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 are quite 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 my letters 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 expensively dressed 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 of her 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 Rolfs fishing and eating. 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 us very different from those exaggerated Americans who are constantly bombarding London Society with their vulgar millions.”
“You are different,” 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 he engraves—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.