Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  (N.B. Am often a prey to serious anxiety as to dear Vicky’s future career. Question suggests itself: Is Success in Life incompatible with High Moral Ideals? Answer, whatever it is, more or less distressing. Can only trust that delightful scholastic establishment at Mickleham will be able to deal adequately with this problem.)

  Robert shows marked tendency to say that Decent English Food again will come as a great relief, and is more cheerful than I have seen him since we left home. Take advantage of this to suggest that he and I should visit Casino at Dinard and play roulette, which may improve immediate finances, now very low, and in fact have twice had to borrow from Casabianca, without saying anything about it to Robert.

  Casino agreed upon, and we put on best clothes — which have hitherto remained folded in suitcase and extremely inadequate shelves of small wardrobe that always refuses to open.

  Bus takes us to Dinard at breakneck speed, and deposits us at Casino. All is electric light, advertisement — (Byrrh) — and vacancy, and bartender tells us that no one will think of arriving before eleven o’clock. We have a drink each, for want of anything better to do, and sit on green velvet sofa and read advertisements. Robert asks What is Gala des Tou-tous? and seems disappointed when I say that I think it is little dogs. Should like — or perhaps not — to know what he thought it was.

  We continue to sit on green velvet sofa, and bar-tender looks sorry for us, and turns on more electric light. This obliges us, morally, to have another drink each, which we do. I develop severe pain behind the eyes — (Query: Wood-alcohol, or excess of electric light?) — and feel slightly sick. Also Byrrh now wavering rather oddly on wall.

  Robert says Well, as though he were going to make a suggestion, but evidently thinks better of it again, and nothing transpires. After what seems like several hours of this, three men with black faces and musical instruments come in, and small, shrouded heap in far corner of salle reveals itself as a piano.

  Bar-tender, surprisingly, has yet further resources at his command in regard to electric light, and we are flooded with still greater illumination. Scene still further enlivened by arrival of very old gentleman in crumpled dress-clothes, stout woman in a green beaded dress that suggests Kensington High Street, and very young girl with cropped hair and scarlet arms. They stand in the very middle of the salle and look bewildered, and I feel that Robert and I are old habitués.

  Robert says dashingly What About Another Drink? and I say No, better not, and then have one, and feel worse than ever. Look at Robert to see if he has noticed anything, and am struck by curious air about him, as of having been boiled and glazed. Cannot make up my mind whether this is, or is not, illusion produced by my own state, and feel better not to enquire, but devote entire attention to focussing Byrrh in spot where first sighted, instead of pursuing it all over walls and ceiling.

  By the time this more or less accomplished, quite a number of people arrived, though all presenting slightly lost and dégommé appearance.

  Robert stares at unpleasant-looking elderly man with red hair, and says Good Heavens, if that isn’t old Pinkie Morrison, whom he last met in Shanghai Bar in nineteen-hundred-and-twelve. I say, Is he a friend? and Robert replies No, he never could stand the fellow, and old Pinkie Morrison is allowed to lapse once more.

  Am feeling extremely ill, and obliged to say so, and Robert suggests tour of the rooms, which we accomplish in silence. Decide, by mutual consent, that we do not want to play roulette, or anything else, but would prefer to go back to bed, and Robert says he thought at the time that those drinks had something fishy about them.

  I am reminded, by no means for the first time, of Edgeworthian classic, Rosamond and the Party of Pleasure — but literary allusions never a great success with Robert at any time, and feel sure that this is no moment for taking undue risks.

  We return to St. Briac and make no further reference to evening’s outing, except that Robert enquires, just as I am dropping off to sleep, whether it seems quite worth while, having spent seventy francs or so just for the sake of being poisoned and seeing a foul sight like old Pinkie Morrison? This question entirely rhetorical, and make no attempt to reply to it.

  August 24th. — Much struck with extreme tact and good feeling of Casabianca at breakfast, who, after one look at Robert and myself, refrains from pressing the point as to How We enjoyed the Casino last night?

  August 27th. — Last Day now definitely upon us, and much discussion as to how we are to spend it. Robert suggests Packing — but this not intended to be taken seriously — and Casabianca assures us that extremely interesting and instructive Ruins lie at a distance of less than forty kilometres, should we care to visit them. Am sorry to say that none of us do care to visit them, though I endeavour to palliate this by feeble and unconvincing reference to unfavourable weather.

  I say what about Saint Cast, which is reputed to have admirable water-chute? or swimming-baths at Dinard? Children become uncontrollably agitated here, and say Oh, please can we bathe in the morning, and then come back to hotel for lunch, and bathe again in the afternoon and have tea at English Tea-Rooms? As this programme is precisely the one that we have been following daily ever since we arrived, nothing could be easier, and we agree. I make mental note to the effect that the young are definitely dependent on routine, and have dim idea of evolving interesting little article on the question, to be handsomely paid for by daily Press — but nothing comes of it.

  Packing takes place, and Casabianca reminds me — kindly, but with an air of having expected rather better staff-work — that Robin’s shorts are still at cleaners in Dinard. I say 0 Hell, and then weakly add -p to the end of it, and hope he hasn’t noticed, and he offers to go into Dinard and fetch them. I say No, no, really, I shouldn’t dream of troubling him, and he goes, but unfortunately brings back wrong parcel, from which we extract gigantic pair of white flannel trousers that have nothing to do with any of us.

  French chambermaid, Germaine, who has followed entire affair from the start, says Mon Dieu! alors c’est tout à recommencer? which has a despairing ring, and makes me feel hopeless, but Casabianca again comes to the rescue and assures me that he can Telephone.

  (N.B. Casabianca’s weekly remuneration entirely inadequate and have desperate thoughts of doubling it on the spot, but financial considerations render this impossible, and perhaps better concentrate on repaying him four hundred francs borrowed on various occasions since arrival here.)

  We go to bathe as usual, and I am accosted by strange woman in yellow pyjamas — cannot imagine how she can survive the cold — who says she met me in South Audley Street some years ago, don’t I remember? Have no association whatever with South Audley Street, except choosing dinner-service there with Robert in distant days of wedding presents — (dinner service now no longer with us, and replaced by vastly inferior copy of Wedgwood). However, I say Yes, yes, of course, and yellow pyjamas at once introduces My boy at Dartmouth — very lank and mottled, and does not look me in the eye — My Sister who Has a Villa Out Here, and My Sister’s Youngest Girl — Cheltenham College. Feel that I ought to do something on my side, but look round in vain, Robert, children and Casabianca all having departed, with superhuman rapidity, to extremely distant rock.

  The sister with the villa says that she has read my book — ha-ha-ha — and how do I think of it all? I look blankly at her and say that I don’t know, and feel that I am being inadequate. Everybody else evidently thinks so too, and rather distressing silence ensues, ice-cold wind — cannot say why, or from whence — suddenly rising with great violence and blowing us all to pieces.

  I say Well, more feebly than ever, and yellow pyjamas says 0 dear, this weather, really — and supposes that we shall all meet down here to-morrow, and I say Yes, of course, before I remember that we cross to-night — but feel quite unable to reopen discussion, and retire to bathing-cabin.

  Robert enquires later who that woman was? and I say that I cannot remember, but think her name was something like Busvine. A
fter some thought, Robert says Was it Morton? to which I reply No, more like Chamberlain.

  Hours later, remember that it was Heywood.

  August 28th. — Depart from St. Briac by bus at seven o’clock, amidst much agitation. Entire personnel of hotel assembles to see us off, and Vicky kisses everybody. Robin confines himself to shaking hands quite suddenly with elderly Englishman in plus-fours — with whom he has never before exchanged a word — and elderly Englishman says that Now, doors will no longer slam on his landing every evening, he supposes. (N.B. Disquieting thought: does this consideration perhaps account for the enthusiasm with which we are all being despatched on our way?)

  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 lip-stick 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 side-light 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 fiat — 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 windowsill 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 in 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, G.F.S. 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.