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AT SEA

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Monday, 23 November, 1931.

IT is rather sad going-away—sadder than anybody knows—and more unreal than any sailing I have ever made, with paper streamers being thrown from the upper deck to the quay.

The suite is a very comfortable one. It is old Chinese stuff, black lacquer and copper and gold. The beds are terribly comfortable. I have only slept in one of them, but there are two. Bob [Mr. Robert Curtis, Mr. Wallace's secretary] has a very comfortable cabin on the other side, also with two beds, only one of which, he informs me, he has occupied.

I don't know who is on board the ship, except a man who is a colonel, a member of the Garrick Club, and who has drawn Nestorian.

I tried to get through to you on Monday night by phone, but the aerial had been carried away in a gale. I must say we didn't notice the gale in the ship, though Robert [Robert Downs, Mr. Wallace's valet] was looking green and was more spring-heeled than ever.

I am writing the first part of this on Monday night. I have developed a husky throat, for which I had a small throat syringe and a bottle of dope, which have not been packed. Otherwise I have twenty-five of everything.

The weather has been quite good. We had a bit of a gale yesterday, but I hardly noticed it. A swell has been running ever since we left Bishop's Rock. To-day there has been a strong head wind, so Bob tells me, but the ship is wonderfully steady. We are due on Friday, so we are breaking no records.

I have had radios from Mark Ostrer, Balcon—in fact, I enclose you the whole of them.

I like "Juan in America", but I think "The Forge" is very good stuff indeed, and near to being a classic. The curious thing is that both books contain the word "amoral", which does not appear in my Oxford Dictionary, but which Bob says means "unmoral".

Practically I have done no work at all. I have just been sitting around, thinking what I'd do if somebody gave me a million pounds.

The beds are very comfortable: I think I've told you that. It is a perfectly placed suite, right in the centre of the boat.

Tuesday, 24th November, 1931.

THE seas got up last night and we had one or two bad ones. At about eleven o'clock we took a sea over the bows which must have been a real snorter. It made the ship absolutely shudder. What happened was that a big sea broke over the fo'c'sle, came down the top of the bo'sun's cabin, bent in the plates, and twisted the girders as if they had been made of paper. The bo'sun's cabin and about six other cabins were washed out. And yet the effect on us in our cabins was extraordinarily little. We jumped about a bit, but nothing very uncomfortable, although half the passengers are down sick. Neither Bob nor I have the least discomfort, and even the greenish Robert—who is always asleep when you want him, and by some mysterious means never gets himself called in time—shows no sign of distress.

I had my usual sleep—three and a half hours, two and a half hours, and an hour—and was up at six. As we gain an hour every day, time seems to pass more slowly. We have done no work at the moment.

This morning I had a mysterious cable from Bryan [Mr. Wallace's eldest son]: "Tremendous luck", which I presume is a hearty good wish and not a laconic announcement that I have drawn the winner of the Calcutta Sweep.

I hope to get through to you to-day by phone if they have repaired the aerial which was carried away. At the moment we have a 60 m.p.h. head wind, an almost cloudless sky, and a long swell of sea. The wireless says that New York is having a heat wave and that you are under a blanket of fog. My mind instantly flies to Wyndham's Theatre, but I am really not worried about that at all.

I think I shall change the play so as to make it less real and more theatrical. After all, people want to be pleased and not harrowed; so the lady must be altered, though I am afraid I cannot make her respectable.

I always think that Tuesday morning breaks the back of the journey, and that by Wednesday morning the trip is all over. I wondered if next year, everything being grand, we'd take you, Penny [Penelope, his daughter], and Miss Ayling to Canada in this ship. From Cherbourg to the mouth of the St. Lawrence is only two and three-quarter days. There is a day and a half on perfectly smooth river water going up the St. Lawrence to Quebec. We can go on by another steamer to Montreal and even to Toronto—my idea of a good six-weeks' summer holiday. You might think that out.

Wednesday, 25th November, 1931.

THE seas went down very considerably last night, but we have lost so much time that the clock was not put back an hour, to everybody's confusion. Practically the whole of the dining-room turned up an hour late for breakfast, and Robert asked me, in his blankest and most bovine fashion, if anything had happened.

From your radio I gather that you have heard something in London about the ship being late or being hit by the storm. It is really the most wonderful ship I have ever been in, for though she shivered a bit, one didn't even have to hold on to the table, and there hasn't been a fiddle on any of the dining-room tables since she started.

I finished two articles, but I have done no serious work, and probably shan't.

I met a Canadian member of Parliament on deck this morning, and he made me walk three times round the deck to my intense annoyance. I am already feeling its effects, and have a passionate desire to go to bed, although it is only eleven o'clock in the morning. At the moment we are bowling along steadily, though there is a sort of sea running, and there is still a certain amount of wind. We might be going up the Solent. Visibility is poor; there is a sort of a fog on, but nothing to cause us to check speed. (I think the fog is fine rain, which probably means that we are coming into the Gulf Stream.)

My intention when I started was to do at least sufficient work to pay my passage, and I think I have just about done that. (Small stuff: articles, etc.)

It will make it rather awkward getting into New York on Saturday morning. Saturday is practically a day wasted, and I am afraid I shan't leave New York till Monday night, but that can't be helped.

Thursday Morning, 26th November.

SINCE I wrote the above we passed into a more or less halcyon sea, and the skipper decided that he might be able to get into New York on Friday, so another boiler has been put on and we have been whacking along ever since. It was perfectly calm, smooth, and lovely all yesterday. I went in and watched them dancing in the Empress room and stayed there till twelve.

When I woke at five this morning we were in a choppy, not to say troublous ocean, and the "Empress of Britain" was driving through it at 23 knots. She jumped and bucked and rolled, but, extraordinarily enough, to no uncomfortable extent. There was a bit of a storm on at 5.20, and I saw the lightning through my curtains—only one flash, but that fairly continuous. I got up at six and had my coffee.

Bob, who has taken sleeping lessons from Robert, claims that it was his first sleepless night—so apparently the liner has been doing things while I was slumbering.

I met several interesting people, including the proprietors of two famous remedies. I don't know whether they are the proprietors or the barkers, but they fix all the radio talks. They were very interesting, nice, quiet men, who apparently travel between the Vanderbilt Hotel in New York and the Ritz in London.

It was grand hearing you on the telephone—the most exciting adventure, though it was all done in a very commonplace fashion. The chief operator came into my sitting-room, took up the telephone, said, "We'll take Mrs. Wallace now", waited a few minutes, and then said, "She's not at Wyndham's Theatre, but they're trying to get her."

About ten minutes later he handed me the phone, told me where you were, and lo! your voice came through as plainly as if it were in the next room. It was thrilling to feel that this ship, an insignificant atom off the Newfoundland Banks, was carrying on a conversation with Yeoman House!

I had a wireless from Carl [Carl Brandt, Mr. Wallace's agent] asking me what time I arrived in Quebec! He was under the impression that this ship went there.

I am writing this about 10.30 Thursday morning, which is 2.30 in London. We are still pushing through the rough seas, and evidently the extra boiler is doing its bit. We shall be in quarantine at four o'clock to-morrow, which will be nine o'clock English time. We land the same night, which will save us a lot of time and give me a chance of seeing Nigel Bruce and Charles Laughton on Friday night. I think I will ask Nigel to come as my guest to the Chatham on Friday night.

I repeat that this is the grandest ship on the ocean, with the finest staff I have ever met, all very young and efficient; the perfect crew and service. We have got on board a wonderful broadcasting station and the best telephone service in any ship. They have a much smoother crossing to Canada, by the way.

It is quite warm to-day, and we are running again into blue skies. I should think we were very nearly out of the squall which disturbed us in the night.

Friday, 27th November, 1931.

ABSOLUTELY nothing occurred yesterday of any importance, except getting a wireless from you. The seas subsided, and this morning when we woke it was like sailing on Regent's Park pond.

We are docking at about eight to-night—between seven and eight—which will mean that I shan't be in my hotel till about nine at the earliest and that will be two o'clock in the morning, English time. I will ask you to give me a place where I can call you early in the morning.

I'd like you to register a telegraphic address for yourself at Yeoman House. The Western Union and Marconi will do this for you. If they give the same code word you can cable it out to me.

There has been quite a run on autographs the last two or three days. Sir Henry Cole, who is on board, and I, sat up with a party of Canadians till about one o'clock this morning.

I have finished "The Forge". A girl who lives in Alabama told me last night that it is the best picture of southern life without flattery and without unkindness that she has ever read.

We did some more work yesterday, and I think I have just about paid my passage. It is the first time I have ever worked on a ship, and although I haven't written the story I intended writing, and haven't even rewritten the play, I have done enough to amuse me without giving me any unusual fatigue.

It is going to be very interesting to discover the attitude of R.K.O., which I shall find out when I get to New York. I am curious to know whether they would like me to do a lot of work on my way across. On their attitude depends the length of my stay in America. I will do a very full two months for them; at the end of that time they have either got to be ecstatically pleased or I shall be homeward bound. I am like that.

Robert is getting more or less coherent. He is terribly anxious to please, and even his daily errors are becoming less objectionable. The great point, of course, is that he is anxious to do everything he can. He came this morning in a state of wild excitement and said he had seen a lot of sparrows flying round the ship. I explained to him that sparrows were no sailors, and that they were probably albatrosses.

I have never seen a ship like this, so equipped. They carry three trained nurses, amongst other things. They have a marvellous operating theatre and a dental parlour, beauty shop for ladies and every kind of bath.

By to-morrow we shall forget that we were ever on a ship, and for the next week life will be a matter of train journeys. I shall be very glad when I have turned around, so to speak, facing you.

Seriously, I am going to see what opening there is for Pat [his daughter] in Hollywood. Although I know she'll hate coming out alone, if there is something good I will let her come out for a month or two.

That is about all for the moment. I want to catch the mail, and I will wire you all up-to-date news to-night.