E. Delafield - The Collected Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition)

(Note: Shampoo-and-set before to-night, and make every effort to get in a facial as well—if time permits, which it almost certainly won't.)

Later: I become part of the Night Life of New York, and am left more or less stunned by the experience, which begins at seven o'clock when Miss Ramona Herdman comes to fetch me. She is accompanied by second charming young woman—Helen Something—and three men, all tall. (Should like to congratulate her on this achievement but do not, of course, do so.)

Doubt crosses my mind as to whether I shall ever find anything to talk about to five complete strangers, but decide that I shall only impair my morale if I begin to think about that now, and fortunately they suggest cocktails; and these have their customary effect. (Make mental note to the effect that the influence of cocktails on modern life cannot be exaggerated.) Am unable to remember the names of any of the men but quite feel that I know them well, and am gratified when one of them—possessor of phenomenal eyelashes—tells me that we have met before. Name turns out to be Eugene, and I gradually identify his two friends as Charlie and Taylor, but uncertainty prevails throughout as to which is Charlie and which is Taylor.

Consultation takes place—in which I take no active part—as to where we are to dine, Miss Herdman evidently feeling responsible as to impressions that I may derive of New York's Night Life. Decision finally reached that we shall patronise a Speak-easy de luxe. Am much impressed by this extraordinary contradiction in terms.

Speak-easy is only two blocks away, we walk there, and I am escorted by Taylor—who may be Charlie but I think not—and he astounds me by enquiring if from my Hotel I can hear the lions roaring in Central Park? No, I can't. I can hear cars going by, and horns blowing, and even whistles—but no lions. Taylor evidently disappointed but suggests, as an alternative, that perhaps I have at least, in the very early mornings, heard the ducks quacking in Central Park? Am obliged to repudiate the ducks also, and can see that Taylor thinks the worse of me. He asserts, rather severely, that he himself has frequently heard both lions and ducks—I make mental resolution to avoid walking through Central Park until I know more about the whereabouts and habits of the lions—and we temporarily cease to converse.

Speak-easy de luxe turns out to be everything that its name implies—all scarlet upholstery, chromium-plating and terrible noise—and we are privileged to meet, and talk with, the proprietor. He says he comes from Tipperary—(I have to stifle immediately impulse to say that It's a long, long way to Tipperary)—and we talk about Ireland, London night-clubs and the Empire State Building. Charlie is suddenly inspired to say—without foundation—that I want to know what will happen to the speak-easy when Prohibition is repealed? To this the proprietor replies—probably with perfect truth—that he is, he supposes, asked that question something like one million times every evening—and shortly afterwards he leaves us.

Dinner is excellent, we dance at intervals, and Eugene talks to me about books and says he is a publisher.

We then depart in a taxi for night-club, and I admire—not for the first time—the amount of accommodation available in American taxis. We all talk, and discuss English food, of which Ramona and her friend Helen speak more kindly than it deserves—probably out of consideration for my feelings. Eugene and Charlie preserve silence—no doubt for the same reason—but Taylor, evidently a strong-minded person, says that he has suffered a good deal from English cabbage. Savouries, on the other hand, are excellent. They are eaten, he surprisingly adds, with a special little knife and fork, usually of gold. Can only suppose that Taylor, when in England, moves exclusively in ducal circles, and hastily resolve never in any circumstances to ask him to my own house where savouries, if any, are eaten with perfectly ordinary electro-plate.

Night-club is reached—name over the door in electric light is simply but inappropriately— Paradise . It is, or seems to me, about the size of the Albert Hall, and is completely packed with people all screaming at the tops of their voices, orchestra playing jazz, and extremely pretty girls with practically no clothes on at all, prancing on a large stage.

We sit down at a table, and Charlie immediately tells me that the conductor of the band is Paul Whiteman, and that he lost 75 lbs. last year and his wife wrote a book. I scream back Really? and decide that conversationally I can do no more, as surrounding noise is too overwhelming.

Various young women come on and perform unnatural contortions with their bodies, and I indulge in reflections on the march of civilisation, but am roused from this by Taylor, who roars into my ear that the conductor of the orchestra is Whiteman and he has recently lost 75 lbs. in weight. Content myself this time with nodding in reply.

Noise continues deafening, and am moved by the sight of three exhausted-looking women in black velvet, huddled round a microphone on platform and presumably singing into it—but no sound audible above surrounding din. They are soon afterwards eclipsed by further instalment of entirely undressed houris, each waving wholly inadequate feather-fan.

Just as I am deciding that no one over the age of twenty-five should be expected to derive satisfaction from watching this display, Taylor again becomes my informant. The proprietors of this place, he bellows, are giving the selfsame show, absolutely free, to four hundred little newsboys on Thanksgiving Day. Nothing, I reply sardonically, could possibly be healthier or more beneficial to the young—but this sarcasm entirely wasted as it is inaudible, and shortly afterwards we leave. Air of Broadway feels like purity itself, after the atmosphere prevalent inside Paradise, which might far more suitably be labelled exactly the opposite.

Now, I enquire, are we going to Harlem? Everyone says Oh no, it's no use going to Harlem before one o'clock in the morning at the very earliest. We are going to another night-club on Broadway. This one is called Montmartre, and is comparatively small and quiet.

This actually proves to be the case, and am almost prepared to wager that not more than three hundred people are sitting round the dance-floor screaming at one another. Orchestra is very good indeed—coloured female pianist superlatively so—and two young gentlemen, acclaimed as "The Twins" and looking about fifteen years of age, are dancing admirably. We watch this for some time, and reward it with well-deserved applause. Conversation is comparatively audible, and on the whole I can hear quite a number of the things we are supposed to be talking about. These comprise Mae West, the World Fair in Chicago, film called Three Little Pigs, and the difference in programmes between the American Radio and the British Broadcasting Corporation.

Charlie tells me that he has not read my book—which doesn't surprise me—and adds that he will certainly do so at once—which we both know to be a polite gesture and not to be taken seriously.

Conviction gradually invades me that I am growing sleepy and that in another minute I shan't be able to help yawning. Pinch myself under the table and look round at Helen and Ramona, but both seem to be perfectly fresh and alert. Involuntary and most unwelcome reflection crosses my mind that age will tell. Yawn becomes very imminent indeed and I set my teeth, pinch harder than ever, and open my eyes as widely as possible. Should be sorry indeed to see what I look like, at this juncture, but am fortunately spared the sight. Taylor is now talking to me—I think about a near relation of his own married to a near relation of an English Duke—but all reaches me through a haze, and I dimly hear myself saying automatically at short intervals that I quite agree with him, and he is perfectly right.