 |
Carrie
LeFlore Perry
From: Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine (Jan. Feb 1911)
A Selected
Edition By Amanda L. Paige
London
My Dear Mother:
I enclose you a page from my note book to explain why I do
not enthuse concerning the ocean. I know for my punishment in purgatory I will
be tossed for years and years on a stormy sea!
How beautiful the coast of England and what a desirable
city Liverpool appeared. To be candid, I think a desert island would have been
to me a bit of paradise, I so longed for solid earth beneath my feet. How we did
rush to get off on the three-thirty express only to learn later that another
train left at four o’clock. Ed succeeded in convincing an inspector that it
would be a splendid thing for him to get busy; then he grabbed a porter who
grabbed the trunks and we made a rush for the train; I was thrown aboard, Ed
jumped after, but the porter was too slow. Ed tossed him a bit of silver,
yelled, “London,” and we were gone. I was quite sure I had seen the last of my
possessions, but the guard assured us that the trunk would reach London thirty
minutes after our arrival. And so it did. Can you imagine a bit of baggage being
so transported in our country, if left in the hands of an unknown? You do not
check over here, just toss it in the van labeled your destination, and claim it
when you reach that place. I think our system better, but of course they could
not change over here.
I was too weak from my long fast to enjoy the scenery had
the speed of the train permitted. As it was we rushed through the green fields
of England so rapidly that I almost shared the fears of the American who wished
the train to slow down before it ran off the pesky little island. We awaited the
next train from Liverpool, claimed our baggage, and with it tucked away were
driven rapidly to this hotel. We are conveniently located under the shadows of
Westminster Abbey; the very heart of historic London; within a few blocks of
Buckingham palace and not far from Regent street. From my window I look into the
dearest little garden beside an ivy-covered church, and Big Ben booms for me the
hours.
I was very hungry, but in the dining room were so many
gorgeous gowns I could hardly find time to eat. Such low necked frocks, Mother,
I was honestly surprised, although I have always heard of the vast expanse
exposed to view. Candidly, some of them could have been rendered only by
removing the belt. I can understand why a woman would show a beautiful neck and
shoulders but a skinny neck and a knotted backbone is beyond my idea of the
fitness of things.
This morning we arose with the lark, only to find we were
decidedly unique. Even the elevator boy was not on duty. We were afterwards
informed the hotel is not officially awake until eight o’clock.
We found Victoria street wrapped in sleep, not a café open,
although Big Ben proclaimed the hour of six-thirty. A couple of policemen eyed
us suspiciously as we walked towards Westminster Abbey. Our first view of
England’s pride was thus obtained in the early morning light, when the sun had
not yet dispersed all the shadows of night. Beyond loomed the Houses of
Parliament, making a picture to carry with one a lifetime, and even after. I
confess I breathed in exclamation points and my thoughts tumbled over each other
in their mad effort to obtain the recognition. Ed removed his hat and whistled
in the intensity of his feelings. Not being able to whistle, I could not thus
relieve my wrought-up self. We walked and walked, always finding a more
entrancing view. I wished to sit on the curbing and meditate, but Ed declared
the two policemen were following and would surely run us in.
We crossed the Thames and gazed from the other side, looked
up the river and down. It was worth the early rising to get such a glorious
impression of this modern Babylon. We loitered until the sun was high and the
increasing traffic assured us London was awake.
We found a little café just at the foot of the bridge on
the Parliament House side of the river. The waiter appeared surprised, but
hastened to seat us in the yet empty room with many a “thank you.”
Oh, for a cup of uncolored Japan tea! I am so tired of this
cloying English Breakfast, I would just as soon drink coffee. Westminster Abbey
is not open to the public until about ten o’clock so we decided a bus ride would
fill in the time. The great double-deck affairs are queer and antiquated, but
oh, so comfortable away on top, and such a fine place from which to view the
houses and streets. I know I shall contract the bus habit. We sat next to the
driver and a bit of silver turned him into a most affable guide, with an
interesting accent.
Down the Strand into Fleet street. I cannot describe that
ride as I should; I am too English, you know. A penny will take you quite a
distance, but in America you can ride much farther for less money, as the
conductor collects a penny here when you have traversed a certain number of
miles. We are just becoming acquainted in a business way with this money and it
is not easy counting. Why does England use such a complicated system? When the
conductor approached with “tup-pence, thank you, sir,” Ed looked at me, and I
returned the look, then he drew out a handful of copper cart wheels and gravely
remarked in approved western style, “Stranger, you look honest to me, help
yourself.” The conductor with equal solemnity selected a large copper and said,
“Thank you, sir, this is tup-pence.” Then and there Ed had him give him a lesson
in the value of the money and I know a tiny bit more than I did before.
The word circus over here does not denote a show or
collection of wild animals, but it is used where many streets center. Thus
Piccadilly circus and Ludgate circus are places where several streets begin or
end. At Ludgate circus we left our accommodating driver and climbed aboard
another bus returning to Victoria street. The conductor thanked us for entering
his car, the driver thanked us for a coin, and we thanked Providence for the
day, so we were quite a thankful party.
I cannot tell you very much of our homeward trip, if ever I
am to reach the Abbey. Ed says I must tell you of how I tried to hurl myself off
the bus when the “thank you” driver said: “Downing street, sir, thank you.” He
declares that but for his timely aid I would have been rolling wildly towards
the home of the Prime Minister.
The very names of the streets bring up such visions of the
past the present is often obscured. Trafalgar Square looked so familiar to me.
Even the lions were as old friends, and I could hardly believe that was my first
introduction to the square and to them. The murky city is gay with blossoms.
From the strange little iron balconies hang magnificent vines and pots of
gorgeous bloom are everywhere. The glimpses of the parks made me long for
more—the grass so green, the flowers so brilliant, so fragrant.
This is the Fourth of July, and from the number of flags
seen there are many Americans in London. From the United States headquarters on
Victoria street, Old Glory is floating in the breeze and from every corner peeps
a tiny emblem. I cannot believe this is the Fourth; where are the fireworks and
the orators?
Westminster Abbey was wide open, and many passing in and
out. The main body of the edifice is free to the people, but a small fee is
charged for admission to the chapels and royal tombs. You know with what a
spirit of reverence I trod those aisles, hallowed by the dust of heroes, saints,
poets, kings and queens. All my days I had dreamed of this hour. We walked
slowly, not as tourists, but as if we had the leisure of years to view it all.
In the poet’s corner we loitered until a glance at my watch made me exclaim,
“Oh, Ed, let us hasten to enter the chapels.” One guide, a clergyman, I presume,
from his attire, was a very encyclopedia but his voice sorely lacerated my
nerves. Do you know I had fully believed the tale that all English voices are
pleasing, and my very first day I am listen to one far worse than any I have
heard in Yankeeland.
Elizabeth and Mary await here the judgment day. I am glad
to say their bones are in different chapels, hence perhaps they can escape that
final meeting face to face. I wonder if Elizabeth knows Mary has the finer place
of repose?1 Poor old Cromwell’s tomb is vacant. He could usurp a
throne but not a grave beside kingly dead, and he waits the resurrection, heaven
only knows where! The tomb of Edward the Confessor is said to rest upon earth
from the Holy Land. I wonder if his sleep is sweeter because of it? After
viewing tombs of great men and women, of kings and queens who were not at all
great, it is like finding a blossom in a crowded, dusty street to come upon the
tombs of the little Princes of the Tower and the babes of James the First. Dean
Stanley very appropriately named this Innocent’s Corner.
The coronation chair and the stone of Scone greatly
interested Ed, and he asked if Jacob had left a sign on the stone whereby they
were sure of its authenticity. The clergyman was rather inclined to be
indignant, but Ed looked so innocent he answered his question at length, being
convinced that a true desire for information prompted it. From what I heard
Jacob neglected to send his autograph down the ages. From the chapel we passed
to the great cloister and walked over the grave of many an abbot of the ages
when Roman Catholicism swayed England. Only the prosaic pangs of hunger and the
thoughts of another day drew us from the open pages of history.
At lunch we discovered that bread and butter does not
accompany a meat order. Indeed, there is a fixed fee for everything except the
tip, and even that is regulated for an Englishman, but for the American is just
so large as the waiter can by his look induce you to make it. We also found that
ice water is not an usual beverage over here, and you can only obtain it by
rising in wrath. Then you are labeled by the waiter as a crazy American. Even
the beer is served lukewarm. Will you try to imagine that dose?
The afternoon found us occupying a bus seat on the way to
the general post office. I hugged your letter to my heart. It was like a bit of
your mothering; a glimpse of your face. We were on Cheapside, historic Cheapside,
and I was determined to go further to the church of St. Mary le Bow and listen
to the bells saying “turn again, Dick Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London.”
The new chimes are said to be the old metal recast after the great fire. I am
sure they ring out the self-same words of encouragement to the youth of London
if they would listen.
We only indulged in a little glimpse of St. Paul’s; by the
time we reached it the afternoon had almost slipped away, but we shall go
another day and offer homage to the shades of Nelson and Wellington. At five
o’clock we were being jostled by the crowds on Cheapside, buying useless toys
and fragrant roses. Beside a fountain congregate the flower girls with
numberless blooms. Ed bought until my arms were laden and I was intoxicated by
their dewey sweetness.
At last we pulled ourselves from fascinating Cheapside and
for a change entered a bus going on Regent street. A nice English rain was
falling. How could Kipling call it “the blasted Henglish drizzle?” We rode quite
a distance and truly enjoyed it. After dinner, to finish this strenuous first
day in London, Ed suggested the Franco-British Exposition. By this hour the rain
was descending in torrents; and we mounted the bus, wrapped in oil covers
provided by the thoughtful company, opened umbrellas and proceeded to enjoy
London at night-time in a pouting rain. The streets were gleaming, slippery
things and a haze enveloped all. The exposition is doubtless beautiful, but did
not show up well in the rain. The illuminations were poor. We returned on the
“tup-penny tube,” which is English for subway. I am so tired I am falling asleep
over this. Good night, dear. What will Sunday in England be like?
Sunday—Now I can answer my question of last night. It is a
day of rest, a calm, peaceful, church bell ringing and church going, too, if the
crowds entering the places of worship in this vicinity are a fair average. We
learned this day that in England the established church is called Catholic, and
we are only Roman Catholics. A kind clergyman informed us of this and then
directed us to the Roman Catholic Westminster Cathedral. We reached there in
time for a high mass with many dignitaries of the church, in cloth of gold,
filling the sanctuary. The choir was divine. How can such little terrors as boys
usually are make such angelic music? The cathedral will be magnificent some day;
at present it is only massive. There are no pews. You can, if you wish, use a
chair. At the entrance two boys stood shaking tin boxes and calling in a dead
level voice, “pitty pen, pitty pen.” After careful consideration I decided that
they thought they were saying “Peter’s pence.” After mass we walked over to the
Westminster Abbey hoping to enter and thus get a glimpse of the Episcopal
ministers now in convention here, but there was not even standing room inside.
So we stood with many others on the square and awaited the dispersing of the
congregation. The clergymen were a fine body of men, and if a good appearance
and well-doing go hand in hand, England should be proud of them.
This afternoon we rode for hours and hours, changing from
bus line to bus line as the fancy willed. If I had not been accustomed to long
drives over rough roads in Oklahoma, I suppose these cobble stones would have
finished me. We reached the Oratory on Brompton Roads just in time for the four
o’clock sermon. The church is a credit to English Catholics and of course they
are proud of it. Ed induced the sacristan to give us two rosaries. I am keeping
mine for you, dear. We managed to enter the Abbey for even-song and found the
music simply grand. The sermon may have been excellent, but as the voice of the
speaker did not reach us, we soon left and sought a place to dine. We had
another struggle for ice water and when Ed told the “thank you” man to bring a
second glass, he could hardly conceal his astonishment. Ed says he arraigned us
far more severely than were the “furriners” at Niagara Falls. The waiter was
talking in French with the head waiter and took it for granted that “American”
was our only tongue.
I wish you could taste the water cress over here, it is
simply delicious; indeed, I can complain of nothing except the tea. Mother, I am
going to bed this very moment and dream I lived when all maidens were fair and
knights were brave.
Monday—Mother, do we appear changed this day? We should,
for we are no longer lone Oklahomans, we are nice little “Cookies,” ready to “do
Europe” and thus be “crisp brown Cookies” in a few short weeks. Ed asked me if I
would object to a continental tour with a party, and of course I did not. You
know Ed loves mankind and would never wish to be alone; then, again, I believe
he wishes to escape responsibility.
He met an American yesterday who told a woeful tale of
his travels while on the Continent with wife and daughter. His days were chiefly
spent in hunting baggage, buying tickets, looking up trains, securing guides,
etc. Ed immediately decided to shift his burden to the shoulders of Thomas Cook
and Sons. We joined them at Antwerp Thursday and follow just about the same
route we had planned
We have arranged to leave the party at Mayence and
proceed alone to St. Croix, your birthplace, and rejoin them at Bale. Do you
know I wish we could have visited your village first, Mother, as I shall always
be thinking of that and perhaps miss a little of the beauty of the trip.
After leaving Cook’s office we sought the gates of
Buckingham palace to await the outgoing of the king. We had heard he held a
levee at St. James at the hour of eleven-forty and would leave Buckingham in
semi-state. Finding ourselves opposite the entrance to the royal stables Ed
decided to ask several questions of the man at the gate. We learned that
permission from Lord Somebody would enable us to view the horses. Ed assured the
man that Lord—would be only too glad to give us the order but we did not have
the time at our disposal to visit him.
Fearing the crowd would be large, we early made our way to
the main entrance and stood beside a giant policeman on the very front row. With
his usual skill Ed soon had the bluecoat chatting amicably. As he did not appear
to wear a pistol, Ed could not resist asking him where he carried it. Imagine
our surprise when he pulled it from his trousers leg. Ed told him how western
men kept it in a handier place. The man smiled a British smile and said: “Has
’ow I doubt ’is drawin’ hit quicker than me.”
He was sure his way was best, for have not British
policemen always carried it thus? At last the coach containing Edward VII.
appeared. There was little demonstration, but when he passed us he knew at least
one man was glad to see him. Ed waved his hat wildly and shouted: “ Hurrah for
King Edward,” in true Oklahoma style, and His Majesty gave him a broad smile and
a bow. I was disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm shown, and when the queen
appeared on a little balcony, and not a voice raised to salute her, I could
hardly credit my ears and eyes. I asked the policeman if the lady was really the
queen. He assured me she was. Then I asked: “Why do not the people cheer her?
At home a crowd like this would make the heavens tremble with their wild
hurrahs.” He replied, without a movement of his face, “So hi ’ave ’eard,” then
contemptuously added—“hover ’ere we would run ’em hin hif they made such
noises.” It is their business, yet I wish I could inoculate these people with a
little American “hip, hip, hurrah!”
We lunched in a café where they cater to middle class
English customers, not to tourists. The prices were lower; we did not enjoy the
cooking nor the serving. This afternoon we devoted to exploring the shopping
district—Regent street, you know. The stores are not like ours. They are truly
traps for the unwary. Little wonder a polite “thank you” man conducts you from
department to department, otherwise you would be inevitably lost, there are so
many steps, so many corners, so many dark places. Such obsequious salesmen.
You cannot purchase in a hurry; too much time is used by
the clerks in saying “thank you.” Something like this occurs when you enter: A
man approaches, bowing and saying, “thank you, sir, any thing you wish sir?” you
state your desires. “Thank you, sir, this way, sir.” On to another, same
formula, and this continues until you fear old age will overtake you before you
reach the article you desire. About this time you are turned over to a clerk who
produces it. If you are not too worn out you purchase it; if you do not the man
looks sad and says, “ I am sorry,” thanks you limply, and you depart, much older
and oh, so careworn. In one of the turnings Ed caught a glimpse of a linen room
after our little parcel was duly tied up with a neat little loop to carry on my
finger he asked to be returned to that department. We were comfortably seated
and a linen shower commenced. Ed became “daffy” he was so pleased, so I just
turned the purchasing over to him and proceeded to enjoy myself. The linen was
exquisite. Ed has a supply to last us until we “shuffle off this mortal coil.”
He shops to the manner born from the way the clerks try to please him. In the
land of the free the salesman would not half try to please you if you used the
tone employed over here. I am afraid I shall require time to learn that it is
not good form to thank a servant for a service rendered. Here they thank you for
the permission to be of use to you. I am learning to say “I am sorry” in the
true British tone, not expressing anything in particular but everything in
general. The man who jostles you in the crowded street, the clerk who cannot
find the article you wish, the maid, the boy, the high, the low, monotonously
repeat,
“I am sorry.”
Shopping in Regent street is soul-satisfying, but shopping
in Cheapside is far more fun, of that I am convinced. I assisted Ed for the
first time in our married life to select his apparel. He has ordered two suits
and the tailor promised an American cut. I’ll wager the result is a remarkable
hybrid. I wish you could glance in the windows of the jewelers on Regent and
Bond streets. I prefer the outside to the inside of the shops for you are made
to feel that the inside is only free to customers. Ed rather enjoys the scowls
of the clerk when he leaves without a purchase; I always feel guilty of a
misdemeanor.
We hailed a cab to return to the hotel and enjoyed a little
spin on the Embankment, then caught a glimpse of the frowning Tower of London,
crossed the famous bridge, whereon Ed insisted on stopping the cab and singing:
“London bridge is falling down,” saying that in his childhood he dreamed of
saying that ditty on London bridge—and wished it to come true. I do not believe
him; I am sure he concocted the tale that very moment. After dinner we joined
the throngs on Piccadilly circus, but were soon overjoyed to climb on a bus and
view the crowds from above. We seem never able to get way from Trafalgar Square;
from whatsoever direction we start we eventually find ourselves facing the
lions. Today we tried to lose them but always the bus we selected returned us
there. We are in early tonight as I admitted to being very tired. We go to
Hampton Court early in the morning. I am pining for a glimpsed of you, mother.
These voluminous letters are my safety valves; I pretend I am really talking
with you.
Tuesday, July 7th
Dear Mother, I wish I could write verse, only rhythmical
lines could do justice to this day. The drive to Hampton was a succession of
such delights I feel as if I had attended a concert where all the singers were
artists. We left Ludgate circus at nine-thirty, fourteen in the coach, and a
guide. We soon reached Victoria Embankment, followed it to Westminster Place,
then turned entering very shortly St. James Park. The glimpse of Belgravia
recalled my youthful days, my attempts to escape your watchful eye and peruse
the entrancing works of “the Duchess.” There was not a moment when the interest
flagged. If I named a third of the places passed it would require pages and you
would think I was compiling a guide book. Cook’s man was a veritable book of
information and Ed whispered to me that he would make a dandy book agent. At
Cheyne Walk, the most memory-haunted portion of London, the horses barely
walked. The guide had pages of history he deemed it necessary to recite and
although I did not listen to him I found all I desired.
At Putney we stopped to rest the horses and give the
driver an opportunity to get a glass. It is the starting point of the races on
the river and thus attractive because of the present as well as the past.
The boats are so tiny and the oarsmen are little burdened
with clothes. Like the American Indians of yore, in his frail craft on the bosom
of the Mississippi, they are dressed for speed. The inn where we alighted is
kept by a former champion and he showed to us many trophies. I liked best the
visit to the champion polo ponies; they were little beauties and seemingly so
full of knowledge. After leaving Putney we soon entered our first English Lane,
Roehampton, and then I knew the fairies had me. Fine old mansions, trees whose
every limb betokened loving care, flowers, flowers, everywhere. I was filled
with a desire to leave the coach and live there ever and forever. I exclaimed,
“this must be the loveliest lane in England.” Said the guide, “No indeed, we
pass through a far more beautiful one before reaching Hampton Court.” Away off
the distance shone the convent of the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, and how I
wished for the time to visit it. You see, Mother, I have not the days in which
to see even half the interesting places. Through the Clarence Gate into Richmond
Park. We were told it comprised two thousand one hundred acres, being larger
than the combined parks of London. It is so beautiful, natural, yet showing the
hand of man. Little wonder the people rebelled when the daughter of George III.
endeavored to deprive them of their ancient right of entrance. Deer, deer
everywhere and undisturbed by our approach, like ours, they regard mankind as
friends.
After passing White Lodge, the girlhood home of the
Princess of Wales, we left the park by Kingston gate and in a few moments were
in one of the oldest towns in England, Kingston-on-Thames, the city of Saxon
kings. We could not linger here, only a glimpse was given us the coronation
stone in the market place. At Kingston Bridge the guide pointed to the ancient
dunking place where scolding women were given a kind of water cure, not always
effectual, I have been told.
Oh, that lane; I sigh with pleasure as I write of it. It
was of incomparable beauty. It was so ideal, the voice of the guide ceased, and
we passed in a stillness broken only by the call of the driver to his horses and
the laughter of children at play. Giant limbs interlaced above our heads, roses
rioting, flowers peeping coyly from the deep shadows, and the smell of new mown
hay wafted on the breeze.
We did not reach the village of Hampton until the hour of
noon, so we were served in a quaint little inn overlooking the river before
going to Hampton Court. The Thames is thronged with houseboats at this portion,
all worthy of praise for their freshness and flowers, yet one stately boat stood
out beyond all others, covered with blooms, and high above floated Old Glory and
the Union Jack.
Our first view was of the west front of Wolsey’s Palace;
the chimneys are so unique, no two of the same design; think of the ingenuity
displayed. Ed liked the gargoyles and bemoaned that he did not see them when a
boy, as his command of ugly faces in school would have been greatly increased.
The noble staircase and the great hall of Henry VIII. are
truly regal, a fit setting for royal pomp. The tapestries are the treasures of
the palace; you would have appreciated them, dear, I could only enjoy. The great
astronomical clock of Henry VIII. gave me a crick in my neck from the endeavor
to see all the remarkable points designated by the man from Cook’s. The state
apartments were a revelation of bygone ages, yet I am wondering how they kept
them warm. I prefer less state, more comfort. Think of the many, many things
that have transpired in Hampton Court since Wolsey incited the jealousy of the
King by his magnificence. What tales the walls could tell if they might speak,
of love and hate, of chivalrous deeds and black intrigue. Perhaps it is best
they are doomed to silence. Some episodes of the reign of Charles II. would
doubtless prove too racy for twentieth century ears. Lely’s court beauties look
down with glances of honey-sweetness. Did he do full justice to their
languishing beauty? There are many pictures of historic value in the Queen’s
audience chamber, but as works of art they are not highly rated. Poor Queen
Anne, dying all alone upon her crimson velvet bed, did she her father and her
young brother in her last moments?
When the little feet of Pocahontas2 echoed in
those halls, did her timid heart fret at the golden chains and long for the
limitless forests of her father’s domain, the wild, free life of her childhood?
After all this glitter and gold, this curious commingling
of beauty and ugliness, visions of the pure and the true, of the wicked and the
corrupt, I welcomed the gardens, bathed in the golden sunlight.
Mother, if only you have been beside me in that enchanting
land. Imagine long stretches of greensward, ponds covered with plants of
tropical splendor, trees of wondrous girth, roses form the purest white to
deepest crimson, playing fountains and singing birds. I was here and there, the
voice of the guide often warned me that I might be lost in that fairy land. Ah
me! Just to sit in the sunken garden hours and hours, with quietly folded hands,
dreaming of the past, weaving bright fancies of the future. Queen Mary’s Bower
must have been designed by an artist who had seen the New Jerusalem. The great
vine planted in 1728 is quite worth of note. Our guide said “all the grapes
produced by this vine are consumed by the King alone. In one season it has borne
two thousand pounds.” Ed whistled expressively, “Say, but isn’t Edward the
champion grape eater?” I know that Englishman is even now wondering why Ed
thought so.
The return drive was by a different route, equally fraught
with interest. We saw where “the little gentleman in gray” threw the horse of
William III. causing the death of that king and for a time reviving the hope of
the Jacobite party. The mile long triple avenue of horse chestnuts is of a
magnificence not expressible, yet we were told that to obtain the best of it we
should see it when the trees are in bloom. Past the site where once stood the
home of Pope, a glimpse of Twickenham Ferry down the narrow old lanes, just
tantalized by a tiny bit of an historic house on the Kew road to the Royal
Botanic Garden. Here we left the coach and visited the palm houses, strolled
beneath ancient trees, and listened to the tales of the guide. On Kew green
lived the three brothers of George IV. who, according to the story he told,
married within eight days, each hoping to produce the heir to the throne. The
late Queen Victoria was the first child. Outside the park we entered an old
fashioned garden sloping towards the Thames, sat at little tables beneath giant
trees, with roses shedding perfume all around. Quiet voiced thank you men served
us with delicious tea and the many sounds of the busy street came to us as a
far-off murmur. It was easy there to forget that a new world existed to believe
that time had ceased, therefore the coach in waiting was long unheeded. We left
the party at High Holburn as Ed was bent on seeing diamonds and sought and found
the number given. It was such an unspeakably dingy house I could not believe it
was the place of a diamond merchant. Ed pressed a button, a voice called, “what
business?” He answered, “diamonds.” Again the voice, “open the door; walk up.”
At the top of the stairs a man met us, opened a door which clanged ominously
behind us, through a passage, then into a room all hung in black with many
mirrors; as the door clicked suggestively behind us I turned and tried the knob.
We were locked in! The man smiled and I laughed outright, it gave me such a
shivery feeling to know all the means of exit were closed. The proprietor or
general manager now appeared, and when he found out Ed was an American
gentlemen, not a diamond merchant, he was inclined to be angry, and in a curt
manner he observed that “time is money over here; I do not care to sell to
Americans.” Ed said: “Is that so? I thought it was said only of the United
States that her business men where too busy to learn good manners. Good day.” We
turned to leave but the man evidently regretted his outburst for he offered to
show us gems.
Ed assured him that we did not care to trouble him, yet
the wares were displayed. I was truly bored after the first look, you know I
have never cared for the glittering baubles. When the man saw my indifference he
seemed determined to interest me, showing superb tiaras of diamonds, chains and
rings. Ed thoroughly enjoyed himself and I believe the grouchy manager found a
pleasure in showing his beautiful stones to such an appreciative audience. I saw
several eyes behind the hangings. We were not to escape with jewels; locked
doors, mirrors and gleaming eyes protected them. I would not have missed the
sensation, I assure you. Ed thanked the man courteously and believe me, the once
cross man accompanied us, smiling, to the end of the bolted passage.
I was so tired when we reached the hotel I had barely the
energy to summon the maid and order a hot bath prepared. Mother, the tubs here
are pools. I am afraid each time I venture in, as you know I cannot swim. This
evening Ed is smoking all alone. After I finish my conversation with you I shall
sleep the sleep of the thoroughly tired. By the way, I have lost six pounds; are
you surprised? Tomorrow we leave London. We have hardly turned a page of this
fascinating book and we must leave it. Dear, if these numerous letters give to
you half the pleasure in perusing they have afforded me to write, then I am
satisfied. Ed has sent you cards every day and sometimes twice per day, so how
can you be lonely?
July 8—We were up early, this our last day, and hailing a
bus were soon far down the Strand. It was fun to be abroad before the shops were
open and to see the market wagons filled with fruit, flowers and vegetables. At
Covent Garden we bought a basket of the loveliest raspberries, of delicate bloom
and sweet aroma. The flower girls were arranging their blossoms. We chatted
pleasantly, buying huge roses all glorious with dew. From a dear little girl we
learned of a restaurant near by where a simple breakfast could be obtained.
The tiny room was so clean—highly scrubbed tables and a
neat little waitress; I was much pleased with it. We were told that all dishes
were served in penny portions. We ordered rolls and coffee and gave to the girl
our berries, requesting her to prepare and serve with cream. She assured us of
her willingness but could not serve cream as penny portions do not call for that
luxury. Ed gave her a sixpence, and in short while she returned with a pot of
delicious golden cream; thus we dined royally even if the board was bare and the
china not of the egg-shell variety.
We have spent this day as fancy dictated, loitering in
parks, jostled in crowded streets, driving in a cab, looking from the top of a
bus; indeed our pleasures were as varied as the year book of a woman’s club in
our own country. We peeped into St. George’s, Hanover Square, visited St. Martin
in the Fields, where Nell Gwynn sleeps the sleep that knows no wakening, down
Pall Mall and into many a queer and out of the way corner. Perhaps the hours
could have been passed with greater benefit under the care of a guide, but our
pleasures could not have been enhanced. I almost neglected to write of our visit
to a cat store, pussies of high and low degree, all beautiful, all long-haired.
I did so wish I could take two home with me and thus increase my cat farm in
Oklahoma. To please Ed we entered a dog store, and now he feels that life has
ill treated him because as yet he has not owned an English bull dog. A dear
little Pomeranian came beseechingly to me. I managed to stroke it, but not with
pleasure; I am always afraid the petted dog will bite me.
A great orange cat lived here, lord and master over all. He
was very gracious to me, sitting on my lap, purring contentedly and slapping
vigorously the dog who ventured near.
We are packed and ready to leave, and I am hurriedly
finishing this lengthy epistle, as we wish to mail it from here. I have not
eaten since my early breakfast and I feel rather weak; I am hoping to prevent a
ghastly attack of seasickness tonight. We are going farther from you, Mother
mine; good-bye until we reach Antwerp.
Lovingly,
C.
- Mrs. Perry, a Catholic, is making a
personal comment here. Mary was a Catholic Queen; her half-sister Queen
Elizabeth I was Protestant.
- Pocahontas was the daughter of Chief
Powhatan. A British captain captured her. While in captivity she converted to
Christianity and married a British man, John Rolfe. Pocahontas went to England
in 1616 where she died of smallpox.
Brussels
My Dear Mother:
Leaving Harwick the boat glided from the harbor so gently I
became poetical and exclaimed, “How I shall enjoy the faint new moon glimmering
and gleaming o’er the water of the deep.” The lights on the shore were not
dimmed by distance when my enemy gripped me. The night might have been worse but
I thank heaven it was not. When we arose the boat was entering the harbor at
Antwerp. Ed made me comfortable in a secluded corner of the deck, then went in
search of his breakfast. I could not eat so I sat there communing with myself
and sipped ginger ale; perhaps the shores were interesting but all my attention
was demanded elsewhere.
Quite a little time was consumed in the examination of our
baggage, the inspector was inclined to believe Ed’s London suit was too new, and
perhaps for sale. Let me whisper, I believe Ed would gladly have sold it to the
inspector, as it is neither American nor English in appearance. We were driven
to the hotel behind the finest cab horses I have seen, perfect beauties and
absolutely matched. We passed many fine horses to carts, wagons and cabs. The
drivers manage them with one small line. The shaded streets were at their best
and I responded quickly to the spirit of repose, yet how short was my pleasure
in Antwerp.
At the hotel we were informed that Tour No.—left on an
early train for Brussels, so we hurried to the station, a mad race to purchase
tickets, have trunks weighed, and get off on the train, then ready to leave.
After we were seated the guard informed us that we were on a local, the express
did not leave for two hours. That was the last straw. My vaunted stoicism
availed me little in that hour. I sank upon my suit case and wept aloud. Poor
Ed was so upset, his world was topsy turvy, and he besought me to tell him where
I pained. I wailed, “We will not overtake them, we will go through Europe just
one day behind.” He tried to console me, but I was too far gone.
At last he confined himself to this: “Do let me get you a
sandwich.” I continued to cry, he continued to urge a sandwich, I promised not
to move, and off he started to obtain his panacea. Many gazed curiously at the
“weeping lady.” I cried unrestrainedly and even defiantly, with a naughty
desire to make faces at the onlookers.
Just as I was thoroughly enjoying myself I saw Ed
approaching with two young men, and I lifted a woebegone face. “Now don’t cry
any more, dear, here are two boys also seeking Tour No.—. Ed evidently believed
the old adage, “misery loves company,” and having found if for me, was sure I
would recover. The gentlemen, one a professor from Montreal, the other a Harvard
student, were gaily encouraging, and assured me the three of them would stop
Tour No.—in Brussels or greatly disturb Thomas Cook & Sons. Leaving me in
possession of the baggage they resumed the search for sandwiches. When they
returned the shower was over, and I was powdering my nose.
I like the compartment coaches better than ours, yet I can
understand how, under certain conditions, they might prove disagreeable.
We were much pleased with the sample of Tour No.—and the
hours passed pleasantly. Ed telegraphed to Cook’s office, Brussels, and we found
a man awaiting us, who turned us over bag and baggage to Mr. B. our good angel
for the next two months. I am prepossessed in his favor; he is a quiet,
unassuming German, of excellent manners and a pleasant smile. Your letters were
awaiting me at the hotel, we left our address at the general post office and
they were forwarded immediately. We were introduced to the members of Tour No—at
luncheon, and from general appearance I think they will prove satisfactory. I
know we shall like them. Ed is happy once more, he is radiant, and his laugh is
truly infectious. At two o’clock a guide appeared and we started the afternoon
of sight-seeing; first the City Hall, with its wonderful lace like tower dating
from 500 years past, and of course we were shown the room wherein was given the
ball on the eve of Waterloo, and I listened for the music of other days and
almost heard the cannons boom.
The house where Victor Hugo wrote “Les Miserables,” is just
opposite. The cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudule is very beautiful. The
pulpit of Adam and Eve, so called because the carvings depict scenes from their
lives, is a fine piece of work. We were told that from this on the churches will
increase in beauty until Rome is reached, where we will find the climax of
grandeur and wealth.
The Museum of Wiertz is one of Brussels’ treasure houses.
It is a little old structure, far up a hill, once the work shop and home of the
artist. He could not afford canvas and his paintings are on the very walls. One,
a girl with a rose, leaning from an open window, is so natural you would not
start to hear her speak; another of a dog in kennel is so perfect you fully
expect to hear him bark. Then, in cabinets with peep holes, are pictures so
horrible you are sorry you have been to see them . Poor man, his genius was his
undoing. It is said he starved rather than dispose of even one of his creations.
We enjoyed a long drive in what was once the ancient forest of Soignes, but not
to the site of the battle of Waterloo. I regret that very much, as I had hoped
to stand on ground where my great-grandfather fought for his beloved Napoleon,
and in despair saw him made a prisoner, but “Cookies” are not people of leisure,
we are here today and far away tomorrow. After the drive we explored queer
streets and enjoyed the holiday appearing crowds in the open air cafes. We saw
dogs harnessed to heavily loaded carts, all wearing muzzles as it is said the
hard work renders them very fierce. We also saw women dragging heavy carts; I
wonder if the drudgery, in time, makes them savage, and do they need muzzling?
The river Senne runs beneath the main thoroughfare and also
a canal. Small boats are used thereon, we were told. I tried the tea, but found
it very unpalatable, I shall cultivate a taste for beer.
Think of it, I am leaving Brussels without buying one yard
of lace. The beds have the dearest feather covers, and from the pillows and
mattresses used it must be customary over here to sleep sitting up. I must ring
for the maid to bring me a ladder to reach the bed, unless I run and jump. Good
night, Mother of mine, with many a loving thought.
Yours,
C.
[Home] | [Bibliography] |
[Digital Library]
[Indexes] | [News] |
[Trail of Tears]
[Symposia] |
[Other Resources] | [About] |
[Links]
© UALR American Native Press Archives 2002-2007
|
