Also think over question of school for Vicky very seriously, and find myself coming to at least three definite conclusions, all diametrically opposed to one another.
June 16th. – Singular letter from entire stranger enquires whether I am aware that the doors of every decent home will henceforward be shut to me? Publications such as mine, he says, are harmful to art and morality alike. Should like to have this elucidated further, but signature illegible, and address highly improbable, so nothing can be done. Have recourse to waste-paper basket in absence of fires, but afterwards feel that servants or children may decipher fragments, so remove them again and ignite small private bonfire, with great difficulty, on garden path.
(NB Marked difference between real life and fiction again exemplified here. Quite massive documents, in books, invariably catch fire on slightest provocation, and are instantly reduced to ashes.)
Question of school for Vicky recrudesces with immense violence, and Mademoiselle weeps on the sofa and says that she will neither eat nor drink until this is decided. I say that I think this resolution unreasonable, and suggest Horlick’s Malted Milk, to which Mademoiselle replies Ah, ça, jamais! and we get no further. Vicky remains unmoved throughout, and spends much time with Cook and Helen Wills. I appeal to Robert, who eventually – after long silence – says, Do as I think best.
Write and put case before Rose, as being Vicky’s godmother and person of impartial views. Extreme tension meanwhile prevails in the house, and Mademoiselle continues to refuse food. Cook says darkly that it’s well known as foreigners have no powers of resistance, and go to pieces-like all in a moment. Mademoiselle does not, however, go to pieces, but instead writes phenomenal number of letters, all in purple ink, which runs all over the paper whenever she cries.
I walk to the village for no other purpose than to get out of the house, which now appears to me intolerable, and am asked at the Post Office if it’s really true that Miss Vicky is to be sent away, she seems such a baby. Make evasive and unhappy reply, and buy stamps. Take the longest way home, and meet three people, one of whom asks compassionately how the foreign lady is. Both the other two content themselves with being sorry to hear that we’re losing Miss Vicky.
Crawl indoors, enveloped in guilt, and am severely startled by seeing Vicky, whom I have been thinking of as a moribund exile, looking blooming, lying flat on her back in the hall eating peppermints. She says in a detached way that she needs a new sponge, and we separate without further conversation.
June 17th. – Mademoiselle shows signs of recovery, and drinks cup of tea at eleven o’clock, but relapses again later, and has une crise de nerfs. I suggest bed, and escort her there. Just as I think she can safely be left, swathed in little shawls and eiderdown quilt, she recalls me and enquires feebly if I think her health would stand life in a convent? Refuse – though I hope kindly – to discuss the question, and leave the room.
Second post brings letter from secretary of Literary Club, met once in London, informing me that I am now a member, and thoughtfully enclosing Banker’s Order in order to facilitate payment of subscription, also information concerning International Congress to be held shortly in Brussels, and which she feels certain that I shall wish to attend. Decide that I would like to attend it, but am in some doubt as to whether Robert can be persuaded that my presence is essential to welfare of Literature. Should like to embark on immediate discussion, but all is overshadowed at lunch by devastating announcement that the Ram is not Working, and there is no water in the house. Lunch immediately assumes character of a passover, and Robert refuses cheese and departs with the gardener in order to bring Ram back to its duty – which they accomplish in about two and a half hours.
June 18th. – Dear Rose, always so definite, writes advocating school for Vicky. Co-educational, she says firmly, and Dalcroze Eurhythmics. Robert, on being told this, says violently that no child of his shall be brought up amongst natives of any description. Am quite unable either to move him from this attitude, or to make him see that it is irrelevant to educational scheme at present under discussion.
Rose sends addresses of two schools, declares that she knows all about both, and invites me to go and stay with her in London and inspect them. I explain to Robert that this can be combined with new permanent wave, but Robert evidently not in a receptive mood, and remains immersed in The Times.
Post also brings officious communication from old Mrs Blenkinsop’s Cousin Maud, saying that if I’m looking for a school for my brat, she could put in a word at dear old Roedean. Shall take no notice of this whatever.
June 20th. – Take bold step of writing to secretary of Literary Society to say that I will accompany its members to Brussels, and assist at Conference. Am so well aware that I shall regret this letter within an hour of writing it, that I send Vicky to village with instructions to post it instead of leaving it in box in hall as usual.
(Query: Does this denote extreme strength of mind or the reverse? Answer immediately presents itself, but see no reason for committing it to paper.)
Mademoiselle reappears in family circle, and has apparently decided that half-mourning is suitable to present crisis, as she wears black dress from which original green accessories have been removed, and fragments of mauve tulle wound round head and neck. Robert, meeting her on stairs, says kindly Mew, mam’zelle? which Mademoiselle receives with very long and involved reply, to which Robert merely returns Oh wee, and leaves her. Mademoiselle, later, tells Vicky, who repeats it to me, that it is not always education, nor even intelligence, that makes a gentleman.
Go through the linen in the afternoon, and find entirely unaccountable deficit of face-towels, but table-napkins, on the other hand, as numerous as they ever were. Blankets, as usual, require washing, but cannot be spared for the purpose, and new sheets are urgently required. Add this item to rapidly lengthening list for London. Just as I am going downstairs again, heavily speckled with fluff off blankets and reeking of camphor, enormous motor-car draws up in perfect silence at open front-door, and completely unknown woman – wearing brand-new hat about the size of a saucer with little plume over one eye – descends from it. I go forward with graceful cordiality and say, Come in, come in, which she does, and we sit and look at one another in drawing-room for ten minutes, and talk about wireless, the neighbourhood – which she evidently doesn’t know – the situation in Germany, and old furniture. She turns out to be Mrs Callington-Clay, recently come to live in house at least twenty miles away.
(Cannot imagine what can ever have induced me to call upon her, but can distinctly remember doing so, and immense relief at finding her out when I did.)
An old friend of mine, says Mrs Callington-Clay, is a neighbour of hers. Do I remember Pamela Pringle? Am obliged to say that I do not. Then perhaps I knew her as Pamela Templer-Tate? I say No again, and repress inclination to add rather tartly that I have never heard of her in my life. Mrs C.-C. is undefeated and brazenly suggests Pamela Stevenson – whom I once more repudiate. Then, Mrs C.-C. declares, I must recollect Pamela Warburton. Am by this time dazed, but admit that I did once, about twenty-three years ago, meet extraordinarily pretty girl called Pamela Warburton, at a picnic on the river. Very well then, says Mrs C.-C., there I am! Pamela Warburton married man called Stevenson, ran away from him with man called Templer-Tate, but this, says Mrs C.-C., a failure, and divorce ensued. She is now married to Pringle – very rich. Something in the City – Templer-Tate children live with them, but not Stevenson child. ‘Beautiful old place near Somersetshire border, and Mrs C.-C. hopes that I will call. Am still too much stunned at extraordinary activity of my contemporary to do more than say Yes, I will, and express feeble and quite insincere hope that she is as pretty as she used to be at eighteen – which is a manifest absurdity.
Finally, Mrs C.-C. says that she enjoyed my book, and I say that that was very kind, and she asks if it takes long to write a book, and I reply Oh no, and then think it sounds conceited and wish that I had said Oh yes instead, and she
departs.
Look at myself in the glass, and indulge in painful, and quite involuntary, exercise of the imagination, in which I rehearse probable description of myself that Mrs C.-C. will give her husband on her return home. Emerge from this flight of fancy in wholly devitalised condition. Should be sorry indeed to connect this in any way with singular career of Pamela Pringle, as outlined this afternoon. At the same time, cannot deny that our paths in life have evidently diverged widely since distant occasion of river-picnic. Can conceive of no circumstances in which I should part from two husbands in succession, but am curiously depressed at unescapable conviction that my opportunities for doing so have been practically non-existent.
Write to Rose, and say that I will come and stay with her next week and inspect possible schools for Vicky, but cannot promise to patronise any of them.
June 21st. – Post agreeably diversified by most unusual preponderance of receipts over bills.
I pack for London, and explain to Robert that I am going on to Brussels for Literary Conference of international importance. He does not seem to take it in, and I explain all over again. Am sorry to realise that explanation gradually degenerates into something resembling rather a whining apology than a straightforward statement of rational intentions.
Mademoiselle appears soon after breakfast and says, coldly and elaborately, that she would Like to Speak to me when I can spare ten minutes. I say that I can spare them at once, but she replies No, no, it is not her intention to déranger la matinée, and she would prefer to wait, and in consequence I spend extremely unpleasant morning anticipating interview, and am quite unable to give my mind to anything at all.
(Mem.: This attitude positively childish, but cannot rid myself of overwhelming sensation of guilt.)
Interview with Mademoiselle takes place after lunch, and is fully as unpleasant as I anticipated.
(Mem.: Generalisation, so frequently heard, to the effect that things are never as bad as one expects them to be, once more proved untrue up to the hilt.)
Main conclusions to emerge from this highly distressing conference are: (a) That Mademoiselle is pas du tout susceptible, tout au contraire, (b) that she is profoundly blessée, and froissée, and agacée, and (c) that she could endure every humiliation and privation heaped upon her, if at least her supper might be brought up punctually.
This sudden introduction of entirely new element in the whole situation overcomes me completely, and we both weep.
I say, between sobs, that we both wish nothing except what is best for Vicky, and Mademoiselle replies with an offer to cut herself into a thousand pieces, and we agree to postpone further discussion for the moment.
The French not only extraordinarily exhausting to themselves and others in times of stress, but also possess very marked talent for transferring their own capacity for emotion to those with whom they are dealing.
Interesting speculation rises in my mind as to Robert’s probable reactions to recent conversation with Mademoiselle, had he been present at it, but am too much exhausted to pursue subject further.
June 23rd. – Find myself in London with greatest possible relief. Rose takes one look at me and then enquires if we have had a death in the house. I explain atmospheric conditions recently prevailing there, and she assures me that she quite understands, and the sooner I get my new permanent wave the better. Following this advice, I make early appointment.
We go to see Charles Laughton in Payment Deferred, and am confirmed in previous opinion that he is the most intelligent actor I have ever seen in my life. Rose says, On the English stage, in a cosmopolitan manner, and I say Yes, yes, very thoughtfully, and hope she does not realise that my acquaintance with any other stage is confined to performance of La Grande Duchesse at Boulogne, witnessed in childhood, and one sight of the Guitrys in Paris, about eleven years ago.
June 24th. – Rose takes me to visit school, which she says she is pretty certain I shall not like. Then why, I ask, go there? She replies that it is better to leave no stone unturned, and anyhow it will give me some idea of the kind of thing.
(On thinking over this reply, it seems wholly inadequate, but at the time am taken in by it.)
We go by train to large and airy red-brick establishment standing on a hill and surrounded by yellow-ochre gravel which I do not like. The Principal – colouring runs to puce and canary, and cannot avoid drawing inward parallel between her and the house – receives us in large and icy drawing-room, and is bright. I catch Rose’s eye and perceive that she is unfavourably impressed, as I am myself, and that we both know that This will Never Do – nevertheless we are obliged to waste entire morning inspecting class-rooms – very light and cold – dormitories – hideously tidy, and red blankets like an institution – and gymnasium with dangerous-looking apparatus.
Children all look healthy, except one with a bandage on leg, which Principal dismisses lightly, when I enquire, as boils – and adds that child was born in India. (This event must have taken place at least ten years ago, and cannot possibly have any bearing on the case.)
Rose, behind Principal’s back, forms long sentence silently with her lips, of which I do not understand one word, and then shakes her head violently. I shake mine in reply, and we are shown Chapel – chilly and unpleasant building – and Sick-room, where forlorn-looking child with inadequate little red cardigan on over school uniform is sitting in a depressed way over deadly-looking jigsaw puzzle of extreme antiquity.
The Principal says Hallo, darling, unconvincingly, and darling replies with a petrified stare, and we go out again.
I say Poor little thing! and Principal replies, more brightly than ever, that Our children love the sick-room, they have such a good time there. (This obviously untrue – and if not, reflects extremely poorly on degree of enjoyment prevalent out of the sick-room.)
Principal, who has referred to Vicky throughout as ‘your daughter’ in highly impersonal manner, now presses on us terrific collection of documents, which she calls All Particulars, I say that I Will Write, and we return to station.
I tell Rose that really, if that is her idea of the kind of place I want – but she is apologetic, and says the next one will be quite different, and she does, really, know exactly what I want. I accept this statement, and we entertain ourselves on journey back to London by telling one another how much we disliked the Principal, her establishment, and everything connected with it.
I even go so far as to suggest writing to parents of bandaged child with boils, but as I do not know either her name or theirs, this goes no further.
(Am occasionally made uneasy at recollection of pious axiom dating back to early childhood, to the effect that every idle word spoken will one day have to be accounted for. If this is indeed fact, can foresee a thoroughly well-filled Eternity for a good many of us.)
June 25th. – Undergo permanent wave, with customary interludes of feeling that nothing on earth can be worth it, and eventual conviction that it was.
The hairdresser tells me that he had done five heads this week, all of which came up beautifully. He also assures me that I shall not be left alone whilst the heating is on, and adds gravely that no client ever is left alone at that stage – which has a sinister sound, and terrifies me. However, I emerge safely, and my head is also declared to have come up beautifully – which it has.
I go back to Rose’s flat, and display waves, and am told that I look fifteen years younger – which leaves me wondering what on earth I could have looked like before, and how long I have been looking it.
Rose and I go shopping, and look in every shop to see if my recent publication is in window, which it never is except once. Rose suggests that whenever we do not see book, we ought to go in and ask for it, with expressions of astonishment, and I agree that certainly we ought. We leave it at that.
June 26th. – Inspect another school, and think well of Headmistress, also of delightful old house and grounds. Education, however, appears to be altogether given over to Handicrafts – green
raffia mats and mauve paper boxes – and Self-expression – table manners of some of the pupils far from satisfactory. Decide, once more, that this does not meet requirements, and go away again.
Rose takes me to a party, and introduces me to several writers, one male and eight females. I wear new mauve frock, purchased that afternoon, and thanks to that and permanent wave, look nice, but must remember to have evening shoes re-covered, as worn gold brocade quite unsuitable.
Tall female novelist tells me that she is a friend of a friend of a friend of mine – which reminds me of popular song – and turns out to be referring to young gentleman known to me as Jahsper, once inflicted upon us by Miss Pankerton. Avoid tall female novelist with horror and dismay for the remainder of the evening.
June 28th. – Letter reaches me forwarded from home, written by contemporary of twenty-three years ago, then Pamela Warburton and now Pamela Pringle. She has heard so much of me from Mrs Callington-Clay (who has only met me once herself and cannot possibly have anything whatever to say about me, except that I exist) and would so much like to meet me again. Do I remember picnic on the river in dear old days now so long ago? Much, writes Pamela Pringle – as well she may – has happened since then, and perhaps I have heard that after many troubles, she has at last found Peace, she trusts lasting. (Uncharitable reflection crosses my mind that P. P., judging from outline of her career given by Mrs Callington-Clay, had better not count too much upon this, if by Peace she means matrimonial stability.)
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 17