Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  March 17th. — Travel up to London with Barbara Blenkinsop — (wearing new tweed) — who says she is going to spend a fortnight with old school-friend at Streatham and is looking forward to the Italian Art Exhibition. I say that I am, too, and ask after Mrs. B. Barbara says that she is Wonderful. We discuss Girl Guides, and exchange surmises as to reason why Mrs. T. at the Post Office is no longer on speaking terms with Mrs. L. at the shop. Later on, conversation takes a more intellectual turn, and we agree that the Parish Magazine needs Brightening Up. I suggest a crossword puzzle, and Barbara says a Children’s Page. Paddington is reached just as we decide that it would be hopeless to try and get a contribution to the Parish Magazine from anyone really good, such as Shaw, Bennett, or Galsworthy.

  I ask Barbara to tea at my club one day next week, she accepts, and we part.

  Met by Rose, who has a new hat, and says that no one is wearing a brim, which discourages me — partly because I have nothing but brims, and partly because I know only too well that I shall look my worst without one. Confide this fear to Rose, who says, Why not go to well-known Beauty Culture Establishment, and have course of treatment there? I look at myself in the glass, see much room for improvement, and agree to this, only stipulating that all shall be kept secret as the grave, as could not tolerate the idea of Lady B.’s comments, should she ever come to hear of it. Make appointment by telephone. In the meantime, says Rose, what about the Italian Art Exhibition? She herself has already been four times. I say Yes, yes — it is one of the things I have come to London for, but should prefer to go earlier in the day. Then, says Rose, the first thing tomorrow morning? To this I reply, with every sign of reluctance, that to-morrow morning must be devoted to Registry Offices. Well, says Rose, when shall we go? Let us, I urge, settle that a little later on, when I know better what I am doing. Can see that Rose thinks anything but well of me, but she is too tactful to say more. Quite realise that I shall have to go to the Italian Exhibition sooner or later, and am indeed quite determined to do so, but feel certain that I shall understand nothing about it when I do get there, and shall find myself involved in terrible difficulties when asked my impressions afterwards.

  Rose’s cook, as usual, produces marvellous dinner, and I remember with shame and compassion that Robert, at home, is sitting down to minced beef and macaroni cheese, followed by walnuts.

  Rose says that she is taking me to dinner to-morrow, with distinguished woman-writer who has marvellous collection of Jade, to meet still more distinguished Professor (female) and others. Decide to go and buy an evening dress to-morrow, regardless of overdraft.

  March 18th. — Very successful day, although Italian Art Exhibition still unvisited. (Mem.: Positively must go there before meeting Barbara for tea at my club.)

  Visit several Registry Offices, and am told that maids do not like the country — which I know already — and that the wages I am offering are low. Come away from there depressed, and decide to cheer myself up by purchasing evening dress — which I cannot afford — with present-day waist — which does not suit me. Select the Brompton Road, as likely to contain what I want, and crawl up it, scrutinising windows. Come face-to-face with Barbara Blenkinsop, who says, How extraordinary we should meet here, to which I reply that that is so often the way, when one comes to London. She is, she tells me, just on her way to the Italian Exhibition...I at once say Good-bye, and plunge into elegant establishment with expensive-looking garments in the window.

  Try on five dresses, but find judgement of their merits very difficult, as hair gets wilder and wilder, and nose more devoid of powder. Am also worried by extraordinary and tactless tendency of saleswoman to emphasise the fact that all the colours I like are very trying by daylight, but will be less so at night. Finally settle on silver tissue with large bow, stipulate for its immediate delivery, am told that this is impossible, reluctantly agree to carry it away with me in cardboard box, and go away wondering if it wouldn’t have been better to choose the black chiffon instead.

  Hope that Beauty Parlour experiment may enhance self-respect, at present at rather low ebb, but am cheered by going into Fuller’s and sending boxes of chocolates to Robin and Vicky respectively. Add peppermint creams for Mademoiselle by an afterthought, as otherwise she may find herself blessée. Lunch on oxtail soup, lobster mayonnaise, and cup of coffee, as being menu furthest removed from that obtainable at home.

  Beauty Parlour follows. Feel that a good deal could be written on this experience, and even contemplate — in connection with recent observations exchanged between Barbara B. and myself — brightening the pages of our Parish Magazine with result of my reflections, but on second thoughts abandon this, as unlikely to appeal to the Editor (Our Vicar).

  Am received by utterly terrifying person with dazzling complexion, indigo-blue hair, and orange nails, presiding over reception room downstairs, but eventually passed on to extremely pretty little creature with auburn bob and charming smile. Am reassured. Am taken to discreet curtained cubicle and put into long chair. Subsequent operations, which take hours and hours, appear to consist of the removal of hundreds of layers of dirt from my face. (These discreetly explained away by charming operator as the result of “acidity”.) She also plucks away portions of my eyebrows. Very, very painful operation.

  Eventually emerge more or less unrecognisable, and greatly improved. Lose my head, and buy Foundation Cream, rouge, powder, lip-stick. Foresee grave difficulty in reconciling Robert to the use of these appliances, but decide not to think about this for the present.

  Go back to Rose’s flat in time to dress for dinner. She tells me that she spent the afternoon at the Italian Exhibition.

  March 19th. — Rose takes me to dine with talented group of her friends, connected with Feminist Movement. I wear new frock, and for once in my life am satisfied with my appearance (but still regret great-aunt’s diamond ring, now brightening pawnbroker’s establishment back-street Plymouth). Am, however, compelled to make strong act of will in order to banish all recollection of bills that will subsequently come in from Beauty Parlour and dressmaker. Am able to succeed in this largely owing to charms of distinguished Feminists, all as kind as possible. Well-known Professor — (concerning whom I have previously consulted Rose as to the desirability of reading up something about Molecules or other kindred topic, for conversational purposes) — completely overcomes me by producing, with a charming smile, two cigarette-cards, as she has heard that I collect them for Robin. After this, throw all idea of Molecules to the winds, and am happier for the rest of the evening in consequence.

  Editor of well-known literary weekly also present, and actually remembers that we met before at Literary Club dinner. I discover, towards the end of the dinner, that she has not visited the Italian Exhibition — and give Rose a look that I hope she takes to heart.

  Cocktails, and wholly admirable dinner, further brighten the evening. I sit next Editor, and she rather rashly encourages me to give my opinion of her paper. I do so freely, thanks to cocktail and Editor’s charming manners, which combine to produce in me the illusion that my words are witty, valuable, and thoroughly well worth listening to. (Am but too well aware that later in the night I shall wake up in cold sweat, and view this scene in retrospect with very different feelings as to my own part in it.)

  Rose and I take our leave just before midnight, sharing taxi with very well-known woman dramatist. (Should much like Lady B. to know this, and have every intention of making casual mention to her of it at earliest possible opportunity.)

  Offices, less

  March 20th. — More Registry Offices, less success than ever.

  Barbara Blenkinsop comes to tea with me at my club, and says that Streatham is very gay, and that her friends took her to a dance last night and a Mr. Crosbie Carruthers drove her home afterwards in his car. We then talk about clothes — dresses all worn long in the evening — this graceful, but not hygienic — women will never again submit to long skirts in the day-time — most people growing their ha
ir — but eventually Barbara reverts to Mr. C. C. and asks if I think a girl makes herself cheap by allowing a man friend to take her out to dinner in Soho? I say No, not at all, and inwardly decide that Vicky would look nice as bridesmaid in blue taffetas, with little wreath of Banksia roses.

  A letter from dear Robin, forwarded from home, arrives to-night. He says, wouldn’t a motor tour in the Easter holidays be great fun, and a boy at school called Briggs is going on one. (Briggs is the only son of millionaire parents, owning two Rolls-Royces and any number of chauffeurs.) Feel that it would be unendurable to refuse this trustful request, and decide that I can probably persuade Robert into letting me drive the children to the far side of the county in the old Standard. Can call this modest expedition a motor tour if we stay the night at a pub. and return the next day.

  At the same time realise that, financial situation being what it is, and moreover time rapidly approaching when great-aunt’s diamond ring must either be redeemed, or relinquished for ever, there is nothing for it but to approach Bank on subject of an overdraft.

  Am never much exhilarated at this prospect, and do not in the least find that it becomes less unpleasant with repetition, but rather the contrary. Experience customary difficulty in getting to the point, and Bank Manager and I discuss weather, political situation, and probable Starters for the Grand National with passionate suavity for some time. Inevitable pause occurs, and we look at one another across immense expanse of pink blotting-paper. Irrelevant impulse rises in me to ask if he has other supply, for use, in writing-table drawer, or if fresh pad is brought in whenever a client calls. (Strange divagations of the human brain under the stress of extreme nervousness presents itself here as interesting topic for speculation. Should like to hear opinion of Professor met last night on this point. Subject far preferable to Molecules.)

  Long, and rather painful, conversation follows. Bank Manager kind, but if he says the word “security” once, he certainly says it twenty times. Am, myself, equally insistent with “temporary accommodation only”, which I think sounds thoroughly businesslike, and at the same time optimistic as to speedy repayment. Just as I think we are over the worst, Bank Manager reduces me to spiritual pulp by suggesting that we should see how the Account Stands at the Moment. Am naturally compelled to agree to this with air of well-bred and detached amusement, but am in reality well aware that the Account Stands — or, more accurately, totters — on a Debit Balance of Thirteen Pounds, two shillings, and tenpence. Large sheet of paper, bearing this impressive statement, is presently brought in and laid before us.

  Negotiations resumed.

  Eventually emerge into the street with purpose accomplished, but feeling completely unstrung for the day. Rose is kindness personified, produces Bovril and an excellent lunch, and agrees with me that it is All Nonsense to say that Wealth wouldn’t mean Happiness, because we know quite well that it would.

  March 21st. — Express to Rose serious fear that I shall lose my reason if no house-parlourmaid materialises. Rose, as usual, sympathetic, but can suggest nothing that I have not already tried. We go to a Sale in order to cheer ourselves up, and I buy yellow linen tennis-frock — £1 9s. 6d. — on strength of newly-arranged overdraft, but subsequently suffer from the conviction that I am taking the bread out of the mouths of Robin and Vicky.

  Rather painful moment occurs when I suggest the Italian Exhibition to Rose, who replies — after a peculiar silence — that it is now over. Can think of nothing whatever to say, and do not care for dear Rose’s expression, so begin at once to discuss new novels with as much intelligence as I can muster.

  March 22nd. — Completely amazed by laconic postcard from Robert to say that local Registry Office can supply us with house-parlourman, and if I am experiencing difficulty in finding anyone, had we not better engage him? I telegraph back Yes, and then feel that I have made a mistake, but Rose says No, and refuses to let me rush out and telegraph again, for which, on subsequent calmer reflection, I feel grateful to her — and am sure that Robert would be still more so, owing to well-authenticated masculine dislike of telegrams.

  Spend the evening writing immense letter to Robert enclosing list of duties of house-parlourman. (Jib at thought of being called by him in the mornings with early tea, and consult Rose, who says boldly, Think of waiters in Foreign Hotels! — which I do, and am reminded at once of many embarrassing episodes which I would rather forget.) Also send detailed instructions to Robert regarding the announcement of this innovation to Cook. Rose again takes up modern and fearless attitude, and says that Cook, mark her words, will be delighted.

  I spend much of the night thinking over the whole question of running the house successfully, and tell myself — not by any means for the first time — that my abilities are very, very deficient in this direction. Just as the realisation of this threatens to overwhelm me altogether, I fall asleep.

  March 25th. — Return home, to Robert, Helen Wills, and new house-parlourman, who is — I now learn for the first time — named Fitzsimmons. I tell Robert that it is impossible that he should be called this. Robert replies, Why not? Can only say that if Robert cannot see this for himself, explanation will be useless. Then, says Robert, no doubt we can call him by his first name. This, on investigation, turns out to be Howard. Find myself quite unable to cope with any of it, and the whole situation is met by my never calling the house-parlourman anything at all except “you” and speaking of him to Robert as “Howard Fitzsimmons”, in inverted commas as though intending to be funny. Very unsatisfactory solution.

  Try to tell Robert all about London — (with exception of Italian Exhibition, which I do not mention) — but Aladdin lamp flares up, which interferes, and have also to deal with correspondence concerning Women’s Institute Monthly Meeting, replacement of broken bedroom tumblers — attributed to Ethel — disappearance of one pyjama-jacket and two table-napkins in the wash, and instructions to Howard Fitzs. concerning his duties. (Mem.: Must certainly make it crystal-clear that acceptable formula, when receiving an order, is not “Right-oh!” Cannot, at the moment, think how to word this, but must work it out, and then deliver with firmness and precision.)

  Robert very kind about London, but perhaps rather more interested in my having met Barbara Blenkinsop — which, after all, I can do almost any day in the village — than in my views on Nine till Six (the best play I have seen for ages) or remarkable increase of traffic in recent years. Tell Robert by degrees about my new clothes. He asks when I expect to wear them, and I reply that one never knows — which is only too true — and conversation closes.

  Write long letter to Angela, for the express purpose of referring casually to Rose’s distinguished friends, met in London.

  March 27th. — Angela replies to my letter, but says little about distinguished society in which I have been moving, and asks for full account of my impressions of Italian Exhibition. She and William, she says, went up on purpose to see it, and visited it three times. Can only say — but do not, of course, do so — that William must have been dragged there by the hair of his head.

  March 28th. — Read admirable, but profoundly discouraging, article in Time and Tide relating to Bernard Shaw’s women, but applying to most of us. Realise — not for the first time — that intelligent women can perhaps best perform their duty towards their own sex by devastating process of telling them the truth about themselves. At the same time, cannot feel that I shall really enjoy hearing it. Ultimate paragraph of article, moreover, continues to haunt me most unpleasantly with reference to own undoubted vulnerability where Robin and Vicky are concerned. Have very often wondered if Mothers are not rather A Mistake altogether, and now definitely come to the conclusion that they are.

  Interesting speculation as to how they might best be replaced interrupted by necessity of seeing that Fitzs. is turning out spare-bedroom according to instructions. Am unspeakably disgusted at finding him sitting in spare-room armchair, with feet on the window-sill. He says that he is “not feeling very well”
. Am much more taken aback than he is, and lose my head to the extent of replying: “Then go and be it in your own room.” Realise afterwards that this might have been better worded.

  April 2nd. — Barbara calls. Can she, she says, speak to me in confidence? I assure her that she can, and at once put Helen Wills and kitten out of the window in order to establish confidential atmosphere. Sit, seething with excitement, in the hope that I am at least going to be told that Barbara is engaged. Try to keep this out of sight, and to maintain expression of earnest and sympathetic attention only, whilst Barbara says that it is sometimes very difficult to know which way Duty lies, that she has always thought a true woman’s highest vocation is home-making, and that the love of a Good Man is the crown of life. I say Yes, Yes, to all of this. (Discover, on thinking it over, that I do not agree with any of it, and am shocked at my own extraordinary duplicity.)

  Barbara at length admits that Crosbie has asked her to marry him — he did it, she says, at the Zoo — and go out with him as his wife to the Himalayas. This, says Barbara, is where all becomes difficult. She may be old-fashioned — no doubt she is — but can she leave her mother alone? No, she cannot. Can she, on the other hand, give up dear Crosbie, who has never loved a girl before, and says that he never will again? No, she cannot.