Everyone else buys nobly, unsuitable articles are raffled — (raffling illegal, winner to pay sixpence) — guesses are made as to contents of sealed boxes, number of currants in large cake, weight of bilious-looking ham, and so on. Band arrives, is established on lawn, and plays selections from The Geisha. Mademoiselle’s boot-bag bought by elegant purchaser in grey flannels, who turns out, on closer inspection, to be Howard Fitzsimmons. Just as I recover from this, Robin, in wild excitement, informs me that he has won a Goat in a raffle. (Goat has fearful local reputation, and is of immense age and savageness.) Have no time to do more than say how nice this is, and he had better run and tell Daddy, before old Mrs. B., Barbara, C. C., and Cousin Maud all turn up together. (Can baby Austin possibly have accommodated them all?) Old Mrs. B. rather less subdued than at our last meeting, and goes so far as to say that she has very little money to spend, but that she always thinks a smile and a kind word are better than gold, with which I inwardly disagree.
Am definitely glad to perceive that C. C. has taken up cast-iron attitude of unfriendliness towards Cousin Maud, and contradicts her whenever she speaks. Sports, tea, and dancing on the tennis-lawn all successful — (except possibly from point of view of future tennis-parties) — and even Robin and Vicky do not dream of eating final ice cream cornets, and retiring to bed, until ten o’clock.
Robert, Rose, Cissie Crabbe, Helen Wills, and myself all sit in the drawing-room in pleasant state of exhaustion, and congratulate ourselves and one another. Robert has information, no doubt reliable, but source remains mysterious, to the effect that we have Cleared Three Figures. All, for the moment, is couleur-de-rose.
June 23rd. — Tennis-party at wealthy and elaborate house, to which Robert and I now bidden for the first time. (Also, probably, the last.) Immense opulence of host and hostess at once discernible in fabulous display of deck-chairs, all of complete stability and miraculous cleanliness. Am introduced to youngish lady in yellow, and serious young man with horn-rimmed spectacles. Lady in yellow says at once that she is sure I have a lovely garden. (Why?)
Elderly, but efficient-looking, partner is assigned to me, and we play against the horn-rimmed spectacles and agile young creature in expensive crepe-de-chine. Realise at once that all three play very much better tennis than I do. Still worse, realise that they realise this. Just as we begin, my partner observes gravely that he ought to tell me he is a left-handed player. Cannot imagine what he expects me to do about it, lose my head, and reply madly that That is Splendid.
Game proceeds, I serve several double-faults, and elderly partner becomes graver and graver. At beginning of each game he looks at me and repeats score with fearful distinctness, which, as it is never in our favour, entirely unnerves me. At “Six-one” we leave the court and silently seek chairs as far removed from one another as possible. Find myself in vicinity of Our Member, and we talk about the Mace, peeresses in the House of Lords — on which we differ — winter sports, and Alsatian dogs.
Robert plays tennis, and does well.
Later on, am again bidden to the court and, to my unspeakable horror, told to play once more with elderly and efficient partner.
I apologise to him for this misfortune, and he enquires in return, with extreme pessimism. Fifty years from now, what will it matter if we have lost this game? Neighbouring lady — probably his wife? — looks agitated at this, and supplements it by incoherent assurances about its being a great pleasure, in any case. Am well aware that she is lying, but intention evidently very kind, for which I feel grateful. Play worse than ever, and am not unprepared for subsequent enquiry from hostess as to whether I think I have really quite got over the measles, as she has heard that it often takes a full year. I reply, humorously, that, so far as tennis goes, it will take far more than a full year. Perceive by expression of civil perplexity on face of hostess that she has entirely failed to grasp this rather subtle witticism, and wish that I hadn’t made it. Am still thinking about this failure, when I notice that conversation has, mysteriously, switched on to the United States of Ameerca, about which we are all very emphatic. Americans, we say, undoubtedly hospitable — but what about the War Debt? What about Prohibition? What about Sinclair Lewis? Aimée MacPherson, and Co-education? By the time we have done with them, it transpires that none of is have ever been to America, but all hold definite views, which fortunately coincide with the views of everybody else.
(Query: Could not interesting little experiment he tried, by possessor of unusual amount of moral courage, in the shape of suddenly producing perfectly brand-new opinion: for example, to the effect that Americans have better manners than we have, or that their divorce laws are a great improvement upon our own? Should much like to see effect of these, or similar, psychological bombs, but should definitely wish Robert to he absent from the scene.)
Announcement of tea breaks off these intelligent speculations.
Am struck, as usual, by infinite superiority of other people’s food to my own.
Conversation turns upon Lady B. and everyone says she is really very kindhearted, and follows this up by anecdotes illustrating all her less attractive qualities. Youngish lady in yellow declares that she met Lady B. last week in London, face three inches thick in new sunburn-tan. Can quite believe it. Feel much more at home after this, and conscious of new bond of union cementing entire party. Sidelight thus thrown upon human nature regrettable, but not to be denied. Even tennis improves after this, entirely owing to my having told funny story relating to Lady B.’s singular behaviour in regard to local Jumble Sale, which meets with success. Serve fewer double-faults, but still cannot quite escape conviction that whoever plays with me invariably loses the set — which I cannot believe to be mere coincidence.
Suggest to Robert, on the way home, that I had better give up tennis altogether, to which, after long silence — during which I hope he is perhaps evolving short speech that shall be at once complimentary and yet convincing — he replies that he does not know what I could take up instead. As I do not know either, the subject is dropped, and we return home in silence.
June 27th. — Cook says that unless I am willing to let her have the Sweep, she cannot possibly be responsible for the stove. I say that of course she can have the Sweep. If not, Cook returns, totally disregarding this, she really can’t say what won’t happen. I reiterate my complete readiness to send the Sweep a summons on the instant, and Cook continues to look away from me and to repeat that unless I will agree to having the Sweep in, there’s no knowing.
This dialogue — cannot say why — upsets me for the remainder of the day.
June 30th. — The Sweep comes, and devastates the entire day. Bath-water and meals are alike cold, and soot appears quite irrelevantly in portions of the house totally removed from sphere of Sweep’s activities. Am called upon in the middle of the day to produce twelve-and-sixpence in cash, which I cannot do. Appeal to everybody in the house, and find that nobody else can, either. Finally Cook announces that the Joint has just come and can oblige at the back door, if I don’t mind its going down in the hook. I do not, and the Sweep is accordingly paid and disappears on a motor-bicycle.
July 3rd. — Breakfast enlivened by letter from dear Rose written at, apparently, earthly paradise of blue sea and red rocks, on South Coast of France. She says that she is having complete rest, and enjoying congenial society of charming group of friends, and makes unprecedented suggestion that I should join her for a fortnight. I am moved to exclaim — perhaps rather thoughtlessly — that the most wonderful thing in the world must be to be a childless widow — but this is met by unsympathetic silence from Robert, which recalls me to myself, and impels me to say that that isn’t in the least what I meant.
(Mem.: Should often be very, very sorry to explain exactly what it is that I do mean, and am in fact conscious of deliberately avoiding self-analysis on many occasions. Do not propose, however, to go into this now or at any other time.)
I tell Robert that if it wasn’t for the expense, and no
t having any clothes, and the servants, and leaving Vicky, I should think seriously of Rose’s suggestion. Why, I enquire rhetorically, should Lady B. have a monopoly of the South of France? Robert replies, Well — and pauses for such a long while that I get agitated, and have mentally gone through the Divorce Court with him, before he ends up by saying Well, again, and picking up the Western Morning News. Feel — but do not say — that this, as contribution to discussion, is inadequate. Am prepared, however, to continue it single-handed sooner than allow subject to drop altogether. Do so, but am interrupted first by entrance of Helen Wills through the window — (Robert says, Dam’ that cat, I shall have it drowned, but only absent-mindedly) — and then by spirit-lamp, which is discovered to be extinct, and to require new wick. Robert strongly in favour of ringing immediately, but I discourage this, and undertake to speak about it instead, and tie knot in pocket-handkerchief. (Unfortunately overcharged memory fails later when in kitchen, and find myself unable to recollect whether marmalade has run to sugar through remaining too long in jar, or merely porridge lumpier than usual — but this a digression.)
I read Rose’s letter all over again, and feel that I have here opportunity of a lifetime. Suddenly hear myself exclaiming passionately that Travel broadens the Mind, and am immediately reminded of our Vicar’s wife, who frequently makes similar remark before taking our Vicar to spend fortnight’s holiday in North Wales.
Robert finally says Well, again — this time tone of voice slightly more lenient — and then asks if it is quite impossible for his bottle of Eno’s to be left undisturbed on bathroom shelf?
I at once and severely condemn Mademoiselle as undoubted culprit, although guiltily aware that original suggestion probably emanated from myself. And what, I add, about the South of France? Robert looks astounded, and soon afterwards leaves the dining-room without having spoken.
I deal with my correspondence, omitting Rose’s letter. Remainder boils down to rather uninspiring collection of Accounts Rendered, offensive little pamphlet that makes searching enquiry into the state of my gums, postcard from County Secretary of Women’s Institutes with notice of meeting that I am expected to attend, and warmly worded personal communication addressed me by name from unknown Titled Gentleman, which ends up with a request for five shillings if I cannot spare more, in aid of charity in which he is interested. Whole question of South of France is shelved until evening, when I seek Mademoiselle in schoolroom, after Vicky has gone to bed. Am horrified to see that supper, awaiting her on the table, consists of cheese, pickles, and slice of jam roly-poly, grouped on single plate — (Would not this suggest to the artistic mind a Still-life Study in Modern Art?) — flanked by colossal jug of cold water. Is this, I ask, what Mademoiselle likes? She assures me that it is and adds, austerely, that food is of no importance to her. She could go without anything for days and days, without noticing it. From her early childhood, she has always been the same.
(Query unavoidably suggests itself here: Does Mademoiselle really expect me to believe her, and if so, what can be her opinion of my mental capacity?)
We discuss Vicky: tendency to argumentativeness, I hint. “C’est un petit coeur d ‘or,” returns Mademoiselle immediately. I agree, in modified terms, and Mademoiselle at once points out dear Vicky’s undeniable obstinacy and self-will, and goes so far as to say: “Plus tard, ce sera un esprit fort...elle ira loin, cette petite.”
I bring up the subject of the South of France. Mademoiselle more than sympathetic, assures me that I must, at all costs, go, adding — a little unnecessarily — that I have grown many, many years older in the last few months, and that to live as I do, without any distractions, only leads to madness in the end.
Feel that she could hardly have worded this more trenchantly, and am a good deal impressed.
(Query: Would Robert see the force of these representations, or not? Robert apt to take rather prejudiced view of all that is not purely English.)
Return to drawing-room and find Robert asleep behind the Times. Read Rose’s letter all over again, and am moved to make list of clothes that I should require if I joined her, estimate of expenses — financial situation, though not scintillating, still considerably brighter than usual, owing to recent legacy — and even Notes, on back of envelope, of instructions to be given to Mademoiselle, Cook, and the tradespeople, before leaving.
July 6th. — Decide definitely on joining Rose at Ste. Agathe, and write and tell her so. Die now cast, and Rubicon crossed — or rather will be, on achieving further side of the Channel. Robert, on the whole, takes lenient view of entire project, and says he supposes that nothing else will satisfy me, and better not count on really hot weather promised by Rose but take good supply of woollen underwear. Mademoiselle is sympathetic, but theatrical, and exclaims: “C’est la Ste. Vierge qui a tout arrange!” which sounds like a travel agency, and shocks me.
Go to Women’s Institute Meeting and tell our Secretary that I am afraid I shall have to miss our next Committee Meeting. She immediately replies that the date can easily be altered. I protest, but am defeated by small calendar, which she at once produces, and begs me to select my own date, and says that It will be All the Same to the eleven other members of the Committee.
(Have occasional misgivings at recollection of rousing speeches made by various speakers from our National Federation, to the effect that all W.I. members enjoy equal responsibilities and equal privileges...Can only hope that none of them will ever have occasion to enter more fully into the inner workings of our Monthly Committee Meetings.)
July 12th. — Pay farewell calls, and receive much good advice. Our Vicar says that it is madness to drink water anywhere in France, unless previously boiled and filtered; our Vicar’s wife shares Robert’s distrust as to climate, and advises Jaeger next the skin, and also offers loan of small travelling medicine-chest for emergencies. Discussion follows as to whether Bisulphate of Quinine is, or is not, dutiable article, and is finally brought to inconclusive conclusion by our Vicar’s pronouncing definitely that, in any case, Honesty is the Best Policy.
Old Mrs. Blenkinsop — whom I reluctantly visit whenever I get a letter from Barbara saying how grateful she is for my kindness — adopts quavering and enfeebled manner, and hopes she may be here to welcome me home again on my return, but implies that this is not really to be anticipated. I say Come, come, and begin well-turned sentence as to Mrs. B.’s wonderful vitality, when Cousin Maud bounces in, and inspiration fails me on the spot. What Hol says Cousin Maud — (or at least, produces the effect of having said it, though possibly slang slightly more up-to-date than this — but not much) — What is all this about our cutting a dash on the Lido or somewhere, and leaving our home to take care of itself? Talk about the Emancipation of Females, says Cousin Maud. Should like to reply that no one, except herself, ever does talk about it — but feel this might reasonably be construed as uncivil, and do not want to upset unfortunate old Mrs. B., whom I now regard as a victim pure and simple. Ignore Cousin Maud, and ask old Mrs. B. what books she would advise me to take. Amount of luggage strictly limited, both as to weight and size, but could manage two very long ones, if in pocket editions, and another to be carried in coat-pocket for journey.
Old Mrs. B. — probably still intent on thought of approaching dissolution — suddenly says that there is nothing like the Bible — suggestion which I feel might more properly have been left to our Vicar. Naturally, give her to understand that I agree, but do not commit myself further. Cousin Maud, in a positive way that annoys me, recommends No book At All, especially when crossing the sea. It is well known, she affirms, that any attempt to fix the eyes on printed page while ship is moving induces sea-sickness quicker than anything else. Better repeat poetry, or the multiplication-table, as this serves to distract the mind. Have no assurance that the multiplication-table is at my command, but do not reveal this to Cousin Maud.
Old Mrs. B., abandoning Scriptural attitude, now says, Give her Shakespeare. Everything is to be found in Shakes
peare. Look at King Lear, she says. Cousin Maud assents with customary energy — but should be prepared to take considerable bet that she has never read a word of King Lear since it was — presumably — stuffed down her throat at dear old Roedean, in intervals of cricket and hockey.
We touch on literature in general — old Mrs. B. observes that much that is published nowadays seems to her unnecessary, and why so much Sex in everything? — Cousin Maud says that books collect dust, anyway, and whisks away inoffensive copy of Time and Tide with which old Mrs. B. is evidently solacing herself in intervals of being hustled in and out of baby Austin — and I take my leave. Am embraced by old Mrs. B. (who shows tendency to have one of her old-time Attacks, but is briskly headed off it by Cousin Maud) and slapped on the back by Cousin Maud in familiar and extremely offensive manner.
Walk home, and am overtaken by well-known blue Bentley, from which Lady B. waves elegantly, and commands chauffeur to stop. He does so, and Lady B. says, Get in, Get in, never mind muddy boots — which makes me feel like a plough-boy. Good works, she supposes, have been taking me plodding round the village as usual? The way I go on, day after day, is too marvellous. Reply with utmost distinctness that I am just on the point of starting for the South of France, where I am joining party of distinguished friends. (This not entirely untrue, since dear Rose has promised introduction to many interesting acquaintances, including Viscountess.)
Really, says Lady B. But why not go at the right time of year? Or why not go all the way by sea? — yachting too marvellous. Or why not, again, make it Scotland, instead of France?
Do not reply to any of all this, and request to be put down at the corner. This is done, and Lady B. waves directions to chauffeur to drive on, but subsequently stops him again, and leans out to say that she can find out all about quite inexpensive pensions for me if I like. I do not like, and we part finally.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 314