Faint hope of finding fire in dining-room is extinguished on entering it, when I am at once struck by its resemblance to a mausoleum. Lady M. and I sit down at mahogany circular table, she says Do I mind a Cold Lunch? I shake my head, as being preferable to screaming ‘No’ down trumpet – though equally far from the truth – and we eat rabbit-cream, coffee-shape and Marie biscuits.
Conversation spasmodic and unsatisfactory, and I am reduced to looking at portraits on wall, of gentlemen in wigs and ladies with bosoms, also objectionable study of dead bird, dripping blood, lying amongst oranges and other vegetable matter. (Should like to know what dear Rose, with her appreciation of Art, would say to this.) Later we adjourn to drawing-room – fire now a mere ember – and Lady M. explains that she is not going to the Meeting, but Vice-President will look after me, and she hopes I shall enjoy Recitation Competition – some of our members really very clever, and one in particular, so amusing in dialect. I nod and smile, and continue to shiver, and presently car fetches me away to village. Meeting is held in reading-room, which seems to me perfect paradise of warmth, and I place myself as close as possible to large oil-stove. Vice-President – very large and expansive in blue – conducts everything successfully, and I deliver homily about What Our Children Read, which is kindly received. After tea – delightfully hot, in fact scalds me, but I welcome it – Recitation Competition takes place and have to rivet my attention on successive members, who mount a little platform and declaim in turns. We begin with not very successful rendering of verses hitherto unknown to me entitled, ‘Our Institute’, and which turn out to be original composition of reciter. This followed by ‘Gunga Din’ and very rousing poem about Keeping the Old Flag Flying. Elderly member then announces ‘The Mine’ and is very dramatic and impressive, but not wholly intelligible, which I put down to Dialect. Finally award first place to ‘The Old Flag’, and second to ‘The Mine’, and present prizes. Am unfortunately inspired to observe that dialect poems are always to interesting, and it then turns out that ‘The Mine’ wasn’t in dialect at all. However, too late to do anything about it.
Meeting is prolonged, for which I am thankful, but finally can no longer defer returning to arctic regions of Crimpington Hall. Lady M. and I spend evening cowering over grate, and exchanging isolated remarks, and many nods and smiles, across ear-trumpet. Finally I get into enormous four-poster, covered by very inadequate supply of blankets, and clutching insufficiently heated hot-water bottle.
October 5th. – Develop really severe cold twenty-four hours after reaching home. Robert says that all Institutes are probably full of germs – which is both unjust and ridiculous.
October 13th. – Continued cold and cough keep me in house, and make me unpopular with Robert, Cook, and Gladys – the latter of whom both catch my complaint. Mademoiselle keeps Vicky away, but is sympathetic, and brings Vicky to gesticulate dramatically at me from outside the drawing-room window, as though I had the plague. Gradually this state of affairs subsides, my daily quota of pocket-handkerchiefs returns to the normal, and Vapex, cinnamon, camphorated oil, and jar of cold cream all go back to medicine-cupboard in bathroom once more.
Unknown benefactor sends me copy of new Literary Review, which seems to be full of personal remarks from well-known writers about other well-known writers. This perhaps more amusing to themselves than to average reader. Moreover, competitions most alarmingly literary, and I return with immense relief to old friend Time and Tide.
October 17th. – Surprising invitation to evening party – Dancing, 9.30 – at Lady B.’s. Cannot possibly refuse, as Robert has been told to make himself useful there in various ways; moreover, entire neighbourhood is evidently being polished off, and see no object in raising question as to whether we have, or have not, received invitation. Decide to get new dress, but must have it made locally, owing to rather sharply worded enquiry from London shop which has the privilege of serving me, as to whether I have not overlooked overdue portion of account? (Far from overlooking it, have actually been kept awake by it at night.) Proceed to Plymouth, and get very attractive black taffeta, with little pink and blue posies scattered over it. Mademoiselle removes, and washes, Honiton lace from old purple velvet every-night teagown, and assures me that it will be gentil à croquer on new taffeta. Also buy new pair black evening-shoes, but shall wear them every evening for at least an hour in order to ensure reasonable comfort at party.
Am able to congratulate myself that great-aunt’s diamond ring, for once, is at home when needed.
Robert rather shatteringly remarks that he believes the dancing is only for the young people, and I heatedly enquire how line of demarcation is to be laid down? Should certainly not dream of accepting ruling from Lady B. on any such delicate question. Robert merely repeats that only the young will be expected to dance, and we drop the subject, and I enquire into nature of refreshments to be expected at party, as half-past nine seems to me singularly inhospitable hour, involving no regular meal whatever. Robert begs that I will order dinner at home exactly as usual, and make it as substantial as possible, so as to give him every chance of keeping awake at party, and I agree that this would indeed appear desirable.
October 19th. – Rumour that Lady B.’s party is to be in Fancy Dress throws entire neighbourhood into consternation. Our Vicar’s Wife comes down on gardener’s wife’s bicycle – borrowed, she says, for greater speed and urgency – and explains that, in her position, she does not think that fancy dress would do at all – unless perhaps poudré, which, she asserts, is different, but takes ages to brush out afterwards. She asks what I am going to do, but am quite unable to enlighten her, as black taffeta already completed. Mademoiselle, at this, intervenes, and declares that black taffeta can be transformed by a touch into Dresden China Shepherdess à ravir. Am obliged to beg her not to be ridiculous, nor attempt to make me so, and she then insanely suggests turning black taffeta into costume for (a) Mary Queen of Scots, (b) Mme de Pompadour, (c) Cleopatra.
I desire her to take Vicky for a walk; she is blessée, and much time is spent in restoring her to calm.
Our Vicar’s Wife – who has meantime been walking up and down drawing-room in state of stress and agitation – says What about asking somebody else? What about the Kellways? Why not ring them up?
We immediately do so, and are light-heartedly told by Mary Kellway that it is Fancy Dress, and she is going to wear her Russian Peasant costume – absolutely genuine, brought by sailor cousin from Moscow long years ago – but if in difficulties, can she lend me anything? Reply incoherently to this kind offer, as Our Vicar’s Wife, now in uncontrollable agitation, makes it impossible for me to collect my thoughts. Chaos prevails, when Robert enters, is frenziedly appealed to by Our Vicar’s Wife, and says Oh, didn’t he say so? one or two people have had ‘Fancy Dress’ put on invitation cards, as Lady B.’s own house-party intends to dress up, but no such suggestion has been made to majority of guests.
Our Vicar’s wife and I agree at some length that, really, nobody in this world but Lady B. would behave like this, and we have very good minds not to go near her party. Robert and I then arrange to take Our Vicar and his wife with us in car to party, she is grateful, and goes.
October 23rd. – Party takes place. Black taffeta and Honiton lace look charming and am not dissatisfied with general appearance, after extracting two quite unmistakable grey hairs. Vicky goes so far as to say that I look Lovely, but enquires shortly afterwards why old people so often wear black – which discourages me.
Received by Lady B. in magnificent Eastern costume, with pearls dripping all over her, and surrounded by bevy of equally bejewelled friends. She smiles graciously and shakes hands without looking at any of us, and strange fancy crosses my mind that it would be agreeable to bestow on her sudden sharp shaking, and thus compel her to recognise existence of at least one of guests invited to her house. Am obliged, however, to curb this unhallowed impulse, and proceed quietly into vast drawing-room, at one end of which band is performing bris
kly on platform.
Our Vicar’s Wife – violet net and garnets – recognises friends, and takes Our Vicar away to speak to them. Robert is imperatively summoned by Lady B. – (Is she going to order him to take charge of cloakroom, or what?) – and I am greeted by an unpleasant-looking Hamlet, who suddenly turns out to be Miss Pankerton. Why, she asks accusingly, am I not in fancy dress? It would do me all the good in the world to give myself over to the Carnival spirit. It is what I need. I make enquiry for Jahsper – should never be surprised to hear that he has come as Ophelia – but Miss P. replies that Jahsper is in Bloomsbury again. Bloomsbury can do nothing without Jahsper. I say, No, I suppose not, in order to avoid hearing any more about either Jahsper or Bloomsbury, and talk to Mary Kellway – who looks nice in Russian Peasant costume – and eventually dance with her husband. We see many of our neighbours, most of them not in fancy dress, and am astounded at unexpected sight of Blenkinsops’ Cousin Maud, bounding round the room with short, stout partner, identified by Mary’s husband as great hunting man.
Lady B.’s house-party, all in expensive disguises and looking highly superior, dance languidly with one another, and no introductions take place.
It later becomes part of Robert’s duty to tell everyone that supper is ready, and we all flock to buffet in dining-room, and are given excellent sandwiches and unidentified form of cup. Lady B.’s expensive-looking house-party nowhere to be seen, and Robert tells me in gloomy aside that he thinks they are in the library, having champagne. I express charitable – and improbable – hope that it may poison them, to which Robert merely replies, Hush, not so loud – but should not be surprised to know that he agrees with me.
Final, and most unexpected, incident of the evening is when I come upon old Mrs Blenkinsop, all over black jet and wearing martyred expression, sitting in large armchair underneath platform, and exactly below energetic saxophone. She evidently has not the least idea how to account for her presence there, and saxophone prevents conversation, but can distinguish something about Maud, and not getting between young things and their pleasure, and reference to old Mrs B. not having very much longer to spend amongst us. I smile and nod my head, then feel that this may look unsympathetic, so frown and shake it, and am invited to dance by male Frobisher – who talks about old furniture and birds. House-party reappear, carrying balloons, which they distribute like buns at a School-feast, and party proceeds until midnight.
Band then bursts into Auld Lang Syne and Lady B. screams Come along, Come along, and all are directed to form a circle. Singular mêlée ensues, and I see old Mrs Blenkinsop swept from armchair and clutching Our Vicar with one hand and unknown young gentleman with the other. Our Vicar’s Wife is holding hands with Miss Pankerton – whom she cannot endure – and looks distraught, and Robert is seized upon by massive stranger in scarlet, and Cousin Maud. Am horrified to realise that I am myself on one side clasping hand of particularly offensive young male specimen of house-party, and on the other that of Lady B. We all shuffle round to well-known strains, and sing For Ole Lang Syne, For Ole Lang Syne, over and over again, since no one appears to know any other words, and relief is general when this exercise is brought to a close.
Lady B., evidently fearing that we shall none of us know when she has had enough of us, then directs band to play National Anthem, which is done, and she receives our thanks and farewells.
Go home, and on looking at myself in the glass am much struck with undeniable fact that at the end of a party I do not look nearly as nice as I did at the beginning. Should like to think that this applies to every woman, but am not sure – and anyway, this thought ungenerous – like so many others.
Robert says, Why don’t I get into Bed? I say, Because I am writing my Diary. Robert replies, kindly, but quite definitely, that In his opinion, That is Waste of Time.
I get into bed, and am confronted by Query: Can Robert be right?
Can only leave reply to Posterity.
THE PROVINCIAL LADY GOES FURTHER
For
Cass Canfield
June 9th. – Life takes on entirely new aspect, owing to astonishing and unprecedented success of minute and unpretentious literary effort, published last December, and – incredibly – written by myself. Reactions of family and friends to this unforeseen state of affairs most interesting and varied.
Dear Vicky and Robin more than appreciative although not allowed to read book, and compare me variously to Shakespeare, Dickens, author of the Dr Dolittle books, and writer referred to by Vicky as Lambs’ Tails.
Mademoiselle – who has read book – only says Ah, je m’en doutais bien! which makes me uneasy, although cannot exactly say why.
Robert says very little indeed, but sits with copy of book for several evenings, and turns over a page quite often. Eventually he shuts it and says Yes. I ask what he thinks of it, and after a long silence he says that It is Funny – but does not look amused. Later he refers to financial situation – as well he may, since it has been exceedingly grave for some time past – and we agree that this ought to Make a Difference.
Conversation is then diverted to merits or demerits of the Dole – about which Robert feels strongly, and I try to be intelligent but do not bring it off – and difficulty of obtaining satisfactory raspberries from old and inferior canes.
June 12th. – Letter from Angela arrives, expressing rather needless astonishment at recent literary success. Also note from Aunt Gertrude, who says that she has not read my book and does not as a rule care about modern fiction, as nothing is left to the imagination. Personally, am of opinion that this, in Aunt Gertrude’s case, is fortunate – but do not, of course, write back and say so.
Cissie Crabbe, on postcard picturing San Francisco – but bearing Norwich postmark as usual – says that a friend has lent her copy of book and she is looking forward to reading it. Most unlike dear Rose, who unhesitatingly spends seven-and-sixpence on acquiring it, in spite of free copy presented to her by myself on day of publication.
Customary communication from Bank, drawing my attention to a state of affairs which is only too well known to me already, enables me to write back in quite unwonted strain of optimism, assuring them that large cheque from publishers is hourly expected. Follow this letter up by much less confidently worded epistle to gentleman who has recently become privileged to act as my Literary Agent, enquiring when I may expect money from publishers, and how much.
Cook sends in a message to say that there has been a misfortune with the chops, and shall she make do with a tin of sardines? Am obliged to agree to this, as only alternative is eggs, which will be required for breakfast. (Mem.: Enquire into nature of alleged misfortune in the morning.)
(Second, and more straightforward, Mem.: Try not to lie awake cold with apprehension at having to make this enquiry, but remind myself that it is well known that all servants despise mistresses who are afraid of them, and therefore it is better policy to be firm.)
June 14th. – Note curious and rather disturbing tendency of everybody in the neighbourhood to suspect me of Putting Them into a Book. Our Vicar’s Wife particularly eloquent about this, and assures me that she recognised every single character in previous literary effort. She adds that she has never had time to write a book herself, but has often thought that she would like to do so. Little things, she says – one here, another there – quaint sayings such as she hears every day of her life as she pops round the parish – Cranford, she adds in conclusion. I say Yes indeed, being unable to think of anything else, and we part.
Later on, Our Vicar tells me that he, likewise, has never had time to write a book, but that if he did so, and put down some of his personal experiences, no one would ever believe them to be true. Truth, says Our Vicar, is stranger than fiction.
Very singular speculations thus given rise to, as to nature of incredible experiences undergone by Our Vicar. Can he have been involved in long-ago crime passionnel, or taken part in a duel in distant student days when sent to acquire German at Heidel
berg? Imagination, always so far in advance of reason, or even propriety, carries me to further lengths, and obliges me to go upstairs and count laundry in order to change current of ideas.
Vicky meets me on the stairs and says with no preliminary Please can she go to school. Am unable to say either Yes or No at this short notice, and merely look at her in silence. She adds a brief statement to the effect that Robin went to school when he was her age, and then continues on her way downstairs, singing something of which the words are inaudible, and the tune unrecognisable, but which I have inward conviction that I should think entirely unsuitable.
Am much exercised regarding question of school, and feel that as convinced feminist it is my duty to take seriously into consideration argument quoted above.
June 15th. – Cheque arrives from publishers, via Literary Agent, who says that further instalment will follow in December. Wildest hopes exceeded, and I write acknowledgment to Literary Agent in terms of hysterical gratification that I am subsequently obliged to modify, as being undignified. Robert and I spend pleasant evening discussing relative merits of Rolls-Royce, electric light, and journey to the South of Spain – this last suggestion not favoured by Robert – but eventually decide to pay bills and Do Something about the Mortgage. Robert handsomely adds that I had better spend some of the money on myself, and what about a pearl necklace? I say Yes, to show that I am touched by his thoughtfulness, but do not commit myself to pearl necklace. Should like to suggest very small flat in London, but violent and inexplicable inhibition intervenes, and find myself quite unable to utter the words. Go to bed with flat still unmentioned, but register cast-iron resolution, whilst brushing my hair, to make early appointment in London for new permanent wave.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 16