Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Weather gets worse and worse, Shipping Forecast reduces us all to despair — (except Vicky, who says she does so hope we shall be wrecked) — and gale rises hourly. I tell Casabianca that I hope he’s a good sailor; he says No, very bad indeed, and Robert suddenly announces that he can see no sense whatever in leaving home at all.

  August 10th. — St. Briac achieved, at immense cost of nervous wear and tear. Casabianca invaluable in every respect, but am — rather unjustly — indignant when he informs me that he has slept all night long. History of my own night very different to this, and have further had to cope with Vicky, who does not close an eye after four A.M. and is brisk and conversational, and Robin, who becomes extremely ill from five onwards.

  Land at St. Malo, in severe gale and torrents of rain, and Vicky and Robin express astonishment at hearing French spoken all round them, and Robert says that the climate reminds him of England. Casabianca says nothing, but gives valuable help with luggage and later on tells us, very nicely, that we have lost one suitcase. This causes delay, also a great deal of conversation between taxi-driver who is to take us to St. Briac, porter and unidentified friend of taxi-driver’s who enters passionately into the whole affair and says fervently Ah, grâce a Dieu! when suitcase eventually reappears. Entire incident affords taxi-driver fund for conversation all the way to St. Briac, and he talks to us over his shoulder at frequent intervals. Robert does not seem to appreciate this, and can only hope that taxi-driver is no physiognomist, as if so, his feelings will inevitably be hurt.

  We pass through several villages, and I say This must be it, to each, and nobody takes any notice except Casabianca, who is polite and simulates interest, until we finally whisk into a little place and stop in front of cheerful-looking Hotel with awning and little green tables outside — all dripping wet. Am concerned to notice no sign of sea anywhere, but shelve this question temporarily, in order to deal with luggage, allotment of bedrooms — (mistake has occurred here, and Madame shows cast-iron determination to treat Casabianca and myself as husband and wife) — and immediate cafés complets for all. These arrive, and we consume them in the hall under close and unwavering inspection of about fifteen other visitors, all British and all objectionable-looking.

  Inspection of rooms ensues; Robin says When can we bathe — at which, in view of temperature, I feel myself growing rigid with apprehension — and general process of unpacking and settling in follows. Robert, during this, disappears completely, and is only recovered hours later, when he announces that The Sea is about Twenty Minutes’ Walk.

  General feeling prevails that I am to blame, about this, but nothing can be done, and Casabianca, after thoughtful silence, remarks that Anyway the walk will warm us. Cannot make up my mind whether this is, or is not, high example of tact. Subsequent experience, however, proves that it is totally untrue, as we all — excepting children — arrive at large and windy beach in varying degrees of chilliness. Sea is extremely green, with large and agitated waves, blown about by brisk East wind. Incredible and stupefying reflection that in less than quarter of an hour we shall be in the water — and am definitely aware that I would give quite considerable sum of money to be allowed to remain in my clothes, and on dry land. Have strong suspicion that similar frame of mind prevails elsewhere, but all cram ourselves into two bathing-huts with false assumption of joviality, and presently emerge, inadequately clad in bathing-suits.

  (N.B. Never select blue bathing-cap again. This may be all right when circulation normal, but otherwise, effect repellent in the extreme.)

  Children dash in boldly, closely followed by Holiday Tutor — to whom I mentally assign high marks for this proof of devotion to duty, as he is pea-green with cold, and obviously shivering — Robert remains on edge of sea, looking entirely superior, and I crawl with excessive reluctance into several inches of water and there become completely paralysed. Shrieks from children, who say that It is Glorious, put an end to this state of affairs, and eventually we all swim about, and tell one another that really it isn’t so very cold in the water, but better not stay in too long on the first day.

  Regain bathing-huts thankfully and am further cheered by arrival of ancient man with eau chaude pour les pieds.

  Remainder of day devoted to excellent meals, exploring of St. Briac between terrific downpours of rain, and purchase of biscuits, stamps, writing-pad, peaches — (very inexpensive and excellent) — and Tauchnitz volume of Sherlock Holmes for Robin, and Robinson Crusoe for Vicky.

  Children eventually disposed of in bed, and Robert and Casabianca discuss appearance of our fellow-visitors with gloom and disapproval, and join in condemning me for suggesting that we should enter into conversation with all or any of them. Cannot at all admire this extremely British frame of mind, and tell them so, but go up to bed immediately before they have time to answer.

  August 13th. — Opinion that St. Briac is doing us all good, definitely gaining ground. Bathing becomes less agonising, and children talk French freely with Hotel chambermaids, who are all charming. Continental breakfast unhappily not a success with Robert, who refers daily to bacon in rather embittered way, but has nothing but praise for langoustes and entrecôtes which constitute customary luncheon menu.

  Casabianca proves admirable disciplinarian, after fearful contest with Robin concerning length of latter’s stay in water. During this episode, I remain in bathing-hut, dripping wet and with one eye glued to small wooden slats through which I can see progress of affairs. Just as I am debating whether to interfere or not, Robin is vanquished, and marched out of sea with appalling calm by Casabianca. Remainder of the day wrapped in gloom, but reconciliation takes place at night, and Casabianca assures me that all will henceforward be well. (N.B. The young often very optimistic.)

  August 15th. — I enter into conversation with two of fellow-guests at hotel, one of whom is invariably referred to by Robert as “the retired Rag-picker” owing to unfortunate appearance, suggestive of general decay. He tells me about his wife, dead years ago — (am not surprised at this) — who was, he says, a genius in her own way. Cannot find out what way was. He also adds that he himself has written books. I ask what about, and he says Psychology, but adds no more. We talk about weather — bad here, but worse in England — Wolverhampton, which he once went through and where I have never been at all — and humane slaughter, of which both of us declare ourselves to be in favour. Conversation then becomes languid, and shows a tendency to revert to weather, but am rescued by Casabianca, who says he thinks I am wanted — which sounds like the police, but is not.

  Casabianca inclined to look superior, and suggest that really, the way people force their acquaintance upon one when abroad — but I decline to respond to this and tell him in return that there will be a dance at the hotel to-night and that I intend to go to it. He looks horror-stricken, and says no more.

  Small problem of conduct arises here, as had no previous intention whatever of patronising dance, where I know well that Robert will flatly refuse to escort me — but do not see now how I can possibly get out of it. (Query: Would it be possible to compel Casabianca to act as my partner, however much against his inclination? This solution possibly undignified, but not without rather diverting aspect.)

  Look for Vicky in place, where she habitually spends much time, playing with mongrel French dogs in gutter. Elderly English spinster — sandy-haired, and name probably Vi — tells me excitedly that some of the dogs have not been behaving quite decently, and it isn’t very nice for my little girl to be with them. I reply curtly that Dogs will be Dogs, and think — too late — of many much better answers. Dogs all seem to me to be entirely respectable and well-conducted and see no reason whatever for interfering with any of them. Instead, go with Robin to grocery across the street, where we buy peaches, biscuits and bunches of small black grapes. It pours with rain, Vicky and dogs disperse, and we return indoors to play General Information in obscure corner of dining-room.

  Casabianca proves distressingly competent at th
is, and defeats everybody, Robert included, with enquiry: “What is Wallis’s line?” which eventually turns out to be connected with distinction — entirely unintelligible to me — between one form of animal life and another. Should like to send him to explain it to Vi, and see what she says — but do not, naturally, suggest this.

  Children ask excessively ancient riddles, and supply the answers themselves, and Robert concentrates on arithmetical problems. Receive these in silence, and try and think of any field of knowledge in which I can hope to distinguish myself — but without success. Finally, Robin challenges me with what are Seven times Nine? to which I return brisk, but, as it turns out, incorrect, reply. Casabianca takes early opportunity of referring, though kindly, to this, and eventually suggests that half an hour’s arithmetic daily would make my accounts much simpler. I accept his offer, although inwardly aware that only drastic reduction of expenditure, and improbable increase of income, could really simplify accounts — but quite agree that counting on fingers is entirely undesirable procedure, at any time of life, but more especially when early youth is past.

  Bathing takes place as usual, but additional excitement is provided by sudden dramatic appearance of unknown French youth who asks us all in turns if we are doctors, as a German gentleman is having a fit in a bathing-hut. Casabianca immediately dashes into the sea — which — he declares — an English doctor has just entered. (Query: Is this second sight, or what?) Robin and Vicky enquire with one voice if they can go and see the German gentleman having a fit, and are with great difficulty withheld from making one dash for his bathing-cabin, already surrounded by large and excited collection.

  Opinions fly about to the effect that the German gentleman is unconscious — that he has come round — that he is already dead — that he has been murdered. At this, several people scream, and a French lady says Il ne manquait que cela! which makes me wonder what the rest of her stay at St. Briac can possibly have been like.

  Ask Robert if he does not think he ought to go and help, but he says What for? and walks away.

  Casabianca returns, dripping, from the sea, followed by equally dripping stranger, presumably the doctor, and I hastily remove children from spectacle probably to be seen when bathing-hut opens; the last thing I hear being assurance from total stranger to Casabianca that he is tout à fait aimable.

  Entire episode ends in anti-climax when Casabianca shortly afterwards returns, and informs us that The Doctor Said it was Indigestion, and the German gentleman is now walking home with his wife — who is, he adds impressively, a Norwegian. This, for reasons which continue to defy analysis, seems to add weight and respectability to whole affair.

  We return to hotel, again caught in heavy shower, are besought by Robin and Vicky to stop and eat ices at revolting English tea-shop, which they patriotically prefer to infinitely superior French establishments, and weakly yield. Wind whistles through cotton frock — already wet through — that I have mistakenly put on, and Casabianca, after gazing at me thoughtfully for some moments, murmurs that I look Pale — which I think really means, Pale Mauve.

  On reaching hotel, defy question of expense, and take hot bath, at cost of four francs, prix spécial.

  Children, with much slamming of doors, and a great deal of conversation, eventually get to bed, and I say to Robert that we might look in at the dance after dinner — which seems easier than saying that I should like to go to it.

  Robert’s reply much what I expected. Eventually find myself crawling into dance-room, sideways, and sitting in severe draught, watching le tango, which nobody dances at all well. Casabianca, evidently feeling it his duty, reluctantly suggests that we should dance the next foxtrot — which we do, and it turns out to be Lucky Spot dance and we very nearly — but not quite — win bottle of champagne. This, though cannot say why, has extraordinarily encouraging effect, and we thereupon dance quite gaily until midnight.

  August 18th. — Singular encounter takes place between Casabianca and particularly rigid and unapproachable elderly fellow-countryman in hotel, who habitually walks about in lounge wearing canary-yellow cardigan, and eyes us all with impartial dislike. Am therefore horrified when he enquires, apparently of universe at large: “What’s afoot?” and Casabianca informatively replies: “Twelve inches one foot” — evidently supposing himself to be addressing customary collection of small and unintelligent schoolboys. Canary-yellow cardigan is naturally infuriated, and says that he did not get up early in the morning in order to put conundrums, or listen to their idiotic solutions — and unpleasant situation threatens.

  Further discussion is, however, averted by Vicky, who falls into large open space which has suddenly appeared in floor, and becomes entangled with pipes that I hope are Gas, but much fear may be Drains. She is rescued, amongst loud cries of Ah, pauvre petite! and Oh, là là! and Casabianca removes her and says austerely that People should look where they are going. Should like to retort that People should think what they are saying — but unfortunately this only occurs to me too late.

  Robert, on being told of this incident, laughs whole-heartedly for the first time since coming to St. Briac, and I reflect — as so frequently before — that masculine sense of humour is odd.

  Discover that Robin is wearing last available pair of shorts, and that these are badly torn, which necessitates visit to Dinard to take white shorts to cleaners and buy material with which to patch grey ones. No one shows any eagerness to escort me on this expedition and I finally depart alone.

  French gentleman with moustache occupies one side of bus and I the other, and we look at one another. Extraordinary and quite unheralded idea springs into my mind to the effect that it is definitely agreeable to find myself travelling anywhere, for any purpose, without dear Robert or either of the children. Am extremely aghast at this unnatural outbreak and try to ignore it.

  (Query: Does not modern psychology teach that definite danger attaches to deliberate stifling of any impulse, however unhallowed? Answer probably Yes. Cannot, however, ignore the fact that even more definite danger probably attached to encouragement of unhallowed impulse. Can only conclude that peril lies in more or less every direction.)

  The moustache and I look out of our respective windows, but from time to time turn round. This exercise not without a certain fascination. Should be very sorry indeed to recall in any detail peculiar fantasies that pass through my mind before Dinard is reached.

  Bus stops opposite Casino, the moustache and I rise simultaneously — unfortunately bus gives a last jerk and I sit violently down again — and all is over. Final death-blow to non-existent romance is given when Robin’s white shorts, now in last stages of dirt and disreputability, slide out of inadequate paper wrappings and are collected from floor by bus-conductor and returned to me.

  Dinard extremely cold, and full of very unengaging trippers, most of whom have undoubtedly come from Lancashire. I deal with cleaners, packet of Lux, chocolate for children, and purchase rose-coloured bathing-cloak for myself, less because I think it suitable or becoming than because I hope it may conduce to slight degree of warmth.

  Am moved by obscure feelings of remorse — (what about, in Heaven’s name?) — to buy Robert a present, but can see nothing that he would not dislike immeasurably. Finally in desperation select small lump of lead, roughly shaped to resemble Napoleonic outline, and which I try to think may pass as rather unusual antique.

  Do not like to omit Casabianca from this universal distribution, so purchase Tauchnitz edition of my own literary effort, but think afterwards that this is both tactless and egotistical, and wish I hadn’t done it. Drink chocolate in crowded pâtisserie, all by myself, and surrounded by screeching strangers; am sure that French cakes used to be nicer in far-away youthful days, and feel melancholy and middle-aged. Sight of myself in glass when I powder my nose does nothing whatever to dispel any of it.

  August 19th. — Robert asks if Napoleonic figure is meant for a paper-weight? I am inwardly surprised and relieved at this extr
emely ingenious idea, and at once say Yes, certainly. Can see by Robert’s expression that he feels doubtful, but firmly change subject immediately.

  Day unmarked by any particularly sensational development except that waves are even larger than usual, and twice succeed in knocking me off my feet, the last time just as I am assuring Vicky that she is perfectly safe with me. Robert retrieves us both from extremest depths of the ocean, and Vicky roars. Two small artificial curls — Scylla and Charybdis — always worn under bathing-cap in order that my own hair may be kept dry — are unfortunately swept away, together with bathing-cap, in this disaster, and seen no more. Bathing-cap retrieved by Casabianca, but do not like to enquire whether he cannot also pursue Scylla and Charybdis, and am accordingly obliged to return to shore without them.

  (Interesting, although unprofitable, speculation comes into being here: Would not conflict between chivalry and common sense have arisen if Casabianca had sighted elusive side-curls, Scylla and Charybdis? What, moreover, would have been acceptable formula for returning them to me? Should much like to put this problem to him, but decide not to do so, at any rate for the present.)

  August 21st. — End of stay at St. Briac approaches, and I begin to feel sentimental, but this weakness unshared by anybody else.

  Loss of Scylla and Charybdis very inconvenient indeed.

  August 23rd. — Am put to shame by Vicky whilst sitting outside drinking coffee on the place with Robert and Casabianca, fellow-guests surrounding us on every side. She bawls from an upper window that she is just going to bed, but has not kissed Casabianca good-night and would like to do so. I crane my head upwards at very uncomfortable angle and sign to her to desist, upon which she obligingly yells that To-morrow morning will do, and everybody looks at us. Casabianca remains unperturbed, and merely says chillingly that he Hopes she will Wash her Face first. On thinking this over, it strikes me as surely unsurpassed effort as deterrent to undesired advances, and can only trust that Vicky will not brazenly persist in path of amorous indiscretion in spite of it.