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 seasickness 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 Shakespeare. 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 is not entirely untrue, since dear Rose has promised introduction to many interesting acquaintances, including Viscountess.)
Really, says Lady B. 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.
Find myself indulging in rather melodramatic fantasy of Bentley crashing into enormous motor-bus and being splintered to atoms. Permit chauffeur to escape unharmed, but fate of Lady B. left uncertain, owing to ineradicable impression of earliest childhood to the effect that It is Wicked to wish for the Death of Another. Do not consider, however, that severe injuries, with possible disfigurement, come under this law – but entire topic unprofitable, and had better be dismissed.
July 14th. – Question of books to be taken abroad undecided till late hour last night. Robert says, Why take any? and Vicky proffers Les Malheurs de Sophie, which she puts into the very bottom of my suit-case, whence it is extracted with some difficulty by Mademoiselle later. Finally decide on Little Dorrit and The Daisy Chain, with Jane Eyre in coat-pocket. Should prefer to be the kind of person who is inseparable from volume of Keats, or even Jane Austen, but cannot compass this.
July 15th. – Mem.: Remind Robert before starting that Gladys’s wages due on Saturday. Speak about having my room turned out. Speak about laundry. Speak to Mademoiselle about Vicky’s teeth, glycothymoline, Helen Wills not on bed, and lining of tussore coat. Write butcher. Wash hair.
July 17th. – Robert sees me off by early train for London, after scrambled and agitating departure, exclusively concerned with frantic endeavours to induce suit-case to shut. This is at last accomplished, but leaves me with conviction that it will be at least equally difficult to induce it to open again. Vicky bids me cheerful, but affectionate, good-bye and then shatters me at eleventh hour by enquiring trustfully if I shall be home in time to read to her after tea? As entire extent of absence has already been explained to her in full, this enquiry merely senseless – but serves to unnerve me badly, especially as Mademoiselle ejaculates: ‘Ah! la pauvre chère mignonne!’ into the blue.
(Mem.: The French very often carried away by emotionalism to wholly preposterous lengths.)
Cook, Gladys, and the gardener stand at hall door and hope that I shall enjoy my holiday, and Cook adds a rider to the effect that It seems to be blowing up for a gale, and for her part, she has always had a Horror of death by drowning. On this, we drive away.
Arrive at station too early – as usual – and I fill in time by asking Robert if he will telegraph if anything happens to the children, as I could be back again in twenty-four hours. He only enquires in return whether I have my passport? Am perfectly aware that passport is in my small purple dressing-case, where I put it a week ago, and have looked at it two or three times every day ever since – last time just before leaving my room forty-five minutes ago. Am nevertheless mysteriously impelled to open hand-bag, take out key, unlock small purple dressing-case, and verify presence of passport all over again.
(Query: Is not behaviour of this kind well known in therapeutic circles as symptomatic of mental derangement? Vague but disquieting association here with singular behaviour of Dr Johnson in London streets – but too painful to be pursued to a finish.)
Arrival of train, and I say good-bye to Robert, and madly enquire if he would rather I gave up going at all? He rightly ignores this altogether.
(Query: Would not extremely distressing situation arise if similar impulsive offer were one day to be accepted? This gives rise to unavoidable speculation in regard to sincerity of such offers, and here again, issue too painful to be frankly faced, and am obliged to shelve train of thought altogether.)
Turn my attention to fellow-traveller – distrustful-looking woman with grey hair – who at once informs me that door of lavatory – opening out of compartment – has defective lock, and will not stay shut. I say Oh, in tone of sympathetic concern, and shut door. It remains shut. We watch it anxiously, and it flies open again. Later on, fellow-traveller makes fresh attempt, with similar result. Much of the journey spent in this exercise. I observe thoughtfully that Hope springs eternal in the human breast, and fellow-traveller looks more distrustful than ever. She finally says in despairing tones that Really, it isn’t what she calls very nice, and lapses into depressed silence. Door remains triumphantly open.
Drive from Waterloo to Victoria, take out passport in taxi in order to Have It Ready, then decide safer to put it back again in dressing-case, which I do. (Dr Johnson recrudesces faintly, but is at once dismissed.) Observe with horror that trees in Grosvenor Gardens are swaying with extreme violence in stiff gale of wind.
Change English money into French at Victoria Station, where superior young gentleman in little kiosk refuses to let me have anything smaller than one-hundred-franc notes. I ask what use that will be when it comes to porters, but superior young gentleman remains adamant. Infinitely competent person in blue and gold, labelled Dean & Dawson, comes to my rescue, miraculously provides me with change, says Have I booked a seat, pilots me to it, and tells me that he represents the best-known Travel Agency in London. I assure him warmly that I shall never patronise any other – which is true – and we part with mutual esteem. I make note on half of torn luggage-label to the effect that it would be merest honesty to write and congratulate D. & D. on admirable employee – but feel that I shall probably never do it.
Journey to Folkestone entirely occupied in looking out of train window and seeing quite large trees bowed to earth by force of wind. Cook’s words recur most unpleasantly. Also recall various forms of advice received, and find it difficul
t to decide between going instantly to the Ladies’ Saloon, taking off my hat, and lying down Perfectly Flat – (Mademoiselle’s suggestion) – or Keeping in the Fresh Air at All Costs and Thinking about Other Things – (course advocated on a postcard by Aunt Gertrude). Choice taken out of my hands by discovery that Ladies’ Saloon is entirely filled, within five minutes of going on board, by other people, who have all taken off their hats and are lying down Perfectly Flat.
Return to deck, sit on suit-case, and decide to Think about Other Things. Schoolmaster and his wife, who are going to Boulogne for a holiday, talk to one another across me about University Extension Course, and appear to be superior to the elements. I take out Jane Eyre from coat pocket – partly in faint hope of impressing them, and partly to distract my mind – but remember Cousin Maud, and am forced to conclusion that she may have been right. Perhaps advice equally correct in respect of repeating poetry? Can think of nothing whatever, except extraordinary damp chill which appears to be creeping over me. Schoolmaster suddenly says to me: ‘Quite all right, aren’t you?’ To which I reply, Oh yes, and he laughs in a bright and scholastic way, and talks about the Matterhorn. Although unaware of any conscious recollection of it, find myself inwardly repeating curious and ingenious example of alliterative verse, committed to memory in my schooldays. (Note: Can dimly understand why the dying revert to impressions of early infancy.)
Just as I get to:
‘Cossack Commanders cannonading come
Dealing destruction’s devastating doom —’
elements overcome me altogether. Have dim remembrance of hearing schoolmaster exclaim in authoritative tones to everybody within earshot: ‘Make way for this lady – she is Ill’ – which injunction he repeats every time I am compelled to leave suit-case. Throughout intervals, I continue to grapple, more or less deliriously, with alliterative poem, and do not give up altogether until
‘Reason returns, religious rights redound’
is reached. This I consider creditable.
Attain Boulogne at last, discover reserved seat in train, am told by several officials whom I question that we do, or alternatively, do not, change when we reach Paris, give up the elucidation of the point for the moment, and demand – and obtain – small glass of brandy, which restores me.
July 18th, at Ste Agathe. – Vicissitudes of travel very strange, and am struck – as often – by enormous dissimilarity between journeys undertaken in real life, and as reported in fiction. Can remember very few novels in which train journey of any kind does not involve either (a) hectic encounter with member of opposite sex, leading to tense emotional issue; (b) discovery of murdered body in hideously battered condition, under circumstances which utterly defy detection; (c) elopement between two people each of whom is married to somebody else, culminating in severe disillusionment, or lofty renunciation.
Nothing of all this enlivens my own peregrinations, but on the other hand, the night not without incident.
Second-class carriage full, and am not fortunate enough to obtain corner seat. American young gentleman sits opposite, and elderly French couple, with talkative friend wearing blue beret, who trims his nails with a pocket-knife and tells us about the state of the wine-trade.
I have dusty and elderly mother in black on one side, and her two sons – names turn out to be Guguste and Dédé – on the other. (Dédé looks about fifteen, but wears socks, which I think a mistake, but must beware of insularity.)
Towards eleven o’clock we all subside into silence, except the blue beret, who is now launched on tennis-champions, and has much to say about all of them. American young gentleman looks uneasy at mention of any of his compatriots, but evidently does not understand enough French to follow blue beret’s remarks – which is as well.
Just as we all – except indefatigable beret, now eating small sausage-rolls – drop one by one into slumber, train stops at station and fragments of altercation break out in corridor concerning admission, or otherwise, of someone evidently accompanied by large dog. This is opposed by masculine voice repeating steadily, at short intervals, Un chien n’est pas une personne, and heavily backed by assenting chorus, repeating after him Mais non, un chien n’est pas une personne.
To this I fall asleep, but wake a long time afterwards, to sounds of appealing enquiry, floating in from corridor: Mais voyons – N’est-ce pas qu’un chien n’est pas une personne?
The point still unsettled when I sleep again, and in the morning no more is heard, and I speculate in vain as to whether owner of the chien remained with him on the station, or is having tête-à-tête journey with him in separate carriage altogether. Wash inadequately, in extremely dirty accommodation provided, after waiting some time in lengthy queue. Make distressing discovery that there is no way of obtaining breakfast until train halts at Avignon. Break this information later to American young gentleman, who falls into deep distress and says that he does not know the French for grapefruit. Neither do I, but am able to inform him decisively that he will not require it.
Train is late, and does not reach Avignon till nearly ten. American young gentleman has a severe panic, and assures me that if he leaves the train it will start without him. This happened once before at Davenport, Iowa. In order to avoid similar calamity, on this occasion, I offer to procure him a cup of coffee and two rolls, and successfully do so – but attend first to my own requirements. We all brighten after this, and Guguste announces his intention of shaving. His mother screams, and says Mais c’est fou – with which I privately agree – and everybody else remonstrates with Guguste (except Dédé, who is wrapped in gloom), and points out that the train is rocking, and he will cut himself. The blue beret goes so far as to predict that he will decapitate himself, at which everybody screams.
Guguste remains adamant, and produces shaving apparatus and a little mug, which is given to Dédé to hold. We all sit round in great suspense, and Guguste is supported by one elbow by his mother, while he conducts operations to a conclusion which produces no perceptible change whatever in his appearance. After this excitement, we all suffer from reaction, and sink into hot and dusty silence. Scenery gets rocky and sandy, with heat haze shimmering over all, and occasional glimpses of bright blue-and-green sea.
At intervals train stops, and ejects various people. We lose the elderly French couple – who leave a Thermos behind them and have to be screamed at by Guguste from the window – and then the blue beret, eloquent to the last, and turning round on the platform to bow as train moves off again. Guguste, Dédé, and the mother remain with me to the end, as they are going on as far as Antibes. American young gentleman gets out when I do, but lose sight of him altogether in excitement of meeting Rose, charming in yellow embroidered linen. She says that she is glad to see me, and adds that I look a Rag – which is true, as I discover on reaching hotel and looking-glass – but kindly omits to add that I have smuts on my face, and that petticoat has mysteriously descended two and a half inches below my dress, imparting final touch of degradation to general appearance.
She recommends bath and bed, and I agree to both, but refuse proffered cup of tea, feeling this would be altogether too reminiscent of English countryside, and quite out of place. I ask, insanely, if letters from home are awaiting me – which, unless they were written before I left, they could not possibly be. Rose enquires after Robert and the children, and when I reply that I feel I ought not really to have come away without them, she again recommends bed. Feel that she is right, and go there.
July 23rd. – Cannot avoid contrasting deliriously rapid flight of time when on a holiday with very much slower passage of days, and even hours, in other and more familiar surroundings.
(Mem.: This disposes once and for all of fallacy that days seem long when spent in complete idleness. They seem, on the contrary, very much longer when filled with ceaseless activities.)
Rose – always so gifted in discovering attractive and interesting friends – is established in circle of gifted – and in some cases actually ce
lebrated – personalities. We all meet daily on rocks, and bathe in sea. Temperature and surroundings very, very different to those of English Channel or Atlantic Ocean, and consequently find myself emboldened to the extent of quite active swimming. Cannot, however, compete with Viscountess, who dives, or her friend, who has unique and very striking method of doing back-fall into the water. Am, indeed, led away by spirit of emulation into attempting dive on one solitary occasion, and am convinced that I have plumbed the depths of the Mediterranean – have doubts, in fact, of ever leaving it again – but on enquiring of extremely kind spectator – (famous Headmistress) – How I went In, she replies gently: About level with the Water, she thinks – and we say no more about it.
July 25th. – Vicky writes affectionately, but briefly – Mademoiselle at greater length, and quite illegibly, but evidently full of hopes that I am enjoying myself. Am touched, and send each a picture-postcard. Robin’s letter, written from school, arrives later, and contains customary allusions to boys unknown to me, also information that he has asked two of them to come and stay with him in the holidays, and has accepted invitation to spend a week with another. Postscript adds straightforward enquiry, Have I bought any chocolate yet?
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 12