Part 12 (1/2)
She did get one in without delay and I was speedily invited to come and sing. I thought I would pay a particular compliment to my English hostess on that occasion by choosing a song the words of which were written by England's Poet Laureate, so I provided myself with the lovely setting of _Tears, Idle Tears_; music written by an American, W. H. Cook by name, who besides being a composer of music possessed a charming tenor voice. In my innocence I thought this choice would make a hit.
Imagine my surprise therefore when my hostess's comment on the text was:
”Very pretty words. Who wrote them?”
”Why,” I stammered, ”Tennyson.”
”Indeed? And, my dear Miss Kellogg, who _was_ Tennyson?”
Almost immediately after Colonel Stebbins bought her a handsome set of the Poet Laureate's works with which she expressed herself as hugely pleased, although I am personally doubtful if she ever opened a single volume.
She did not forget the _Tears, Idle Tears_ episode, however, and had the wit and good humour often to refer to it afterwards and, usually, quite aptly. One of her most charming notes to me touches on it gracefully.
She was a great letter-writer and her epistles, couched in flowery terms and embellished with huge capitals of the olden style, are treasures in their way:
” ...I know all I feel; and the Tears (_not idle Tears_) that overflow when I read about that Charming and Ill.u.s.trious 'glorious Queen' ... who is winning all hearts and delighting everyone....”
Another letter, one which I think is a particularly interesting specimen of the Victorian style of letter-writing, runs:
...I read with great delight the ”critique” of you in _The London Review_, which your Mamma was good enough to send me. The Writer is evidently a man of highly Cultivated Mind, capable of appreciating Excellency and Genius, and like the experienced Lapidary knows a pearl and a Diamond when he has the good fortune to fall in the way of one of high, pure first Water, and great brilliancy. Even _you_ must now feel you have captivated the ”elite” of the British Public, and taken root in the country, deep, deep, deep....
My mother and I used often to go to see the d.u.c.h.ess and, through her met many pleasant English people; the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Newcastle, Lady Susan Vane-Tempest who was Newcastle's sister, Lord Dudley, Lord Stanley, Lord Derby, Viscountess Combermere, Prince de la Tour D'Auvergne, the French Amba.s.sador,--I cannot begin to remember them all--and I came really to like the quaint little old d.u.c.h.ess, who was always most charming to me. One small incident struck me as pathetic,--at least, it was half pathetic and half amusing. One day she told me with impressive pride that she was going to show me one of her dearest possessions, ”a wonderful table made from a great American treasure presented to her by her dear friend, Commodore McVickar.” She led me over to it and tenderly withdrew the cover, revealing to my amazement a piece of rough, cheap, Indian beadwork, such as all who crossed from Niagara to Canada in those days were familiar with. It was about as much like the genuine and beautiful beadwork of the older tribes as the tawdry American imitations are like true j.a.panese textures and curios. This poor specimen the d.u.c.h.ess had had made into a table-top and covered it with gla.s.s mounted in a gilt frame, and had given it a place of honour in her reception room. I suppose Mr. McVickar had sent it to her to give her a rough general idea of what Indian work looked like. I cannot believe that he intended to play a joke on her. She was certainly very proud of it and, so far as I know, n.o.body ever had the heart to disillusion her.
More than once I encountered in England this incongruous and inappropriate valuation of American things. I do not put it down to a general admiration for us but, on the contrary, to the fact that the English were so utterly and incredibly ignorant with regard to us. The beadwork of the d.u.c.h.ess reminds me of another somewhat similar incident.
At that time there were only two really rich bachelors in New York society, Wright Sandford and William Dougla.s.s. Willie Dougla.s.s was of Scotch descent and sang very pleasingly. Women went wild over him. He had a yacht that won everything in sight. While we were in London, he and his yacht put in an appearance at Cowes and he asked us down to pay him a visit. It was a delightful experience. The Earl of Harrington's country seat was not far away and the Earl with his daughters came on board to ask the yacht's party to luncheon the day following. Of course we all went and, equally of course, we had a wonderful time. Lunch was a deliciously informal affair. At one stage of the proceedings, somebody wanted more soda water, when young Lord Petersham, Harrington's eldest son, jumped up to fetch it himself. He rushed across the room and flung open, with an air of triumph, the door of a common, wooden ice-box,--the sort kept in the pantry or outside the kitchen door by Americans.
”Look!” he cried, ”did you ever see anything so splendid? It's our American refrigerator and the joy of our lives! I suppose you've seen one before, Miss Kellogg?”
I explained rather feebly that I had, although not in a dining-room. But the family a.s.sured me that a dining-room was the proper place for it. I have seldom seen anything so heart-rendingly incongruous as that plain ugly article of furniture in that dining-room all carved woodwork, family silver, and armorial bearings!
They were dear people and my heart went out to them more completely than to any of my London friends. I soon discovered why.
”You are the most cordial English people I've met yet,” I said to Lady Philippa Stanhope, the Earl's charming daughter. Her eyes twinkled.
”Oh, we're not English,” she explained, ”we're Iris.h.!.+”
Yet even if I did not find the Londoners quite so congenial, I did like them. I could not have helped it, they were so courteous to my mother and me. Probably they supposed us to have Indians in our back-yards at home; nevertheless they were always courteous, at times cordial. One of the most charming of the Englishwomen I met was the Viscountess Combermere. She was one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, a very vivacious woman, and used to keep dinner tables in gales of laughter.
Just then when anyone in London wanted to introduce or excuse an innovation, he or she would exclaim, ”the Queen does it!” and there would be nothing more for anyone to say. This became a sort of catch-word. I recall one afternoon at the Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Somerset's, a cup of hot tea was handed to the Viscountess who, pouring the liquid from the cup into the saucer and then sipping it from the saucer, said:
”Now ladies, do not think this is rude, for I have just come from the Queen and saw her do the same. Let us emulate the Queen!” Then, seeing us hesitate, ”the Queen does it, ladies! the Queen does it!”
Whereupon everyone present drank tea from their saucers.
It was the Viscountess, also, who so greatly amused my mother at a luncheon party by saying to her with the most polite interest:
”You speak English remarkably well, Mrs. Kellogg! Do they speak English in America?”
”Yes, a little,” replied mother, quietly.
CHAPTER XIII