November 28th. – Receipt from F. and C. assuring me of attention to my future wishes – but evidently far from realising magnitude of effort involved in setting myself straight with them.
December 1st. – Cable from dear Rose saying she lands at Tilbury on 10th. Cable back welcome, and will meet her Tilbury, 10th. Tell Vicky that her godmother, my dearest friend, is returning home after three years in America. Vicky says: ‘Oh, will she have a present for me?’ Am disgusted with her mercenary attitude and complain to Mademoiselle, who replies Si la Sainte Vierge revenait sur la terre, madame, ce serait notre petite Vicky. Do not at all agree with this. Moreover, in other moods Mademoiselle first person to refer to Vicky as ce petit démon enragé.
(Query: Are the Latin races always as sincere as one would wish them to be?)
December 3rd. – Radio from dear Rose, landing Plymouth 8th after all. Send return message, renewed welcomes, and will meet her Plymouth.
Robert adopts unsympathetic attitude and says This is Waste of Time and Money. Do not know if he means cables, or journey to meet ship, but feel sure better not to enquire. Shall go to Plymouth on 7th. (Mem.: Pay grocer’s book before I go, and tell him last lot of gingernuts were soft. Find out first if Ethel kept tin properly shut.)
December 8th. Plymouth. Arrived last night, terrific storm, ship delayed. Much distressed at thought of Rose, probably suffering severe sea-sickness. Wind howls round hotel, which shakes, rain lashes against window-pane all night. Do not like my room and have unpleasant idea that someone may have committed a murder in it. Mysterious door in corner which I feel conceals a corpse. Remember all the stories I have read to this effect, and cannot sleep. Finally open mysterious door and find large cupboard, but no corpse. Go back to bed again.
Storm worse than ever in the morning, am still more distressed at thought of Rose, who will probably have to be carried off ship in state of collapse.
Go round to Shipping Office and am told to be on docks at ten o’clock. Having had previous experience of this, take fur coat, camp-stool, and copy of American Tragedy as being longest book I can find, and camp myself on docks. Rain stops. Other people turn up and look enviously at camp-stool. Very old lady in black totters up and down till I feel guilty, and offer to give up camp-stool to her. She replies: ‘Thank you, but my Daimler is outside, and I can sit in that when I wish to do so.’
Return to American Tragedy feeling discouraged.
Find American Tragedy a little oppressive, but read on and on for about two hours when policeman informs me that tender is about to start for ship, if I wish to go on board. Remove self, camp-stool, and American Tragedy to tender. Read for forty minutes. (Mem.: Ask Rose if American life is really like that.)
Very, very unpleasant half-hour follows. Camp-stool shows tendency to slide about all over the place, and am obliged to abandon American Tragedy for the time being.
Numbers of men of seafaring aspect walk about and look at me. One of them asks Am I a good sailor? No, I am not. Presently ship appears, apparently suddenly rising up from the middle of the waves, and ropes are dangled in every direction. Just as I catch sight of Rose, tender is carried away from ship’s side by colossal waves.
Consoled by reflection that Rose is evidently not going to require carrying on shore, but presently begin to feel that boot, as they say, may be on the other leg.
More waves, more ropes, and tremendous general activity.
I return to camp-stool, but have no strength left to cope with American Tragedy. A man in oilskins tells me I am In the Way there, Miss.
Remove myself, camp-stool, and American Tragedy to another corner. A man in sea boots says that If I stay there, I may get Badly Knocked About.
Renewed déménagement of self, camp-stool, American Tragedy. Am slightly comforted by having been called ‘Miss’.
Catch glimpse of Rose from strange angles as tender heaves up and down. Gangway eventually materialises, and self, camp-stool, and American Tragedy achieve the ship. Realise too late that camp-stool and American Tragedy might equally well have remained where they were.
Dear Rose most appreciative of effort involved by coming to meet her, but declares herself perfectly good sailor, and slept all through last night’s storm. Try hard not to feel unjustly injured about this.
December 9th. – Rose staying here two days before going on to London. Says All American houses are Always Warm, which annoys Robert. He says in return that All American houses are Grossly Overheated and Entirely Airless. Impossible not to feel that this would carry more weight if Robert had ever been to America. Rose also very insistent about efficiency of American Telephone Service, and inclined to ask for glasses of cold water at breakfast time – which Robert does not approve of.
Otherwise dear Rose entirely unchanged and offers to put me up in her West-End flat as often as I like to come to London. Accept gratefully. (NB How very different to old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, with bed-sitting-room and gas-ring in Norwich! But should not like to think myself in any way a snob.)
On Rose’s advice, bring bulb-bowls up from cellar and put them in drawing-room. Several of them perfectly visible, but somehow do not look entirely healthy. Rose thinks too much watering. If so, Cissie Crabbe entirely to blame. (Mem.: Either move bulb-bowls upstairs, or tell Ethel to show Lady Boxe into morning-room, if she calls. Cannot possibly enter into further discussion with her concerning bulbs.)
December 10th. – Robert, this morning, complains of insufficient breakfast. Cannot feel that porridge, scrambled eggs, toast, marmalade, scones, brown bread, and coffee give adequate grounds for this, but admit that porridge is slightly burnt. How impossible ever to encounter burnt porridge without vivid recollections of Jane Eyre at Lowood School, say I parenthetically! This literary allusion not a success. Robert suggests ringing for Cook, and have greatest difficulty in persuading him that this course utterly disastrous.
Eventually go myself to kitchen, in ordinary course of events, and approach subject of burnt porridge circuitously and with utmost care. Cook replies, as I expected, with expressions of astonishment and incredulity, coupled with assurances that kitchen range is again at fault. She also says that new double-saucepan, fish-kettle, and nursery tea-cups are urgently required. Make enquiries regarding recently purchased nursery tea-set and am shown one handle without cup, saucer in three pieces, and cup from which large semicircle has apparently been bitten. Feel that Mademoiselle will be hurt if I pursue enquiries further. (Note: Extreme sensibility of the French sometimes makes them difficult to deal with.)
Read Life and Letters of distinguished woman recently dead, and am struck, as so often, by difference between her correspondence and that of less distinguished women. Immense and affectionate letters from celebrities on every other page, epigrammatic notes from literary and political acquaintances, poetical assurances of affection and admiration from husband, and even infant children. Try to imagine Robert writing in similar strain in the (improbable) event of my attaining celebrity, but fail. Dear Vicky equally unlikely to commit her feelings (if any) to paper.
Robin’s letter arrives by second post, and am delighted to have it as ever, but cannot feel that laconic information about boy – unknown to me – called Baggs, having been swished, and Mr Gompshaw, visiting master, being kept away by Sore Throat – is on anything like equal footing with lengthy and picturesque epistles received almost daily by subject of biography, whenever absent from home.
Remainder of mail consists of one bill from chemist – (Mem.: Ask Mademoiselle why two tubes of Gibbs’ Toothpaste within ten days) – illiterate postcard from piano-tuner, announcing visit to-morrow, and circular concerning True Temperance.
Inequalities of Fate very curious. Should like, on this account, to believe in Reincarnation. Spend some time picturing to myself completely renovated state of affairs, with, amongst other improvements, total reversal of relative positions of Lady B. and myself.
(Query: Is thought on abstract questions ever a waste
of time?)
December 11th. – Robert, still harping on topic of yesterday’s breakfast, says suddenly Why Not a Ham? to which I reply austerely that a ham is on order, but will not appear until arrival of R.’s brother William and his wife, for Christmas visit. Robert, with every manifestation of horror, says Are William and Angela coming to us for Christmas? This attitude absurd, as invitation was given months ago, at Robert’s own suggestion.
(Query here becomes unavoidable: Does not a misplaced optimism exist, common to all mankind, leading on to false conviction that social engagements, if dated sufficiently far ahead, will never really materialise?)
Vicky and Mademoiselle return from walk with small white-and-yellow kitten, alleged by them homeless and starving. Vicky fetches milk, and becomes excited. Agree that kitten shall stay ‘for to-night’ but feel that this is weak.
(Mem.: Remind Vicky to-morrow that Daddy does not like cats.) Mademoiselle becomes very French, on subject of cats generally, and am obliged to check her. She is blessée, and all three retire to schoolroom.
December 12th. – Robert says out of the question to keep stray kitten. Existing kitchen cat more than enough. Gradually modifies this attitude under Vicky’s pleadings. All now depends on whether kitten is male or female. Vicky and Mademoiselle declare this is known to them, and kitten already christened Napoleon. Find myself unable to enter into discussion on the point in French. The gardener takes opposite view to Vicky’s and Mademoiselle’s. They thereupon rechristen the kitten, seen playing with an old tennis ball, as Helen Wills.
Robert’s attention, perhaps fortunately, diverted by mysterious trouble with the water-supply. He says The Ram has Stopped. (This sounds to me biblical.)
Give Mademoiselle a hint that H. Wills should not be encouraged to put in injudicious appearances downstairs.
December 13th. – Ram resumes activities. Helen Wills still with us.
December 16th. – Very stormy weather, floods out and many trees prostrated at inconvenient angles. Call from Lady Boxe, who says that she is off to the South of France next week, as she Must have Sunshine. She asks Why I do not go there too, and likens me to piece of chewed string, which I feel to be entirely inappropriate and rather offensive figure of speech, though perhaps kindly meant.
Why not just pop into the train, enquires Lady B., pop across France, pop out into Blue Sky, Blue Sea, and Summer Sun? Could make perfectly comprehensive reply to this, but do not do so, question of expense having evidently not crossed Lady B.’s horizon. (Mem.: Interesting subject for debate at Women’s Institute, perhaps: That Imagination is incompatible with Inherited Wealth. On second thoughts, though, fear this has a socialistic trend.)
Reply to Lady B. with insincere professions of liking England very much even in the Winter. She begs me not to let myself become parochially-minded.
Departure of Lady B. with many final appeals to me to reconsider South of France. Make civil pretence, which deceives neither of us, of wavering, and promise to ring her up in the event of a change of mind.
(Query: Cannot many of our moral lapses from Truth be frequently charged upon the tactless persistence of others?)
December 17th, London. – Come up to dear Rose’s flat for two day’s Christmas shopping, after prolonged discussion with Robert, who maintains that All can equally well be done by Post.
Take early train so as to get in extra afternoon. Have with me Robert’s old leather suit-case, own ditto in fibre, large quantity of chrysanthemums done up in brown paper for Rose, small packet of sandwiches, handbag, fur coat in case weather turns cold, book for journey, and illustrated paper kindly presented by Mademoiselle at the station. (Query suggests itself: Could not some of these things have been dispensed with, and if so which?)
Bestow belongings in the rack, and open illustrated paper with sensation of leisured opulence, derived from unwonted absence of all domestic duties.
Unknown lady enters carriage at first stop, and takes seat opposite. She has expensive-looking luggage in moderate quantity and small red morocco jewel-case, also brand-new copy, without library label, of Life of Sir Edward Marshall-Hall. Am reminded of Lady B. and have recrudescence of Inferiority Complex.
Remaining seats occupied by elderly gentleman wearing spats, nondescript female in a Burberry, and young man strongly resembling an Arthur Watts drawing. He looks at a copy of Punch, and I spend much time in wondering if it contains an Arthur Watts drawing and if he is struck by resemblance, and if so what his reactions are, whether of pain or gratification.
Roused from these unprofitable, but sympathetic, considerations by agitation on the part of elderly gentleman, who says that, upon his soul, he is being dripped upon. Everybody looks at ceiling, and Burberry female makes a vague reference to unspecified ‘pipes’ which she declares often ‘go like that’. Someone else madly suggests turning off the heat. Elderly gentleman refuses all explanations and declares that It comes from the rack. We all look with horror at Rose’s chrysanthemums, from which large drips of water descend regularly. Am overcome with shame, remove chrysanthemums, apologise to elderly gentleman, and sit down again opposite to superior unknown, who has remained glued to Sir E. Marshall-Hall throughout, and reminds me of Lady B. more than ever.
(Mem.: Speak to Mademoiselle about officiousness of thrusting flowers into water unasked, just before wrapping up.)
Immerse myself in illustrated weekly. Am informed by it that Lord Toto Finch (inset) is responsible for camera-study (herewith) of the Loveliest Legs in Los Angeles, belonging to well-known English Society girl, near relation (by the way) of famous racing peer, father of well-known smart Set twins (portrait overleaf).
(Query: Is our popular Press going to the dogs?)
Turn attention to short story, but give it up on being directed, just as I become interested, to page XLVIIb, which I am quite unable to locate. Become involved instead with suggestions for Christmas Gifts. I want my gifts, the writer assures me, to be individual and yet appropriate – beautiful, and yet enduring. Then why not Enamel dressing-table set, at £94 16s. 4d. or Set of crystal-ware, exact replica of early English cut-glass, at moderate price of £34 17s. 9d.?
Why not, indeed?
Am touched to discover further on, however, explicit reference to Giver with Restricted Means – though even here, am compelled to differ from author’s definition of restricted means. Let originality of thought, she says, add character to trifling offering. Would not many of my friends welcome suggestion of a course of treatment – (six for 5 guineas) – at Madame Dolly Varden’s Beauty Parlour in Piccadilly to be placed to my account?
Cannot visualise myself making this offer to Our Vicar’s Wife, still less her reception of it, and decide to confine myself to one-and-sixpenny calendar with picture of sunset on Scaw Fell, as usual.
(Indulge, on the other hand, in a few moments’ idle phantasy, in which I suggest to Lady B. that she should accept from me as a graceful and appropriate Christmas gift, a course of Reducing Exercises accompanied by Soothing and Wrinkle-eradicating Face Massage.)
This imaginative exercise brought to a conclusion by arrival.
Obliged to take taxi from station, mainly owing to chrysanthemums (which would not combine well with two suit-cases and fur coat on moving stairway, which I distrust and dislike anyhow, and am only too apt to make conspicuous failure of Stepping Off with Right Foot foremost) – but also partly owing to fashionable locality of Rose’s flat, miles removed from any Underground.
Kindest welcome from dear Rose, who is most appreciative of chrysanthemums. Refrain from mentioning unfortunate incident with elderly gentleman in train.
December 19th. – Find Christmas shopping very exhausting. Am paralysed in the Army and Navy Stores on discovering that List of Xmas Presents is lost, but eventually run it to earth in Children’s Books Department. While there choose book for dear Robin, and wish for the hundredth time that Vicky had been less definite about wanting Toy Greenhouse and nothing else. This apparently unpr
ocurable. (Mem.: Take early opportunity of looking up story of the Roc’s Egg to tell Vicky.)
Rose says ‘Try Selfridges’. I protest, but eventually go there, find admirable – though expensive – Toy Greenhouse, and unpatriotically purchase it at once. Decide not to tell Robert this.
Choose appropriate offerings for Rose, Mademoiselle, William, and Angela – (who will be staying with us, so gifts must be above calendar mark) – and lesser trifles for everyone else. Unable to decide between almost invisibly small diary, and really handsome card, for Cissie Crabbe, but eventually settle on diary, as it will fit into ordinary-sized envelope.
December 20th. – Rose takes me to see St John Ervine’s play and am much amused. Overhear one lady in stalls ask another: Why don’t you write a play, dear? Well, says the friend, it’s so difficult, what with one thing and another, to find time. Am staggered. (Query: Could I write a play myself? Could we all write plays, if only we had the time? Reflect that St J. E. lives in the same county as myself, but feel that this does not constitute sound excuse for writing to ask him how he finds the time to write plays.)
December 22nd. – Return home. One bulb in partial flower, but not satisfactory.
December 23rd. – Meet Robin at the Junction. He has lost his ticket, parcel of sandwiches, and handkerchief, but produces large wooden packing-case, into which little shelf has been wedged. Understand that this represents result of Carpentry Class – expensive ‘extra’ at school – and is a Christmas present. Will no doubt appear on bill in due course.
Robin says essential to get gramophone record called ‘Is Izzy Azzy Wozz?’ (NB Am often struck by disquieting thought that the dear children are entirely devoid of any artistic feeling whatever, in art, literature, or music. This conviction intensified after hearing ‘Is Izzy Azzy Wozz?’ rendered fourteen times running on the gramophone, after I have succeeded in obtaining record.)
Much touched at enthusiastic greeting between Robin and Vicky. Mademoiselle says Ah, c’est gentil! and produces a handkerchief, which I think exaggerated, especially as in half-an-hour’s time she comes to me with complaint that R. and V. have gone up into the rafters and are shaking down plaster from nursery ceiling. Remonstrate with them from below. They sing ‘Is Izzy Azzy Wozz?’ Am distressed at this, as providing fresh confirmation of painful conviction that neither has any ear for music, nor ever will have.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 3