Return home at half-past six, feeling extraordinarily exhausted. Find letter from Literary Agent, suggesting that the moment has now come when fresh masterpiece from my pen may definitely be expected, and may he hope to receive my new manuscript quite shortly? Idle fancy, probably born of extreme fatigue, crosses my mind as to results of a perfectly candid reply — to the effect that literary projects entirely swamped by hourly activities concerned with children, housekeeping, sewing, letter-writing, Women’s Institute Meetings, and absolute necessity of getting eight hours’ sleep every night.
Decide that another visit to Doughty Street is imperative, and say to Robert, feebly and untruthfully, that I am sure he would not mind my spending a week or two in London, to get some writing done. To this Mademoiselle, officiously and unnecessarily, adds that, naturally, madame désire se distraire de temps en temps — which is not in the least what I want to convey.
Robert says nothing, but raises one eyebrow.
May 6th. — Customary heart-rending half-hour in which Robin and Vicky appear to realise for the first time since last holidays that they must return to school. Robin says nothing whatever, but turns gradually eau-de-nil, and Vicky proclaims that she feels almost certain she will not be able to survive the first night away from home. I tell myself firmly that, as a modern mother, I must be Bracing, but very inconvenient lump in my throat renders this difficult, and I suggest instead that they should go and say good-bye to the gardener.
Luggage, which has theoretically been kept within very decent limits, fills the hall and overflows outside front door, and Casabianca’s trunk threatens to take entire car all to itself. Mademoiselle eyes it disparagingly and says Ciel! on dirait tout un déménagement, but relents at the moment of farewell, and gives Casabianca her hand remarking Sans rancune, hein? which he fortunately does not understand, and can therefore not reply to, except by rather chilly bow, elegantly executed from the waist. Mademoiselle then without warning bursts into tears, kisses children and myself, says On se reverra au Paradis, au moins — which is on the whole optimistic — and is driven by Robert to the station.
Hired car removes Casabianca, after customary exchange of compliments between us, and extraordinarily candid display of utter indifference from both Robin and Vicky, and I take them to the Junction, when unknown parent of unknown schoolfellow of Robin’s takes charge of him with six other boys, who all look to me exactly alike.
Vicky weeps, and I give her an ice and then escort her to station all over again, and put her in charge of the guard to whom she immediately says Can she go in the Van with him? He agrees, and they disappear hand-in-hand.
Drive home again, and avoid the nursery for the rest of the day. May 10th. — Decide that a return to Doughty Street flat is imperative, and try to make clear to Robert that this course really represents Economy in the Long Run. Mentally assemble superb array of evidence to this effect, but it unfortunately eludes me when trying to put it into words and all becomes feeble and incoherent. Also observe in myself tendency to repeat over and over again rather unmeaning formula: It Isn’t as if It was going to be For Long, although perfectly well aware that Robert heard me the first time, and was unimpressed. Discussion closes with my fetching A.B.C. out of the dining-room, and discovering that it dates from 1929.
May 17th. — Return to Doughty Street flat, and experience immense and unreasonable astonishment at finding it almost exactly as I left it, yellow-and-white check dust-sheets and all. Am completely entranced, and spend entire afternoon and evening arranging two vases of flowers, unpacking suit-case and buying tea and biscuits in Gray’s Inn Road where I narrowly escape extinction under a tram.
Perceive that Everybody in the World except myself is wearing long skirts, a tiny hat on extreme back of head, and vermilion lip-stick. Look at myself in the glass and resolve instantly to visit Hairdresser, Beauty Parlour, and section of large Store entitled Inexpensive Small Ladies, before doing anything else at all.
Ring up Rose, who says Oh, am I back? — which I obviously must be — and charmingly suggests dinner next week — two friends whom she wants me to meet — and a luncheon party at which I must come and help her. Am flattered, and say Yes, yes, how? to which Rose strangely replies, By leaving rather early, if I don’t mind, as this may break up the party.
Note: Extraordinary revelations undoubtedly hidden below much so-called hospitality, if inner thoughts of many hostesses were to be revealed. This thought remains persistently with me, in spite of explanation from Rose that she has appointment miles away at three o’clock, on day of luncheon, and is afraid of not getting there punctually. Agree, but without enthusiasm, to leave at half-past two in the hopes of inducing fellow-guests to do likewise.
Rose also enquires, with some unnecessary mirth, whether I am going to Do Anything about my little friend Pamela Pringle, to which I reply Not that I know of, and say Good-night and ring off. Completely incredible coincidence ensues, and am rung up five minutes later by P. P. who alleges that she “had a feeling” I should be in London again. Become utterly helpless in the face of this prescience, and agree in enthusiastic terms to come to a cocktail party at Pamela’s flat, meet her for a long talk at her Club, and go with her to the Royal Academy one morning. Entire prospect fills me with utter dismay, and go to bed in completely dazed condition.
Pamela rings up again just before midnight, and hopes so, so much she hasn’t disturbed me or anything like that, but she forgot to say — she knows so well that I shan’t misunderstand — there’s nothing in it at all — only if a letter comes for her addressed to my flat, will I just keep it till we meet? Quite likely it won’t come at all, but if it does, will I just do that and not say anything about it, as people are so terribly apt to misunderstand the simplest thing? Am I sure I don’t mind? As by this time I mind nothing at all except being kept out of my bed any longer, I agree to everything, say that I understand absolutely, and am effusively thanked by Pamela and rung off.
May 21st. — Attend Pamela Pringle’s cocktail party after much heart-searching as to suitable clothes for the occasion. Consult Felicity — on a postcard — who replies — on a postcard — that she hasn’t the least idea, also Emma Hay (this solely because I happen to meet her in King’s Road, Chelsea, not because I have remotest intention of taking her advice). Emma says lightly Oh, pyjamas are the thing, she supposes, and I look at her and am filled with horror at implied suggestion that she herself ever appears anywhere in anything of the kind. But, says Emma, waving aside question which she evidently considers insignificant, Will I come with her next week to really delightful evening party in Bloomsbury, where every single Worth While Person in London is to be assembled? Suggest in reply, with humorous intention, that the British Museum has, no doubt, been reserved to accommodate them all, but Emma not in the least amused, and merely replies No, a basement flat in Little James Street, if I know where that is. As it is within two minutes’ walk of my own door, I do, and agree to be picked up by Emma and go on with her to the party.
She tells me that all London is talking about her slashing attack on G. B. Stern’s new novel, and what did I feel? I ask where the slashing attack is to be found, and Emma exclaims Do I really mean that I haven’t seen this month’s Hampstead Clarionet? and I reply with great presence of mind but total disregard for truth, that they’ve probably Sold Out, at which Emma, though obviously astounded, agrees that that must be it, and we part amiably.
Question of clothes remains unsolved until eleventh hour, when I decide on black crêpe-de-chine and new hat that I think becoming.
Bus No. 19, as usual, takes me to Sloane Street, and I reach flat door at half-past six, and am taken up in lift, hall-porter — one of many — informing me on the way that I am the First. At this I beg to be taken down again and allowed to wait in the hall, but he replies, not unreasonably, that Someone has got to be first, miss. Revive at being called miss, and allow myself to be put down in front of P. P.’s door, where porter rings the bell as if h
e didn’t altogether trust me to do it for myself — in which he is right — and I subsequently crawl, rather than walk, into Pamela’s drawing-room. Severe shock ensues when Pamela — wearing pale pink flowered chiffon — reveals herself in perfectly bran-new incarnation as purest platinum blonde. Recover from this with what I consider well-bred presence of mind, but am shattered anew by passionate enquiry from Pamela as to whether I like it. Reply, quite truthfully, that she looks lovely, and all is harmony. I apologise for arriving early, and Pamela assures me that she is only too glad, and adds that she wouldn’t have been here herself as early as this if her bedroom clock hadn’t been an hour fast, and she wants to hear all my news. She then tells me all hers, which is mainly concerned with utterly unaccountable attitude of Waddell, who goes into a fit if any man under ninety so much as looks at Pamela. (Am appalled at cataclysmic nature of Waddell’s entire existence, if this is indeed the case.)
Previous experience of Pamela’s parties leads me to enquire if Waddell is to be present this afternoon, at which she looks astonished and says Oh Yes, she supposes so, he is quite a good host in his own way, and anyway she is sure he would adore to see me.
(Waddell and I have met exactly once before, on which occasion we did not speak, and am morally certain that he would not know me again if he saw me.)
Bell rings, and influx of very young gentlemen supervenes, and are all greeted by Pamela and introduced to me as Tim and Nicky and the Twins. I remain anonymous throughout, but Pamela lavishly announces that I am very, very clever and literary — with customary result of sending all the very young gentlemen into the furthermost corner of the room, from whence they occasionally look over their shoulders at me with expressions of acute horror.
They are followed by Waddell — escorting, to my immense relief, Rose’s Viscountess, whom I greet as an old friend, at which she seems faintly surprised, although in quite a kind way — and elderly American with a bald head. He sits next me, and wants to know about Flag-days, and — after drinking something out of a little glass handed me in a detached way by one of the very young gentlemen — I suddenly find myself extraordinarily eloquent and informative on the subject.
Elderly American encourages me by looking at me thoughtfully and attentively while I speak — (difference in this respect between Americans and ourselves is marked, and greatly to the advantage of the former) — and saying at intervals that what I am telling him Means Quite a Lot to him — which is more than it does to me. Long before I think I have exhausted the subject, Pamela removes the American by perfectly simple and direct method of telling him to come and talk to her, which he obediently does — but bows at me rather apologetically first.
Waddell immediately refills my glass, although without speaking a word, and Rose’s Viscountess talks to me about Time and Tide. We spend a pleasant five minutes, and at the end of them I have promised to go and see her, and we have exchanged Christian names. Can this goodwill be due to alcohol? Have a dim idea that this question had better not be propounded at the moment.
Room is by this time entirely filled with men, cigarette smoke and conversation. Have twice said No, really, not any more thank you, to Waddell, and he has twice ignored it altogether, and continued to pour things into my glass, and I to drink them. Result is a very strange mixture of exhilaration, utter recklessness and rather sentimental melancholy. Am also definitely feeling giddy and aware that this will be much worse as soon as I attempt to stand up.
Unknown man, very attractive, sitting near me, tells me of very singular misfortune that has that day befallen him. He has, to his infinite distress, dealt severe blow with a walking-stick to strange woman, totally unknown to him, outside the Athenaeum. I say Really, in concerned tones, Was that just an accident? Oh, yes, purest accident. He was showing a friend how to play a stroke at golf, and failed to perceive woman immediately behind him. This unhappily resulted in the breaking of her spectacles, and gathering of a large crowd, and moral obligation on his own part to drive her immense distance in a taxi to see (a) a doctor, (b) an oculist,(c) her husband, who turns out to live at Richmond. I sympathise passionately, and suggest that he will probably have to keep both woman and her husband for the rest of their lives, which, he says, had already occurred to him.
This dismays us both almost equally, and we each drink another cocktail.
Pamela — had already wondered why she had left attractive unknown to me so long — now breaks up this agreeable conversation, by saying that Waddell will never, never, forgive anybody else for monopolising me, and I simply must do my best to put him into a really good mood, as Pamela has got to tell him about her dressmaker’s bill presently, so will I be an angel — ? She then removes delightful stranger, and I am left in a dazed condition. Have dim idea that Waddell is reluctantly compelled by Pamela to join me, and that we repeatedly assure one another that there are No Good Plays Running Nowadays. Effect of this eclectic pronouncement rather neutralised later, when it turns out that Waddell never patronises anything except talkies, and that I haven’t set foot inside a London theatre for eight-and-a-half months.
Later still it dawns on me that I am almost the last person left at the party, except for Waddell, who has turned on the wireless and is listening to Vaudeville, and Pamela, who is on the sofa having her palm read by one young man, while two others hang over the back of it and listen attentively.
I murmur a very general and unobtrusive good-bye, and go away. Am not certain, but think that hall-porter eyes me compassionately, but we content ourselves with exchange of rather grave smiles — no words.
Am obliged to return to Doughty Street in a taxi, owing to very serious fear that I no longer have perfect control over my legs.
Go instantly to bed on reaching flat, and room whirls round and round in distressing fashion for some time before I go to sleep.
May 25th. — Life one round of gaiety, and feel extremely guilty on receiving a letter from Our Vicar’s Wife, saying that she is certain I am working hard at a New Book, and she should so like to hear what it’s all about and what its name is. If I will tell her this, she will speak to the girl at Boots’, as every little helps. She herself is extremely busy, and the garden is looking nice, but everything very late this year. P.S. Have I heard that old Mrs. Blenkinsopp is going to Bournemouth?
Make up my mind to write really long and interesting reply to this, but when I sit down to do so find that I am quite unable to write anything at all, except items that would appear either indiscreet, boastful or scandalous. Decide to wait until after Emma Hay’s party in Little James Street, as this will give me something to write about.
(Mem.: Self-deception almost certainly involved here, as reflection makes it perfectly evident that Our Vicar’s Wife is unlikely in the extreme to be either amused or edified by the antics of any acquaintances brought to my notice via Emma.)
Go down to Mickleham by bus — which takes an hour and a half — to see Vicky, who is very lively and affectionate, and looks particularly well, but declares herself to be overworked. I ask What at? and she says Oh, Eurhythmics. It subsequently appears that these take place one afternoon in every week, for one hour. She also says that she likes all her other lessons and is doing very well at them, and this is subsequently confirmed by higher authorities. Again patronise bus route — an hour and three-quarters, this time — and return to London, feeling exactly as if I had had a night journey to Scotland, travelling third-class and sitting bolt upright all the way.
May 26th. — Emma — in green sacque that looks exactly like démodé window-curtain, sandals and varnished toe-nails — calls for me at flat, and we go across to Little James Street. I ask whom I am going to meet and Emma replies, with customary spaciousness, Everyone, absolutely Everyone, but does not commit herself to names, or even numbers.
Exterior of Little James Street makes me wonder as to its capacities for dealing with Everyone, and this lack of confidence increases as Emma conducts me into extremely small house and down nar
row flight of stone stairs, the whole culminating in long, thin room with black walls and yellow ceiling, apparently no furniture whatever, and curious, but no doubt interesting, collection of people all standing screaming at one another.
Emma looks delighted and says Didn’t she tell me it would be a crush, that man over there is living with a negress now, and if she gets a chance she will bring him up to me.
(Should very much like to know with what object, since it will obviously be impossible for me to ask him the only thing I shall really be thinking about.)
Abstracted-looking man with a beard catches sight of Emma, and says Darling, in an absentminded manner, and then immediately moves away, followed, with some determination, by Emma.
Am struck by presence of many pairs of horn-rimmed spectacles, and marked absence of evening dress, also by very odd fact that almost everybody in the room has either abnormally straight or abnormally frizzy hair. Conversation in my vicinity is mainly concerned with astonishing picture on the wall, which I think represents Adam and Eve at very early stage indeed, but am by no means certain, and comments overheard do not enlighten me in the least. Am moreover seriously exercised in my mind as to exact meaning of tempo, brio, appassionata and coloratura as applied to art.
Strange man enters into conversation with me, but gives it up in disgust when I mention Adam and Eve, and am left with the impression — do not exactly know why — that picture in reality represents Sappho on the Isle of Lesbos.
(Query: Who was Sappho, and what was Isle of Lesbos?)
Emma presently reappears, leading reluctant-looking lady with red hair, and informs her in my presence that I am a country mouse — which infuriates me — and adds that we ought to get on well together, as we have identical inferiority complexes. Red-haired lady and I look at one another with mutual hatred, and separate as soon as possible, having merely exchanged brief comment on Adam and Eve picture, which she seems to think has something to do with the ‘nineties and the Yellow Book.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 376