrs. Laurence was very “brilliant.” Every time she began to speak, and that was usually, everybody stopped talking and leaned forward. “I would not miss a word,” whispered my neighbour. “Her witliveson the tip of her tongue and never sleeps.” I cannot transcribe her brilliancy, Polly dear, because it is of the quality known as elusive, not the old-fashioned kind that you repeat and hand down to your grand-children. She delivered her witticisms, too, at the rate of one every three minutes, and I should like to knowwhocould keep track of them. I wondered if her fascinating, fretful, spoilt-darling voice has not something to do with the belief that she is witty and unique. For, Polly, I must admit it, she bored me to death, and at times I felt like protesting. But I scarcely opened my mouth; and I don’t doubt they think I am stupid and have atypical English lack of the sense of humour. But I do not blame Mrs. Laurence, and do not dislike her as much as I did, for she is merely a hot-house product, forced into an abnormal artificial growth by these foolish people, who must have their lion, or the times would be out of joint.
The great Mr. Rolfs sat opposite me, but he does not go in for brilliancy; to amuse, he doubtless holds, is beneath the dignity of a great mind. He ate his excellent dinner in a ponderous and solemn manner, oblivious of the admiring eyes riveted upon him when Mrs. Laurence was not speaking; his vision introspective, as if he still pondered the last of the Almighty’s confidences, and, when spoken to, responding with a sweet but absent graciousness. I wanted to throw my ice-cream at him—only it was very good ice-cream, made of crushed strawberries, and would have been wasted on such a muff.
In the fine large cosy living-room afterward theyplayed intellectual games. My dear, I thought I should die. I could not leave in common decency before ten o’clock, and for a mortal hour I listenedto the brilliant Mrs. Laurence exhibit the most wonderful fertility, ingenuity, and resource, switching her noisy tail round the polished floor till it hissed like a harassed snake. She was in white embroidered mousseline de soie and silk—Oh, much and noisy silk—and she wore turquoises, and altogether looked like an advertisement for the calling of letters. Her rival, Mr. Rolfs, had retreated from the field—probably to the roof—and I don’t exaggerate when I say that the others never took their eyes off her, with the exception of some of the men, who went to sleep. Finally, I could stand it no longer, and I went over and sat down by Miss Simpson, who seemed to be as much out of it as I was, and who, since she had failed to catch the spirit of the thing, was endeavouring to look superior to contemptible frivolities.
“A very brilliant woman,” I said, beginning with the obvious.
“I guess there’s not much use disputing that fact,” she answered with an expression which conveyed to me that this remark was intended asgrim humour. “And if she were not, she’s clever enough to make people think so.”
“Do you admire that particular form of brilliancy?” I asked, longing to hear her say what I thought; but she answered emphatically:
“I admire success. When you strive for that and get it you’re entitled to all the applause there is, whether it is the brand some one else would strike out for or not. I have succeeded in my way and she acknowledges it and me; therefore, I take off my hat to her. I have aimed for something more solid; but because I prefer to spend my money on oil paintings there is no law against my patting the dainty water-colourist on the back. And I do—every time. So long as a person does not get in my way he can have a whole road to himself and welcome.”
Here was genuine frankness, no doubt of that. She prided herself upon it and was quite aware that she was impressing me, but it was the sort of insolent frankness that compels belief. I asked her if she was not the author of ——[A]which I hadread recently, and she thawed perceptibly and even gave me a very charming smile. To draw her on I praised the novel highly—it was clever but sketchy and betrayed no knowledge of the world whatever—and she thanked me very pleasantly and admitted that she hoped to make an even greater success with her second one.
“I have had some very fortunate experiences since I wrote that,” she said. “I have watched a love affair progress right under my nose, and I was visiting a friend of mine when her husband was accidentally killed. She was a wonderful psychological study in her grief!” and she set her mouth, as if overcome by the responsibility of her own brain.
“Good God!” I exclaimed.
She turned slowly and gave me a look of such haughty inquiry that I almost wilted.
“I beg your pardon,” I said meekly, “but it seemed to me rather a shocking advantage to take. Really—howcouldyou?”
“Of course, as you don’t write you don’t know that a true artist sees copy in everything, thathuman nature was made to be studied, and that when a palpitating leaf is torn out and flung into an author’s lap he would be seven different kinds of fool if he didn’t read it.”
“I can understand now why your literature is heartless,” I retorted, “for you kill your own heart before you write it. But, if you go in for brain-picking to that extent, why do you so persistently ignore the motive power of human life—sex?”
“Oh,” she said with an accent of contempt and disgust. “Wedon’t want any of that. We leave that to the decadent civilisations. It’s not the fashion in this country.We’rehealthy.”
“I think you are decidedly unhealthy,” I made bold to retort—“and if you don’t take care the water in your blood will prevent you from attaining full growth. Well, at all events you will escape decadency,” I added lightly. “Good night.”
I crossed the room toward Mr. Rogers, determined upon retreat, but was intercepted by Mrs. Chenoweth. She gave me so sweet a smile that I was obliged to pause.
“Do sit and talk to me a moment,” she said.“I have been longing to see more of you. I am glad you were so kind to Miss Simpson. I think she is a type that should be encouraged and I am doing all I can for her. Of course she is what is called self-made, she has no family tree, but, as Junot said, ‘Some of us must be ancestors’—you remember that is quoted in the Rémusat Memoirs; delightful reading, whether they are authentic or not. I thought I would tell you just how Miss Simpson stands, lest you should wonder a little at her accent and stiffness; but she is so estimable and capable and altogether superior—and bound to go so far—I am sure you will think I am right to take her up.”
“I don’t see any reason in the world why you shouldn’t,” I replied, “and it certainly has interested me very much to meet her. I really must go, if you don’t mind. I am so very tired.”
On the way back I told Mr. Rogers of my conversation with Miss Simpson and of my disgust. He smiled good naturedly.
“Oh, that is only the zeal of the amateur,” he said. “They get less shoppy every year.”
“But don’t they lose a good deal meanwhile?” I asked.
“Well, perhaps,” he admitted.
The children are making such a racket with firecrackers I can scarcely think, but I send you much love and sympathy.
Helen.