Dead letters

by Maurice Baring

I waited five minutes, ten minutes, one quarter of an hour; then Lady Arlington entered. She is not like Jackie at all, but a blonde, very tall, handsome, and striking. She was dressed simply (but not well) in white serge, and I was embarrassed, because they had told me the English were all that is most elegant for Saturday week-ends, and I was very dressed, with a big hat, with a lace veil, and ... (a page of technical details omitted). Lady Arlington was most amiable, and did not seem at all embarrassed at not having been there to receive me. She gave me tea.

Presently other guests entered; they had all been at Ascot Races—some of them staying in this house, others coming in their autos from neighbouring chateaux. They were all simply dressed, the men in tennis. I felt red with shame to be the only one dressed. Lady Arlington did not present one single person to me. Two pretty young women arrived (one a real Sir Joshua and the other a Greuze), and an older lady—very handsome—who began to talk politique. Also a great many men, most of them bald although young; they all sat down and we drank tea. Then the master of the house arrived, a tall man with a beard, très, très bien, like a Vandyke. He seemed timid. Lady Arlington said to him: “You know Madame,” and then stopped, as though she had forgotten my name.

We of course talked of dear Jackie at once, but when I said it was a shame to disturb his holiday, Lady Arlington said, “Oh yes,” as though she did not understand. Then a man who had not been presented to me began to talk to me. He is no longer in his first youth, but very beautiful and gentle like a seigneur in a Pinturicchio, and we discussed Sargent’s pictures and art in general. I found him very well-informed, intelligent, and even erudite; he has written a book about Villon. Then more people arrived: an old man with a beard, who my “Italian nobleman” whispered to me was Wreathall, the celebrated novelist. He is, between us, a raseur, and told stories enough to make one sleep about ghosts in a kitchen. There also arrived two American ladies, one a real American, full of life; the other just like an Englishwoman, and, to speak the truth, one would not have known she was American except by her clothes; she was dressed well, just like a Frenchwoman.

Then came some sportsmen, some clubmen, and a little man with a pince-nez. They all talked together about their friends, calling everybody by their little names; for example, Janie, and Letty, and Tommy, and Bobbie, so all that was Greek to me. Soon everybody disappeared into the garden by twos, and I was left alone with Lady Arlington and my “Italian nobleman!” The pale young man who was there when I arrived gave a glance into the hall and went out again. Lady Arlington told me he was a celebrated M.P., and very remarkable. I continued to discuss art and history, in which he was so strong, with my “Italian nobleman,” until at last Lady Arlington said she was sure I would like rest, and she conducted me to my bedroom, a ravishing room furnished with all the English comfort, looking over the superb garden with its admirable lawns.

I was glad to go to my room, so as to have plenty of time to make my toilet, because they had told me the English are so exact. I disembarrass myself of my things and put on a dressing-gown. I lie down, and presently I hear cries from the garden; I look out of the window and I see in the distance they are playing at croquet with great gaiety. I am almost tempted to go downstairs once more, but as I am already undressed I have not the energy; so I remain in my room and read a book, and at half-past seven my maid comes, so that I was ready almost before half-past eight, the dinner hour. When the dinner gong rang, and I left my room to descend, some of the men were only just coming in from the garden. I was the first downstairs.

There was no one in the salon except the little man with the pince-nez. He said nothing at all at first, but after five minutes he said he was glad it had stopped raining, and after that not a word. We did not sit down at table until nine. Sir Arlington gave me the arm, and on the other side was an oldish distinguished man with well cut features, très bien, with good manners, but so devoted to his neighbouress that he paid no attention to me. She was a beauty, but dressed, it is inconceivable! Fagotée, ma chère! If you could have seen it! It was to cry about! Her dress was made in Paris too, but all put on anyhow.

Sir Arlington is a delicious gentleman, but distrait; he cares only for birds and animals, and often undertakes long expeditions for sport in Africa. I asked him who all the people were, and imagine, he had no idea who was the small man with the pince-nez, or several of the others. He said: “Those are my wife’s literary friends; they are very nice, but too clever for me.” He is modest, like all the Englishmen. Lady Arlington has, it appears, the mania for hommes de lettres as well as for music, gardening, and a thousand other things, although, between us, she is une sotte—bête comme une oie et poseuse! and always making exaggerated exclamations, such as How thrilling! How darling! and always in ecstasy about nothing. I talked with Sir Arlington nearly all dinner, as my other neighbour was so occupied. There was no general conversation, and we were twenty-two at table.

After dinner, according to the British custom, the ladies went into the drawing-room; they broke up into groups, the young women sat on a sofa and two or three others—the Americans also—grouped themselves round them. The others talked tête-à-tête. Lady Arlington sat beside me, with another lady who seemed to be very pleased that I was French, and just as we had begun to talk Lady Arlington left us and joined the group by the sofa. The lady who remained with me talked of nothing but Paris and French things, and what a salad! Cafés chantants, Réjane, De Bussy, Fursy, and Maeterlinck, and all à côté! The men stayed very late, but came out at last, and then Lady Arlington arranged the Bridge. There were four tables; everybody played except the M.P., who sat down and began reading a book; the novelist, who went to bed; the little man with the pince-nez, who I discovered was a celebrated painter; my “Italian nobleman,” and the political lady. She took the M.P. away from his book, and settled herself down in a corner with him for the rest of the evening.

Lady Arlington took my “Italian nobleman” apart and said something to him in a whisper, and I heard him answer: “I have been talking to her the whole afternoon.” Then she went up to the painter and said something to him, and he came and sat down beside me. We talked French literature and theatres; he is intelligent, but twenty years in behind about everything French, and though I was told he was an homme d’esprit, I could not understand his allusions nor his pleasantries.

The Bridge went on late; it was already half-past twelve when we went to bed. Lady Arlington asked me if I would have breakfast in my room, but I, who wanted to see a real English breakfast, decided to descend. I was resolved to make no mistake about my clothes, so I came down the next morning at ten in a dress I had got for the Mont Dore, a simple jacket and a short skirt. Imagine my astonishment! Everybody was dressed in muslins, as elegant as possible, grandes toilettes. Lady Arlington was dressed in white and silver and green and gold, half décolletée, with a huge green hat. I am not wicked, you know, but she looked like a great white parrot with her blonde coiffure! It is only English complexions which can support such toilettes in the morning.