Internationalism, Chez Nous

Showing that New York is Becoming Alarmingly full oj Foreign Matter

GEORGE S. CHAPPELL

I ASSERT, without fear of contradiction, that New York has never been so international as now, and, as Senator Dunkhorst so well said in his recent address to the Kansas State Grange, "As goes New York, so goes Wichita." New York strikes the keynote and the pitch of that note is internationalism.

This word, "Internationalism," has been so bandied about of late that I almost hesitate to introduce it at the head of a really serious article like this. The subject of internationalism has indeed been classified, by its pro and op-ponents, as something ranging from pale pink idealism to red radicalism.

Let me illustrate,—plucking an example at random from the veritable embarras de choix— there I go, dropping into French again!—at my disposal.

Not long ago I saw a marvelous sight. It was the opening of the Metropolitan Opera House season in this great city of New York. No doubt most of my readers were there and could see the picture of that brilliant assemblage for themselves. But, for the benefit of the younger commuting set, and for those dwelling behind the beyond who may not be familiar with the lay-out of the gigantic auditorium, let me say that it is arranged in much the same manner as the Grand Central Terminal. That is to say, there is an upper and a lower level.

Those of you who use the Terminal are aware that the more luxurious trains—The Bankers' Limited, the Gilt-Edge, the Owl—and so on, find their points of departure and arrival on the upper-level, while the inferior, or lower-level, is devoted to local traffic recruited entirely from suburban points between Stamford and New York.

Upper and Lower Levels

SO it is at the Opera. There are more plebeian levels, of course, but they are not within the scope of these remarks. In fact, it is chiefly with the upper-level—quaintly called the "parterre" on account of its height above the ground—that I have to deal. Ah,—what a sight was there, my fellow-citizens.

Society had turned out in force, solid, solvent, Society,—the kind of Society which, however we may gloss our designations, we always imagine in terms of bank-balances. My friend Mr. Babson, whom I met in the lobby, hastily estimated on the back of his programme that the income-tax paid by the box-holders of the Golden Horse-Shoe could easily pay the National debt. It won't, of course, but it could if it wanted to.

And not a horse-shoer was absent.

The jewels were beyond description. From rings, necklaces and tiaras darted a thousand gleaming rays. Indeed, so dazzling was the effulgence that Mrs. Dexter McGoogle, in Box 48, had thoughtfully fitted her dog-collar with dimmers which she operated when the house was darkened. Many of the costumes were in gold, silver, or bronze, like radiators—only cooler.

In addition to the intrinsic value of the audience there was a great distinction of family. Every person in the parterre was a personage. It was an expurgated edition of the Social Register,—a veritable forest of family-trees, draped with the usual climbers and creepers. It was a sort of Almanack de Gotham.

You cannot imagine how exciting it was. Very near me sat Hugo Bittz, one of the Directors of the Opera, who had as his guests the Esthonian Ambassador, Baron de Bazouka. Mr. Bittz wore his recently conferred decoration of a Chevalier of the Order of Mezzanine. Just beyond him, in the Watts-Watt box, was the Hoyo de Monterey in the full panoply of his native country. Not to be outdone in this splendid emulation, the Merritt-Littles had, as their guest, the Gaekwar of Swoboda, who wore on his forehead the gigantic carbuncle presented to him by his majesty Kind George at the time of the Indian mutiny. In box 21 sat George, Lord Beaverboard, British Ambassador Extraordinary. In box 13—but I might go on indefinitely.

I will not weary you. Only remark, my friends, that this great outburst of internationalism took place at almost the identical moment when Senator Lodge, hiding his grief behind a large Republican Handkerchief, was laying his wreath of reservations on the bier of Democratic hopes.

What more magnificent expression of the spirit of our people could be more magnificently expressed?

Internationalism at Table

A FEW nights thereafter I attended a more intimate function—a dinner of twelve given by the Weston Wooleys for Mrs. Wooley's sister, the Comtesse de Lambrequin, who, as lovely Vera Wooley, will be well remembered as the first debutante to ride a safety bicycle in Central Park. Believe me or not, that limited table was an absolute cross-section of the revised map of Europe. On my right was Madame Sludvok (the marvelous Norse bride of young Erik Sludvok at the Embassy), from whom I occasionally turned for a bit of badinage with that more seasoned but none the less spicy matron, the Marchesa di Celery.

Thank Heaven, I had my foreign language phrase-book—which I am never without—and my memories of my four years hard grind at good old Berlitz University to help me over any scratchy spots in the conversation.

Since then what have we seen? A royal Prince of England visits our shores and Society, from its most exclusive set to the Mayor's Committee of Welcome, vie in doing him honor. We see him welcomed at our City Hall, and actually protected by Irish policemen, that he may go safely where he will from Ziegfeld's Follies to Grant's Tomb. I think I was never more affected by anything in my life than when I picked up the New York Times the morning after the Prince's departure and found, modestly blossoming in the poets' corner, that lovely lyric by Minna Goldfogle beginning— "Sail on, O Princeling, bright and blest The lion's cub, our honored guest."

It was a lovely tribute, exquisitely expressive of the awakened democracy of America. All honor to Minna Goldfogle, poetess laureate of Hastings-on-Hudson, who struck her lyre at the psychological moment.

Europe in America

SINCE the momentous visit of the charming Prince, our social atmosphere has fairly bristled with international celebrities. At the Horse-Show one couldn't toss away a Dimitrino without burning a potentate. The poor horses were even less looked at than ever, if such a thing were possible.

Enthusiastic listeners have sat enthralled beneath the Castillian eloquence of the Great Spaniard, Tobasco Ibanyez, not even waiting for his interpreter to function before breaking into wild applause and nodding approvingly to their neighbors.

You know what a success has attended Lord Dundreary, the brilliant Irish playwright, whose mystic creations, "Kut, King of Blaa," and "The Dogs of the Mountain" have taken our public by storm. The stage, sensitive as ever to the true pulse, the inner vibrating message of the moment, cries "internationalism" from every box-office. "Aphrodite," written by a Frenchman and played by Americans, smiles coyly at "Monsieur Beaucaire" of similar franco-American manufacture, and our own matchless Ethel Barrymore pays—and plays—her splendid tribute to the great French diplomat, in "Delcasse."

New York, vast, brazen city that she is, has opened her long, narrow heart to the world of greatness from over-seas. Internationalism triumphs.

For those who have longed to go abroad, there is this sweet and consoling thought— travel is no longer necessary. Most of the art, nobility, womanhood, drama and fashion in Europe has already come to America and may be seen, heard or experienced by any one who can hobble out to the corner or to the nearest hall.