Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  December 27th. — Departure of William and Angela. Slight shock administered at eleventh hour by Angela, who asks if I realise that she was winner of first prize in last week’s Time and Tide Competition, under the pseudonym of Intelligensia. Had naturally no idea of this, but congratulate her, without mentioning that I entered for same competition myself, without success.

  (Query: Are Competition Editors always sound on questions of literary merit? Judgement possibly becomes warped through overwork.)

  Another children’s party this afternoon, too large and elaborate. Mothers stand about it in black hats and talk to one another about gardens, books, and difficulty of getting servants to stay in the country. Tea handed about the hall in a detached way, while children are herded into another room. Vicky and Robin behave well, and I compliment them on the way home, but am informed later by Mademoiselle that she has found large collection of chocolate biscuits in pocket of Vicky’s party-frock.

  (Mem.: Would it be advisable to point out to Vicky that this constitutes failure in intelligence, as well as in manners, hygiene, and common honesty?)

  January 1st, 1930. — We give a children’s party ourselves. Very, very exhausting performance, greatly complicated by stormy weather, which keeps half the guests away, and causes grave fears as to arrival of the conjurer.

  Decide to have children’s tea in the dining-room, grown-ups in the study, and clear the drawing-room for games and conjurer. Minor articles of drawing-room furniture moved up to my bedroom, where I continually knock myself against them. Bulb-bowls greatly in everybody’s way and are put on window-ledges in passage, at which Mademoiselle says: “Tiens! ça fait un drôle d’effet, ces malheureux petits brins de verdure!” Do not like this description at all.

  The children from neighbouring Rectory arrive too early, and are shown into completely empty drawing-room. Entrance of Vicky, in new green party-frock, with four balloons, saves situation.

  (Query: What is the reason that clerical households are always unpunctual, invariably arriving either first, or last, at any gathering to which bidden?)

  Am struck at variety of behaviour amongst mothers, some so helpful in organising games and making suggestions, others merely sitting about. (N.B. For sake of honesty, should rather say standing about, as supply of chairs fails early.) Resolve always to send Robin and Vicky to parties without me, if possible, as children without parents infinitely preferable from point of view of hostess. Find it difficult to get “Oranges and Lemons” going, whilst at same time appearing to give intelligent attention to remarks from visiting mother concerning Exhibition of Italian Pictures at Burlington House. Find myself telling her how marvellous I think them, although in actual fact have not yet seen them at all. Realise that this mis-statement should be corrected at once, but omit to do so, and later find myself involved in entirely unintentional web of falsehood. Should like to work out how far morally to blame for this state of things, but have not time.

  Tea goes off well. Mademoiselle presides in dining-room, I in study. Robert and solitary elderly father — (looks more like a grandfather) — stand in doorway and talk about big-game shooting and the last General Election, in intervals of handing tea.

  Conjurer arrives late, but is a success with children. Ends up with presents from a bran-tub, in which more bran is spilt on carpet, children’s clothes, and house generally, than could ever have been got into tub originally. Think this odd, but have noticed similar phenomenon before.

  Guests depart between seven and half-past, and Helen Wills and the dog are let out by Robin, having been shut up on account of crackers, which they dislike.

  Robert and I spend evening helping servants to restore order, and trying to remember where ash-trays, clock, ornaments, and ink were put for safety.

  January 3rd. — Hounds meet in the village. Robert agrees to take Vicky on the pony. Robin, Mademoiselle, and I walk to the Post Office to see the start, and Robin talks about Oliver Twist, making no reference whatever to hunt from start to finish, and viewing horses, hounds, and huntsmen with equal detachment. Am impressed at his non-suggestibility, but feel that some deep Freudian significance may lie behind it all. Feel also that Robert would take very different view of it.

  Meet quantities of hunting neighbours, who say to Robin, “Aren’t you riding too?” which strikes one as lacking in intelligence, and ask me if we have lost many trees lately, but do not wait for answer, as what they really want to talk about is the number of trees they have lost themselves.

  Mademoiselle looks at hounds and says, “Ah, ces bons chiens!” also admires horses, “quelles bêtes superbes” — but prudently keeps well away from all, in which I follow her example.

  Vicky looks nice on pony, and I receive compliments about her, which I accept in an off-hand manner, tinged with incredulity, in order to show that I am a modern mother and should scorn to be foolish about my children.

  Hunt moves off, Mademoiselle remarking, “Voilà bien le sport anglais!” Robin says: “Now can we go home?” and eats milk-chocolate. We return to the house and I write order to the Stores, post-card to the butcher, two letters about Women’s Institutes, one about Girl Guides, note to the dentist asking for appointment next week, and make memorandum in engagement-book that I must call on Mrs. Somers at the Grange.

  Am horrified and incredulous at discovery that these occupations have filled the entire morning.

  Robert and Vicky return late, Vicky plastered with mud from head to foot but unharmed. Mademoiselle removes her, and says no more about le sport anglais.

  January 4th. — A beautiful day, very mild, makes me feel that with any reasonable luck Mrs. Somers will be out, and I therefore call at the Grange. She is, on the contrary, in. Find her in the drawing-room, wearing printed velvet frock that I immediately think would look nice on me. No sign anywhere of Bees, but am getting ready to enquire about them intelligently when Mrs. Somers suddenly says that her Mother is here, and knows my old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, who says that I am so amusing. The Mother comes in — very elegant Marcel wave — (cannot imagine where she got it, unless she has this moment come from London) — and general air of knowing how to dress in the country. She is introduced to me — name sounds exactly like Eggchalk but do not think this possible — and says she knows my old school-friend Miss Crabbe, at Norwich, and has heard all about how very, very amusing I am. Become completely paralysed and can think of nothing whatever to say except that it has been very stormy lately. Leave as soon as possible.

  January 5th. — Rose, in the kindest way, offers to take me as her guest to special dinner of famous Literary Club if I will come up to London for the night. Celebrated editor of literary weekly paper in the chair, spectacularly successful author of famous play as guest of honour. Principal authors, poets, and artists from — says Rose — all over the world, expected to be present.

  Spend much of the evening talking to Robert about this. Put it to him: (a) That no expense is involved beyond 3rd class return ticket to London; (b) that in another twelve years Vicky will be coming out, and it is therefore incumbent on me to Keep in Touch with People; (c) that this is an opportunity that will never occur again; (d) that it isn’t as if I were asking him to come too. Robert says nothing to (a) or (b) and only “I should hope not” to (c), but appears slightly moved by (d). Finally says he supposes I must do as I like, and very likely I shall meet some old friends of my Bohemian days when living with Rose in Hampstead.

  Am touched by this, and experience passing wonder if Robert can be feeling slightly jealous. This fugitive idea dispelled by his immediately beginning to speak about failure of hot water this morning.

  January 7th. — Rose takes me to Literary Club dinner. I wear my Blue. Am much struck by various young men who have defiantly put on flannel shirts and no ties, and brushed their hair up on end. They are mostly accompanied by red-headed young women who wear printed crêpe frocks and beads. Otherwise, everyone in evening dress. Am introduced to distinguished Editor, who
turns out to be female and delightful. Should like to ask her once and for all why prizes in her paper’s weekly competition are so often divided, but feel this would be unsuitable and put Rose to shame.

  Am placed at dinner next to celebrated best-seller, who tells me in the kindest way how to evade paying super-tax. Am easily able to conceal from him the fact that I am not at present in a position to require this information. Very distinguished artist sits opposite, and becomes more and more convivial as evening advances. This encourages me to remind him that we have met before — which we have, in old Hampstead days. He declares enthusiastically that he remembers me perfectly — which we both know to be entirely untrue — and adds wildly that he has followed my work ever since. Feel it better to let this pass unchallenged. Later on, distinguished artist is found to have come out without any money, and all in his immediate neighbourhood are required to lend him amount demanded by head-waiter.

  Feel distinctly thankful that Robert is not with me, and am moreover morally certain that distinguished artist will remember nothing whatever in the morning, and will therefore be unable to refund my three-and-sixpence.

  Rose handsomely pays for my dinner as well as her own.

  (This suggests Mem.: That English cooking, never unduly attractive, becomes positively nauseating on any public occasion, such as a banquet. Am seriously distressed at probable reactions of foreign visitors to this evening’s fish, let alone other items.)

  Young gentleman is introduced to me by Rose — (she saying in rapid murmur that he is part-author of a one-act play that has been acted three times by a Repertory company in Jugo-Slavia.) It turns out later that he has met Lady Boxe, who struck him, he adds immediately, as a poisonous woman. We then get on well together. (Query: Is not a common hate one of the strongest links in human nature? Answer, most regrettably, in the affirmative.)

  Very, very distinguished Novelist approaches me (having evidently mistaken me for someone else), and talks amiably. She says that she can only write between twelve at night and four in the morning, and not always then. When she cannot write, she plays the organ. Should much like to ask whether she is married — but get no opportunity of asking that or anything else. She tells me about her sales. She tells me about her last book. She tells me about her new one. She says that there are many people here to whom she must speak, and pursues well-known Poet — who does not, however, allow her to catch up with him. Can understand this.

  Speeches are made. Am struck, as so often, by the eloquence and profundity of other people, and reflect how sorry I should be to have to make a speech myself, although so often kept awake at night composing wholly admirable addresses to the servants, Lady B., Mademoiselle, and others — which, however, never get delivered.

  Move about after dinner, and meet acquaintance whose name I have forgotten, but connect with literature. I ask if he has published anything lately. He says that his work is not, and never can be, for publication. Thought passes through my mind to the effect that this attitude might with advantage be adopted by many others. Do not say so, however, and we talk instead about Rebecca West, the progress of aviation, and the case for and against stag-hunting.

  Rose, who has been discussing psychiatry as practised in the U.S.A. with Danish journalist, says Am I ready to go? Distinguished artist who sat opposite me at dinner offers to drive us both home, but his friends intervene. Moreover, acquaintance whose name I have forgotten takes me aside, and assures me that D.A. is quite unfit to take anybody home, and will himself require an escort. Rose and I depart by nearest Tube, as being wiser, if less exalted, procedure.

  Sit up till one o’clock discussing our fellow-creatures, with special reference to those seen and heard this evening. Rose says I ought to come to London more often, and suggests that outlook requires broadening.

  January 9th. — Came home yesterday. Robin and Mademoiselle no longer on speaking terms, owing to involved affair centering round a broken window-pane. Vicky, startlingly, tells me in private that she has learnt a new Bad Word, but does not mean to use it. Not now, anyway, she disquietingly adds.

  Cook says she hopes I enjoyed my holiday, and it is very quiet in the country. I leave the kitchen before she has time to say more, but am only too well aware that this is not the last of it.

  Write grateful letter to Rose, at the same time explaining difficulty of broadening my outlook by further time spent away from home, just at present.

  January 14th. — I have occasion to observe, not for the first time, how extraordinarily plain a cold can make one look, affecting hair, complexion, and features generally, besides nose and upper lip. Cook assures me that colds always run through the house and that she herself has been suffering from sore throat for weeks, but is never one to make a fuss. (Query: Is this meant to imply that similar fortitude should be, but is not, displayed by me?) Mademoiselle says she hopes children will not catch my cold, but that both sneezed this morning. I run short of handkerchiefs.

  January 16th. — We all run short of handkerchiefs.

  January 17th. — Mademoiselle suggests butter-muslin. There is none in the house. I say that I will go out and buy some. Mademoiselle says, “No, the fresh air gives pneumonia.” Feel that I ought to combat this un-British attitude, but lack energy, especially when she adds that she will go herself— “Madame, j’y cours.” She puts on black kid gloves, buttoned boots with pointed tips and high heels, hat with little feather in it, black jacket and several silk neckties, and goes, leaving me to amuse Robin and Vicky, both in bed. Twenty minutes after she has started, I remember it is early-closing day.

  Go up to night-nursery and offer to read Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare. Vicky says she prefers Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred. Robin says that he would like Gulliver’s Travels. Compromise on Grimm’s Fairy Tales, although slightly uneasy as to their being in accordance with best modern ideals. Both children take immense interest in story of highly undesirable person who wins fortune, fame, and beautiful Princess by means of lies, violence, and treachery. Feel sure that this must have disastrous effect on both in years to come.

  Our Vicar’s wife calls before Mademoiselle returns. Go down to her, sneezing, and suggest that she had better not stay. She says, much better not, and she won’t keep me a minute. Tells me long story about the Vicar having a stye on one eye. I retaliate with Cook’s sore throat. This leads to draughts, the, heating apparatus in church, and news of Lady Boxe in South of France: The Vicar’s wife has had a picture postcard from her (which she produces from bag), with small cross marking bedroom window of hotel. She says, It’s rather interesting, isn’t it? to which I reply Yes, it is, very, which is not in the least true. (N.B. Truth-telling in everyday life extraordinarily difficult. Is this personal, and highly deplorable, idiosyncrasy, or do others suffer in the same way? Have momentary impulse to put this to our, Vicar’s wife, but decide better not.)

  How, she says, are the dear children, and how is my husband? I reply suitably, and she tells me about cinnamon, Viapex, gargling with glycerine of thymnol, blackcurrant tea, onion broth, friar’s balsam, linseed poultices, and thermogene wool. I sneeze and say Thank you — thank you very much, a good many times.. She goes, but turns back at the door to tell me about wool next the skin, nasal douching, and hot milk last thing at night. I say Thank you, again.

  On returning to night-nursery, find that Robin has unscrewed top of hot-water bottle in Vicky’s bed, which apparently contained several hundred gallons of tepid water, now distributed through and through pillows, pyjamas, sheets, blankets, and mattresses of both. I ring for Ethel — who helps me to reorganise entire situation and says It’s like a hospital, isn’t it, trays up and down stairs all day long, and all this extra work.

  January 20th. — Take Robin, now completely restored, back to school. I ask the Headmaster what he thinks of his progress. The Headmaster answers that the New Buildings will be finished before Easter, and that their numbers are increasing so rapidly that he will probably add on a New Wing next term, a
nd perhaps I saw a letter of his in the Times replying to Dr. Cyril Norwood? Make mental note to the effect that Headmasters are a race apart, and that if parents would remember this, much time could be saved.

  Robin and I say good-bye with hideous brightness, and I cry all the way back to the station.

  January 22nd. — Robert startles me at breakfast by asking if my cold — which he has hitherto ignored — is better. I reply that it has gone. Then why, he asks, do I look like that? Refrain from asking like what, as I know only too well. Feel that life is wholly unendurable, and decide madly to get a new hat.

  Customary painful situation between Bank and myself necessitates expedient, also customary, of pawning great-aunt’s diamond ring, which I do, under usual conditions, and am greeted as old friend by Plymouth pawnbroker, who says facetiously, And what name will it be this time?

  Visit four linen-drapers and try on several dozen hats. Look worse and worse in each one, as hair gets wilder and wilder, and expression paler and more harassed. Decide to get myself shampooed and waved before doing any more, in hopes of improving the position.

  Hairdresser’s assistant says, It’s a pity my hair is losing all its colour, and have I ever thought of having it touched up? After long discussion, I do have it touched up, and emerge with mahogany-coloured head. Hairdresser’s assistant says this will wear off “in a few days”. I am very angry, but all to no purpose. Return home in old hat, showing as little hair as possible, and keep it on till dressing time — but cannot hope to conceal my shame at dinner.

  January 23rd. — Mary Kellway telegraphs she is motoring past here this morning, can I give her lunch? Telegraph Yes, delighted, and rush to kitchen. Cook unhelpful and suggests cold beef and beetroot. I say Yes, excellent, unless perhaps roast chicken and bread sauce even better? Cook talks about the oven. Compromise in the end on cutlets and mashed potatoes, as, very luckily, this is the day butcher calls.