Poison Penmanship: The Gentle Art of Muckraking (19 page)

Halfway through the proceedings, luncheon was served on an outdoor terrace by elegant parlormaids. It consisted of a single course, a very good rare hamburger and excellent salad, all prepared by a French chef who has been with Miss Arden for years. No water with meals; Miss Arden considers it bloating.

At dinnertime I got my first look at the main house. It is a riot of elegance, or a profusion of magnificence. This is where the Aubusson carpets are, and the marble floors. It is like a small embassy: a large and splendid drawing room, another room called “the library” (in honor of a set of the Waverley Novels and the English Cyclopedia). There is a visitors’ book in the library going back to 1958, which gives many a clue to the sources of income of the patrons of Maine Chance. The signatures read in part like a grocery shopping list (I found a popular ketchup, a famous cake flour, a brand of canned soup, a yeast, and a coffee), in part like a roster of the Republican National Committee. Mamie Eisenhower’s large round hand appears over and over.

At seven o’clock we gathered in the drawing room, and for the first time I saw my fellow-guests in ordinary garb. Most reassuring —they looked
so
much better, so human for a change, in fact just like any other gathering of well-dressed ladies of uncertain age. Girdles, make-up, good clothes had done wonders. There was a fluttery chorus of “My, you look nice!” as flower after flower arrived in cocktail dress, tailored linen suit, flowing chiffon, or evening slacks. In fact, we found it hard to recognize each other as the forlorn, greasy creatures of the day.

An imposing six-foot butler and several parlormaids handed round the cocktails (small servings of carrot juice) and hors d’oeuvres (cut-up raw vegetables).

At dinner, all is elegance and formality, like a parody of a very grand English house party. Some sit round a huge, long table in the dining room, others at individual tables in an adjoining room. Lovely china, and delicious food—in
very
moderate amounts, for us dieters. The waitress discreetly indicates how much you are supposed to take (two slivers of saddle of lamb, a helping of squash and red cabbage, followed by fruit compote) as we wistfully notice wild rice, green peas, creamy desserts, and other delectables being placed before the three or four of our company who are trying to gain weight.

Circles are beginning to form, roughly along regional lines. A few came with a friend, a few others are acquainted from previous visits here. Most are strangers to each other. Tennessee, North Carolina, Texas have found each other, are making friends and discussing mutual loved ones in their soft Southern shriek and aberrant vowel sounds. “Wha, ah dew believe ah know yo’ cuhsin, ma sister was brahdsmaid at her weddin’.” The Middle Westerners are still uneasy, there are fewer of them. As there is only one of me, we make common cause, exchanging polite nothings about the activities of the day. (“Did
you
enjoy the Ardena bath?
I
didn’t. But they say it’s
very
beneficial.” “Yes, I know, draws out the poisons. Rather sinister, I call it.”) Then there’s the International Set, with that snort-and-flounce voice with traces of English accent indigenous to Westchester County, Long Island, Newport. Pacesetters, I can tell at once. Predictably,
they
arrive in casual cottons (the rest of us having taken seriously the cocktail-dress injunction).

After dinner some play bridge, others knit or work at embroidery. Soon we are offered a nightcap of tea or Swiss Kriss laxative, and so to bed.

TUESDAY

I have lost two pounds already! Of course one is weighed at the most propitious moment, after being sweated in the steam cabinet and before luncheon. Nevertheless it seems miraculous.

The day’s procedure is much like yesterday’s: our bodies and faces are in turn kneaded, stretched, massaged, manipulated, creamed, steamed, cooled—from sunup to sundown.

There is perhaps little wonder that the prevailing mood is utterly, totally narcissistic—each is preoccupied only with herself, the pound lost (or in some sad cases the half-pound gained) at the daily weighing-in, the improving waistline, the tighter tuck at exercise class.

We get the newspaper with our breakfast trays. The headlines are full of bitter battles raging in Vietnam, the Rhodesia crisis, historic Supreme Court decisions. But we, who are being fiddled with while Rome burns, do not discuss these matters. At luncheon, conversation at my table goes like this: “
I
usually eat a very light lunch at home, just a sandwich.” “
I
often skip lunch altogether, but may have a snack later on—perhaps just a piece of fruit.” This proves to be contagious, for I hear myself saying in quite a loud and attention-getting voice, “
I
eat VERY LITTLE BREAKFAST. ...” But not even a ho-hum greets this riveting announcement, for nobody is actually listening to anybody else.

The one in charge of all this lucrative avoirdupois (and the tender psyches that lurk beneath) is an elegant lady of French and English background. She comes as near perfection for the job as any human being could: a combination of ship’s captain (her own simile, and she does run a
very
tight ship), English country house-party hostess, duenna. Her costumes subtly suggest her role of the moment. In the mornings, supervising staff and clients, she sports a chic modification of nautical attire, fitted blue trousers, gay silk shirt, and sailor hat. In late afternoon one may catch a glimpse of her in severe Italian knit. For dinner, she is transformed, the personification of charm and loveliness in silk, taffeta, or chiffon. How we long to be more like her! Slender, head erect, full of kindness. Although she did have some relatively brisk words for two ladies caught sneaking an apple (100 calories) into their room.

It is she, I think, who sets the tone for our psychological handling—the “good child” routine. We are treated ever, ever so gently and kindly by everyone—like half-witted children aged seven. You ask an attendant the way to the gym. Instead of pointing it out, she drops whatever she is doing, takes your arm, and leads you there. You are put into the Ardena bath for the first time (the thought “boiled in oil” dismally occurring to you), and the attendant soothes you, cajoles you, gets you in, wraps you up tenderly as you have never been wrapped since childhood bronchitis. We do not put on our shoes after a foot treatment, we do not pour our own potassium broth at 11 a.m., nor our grapefruit juice at 4 p.m. We do not fetch our own towels after swimming. Willing hands do it all.

The patrons seem to enjoy this kid-glove handling, they fall right in with the intense self-solicitude fostered by our custodians. I heard one woman arranging to be moved from her predominantly pink room, which she found somewhat too stimulating, to a blue room, a more tranquil color.

The second in command, and the only other staff member who takes her meals with us, is a very nice English governess type—she was in fact a schoolmistress in the north of England for many years. While she has gone far in acquiring the Maine Chance manner (the soothing, dulcet tones that could drive you faintly dotty in time), there is something a little incongruous in her presence here. I visualize her being more at home in a stout mackintosh, walking down a sopping-wet country lane with an assortment of cocker spaniels and retrievers.

She puts me in mind of my own far-off childhood in England— unsoothed and unlulled we were by our governess, who saw her primary task as knocking some sense into our heads. “Nobody’s going to look at you,” she would say if I was fussing about the way my sash was tied; or, approaching the drawing room at teatime, “Now, Jessica, remember you are the least important person in the room.”

Maine Chance would not, I think, be a success in England. The aristocratic dowager, nearest English equivalent from a class standpoint to the ladies gathered here, is a hardier bloom whose upbringing has endowed her with an intractably matter-of-fact outlook on life. “Stuff and nonsense!” she would exclaim angrily, if asked to behave like a good child. While she might patronize a Continental health spa for a specific ailment—liver disease, gout, rheumatism are perennial English favorites—she would be unlikely to disburse a small fortune on going into retreat with a group of other women purely for the sake of sagging waistline and double chin.

In the late afternoon (the two hours of free time between the day’s activities and dinner) I return to the Upper Garden of Arden. Maids are quietly padding to and fro with freshly pressed evening clothes. I say to myself, “
I
usually have a VERY DRY MARTINI about now,” but settle for some tea brought by the maid to the pool.

Others from our snug dorm are gathered there, and we discuss rival beauty farms that have recently been in the news. There is the Greenhouse in Dallas, operated by Neiman-Marcus, and the Golden Door in California, where the exercise suits are pink instead of blue and where the tab is $1,100 for two weeks. “Very hilly-haley,” says one of our little throng. “What does that mean?” I ask eagerly. “Oh, you know.... Inexpensive.”

WEDNESDAY

Those in the know (the old-timers) tell me that by Wednesday one is for some reason at one’s lowest ebb. I can see why: the miraculous shedding of weight has slowed down (I only lost half a pound today), the novelty of the day’s routine has worn off, and there are still three days left until Sunday.

Perhaps reflecting the Wednesday slump, lunchtime talk today turned from food to liquor: how many calories in a whiskey sour? In an ounce of bourbon? The duenna smilingly instructed us in these matters, and added that if one must drink, plain Scotch and water is better than martinis.

A well-known dynamo (or at least the wife of one) arrived in our midst today—Mrs. Barry Goldwater. As we tucked it in together on adjacent mats and walked our ears up the wall for posture, I observed that she is a whiz at the exercises, and in my heart I knew she was far trimmer of figure than most of us. She is a day scholar, for her home is hard by and she returns there in the evenings. Here she is surrounded by her husband’s admirers and former campaign contributors; I have yet to meet a Rockefeller supporter at Maine Chance. I asked my nice Swedish masseuse, “Do any Democrats come here?” “
Ach, ja
,” she answered. “Ve have very many of them, Mrs. Dwight Eisenhower, she come, and Mrs. John Foster Dulles, she always come for Christmas, and Mrs. Barry Goldwater ...” “Any Johnsons, or Kennedys, or Humphreys?” She considered a moment. “No ... I no know those names.”

At dinner tonight there was a moment of perturbation to ruffle the calm. We had lamb chops, and the waitress, as is her custom, indicated that we might take two each. Halfway down the table, the platter was empty. Had she made a mistake? Would some diners have to go hungry? A Lord of the Flies look momentarily crossed some faces (while those who had already been served noticeably speeded up consumption, perhaps fearing the second chop would be called back); but another platter soon appeared, and the day was saved.

THURSDAY

As we become better acquainted, mealtime conversation takes on more range, and I am beginning to acquire some insight into the affluent mind. F. Scott Fitzgerald is supposed to have said, “The rich are different from us,” and Ernest Hemingway to have answered, “Yes, they have more money.” One wonders.

There is the lady from Florida who has six darling poodles at home. She couldn’t bear to leave
all
of them for two whole weeks, so she brought her favorite one and a maid to look after it, rented an apartment for them in Phoenix, and visits twice daily. Today, at lunch, she swiped a piece of steak to take to Doggie. This set us talking about bowser bags. Another lady at our table complained about a queer thing that happens at her parties: guests bring along bowser bags, and behind her back get the servants to fill them up with food—but she knows the food isn’t really for their dogs, they take it home and eat it. I was startled into saying that I must say nothing like that has ever happened to me when I give a party; she said, “My dear, check with your butler, I’m sure he’ll admit to you that it goes on all the time.” There is the lady whose husband sends her fresh flowers every day, flown here from Honolulu. Another has just returned from Portugal where she took her eight grandchildren for a little treat—and allowed each to bring a friend along for company, so they wouldn’t fight. Yet another sometimes flies from New York to London
for the day
, to see the races—her race horse lives in England with its trainer.

They are all nonstop shoppers. In the few free daytime moments they are at the boutique; after the daily routine they dash to Phoenix for more shopping before dinner. The International Setters regularly show up in the evening in darling look-alike outfits bought that day at Saks or Magnin.

FRIDAY

Tonight, after dinner, we played Bingo for house prizes, wrapped packages of bubble bath and other gifts in the range of $1.25 to $5. The Bingo almost led to a nasty row; it is amazing how close to the surface lurk some of the cruder passions in the bosoms of our flowers. The duenna, looking smashing in flowered organza, gaily presided and announced the games. “A straight line in any direction, horizontal, vertical, or diagonal,” she sang out. It took a little time to explain these concepts to some of the less alert ladies, but they finally got it. We played, there was a winner, her prize was ceremoniously handed.

As the games progressed, the duenna varied the rules to add to the suspense—at one point she gave
three
prizes to a single winner for a full board. The rivalry soon became intense, each furiously concentrating on her board. Now Mrs. C., a large motherly lady sitting next to me, won twice in a row. Somebody said, in a stage whisper heard all over the room, “I think Mrs. C. should disqualify herself now she’s won two prizes.” There was an awkward silence. Mrs. C. looked about her uncertainly, then rose and said in frigid tones, “Very well, I’ll disqualify myself. But I think I should say Mrs. X. got
three
prizes for one game and
she
wasn’t disqualified.” Everybody rallied: “Oh, don’t go, Mrs. C.,” they cooed. She was persuaded, and sat down. The duenna, perhaps fearing we were getting overexcited, soon declared the fun over and we retired to bed.