The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Robert counts luggage, once in French and three times in English, and I hear Casabianca – who has never of his own free will exchanged a syllable with any of his fellow-guests – replying to the retired Rag-picker’s hopes of meeting again some day, with civil assent. Am slightly surprised at this.

  (Query: Why should display of duplicity in others wear more serious aspect than similar lapse in oneself? Answer comes there none.)

  Bus removes us from St Briac, and we reach Dinard, and are there told that boat is not sailing to-night, and that we can (a) Sleep at St Malo, (b) Remain at Dinard or (c) Return to St Briac. All agree that this last would be intolerable anti-climax and not to be thought of, and that accommodation must be sought at Dinard.

  Robert says that this is going to run us in for another ten pounds at least – which it does.

  September 1st. – Home once more, and customary vicissitudes thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.

  Temporary cook duly arrived, and is reasonably amiable – though soup a disappointment and strong tincture of Worcester Sauce bodes ill for general standard of cooking – but tells me that Everything was left in sad muddle, saucepans not even clean, and before she can do anything whatever will require three pudding basins, new frying-pan, fish-kettle and colander, in addition to egg-whisk, kitchen forks, and complete restocking of store-cupboard.

  St Briac hundreds of miles away already, and feel that twenty years have been added to my age and appearance since reaching home. Robert, on the other hand, looks happier.

  Weather cold, and it rains in torrents. Casabianca ingenious in finding occupations for children and is also firm about proposed arithmetic lesson for myself, which takes place after lunch. Seven times table unfortunately presents difficulty that appears, so far, to be insuperable.

  September 3rd. – Ask Robert if he remembers my bridesmaid, Felicity Fairmead, and he says Was that the little one with fair hair? and I say No, the very tall one with dark hair, and he says Oh yes – which does not at all convince me. Upshot of this conversation, rather strangely, is that I ask Felicity to stay, as she has been ill, and is ordered rest in the country. She replies gratefully, spare room is Turned Out – (paper lining drawer of dressing-table has to be renewed owing to last guest having omitted to screw up lipstick securely – this probably dear Angela, but cannot be sure – and mysterious crack discovered in looking-glass, attributed – almost certainly unjustly – to Helen Wills).

  I tell Casabianca at lunch that Miss Fairmead is very Musical – which is true, but has nothing to do with approaching visit, and in any case does not concern him – and he replies suitably, and shortly afterwards suggests that we should go through the Rule of Three. We do go through it, and come out the other end in more or less shattered condition. Moreover, am still definitely defeated by Seven times Eight.

  September 5th. – I go up to London – Robert says, rather unnecessarily, that he supposes money is no object nowadays? – to see about the Flat. This comprises very exhausting, but interesting, sessions at furniture-shop, where I lose my head to the tune of about fifty pounds, and realise too late that dear Robert’s attitude perhaps not altogether without justification.

  Rose unfortunately out of town, so have to sleep at Club, and again feel guilty regarding expenditure, so dine on sausage-and-mash at Lyons establishment opposite to pallid young man who reads book mysteriously shrouded in holland cover. Feel that I must discover what this is at all costs, and conjectures waver between The Well of Loneliness and The Colonel’s Daughter, until title can be spelt out upside down, when it turns out to be Gulliver’s Travels. Distressing sidelight thrown here on human nature by undeniable fact that I am distinctly disappointed by this discovery, although cannot imagine why.

  In street outside I meet Viscountess once known to me in South of France, but feel doubtful if she will remember me, so absorb myself passionately in shop-front, which I presently discover to be entirely filled with very peculiar appliances. Turn away again, and confront Viscountess, who remembers me perfectly, and is charming about small literary effort, which she definitely commits herself to having read. I walk with her to Ashley Gardens and tell her about the flat, which she says is the Very Thing – but does not add what for.

  I say it is too late for me to come up with her, and she says Oh no, and we find lift out of order – which morally compels me to accept her invitation, as otherwise it would look as if I didn’t think her worth five flights of stairs.

  Am shown into beautiful flat – first-floor Doughty Street would easily fit, lock, stock and barrel, into dining-room – and Viscountess says that the housekeeper is out, but would I like anything? I say a glass of water, please, and she is enthusiastic about the excellence of this idea, and goes out, returning, after prolonged absence, with large jug containing about an inch of water, and two odd tumblers, on a tray. I meditate writing a short article on How the Rich Live, but naturally say nothing of this aloud, and Viscountess explains that she does not know where drinking-water in the flat is obtainable, so took what was left from dinner. I make civil pretence of thinking this entirely admirable arrangement, and drink about five drops – which is all that either of us can get after equitable division of supplies. We talk about Rose, St John Ervine and the South of France, and I add a few words about Belgium, but lay no stress on literary society encountered there.

  Finally go, at eleven o’clock, and man outside Victoria Station says Good-night, girlie, but cannot view this as tribute to lingering remnant of youthful attractions as (a) it is practically pitch-dark, (b) he sounds as though he were drunk.

  Return to Club bedroom and drink entire contents of water-bottle.

  September 6th. – Housekeeper from flat above mine in Doughty Street comes to my rescue, offers to obtain charwoman, stain floors, receive furniture and do everything else. Accept all gratefully, and take my departure with keys of flat – which makes me feel, quite unreasonably, exactly like a burglar. Should like to analyse this rather curious complex, and consider doing so in train, but all eludes me, and read Grand Hotel instead.

  September 7th. – Felicity arrives, looking ill. (Query: Why is this by no means unbecoming to her, whereas my own afflictions invariably entail mud-coloured complexion, immense accumulation of already only-too-visible lines on face, and complete limpness of hair?) She is, as usual, charming to the children – does not tell them they have grown, or ask Robin how he likes school, and scores immediate success with both.

  I ask what she likes for dinner – (should be indeed out of countenance if she suggested anything except chicken, sardines or tinned corn, which so far as I know is all we have in the house) – and she says An Egg. And what about breakfast to-morrow morning? She says An Egg again, and adds in a desperate way that an egg is all she wants for any meal, ever.

  Send Vicky to the farm with a message about quantity of eggs to be supplied daily for the present.

  Felicity lies down to rest, and I sit on window-sill and talk to her. We remind one another of extraordinary, and now practically incredible, incidents in bygone schooldays, and laugh a good deal, and I feel temporarily younger and better-looking.

  Remember with relief that Felicity is amongst the few of my friends that Robert does like, and evening passes agreeably with wireless and conversation. Suggest a picnic for to-morrow – at which Robert says firmly that he is obliged to spend entire day in Plymouth – and tie knot in handkerchief to remind myself that Cook must be told jam sandwiches, not cucumber. Take Felicity to her room, and hope that she has enough blankets – if not, nothing can be easier than to produce others without any trouble whatever – Well, in that case, says Felicity, perhaps – Go to linen-cupboard and can find nothing there whatever except immense quantities of embroidered tea-cloths, unhealthy-looking pillow oozing feathers, and torn roller-towel. Go to Robin’s bed, but find him wide-awake, and quite impervious to suggestion that he does not really want more than one blanket on his bed, so have recourse to Vicky, who is asleep. Remove
blanket, find it is the only one and replace it, and finally take blanket off my own bed, and put it on Felicity’s, where it does not fit, and has to be tucked in till mattress resembles a valley between two hills. Express hope – which sounds ironical – that she may sleep well, and leave her.

  September 8th. – Our Vicar’s Wife calls in the middle of the morning, in deep distress because no one can be found to act as producer in forthcoming Drama Competition. Will I be an angel? I say firmly No, not on this occasion, and am not sure that Our Vicar’s Wife does not, on the whole, look faintly relieved. But what, I ask, about herself? No – Our Vicar has put his foot down. Mothers’ Union, Women’s Institute, GFS and Choir Outings by all means – but one evening in the week must and shall be kept clear. Our Vicar’s Wife, says Our Vicar, is destroying herself, and this he cannot allow. Quite feel that the case, put like this, is unanswerable.

  Our Vicar’s Wife then says that she knows the very person – excellent actress, experienced producer, willing to come without fee. Unfortunately, is now living at Melbourne, Australia. Later on she also remembers other, equally talented, acquaintances, one of whom can now never leave home on account of invalid husband, the other of whom died just eleven months ago.

  I feel that we are getting no further, but Our Vicar’s Wife says that it has been a great relief to talk it all over, and perhaps after all she can persuade Our Vicar to let her take it on, and we thereupon part affectionately.

  September 10th. – Picnic, put off on several occasions owing to weather, now takes place, but is – like so many entertainments – rather qualified success, partly owing to extremely mountainous character of spot selected. Felicity shows gallant determination to make the best of this, and only begs to be allowed to take her own time, to which we all agree, and divide rugs, baskets, cushions, thermos flasks and cameras amongst ourselves. Ascent appears to me to take hours, moreover am agitated about Felicity, who seems to be turning a rather sinister pale blue colour. Children full of zeal and activity, and dash on ahead, leaving trail of things dropped on the way. Casabianca, practically invisible beneath two rugs, mackintosh and heaviest basket, recalls them, at which Robin looks murderous, and Vicky feigns complete deafness, and disappears over the horizon.

  Question as to whether we shall sit in the sun or out of the sun arises, and gives rise to much amiable unselfishness, but is finally settled by abrupt disappearance of sun behind heavy clouds, where it remains. Felicity sits down and pants, but is less blue. I point out scenery, which constitutes only possible excuse for having brought her to such heights, and she is appreciative. Discover that sugar has been left behind. Children suggest having tea at once, but are told that it is only four o’clock, and they had better explore first. This results in Robin’s climbing a tree, and taking Pickwick Papers out of his pocket to read, and Vicky lying flat on her back in the path, and chewing blades of grass. Customary caution as to unhygienic properties peculiar to blades of grass ensues, and I wonder – not for the first time – why parents continue to repeat admonitions to which children never have paid, and never will pay, slightest attention. Am inspired by this reflection to observe suddenly to Felicity that, anyway, I’m glad my children aren’t prigs – at which she looks startled, and says, Certainly not – far from it – but perceive that she has not in any way followed my train of thought – which is in no way surprising.

  We talk about Italy, the Book Society – Red Ike a fearful mistake, but The Forge good – and how can Mr Hugh Walpole find time for all that reading, and write his own books as well – and then again revert to far-distant schooldays, and ask one another what became of that girl with the eyes, who had a father in Patagonia, and if anybody ever heard any more of the black satin woman who taught dancing the last year we were there?

  Casabianca, who alone has obeyed injunction to explore, returns, followed by unknown black-and-white dog, between whom and Vicky boisterous and ecstatic friendship instantly springs into being – and I unpack baskets, main contents of which appear to be bottles of lemonade – at which Felicity again reverts to pale-blueness – and pink sugar-biscuits. Can only hope that children enjoy their meal.

  Customary feelings of chill, cramp and general discomfort invade me – feel certain that they have long ago invaded Felicity, although she makes no complaint – and picnic is declared to be at an end. Black-and-white dog remains glued to Vicky’s heels, is sternly dealt with by Casabianca, and finally disappears into the bracken, but at intervals during descent of hill, makes dramatic reappearances, leaping up in attitudes reminiscent of ballet-dancing. Owners of dog discovered at foot of hill, large gentleman in brown boots, and very thin woman with spats and eye-glasses.

  Vicky is demonstrative with dog, the large gentleman looks touched, and the eye-glasses beg my pardon, but if my little girl has really taken a fancy to the doggie, why, they are looking for a home for him – just off to Zanzibar – otherwise, he will have to be destroyed. I say Thank you, thank you, we really couldn’t think of such a thing, and Vicky screams and ejaculates.

  The upshot of it all is that we do think of such a thing – Casabianca lets me down badly, and backs up Vicky – the large gentleman says Dog may not be one of these pedigree animals – which I can see for myself he isn’t – but has no vice, and thoroughly good-natured and affectionate – and Felicity, at whom I look, nods twice – am reminded of Lord Burleigh, but do not know why – and mutters Oui, oui, pourquoi pas? – which she appears to think will be unintelligible to anyone except herself and me.

  Final result is that Vicky, Robin and dog occupy most of the car on the way home, and I try and make up my mind how dog can best be introduced to Robert and Cook.

  September 11th. – Decision reached – but cannot say how – that dog is to be kept, and that his name is to be Kolynos.

  September 12th. – All is overshadowed by National Crisis, and terrific pronouncements regarding income-tax and need for economy. Our Vicar goes so far as to talk about the Pound from the pulpit, and Robert is asked by Felicity to explain the whole thing to her after dinner – which he very wisely refuses to do.

  We lunch with the Frobishers, who are depressed, and say that the wages of everyone on the Estate will have to be reduced by ten per cent. (Query: Why are they to be sympathised with on this account? Am much sorrier for their employés.)

  Young Frobisher, who is down from Oxford, says that he has seen it coming for a long while now. (Should like to know why, in that case, he did not warn the neighbourhood.) He undertakes to make all clear – this, once more, at Felicity’s request – and involved monologue follows, in which the Pound, as usual, figures extensively. Am absolutely no wiser at the end of it all than I was at the beginning and feel rather inclined to say so, but Lady F. offers me coffee, and asks after children – whom she refers to as ‘the boy and that dear little Virginia’ – and we sink into domesticities and leave the Pound to others. Result is that it overshadows the entire evening and is talked about by Felicity and Robert all the way home in very learned but despondent strain.

  (NB A very long while since I have heard Robert so eloquent, and am impressed by the fact that it takes a National Crisis to rouse him, and begin to wish that own conversational energies had not been dissipated for years on such utterly unworthy topics as usually call them forth. Can see dim outline of rather powerful article here, or possibly vers libres more suitable form – but nothing can be done to-night.) Suggest hot milk to Felicity, who looks cold, take infinite trouble to procure this, but saucepan boils over and all is wasted.

  September 13th. – Curious and regrettable conviction comes over me that Sunday in the country is entirely intolerable. Cannot, however, do anything about it.

  Kolynos chases Helen Wills up small oak-tree, and eats arm and one ear off teddy-bear owned by Vicky. This not a success, and Robert says tersely that if the dog is going to do that kind of thing – and then leaves the sentence unfinished, which alarms us all much more than anything he could have said.


  Am absent-minded in Church, but recalled by Robin singing hymn, entirely out of tune, and half a bar in advance of everybody else. Do not like to check evident zeal, and feel that this should come within Casabianca’s province, but he takes no notice. (Query: Perhaps he, like Robin, has no ear for music? He invariably whistles out of tune.)

  Return to roast beef – underdone – and plates not hot. I say boldly that I think roast beef every Sunday is a mistake – why not chicken, or even mutton? but at this everyone looks aghast, and Robert asks What next, in Heaven’s name? so feel it better to abandon subject, and talk about the Pound, now familiar topic in every circle.

  General stupor descends upon Robert soon after lunch, and he retires to study with Blackwood’s Magazine. Robin reads Punch; Vicky, amidst customary protests, disappears for customary rest; and Casabianca is nowhere to be seen. Have strong suspicion that he has followed Vicky’s example.

  I tell Felicity that I must write some letters, and she rejoins that so must she, and we talk until twenty minutes to four, and then say that it doesn’t really matter, as letters wouldn’t have gone till Monday anyhow. (This argument specious at the moment, but has very little substance when looked at in cold blood.)

  Chilly supper – only redeeming feature, baked potatoes – concludes evening, together with more talk of the Pound, about which Robert and Casabianca become, later on, technical and masculine, and Felicity and I prove unable to stay the course, and have recourse to piano instead.

  Final peak of desolation is attained when Felicity, going to bed, wishes to know why I have so completely given up my music, and whether it isn’t a Great Pity?

  Point out to her that all wives and mothers always do give up their music, to which she agrees sadly, and we part without enthusiasm.