My Impressions of America

I: ABOARD THE CARMANIA

I.

ABOARD THE CARMANIA

MARGOT NOT A NATURAL TOURIST; LACKS CURIOSITY – HEADLINES IN LONDON COMPARED WITH HEADLINES IN NEW YORK – AMERICAN WOMEN WORLDLY – AMERICAN MEN THE GENUINE ARTICLE

I MOTORED to Southampton on Saturday, the 21st of January, this year, and after saying good-bye to my husband and my son, retired to my berth on the Carmania. I am a bad traveller, and had been laid up with a sort of influenza until the day before I left London.

Kindly press people tempted me to confide in them on the ship. They asked me if I would be back in time for Princess Mary's wedding; where I was going when I arrived in America, and if I looked forward to my trip. I sometimes wonder what questions I would put if I were obliged to interview a traveller. I would ask with reluctance where they were going, but never what they had seen, because I know I could not listen to their answers. Everyone knows what you are likely to see if you go for any length of time to London, Rome, Athens or the United States; and is there a person living whose impressions you would care to hear either upon the Coliseum, Niagara Falls, or any other of the great works of art or of nature? On such subjects the remarks of the cleverest and stupidest are equally inadequate and the superb vocabulary of a Ruskin will probably not be more illuminating than what the school-boy writes in the Visitors' Book at Niagara, "Uncle and all very much pleased."

I am inclined to think it is a mild form of vanity that makes a certain type of rich person travel every year. I have heard these say that for all the interest we who are left behind take in what they have seen and heard, they might as well have remained at Brighton. Nevertheless, the world is full of tourists; and there are a number of people who like to pick up pieces of unimportant information without effort. The foolish majority of these read the Daily Mail; the political, the Manchester Guardian; the Liberals, the Westminster Gazette; the intellectual, the New Statesman; and to pass the time on Sundays there are always the long columns of the Observer or for the credulous, the "Secret History of the Week."

After glancing at the leading articles, the City man turns to "Round the Markets: Home Railways firm. The Chilian Scrip reacted to 1¼ premium and Norway sixes give way to ninety-five." They then read: "By the Silver Sea, the Sunny South, or Glowing East"; ponder over lists of those who are going to Egypt, America, or the Riviera; and end by learning that the site of the old General Post Office was in St. Martins-le-Grand.

In America it is rather different. On the front page of one of the most important papers you read:

"Kardos has hopes of father's aid," "Men faint in public and lose $153,000," "Death note writer caught in Capital," "Losses of women duped by Lindsay," "Iceland cabinet falls," "Tokio diet in uproar over snake on floor," "Saddle horse from Firestone, Harding's favourite mount," and short notices on Ireland, Paris and London; you are encouraged to turn to page 6, column five or column 8, page 5 and finish with "Dazzling display of Princess Mary's lingerie."

It is difficult to say why most travellers are uninteresting. I do not think it is because they have been to wonderful places, but because the average man has not the power to assimilate or interpret what he has seen; and they enlarge on their own sensations with such a lack of humour and proportion, that you feel as if they were not only rebuffing you, but claiming part of the credit of the master works themselves. When told at a party that you ought to meet Mr. So-and-So, as he has just come back from the Far East, Southwest, or North Pole, you cling to the nearest door post, and make your escape while the hero is being traced in the crowd. I like what I have thought out for myself better than what I discover; and conclusions arrived at after careful reflection are more enlarging than what is pointed out to you by inquisitive spectators.

I am not a natural tourist, and Napoleon's shaving soap will never interest me as much as the smallest light upon his mind or character. There is a difference between curiosity and interest, and I regret to say I am not curious.

I have come to the United States for the first time, not in a missionary spirit or to study anything or anybody, but to see my daughter and to enjoy myself.

In a rash moment, however, I promised to write my impressions of the United States and Canada, and this may give rise to false hopes.

Lord Acton wrote in a letter to Mrs. Drew, "One touch of ill nature makes the whole world kin," and I must make an effort not to disappoint my thoughtful critics. I have been accused of failing to appreciate the society of brilliant American women whether in Italy, Paris or London; but it could be added with truth that brilliance, while stimulating most people, has always exhausted me. I prefer the clumsiest thought to the most finished phrase, and am so slow, that the mildest complication may make me miss the point. "General and prolonged laughter" is a faculty I have never been able to acquire, and sudden explosions over anything I have said usually convince me that I had better have held my tongue.

To an outsider who has only known European Americans, the most noticeable thing about American women is their freedom from native soil. They are equally well equipped whether their nationality is transferred from Russia to Rome, Vienna, Roumania or Paris. No blank cheque could be more adequately filled in, and I never cease wondering what can be the secret of their perfect social mechanism.

Beautiful to look at and elegantly dressed, with an open mind upon whatever topic is discussed, adaptable, available, rich and good-humoured, the American woman as I know her is the last word in worldiness and fashion. In my own country she is not only a popular, but a privileged person, and having started by being what is called "natural," she becomes more and more so every day.

The husbands of these ladies, when not of needy foreign aristocracy, are usually divorced, discharged or disposed of in some way or other; and, even if they are of the same nationality, are quite unlike the American man as I have known him.

He is seldom fashionable and never leisured; he has a passion for learning all that there is to be known, and holds vigorous views upon most things. If a little copious in narrative, he is never mechanical, but an absolutely genuine article; spontaneous, friendly, hospitable and keen. He appears to treat his women folk with the patience and indulgence you extend to spoilt children, never attempting to discuss matters, either literary or political, with them, and is agreeably surprised if you show an interest in Wall Street or the White House.

I am jotting down these preliminary impressions, any one of which may – and probably will – have to be revised during the course of my travels.

II: ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK

II.

ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK

REPORTERS LACKING IN AWE – SPLENDOURS OF HOTEL LIFE – FIRST LECTURE A FAILURE AS RESULT OF SEA-SICKNESS – THRILLED BY NEW YORK'S ARCHITECTURE

AFTER an abominable voyage during which the ship rolled and rocked, groaned and shuddered, and the sea did precisely what it liked with us, we arrived a day and a half late, and surrounded by press-men I feather-stitched on to American soil.

If the reporters are a little lacking in awe, they make up for it by the intelligent interest they take in everything connected with one; and after being asked what I thought of "flappers" and what Mr. Lloyd George thought of me, I was allowed to go to the Ambassador Hotel. I could not have been greeted with more courtesy had I arrived at Windsor Castle, nor have I ever stayed in a better hotel.

My son-in-law Prince Bibesco, my daughter Elizabeth, and my cousin Miss Tennant (whose brother is Sir Auckland Geddes's private secretary), showed me the airy bedrooms and beautiful bathrooms which the manager of the hotel had chosen for us. I sat down completely exhausted when suddenly the door opened and my sitting room was flooded with male and female reporters. Having been seasick and without solid food for a week, the carpet and ceiling were still nodding at me, and I regret to confess that I said nothing very striking; but they were welcoming and friendly; and after a somewhat dislocated conversation I staggered off to bed.

I was introduced the next day by my cicerone, Mr. Lee Keedick, to the New Amsterdam Theatre, where scouts were placed in distant galleries to try my voice. I had no difficulty in making myself heard, but I felt terribly ill and more than inadequate as I made my first appearance at 3.30 in the well filled theatre. Dr. Murray Butler introduced me in a courteous speech and explained that after such an unusually rough crossing I would be obliged to sit down throughout the performance, which I much regretted.

I opened with a spirited account of an Irish horse dealer, which, I could see at a glance, interested nobody. Whether I was speaking Irish or English, it might have been Walloon for all the audience cared. My heart faded, my voice sank, and I knew that many could not hear; some were not listening, and my friends were watching me with apprehension, charity and cheers. More dead than alive I was relieved when an enterprising lady shouted from the gallery:

"You've got my money for nothing – Good-bye, I've had enough of you!"

This informal greeting stirred the kindness of my listeners to a protest, and as soon as I could, I changed to other subjects. With the fall of the curtain many old friends came on to the stage, and presenting me with roses, assured me that I had won the hearts of my audience, after which I left the theatre.

Driving home, I opened all the taxi windows and was struck with the architectural beauties of the streets. With the exception of Munich I have never seen a modern town comparable to New York. The colour of the stone and lightness of the air would put vitality into a corpse; and in spite of a haunting recollection that the lady in the gallery had had enough of me, I returned to the Ambassador happy though exhausted.

My daughter took me in the evening to a wonderful party given by Miss Mabel Gerry. We wore our best clothes, but our taxi driver did not seem satisfied, and before turning in to the magnificent court-yard, he stopped, opened the door, and enquired rather sceptically if this was where we were expected; concealing our mortification we urged him to drive on.

There was something for every taste at Miss Gerry's beautiful house. I started by sitting next to my dear old friend Mr. Harry White, and a brilliant stranger Mr. Thomas Ridgeway; went on to play bridge, listened to a fluent pianist, and finished by dancing unknown steps to a wonderful band.

I am enunciating a platitude when I say the Americans are the finest dancers in the world.

III: BOSTON AND WORCESTER

III.

BOSTON AND WORCESTER

DISCOMFORT OF TRAVEL IN AMERICA – STAGE FRIGHT IN BOSTON – BOSTONIANS INTELLIGENT AND COURTEOUS – JOHN SARGENT'S FRESCOES IN THE MUSEUM

ON the 2nd of February, next morning, my friend and secretary Mr. Horton, myself and maid arrived in Boston City after a comfortable journey in a private compartment given to us by the courtesy of our guard. I do not wish to say anything disagreeable, but except for the beauty of the railway stations, the travelling arrangements in America are far inferior to ours. Sitting erect on revolving chairs in public, is a trial not lessened by an atmosphere in which you could force pineapples. We were greeted upon our arrival by reporters and cameras. It distresses me to stand blinking at the sun; as not being a beauty, I know that my nose will always be more of a limb than a feature, and trying to look pleasant results in my teeth coming out like tombstones in the morning papers.

Left to ourselves, we went to examine the Symphony Hall, where I was to speak that night. Arriving on the stage, I stood appalled. Feeling like a midge upon a dreadnought, I looked at the largest hall I have ever seen, except the one in London erected to the sacred memory of good Prince Albert.

"This is a practical joke of the worst kind!" I exclaimed to the gentlemen in attendance, "and not for a million dollars would I insult the Boston people by making myself ridiculous here to-night. I have not been in prison, or divorced; nor have I been to the North or South Pole, or climbed mountains and Matterhorns; I have nothing wonderful to tell about, and instead of one woman shouting, 'Give me back my money – I've had enough of you,' the whole audience will rise to their feet. This is not a hall, it's a railway tunnel! I cannot see the end of it: it's made for engines or aeroplanes"; and I trembled with rage and apprehension.

"It's a concert hall, madam, built for oratorios," they replied, pointing to a vast organ decorating the wall behind me.

"No doubt drums, trumpets, or opera singers could make themselves heard, but a shrimp of a female standing alone here would make the gods laugh, and nothing will induce me to speak!"

"But, dear madam, all Boston is coming to hear you."

Mr. Horton put his arm through mine, saying soothingly, "You are tired; let us go back to the hotel."

Visibly distressed, the gentlemen of the hall assured me that men of meagre voice had lectured many times and been perfectly heard; and as I walked away I saw through the corner of my eyes that my angelic secretary was nodding to assure them that I would keep my contract.

Alone in the taxi I burst into tears, asking what I had done to be so punished; I said that the front rows would be deafened, the centre bewildered, and the balconies indignant. He assured me I had a beautiful voice, an interesting personality and a plucky nature, etc., and that I must certainly go through with it as every seat had been sold.

I dressed with streaming eyes and a scarlet nose, and in snow and silence we drove to the Symphony Hall. The platform and auditorium were crowded, and blind with fear, I walked on to the front of the stage. My chairman, Mr. Arthur Hill (Corporation Counsel of the City of Boston), in introducing me spoke with the greatest ease, and I observed that every word he said was heard; but it was obvious from the perfection of his speech that he had addressed a thousand audiences before and this was only my second public appearance.

I stood up with my knees knocking together as I looked at the sea of expectant faces below me.

Heaven forefend that I should repeat what I said, but for one hour and twenty minutes I did the best I could; beginning with my pleasure at being in America, I continued with stories of my native land, and ended with an account of Windsor Castle and the Disarmament Conference.

No president or prime minister could have had a more intelligent, friendly, courteous and responsive audience than the people of Boston. Aching from my ankles to my temples, I bowed to their repeated cheers as, humble and happy, I retired from the stage.

Enthusiastic hearers pressed into the green room where I had sunk into a chair as immovable as the mangle. Mr. Horton, who had sat among the statues on the sky line, assured me he had heard every syllable. Eager reporters began to ask what I thought of Boston, but dumb and exhausted I bundled into my cloak. Crowds of men and women were waiting in the street, and as I motored away I gathered I had been a success.

The next day Lieutenant Governor Alvin Fuller and his wife – who were among those who had congratulated me in the green room the night before – gave us lunch and took us in their motor to the two great Boston sights: the Public Library and the Fine Arts Museum.

The Library is a magnificent building, founded in 1852, containing over two million volumes, half of which are lent out for daily use at home. The architects of the building were McKim, Mead, & White of New York, but most of the design was the work of Charles Follen McKim. The mural decorations were painted by Puvis de Chavannes, Edwin Austin Abbey, and John Singer Sargent. As my time was limited I concentrated on the works of my friend Mr. Sargent.

It would be as impossible as it would be pretentious to attempt to describe the beauty of the Sargent Hall. It represents thirty years of thought and labour, and has a majesty of design, glory of drawing, and originality of conception unequalled by anything in Europe.

The "Hand-Maid of the Lord" on the east wall, holding the Divine Child in her arms, and "Our Lady of Sorrows," which faces it, fill your heart with wonder and your eyes with tears.

In the first, the Blessed Virgin is rising from a throne with her baby in her arms. You realise in looking at this Child that He is the Mighty God and Everlasting Father; and the expression on the face of the Virgin – more than of any other Madonna that I have ever seen – convinces you that she was not only the Mother of the Counsellor upon whose shoulders the Government would fall, but the Mother of the Prince of Peace.

The Virgin in "Our Lady of Sorrows" stands upon the crescent moon behind a row of lighted candles raised in relief of white, gold and silver. Her little face with wide-set eyes looks down upon you from an elaborate silver crown set against a radiant halo of fine and illusive design, and her two beautiful hands clasp to her heart the shining swords that typify the Seven Sorrows. The dignity of her pose, the submission and pathos of her haunting eyes waken you to a new sense of the majesty of pain. I felt, as I looked up, that I was sharing a common gratitude that such subjects should have captured the genius of the greatest living artist.

We went on from the Library to the Museum, where the decorations of the dome of the rotunda, to say nothing of the exterior of the buildings, are magnificent. Here Mr. John Sargent has surpassed himself.

I have heard critics, for want of something better to say, express the opinion that he is a finer painter than artist. If they have any doubt upon the subject, let them go to Boston, and if teachable, they will learn there that Sargent is not only a rare artist, but a poet and an architect.

Before leaving Boston City I received a call from Mrs. Bancroft, an old lady of eighty, with whom I made friends. She was extremely clever, and when she said I had both grace and genius I thought her an excellent judge! She told me I looked tired, and when we said good-bye, she gave me a bunch of wonderful flowers.

We motored from Boston to Worcester in the Fullers' car, and dined with Mr. and Mrs. Charles M. Thayer, and after an excellent dinner in good company, I delivered a lecture in the private house of Mr. and Mrs. Washburn, at which there were no reporters. Having implored my fellow guests at dinner to interrupt me in the drawing room – as I had never addressed this kind of party before – we opened a sort of debate which I thoroughly enjoyed. I doubt if any English audience, unless of old friends, would have asked such clever and amusing questions, and I knew as I answered back, by the feeling of life and laughter, that it had been a success, and went to bed without remembering the New York lady who had had enough of me.

IV: UNRESPONSIVE PHILADELPHIA

IV.

UNRESPONSIVE PHILADELPHIA

SERMON ON LIFE AS A TRAINING SCHOOL – MARGOT'S ENGLISH NOT UNDERSTOOD IN PHILADELPHIA – MRS. CORNELIUS VANDERBILT'S BAL POUDRÉ – PRAISE FROM HEYWOOD BROUN

ON Sunday, the 15th of February, Mr. and Mrs. Harry White took me to St. Bartholomew's, a modern church of great beauty. Dr. Parkes, a man of authority and eloquence, preached from the fourth chapter of Galatians, verse 6:

"And because ye are sons, God has sent forth the Spirit of His Son into your hearts."

I did not need to be a Scotch woman to listen to the sermon that he preached. He said that we were fellow students graduating from a great university, joined in the son-ship of Christ, and that we should cultivate a spiritual fellowship with man, since the highest personality could never develop by itself. That our names were entered at our baptism; we received our first diplomas at our confirmation; and the object and mission of the Church was to guide or coach us for the various tests that life would demand from us; and that we should always do what we could to help one another.

As I listened to the rector, knowing how easy I had found it in life to love and care for other people, I wondered how many things I had left undone, and what examination I could pass if suddenly called upon to compete. Haunted from early youth by the transitoriness and pathos of life, I was aware that it was not enough to say, "I am doing no harm," I ought to be testing myself daily, and asking what I was really achieving.

My attention having strayed from the sermon, I was glad to have it recalled by hearing Dr. Parkes say that most people preferred the jazz, the vaudeville, or the movies to the Church.

He said that he would step down for a moment into the pews and ask the pulpit why the services were conventional, monotonous and uninspiring; why the clergy gave unsuitable moral advice, warning the congregation of dangers to which they were not exposed; expressing opinions on politics which they did not share; and convincing them at the end of a tedious service that under no circumstances would they go oftener to church than they could possibly help.

"I will now return to the pulpit," he said; and I listened with close attention.

It was true, the Church was often dull; but the attitude of the congregation was wrong. They ought not to depend upon perpetual entertainment. People went to church for various reasons. Some from habit, some to set a good example, and a few with a yearning hope that they might hear something to heal their tortured minds; something to reassure them that since Jesus wept, He could not be far from those who mourned. Few men were orators, and what filled the churches were the sermons. People would tell you the service was enough, but it obviously was not; or the churches would be crowded every Sunday.

"I have no doubt," he continued, "that I could entertain you for a time; so could the choir and the fine organ, but I feel this would be wrong; it would be taking away from the meaning of the service, and the spiritual fellowship of man. Everyone ought to go to church, as otherwise the churches would cease to exist, and the most irreligious of men could hardly desire this. One day some young prophet or great disciple of Christ might come among us and find no place from where he could speak to the people, and no assemblage that he could address."

I went back to the hotel profoundly impressed by what I had heard and not in the humour to be interviewed by a Philadelphian reporter who was waiting to see me; but I found Mr. V. Hostetter both understanding and intelligent.

The next day I went to Philadelphia. The unresponsiveness of my large audience was more than made up for by the kindness of my chairman, Mr. George Gibbs, the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Ridgeway, and the friendliness of the reporters. I doubt if my English was understood, in spite of being informed that I could be heard plainly from the gallery. Except at my first lecture – when I could not stand – I have had no difficulty in making myself heard.

On my return to New York, after dining in bed, I joined my daughter at a bal poudré given by Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt, a clever New York hostess who thinks nothing of entertaining a hundred and fifty people at lunch, tea or dinner.

One of the noticeable differences between fashion in England and America, is that what might appear to the uninitiated as an almost exaggerated display of hospitality, is as chic here as it might be thought over-done in London. American hostesses are also very particular as to precedence: who sits next to whom, or goes in first, second or third. I must confess to being remiss in these ways, and when an American lady at one of these dinners asked me if I minded my daughter, Elizabeth Bibesco, going in or out – I forget which it was – in front of me, I imagined she was joking. I disconcerted a reporter when he asked me if I knew all the British aristocracy, by saying that alas! I did not, but that my maid did.