Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Dear Emma then exclaims that It is Too Bad I should be so utterly Out of It — which I think might have been better worded — and introduces a man to me, who in his turn introduces his wife, very fair and pretty. (Have unworthy spasm of resentment at sight of so much attractiveness, but stifle instantly.) Man offers to get me a drink, I accept, he offers to get his wife one, she agrees, and he struggles away through dense crowd. Wife points out to me young gentleman who has written a book that is to be seized, etc., etc. Am disgusted to hear myself saying in reply Oh really, in tone of intelligent astonishment.

  Man returns with two glasses of yellow liquid — mine tastes very nasty, and wife leaves hers unfinished after one sip — and we talk about Income Tax, the Pound, France, and John van Druten, of whom we think well. Rose emerges temporarily from press of distinguished talkers, asks Am I all right, and is submerged again before I can do more than nod. (Implied lie here.) Man and his wife, who do not know anyone present, remain firmly glued to my side, and I to theirs for precisely similar reason. Conversation flags, and my throat feels extremely sore. Impossibility of keeping the Pound out of the conversation more and more apparent, and character of the observations that we make about it distinguished neither for originality nor for sound constructive quality.

  Emma recrudesces later, in order to tell me that James — (totally unknown to me) has at last chucked Sylvia — (of whom I have never heard) — and is definitely living with Naomi — (again a complete blank) — who will have to earn enough for both, and for her three children — but James’ children by Susan are being looked after by dear Arthur. I say, without conviction, that this at least is a comfort, and Emma — turban now definitely over right eyebrow — vanishes again.

  Original couple introduced by Emma still my sole hope of companionship, and am morally certain that I am theirs. Nevertheless am quite unable to contemplate resuming analysis of the Pound, which I see looming ahead, and am seriously thinking of saying that there is a man here whose book is to be seized prior to publication, when Rose intervenes, and proposes departure. Our hostess quite undiscoverable, Emma offers officious and extremely scandalous explanation of this disappearance, and Rose and I are put into taxi by elderly man, unknown to me, but whom I take to be friend of Rose’s, until she tells me subsequently that she has never set eyes on him in her life before. I suggest that he may be man-servant hired for the occasion, but Rose says No, more likely a distinguished dramatist from the suburbs.

  October 1st. — Direct result of literary party is that I am rung up on telephone by Emma, who says that she did not see anything like enough of me and we must have a long talk, what about dinner together next week in Soho where she knows of a cheap place? (This, surely, rather odd form of invitation?) Am also rung up by Viscountess’s secretary, which makes me feel important, and asked to lunch at extremely expensive and fashionable French restaurant. Accept graciously, and spend some time wondering whether circumstances would justify purchase of new hat for the occasion. Effect of new hat on morale very beneficial, as a rule.

  Also receive letter — mauve envelope with silver cipher staggers me from the start — which turns out to be from Pamela Pringle, who is mine affectionately as ever, and is so delighted to think of my being in London, and must talk over dear old days, so will I ring her up immediately and suggest something? I do ring her up — although not immediately — and am told that she can just fit me in between massage at four and Bridge at six, if I will come round to her flat in Sloane Street like an angel. This I am willing to do, but make mental reservation to the effect that dear old days had better remain in oblivion until P. P. herself introduces them into conversation, which I feel certain she will do sooner or later.

  Proceed in due course to flat in Sloane Street — entrance impressive, with platoons of hall-porters, one of whom takes me up in lift and leaves me in front of bright purple door with antique knocker representing mermaid, which I think unsuitable for London, although perhaps applicable to Pamela’s career. Interior of flat entirely furnished with looking-glass tables, black pouffes, and acutely angular blocks of green wood. Am over-awed, and wonder what Our Vicar’s Wife would feel about it all — but imagination jibs.

  Pamela receives me in small room — more looking-glass, but fewer pouffes, and angular blocks are red with blue zigzags — and startles me by kissing me with utmost effusion. This very kind, and only wish I had been expecting it, as could then have responded better and with less appearance of astonishment amounting to alarm. She invites me to sit on a pouffe and smoke a Russian cigarette, and I do both, and ask after her children. Oh, says Pamela, the children! and begins to cry, but leaves off before I have had time to feel sorry for her, and bursts into long and complicated speech. Life, declares Pamela, is very, very difficult, and she is perfectly certain that I feel, as she does, that nothing in the world matters except Love. Stifle strong inclination to reply that banking account, sound teeth and adequate servants matter a great deal more, and say Yes Yes, and look as intelligently sympathetic as possible.

  Pamela then rushes into impassioned speech, and says that It is not her fault that men have always gone mad about her, and no doubt I remember that it has always been the same, ever since she was a mere tot — (do not remember anything of the kind, and if I did, should certainly not say so) — and that after all, divorce is not looked upon as it used to be, and it’s always the woman that has to pay the penalty, don’t I agree? Feel it unnecessary to make any very definite reply to this, and am in any case not clear as to whether I do agree or not, so again have recourse to air of intelligent understanding, and inarticulate, but I hope expressive, sound. Pamela apparently completely satisfied with this, as she goes on to further revelations to which I listen with eyes nearly dropping out of my head with excitement. Stevenson, Templer-Tate, Pringle, are all referred to, as well as others whose names have not actually been borne by Pamela — but this, according to her own account, her fault rather than theirs. Feel I ought to say something, so enquire tentatively if her first marriage was a happy one — which sounds better than asking if any of her marriages were happy ones. Happy? says Pamela. Good Heavens, what am I talking about? Conclude from this, that it was not a happy one. Then what, I suggest, about Templer-Tate? That, Pamela replies sombrely, was Hell. (Should like to enquire for whom, but do not, naturally, do so.) Next branch of the subject is presumably Pringle, and here I again hesitate, but Pamela takes initiative and long and frightful story is poured out.

  Waddell — such is Pringle’s Christian name, which rouses in me interesting train of speculative thought as to mentality of his parents — Waddell does not understand his wife. Never has understood her, never possibly could understand her. She is sensitive, affectionate, intelligent in her own way though of course not clever, says Pamela — and really, although she says so herself, remarkably easy to get on with. A Strong Man could have done anything in the world with her. She is like that. The ivy type. Clinging. I nod, to show agreement. Further conversation reveals that she has clung in the wrong directions, and that this has been, and is being, resented by Pringle. Painful domestic imbroglio is unfolded. I say weakly that I am sorry to hear this — which is not true, as I am thoroughly enjoying myself — and ask what about the children? This brings us back to the beginning again, and we traverse much ground that has been gone over before. Bridge at six is apparently forgotten, and feel that it might sound unsympathetic to refer to it, especially when Pamela assures me that she very, very often thinks of Ending it All. Am not sure if she means life altogether, or only life with Pringle — or perhaps just present rather irregular course of conduct?

  Telephone-calls five times interrupt us, when Pamela is effusive and excitable to five unknown conversationalists and undertakes to meet someone on Friday at three, to go and see someone else who is being too, too ill in a Nursing Home, and to help somebody else to meet a woman who knows someone who is connected with films.

  Finally, take my leave, after being once
more embraced by Pamela, and am shot down in lift — full of looking-glass, and am much struck with the inadequacy of my appearance in these surroundings, and feel certain that lift-attendant is also struck by it, although aware that his opinion ought to be matter of complete indifference to me.

  Temperature of Sloane Street seems icy after interior of flat, and cold wind causes my nose to turn scarlet and my eyes to water. Fate selects this moment for the emergence of Lady B. — sable furs up to her eyebrows and paint and powder unimpaired — from Truslove and Hanson, to waiting car and chauffeur. She sees me and screams — at which passers-by look at us, astonished — and says Good gracious her, what next? She would as soon have expected to see the geraniums from the garden uprooting themselves from the soil and coming to London. (Can this be subtle allusion to effect of the wind upon my complexion?) I say stiffly that I am staying at My Flat for a week or two. Where? demands Lady B. sceptically — to which I reply, Doughty Street, and she shakes her head and says that conveys nothing. Should like to refer her sharply to Life of Charles Dickens, but before I have time to do so she asks what on earth I am doing in Sloane Street, of all places — I say, spending an hour or two with my old friend Pamela Pringle — (for which I shall later despise myself, as should never have dreamt of referring to her as anything of the kind to anybody else). Oh, that woman, says Lady B., and offers to give me a lift to Brondesbury or wherever-it-is, as her chauffeur is quite brilliant at knowing his way anywhere. Thank her curtly and refuse. We part, and I wait for a 19 bus and wish I’d told Lady B. that I must hurry, or should arrive late for dinner at Apsley House.

  October 3rd. — Observe in myself tendency to go further and further in search of suitable cheap restaurants for meals — this not so much from economic considerations, as on extremely unworthy grounds that walking in the streets amuses me. (Cannot for one instant contemplate even remote possibility of Lady B.’s ever coming to hear of this, and do not even feel disposed to discuss it with Robert. Am, moreover, perfectly well aware that I have come to London to Write, and not to amuse myself.)

  Determination to curb this spirit causes me to lunch at small establishment in Theobald’s Road, completely filled by hatless young women with cigarettes, one old lady with revolting little dog that growls at everyone, and small, pale youth who eats custard, and reads mysterious periodical entitled Helping Hands.

  Solitary waitress looks harassed, and tells me — unsolicited — that she has only a small portion of The Cold left. I say Very Well, and The Cold, after long interval, appears, and turns out to be pork. Should like to ask for a potato, but waitress avoids me, and I go without.

  Hatless young women all drink coffee in immense quantities, and I feel this is literary, and should like to do the same, but for cast-iron conviction that coffee will be nasty. Am also quite unattracted by custard, and finally ask for A Bun, please, and waitress — more harassed than ever — enquires in return if I mind the one in the window? I recklessly say No, if it hasn’t been there too long, and waitress says Oh, not very, and seems relieved.

  Singular conversation between hatless young women engages my attention, and distracts me from rather severe struggle with the bun. My neighbours discuss Life, and the youngest of them remarks that Perversion has practically gone out altogether now. The others seem to view this as pessimistic, and assure her encouragingly that, so far, nothing else has been found to take its place. One of them adjures her to Look at Sprott and Nash — which sounds like suburban grocers, but is, I think, mutual friends. Everybody says Oh, of course, to Sprott and Nash, and seems relieved. Someone tells a story about a very old man, which I try without success to overhear, and someone else remarks disapprovingly that he can’t know much about it, really, as he’s well over seventy and it only came into fashion a year or two ago. Conversation then becomes inconsequent, and veers about between Cavalcade, methods of hair-dressing, dog-breeding, and man called William — but with tendency to revert at intervals to Sprott and Nash.

  Finish bun with great difficulty, pay tenpence for entire meal, leave twopence for waitress, and take my departure. Decide quite definitely that this, even in the cause of economy, wasn’t worth it. Remember with immense satisfaction that I lunch to-morrow at Boulestin’s with charming Viscountess, and indulge in reflections concerning strange contrasts offered by Life: cold pork and stale bun in Theobald’s Road on Tuesday, and lobster and poire Hélène — (I hope) — at Boulestin’s on Wednesday. Hope and believe with all my heart that similar startling, dissimilarity will be observable in nature of company and conversation.

  Decide to spend afternoon in writing and devote much time to sharpening pencils, looking for india-rubber — finally discovered inside small cavity of gramophone, intended for gramophone needles. This starts train of thought concerning whereabouts of gramophone needles, am impelled to search for them, and am eventually dumbfounded at finding them in a match-box, on shelf of kitchen cupboard. (Vague, but unpleasant, flight of fancy here, beginning with Vicky searching for biscuits in insufficient light, and ending in Coroner’s Court and vote of severe censure passed — rightly — by Jury.)

  (Query: Does not imagination, although in many ways a Blessing, sometimes carry its possessor too far? Answer emphatically Yes.) Bell rings, and I open door to exhausted-seeming woman, who says she isn’t going to disturb me — which she has already done — but do I know about the new electric cleaner? I feel sorry for her, and feel that if I turn her away she will very likely break down altogether, so hear about new electric cleaner, and engage, reluctantly, to let it come and demonstrate its powers to-morrow morning. Woman says that I shall never regret it — which is untrue, as I am regretting it already — and passes out of my life.

  Second interruption takes place when man — says he is Unemployed — comes to the door with a Poem, which he says he is selling. I buy the Poem for two shillings, which I know is weak, and say that he really must not send anyone else as I cannot afford it. He assures me that he never will, and goes.

  Bell rings again, and fails to leave off. I am filled with horror, and look up at it — inaccessible position, and nothing to be seen except two mysterious little jam-jars and some wires. Climb on a chair to investigate, then fear electrocution and climb down again without having done anything. Housekeeper from upstairs rushes down, and unknown females from basement rush up, and we all look at the ceiling and say Better fetch a Man. This is eventually done, and I meditate ironical article on Feminism, while bell rings on madly. Man, however, arrives, says Ah, yes, he thought as much, and at once reduces bell to order, apparently by sheer power of masculinity.

  Am annoyed, and cannot settle down to anything.

  October 7th. — Extraordinary behaviour of dear Rose, with whom I am engaged — and have been for days past — to go and have supper tonight. Just as I am trying to decide whether bus to Portland Street or tube to Oxford Circus will be preferable, I am called up on telephone by Rose’s married niece, who lives in Hertfordshire, and is young and modern, to say that speaker for her Women’s Institute to-night has failed, and that Rose, on being appealed to, has at once suggested my name and expressed complete willingness to dispense with my society for the evening. Utter impossibility of pleading previous engagement is obvious; I contemplate for an instant saying that I have influenza, but remember in time that niece, very intelligently, started the conversation by asking how I was, and that I replied Splendid, thanks — and there is nothing for it but to agree.

  (Query: Should much like to know if it was for this that I left Devonshire.)

  Think out several short, but sharply worded, letters to Rose, but time fails; I can only put brush and comb, slippers, sponge, three books, pyjamas and hot-water bottle into case — discover later that I have forgotten powder-puff, and am very angry, but to no avail — and repair by train to Hertfordshire.

  Spend most of journey in remembering all that I know of Rose’s niece, which is that she is well under thirty, pretty, talented, tremendous soc
ial success, amazingly good at games, dancing, and — I think — everything else in the world, and married to brilliantly clever young man who is said to have Made Himself a Name, though cannot at the moment recollect how.

  Have strong impulse to turn straight round and go home again, sooner than confront so much efficiency, but non-stop train renders this course impracticable.

  Niece meets me — clothes immensely superior to anything that I ever have had, or shall have — is charming, expresses gratitude, and asks what I am going to speak about. I reply, Amateur Theatricals. Excellent, of course, she says unconvincingly, and adds that the Institute has a large Dramatic Society already, that they are regularly produced by well-known professional actor, husband of Vice-President, and were very well placed in recent village-drama competition, open to all England.

  At this I naturally wilt altogether, and say Then perhaps better talk about books or something — which sounds weak, even as I say it, and am convinced that niece feels the same, though she remains imperturbably charming. She drives competently through the night, negotiates awkward entrance to garage equally well, extracts my bag and says that It is Heavy — which is undeniable, and is owing to books, but cannot say so, as it would look as though I thought her house likely to be inadequately supplied — and conducts me into perfectly delightful, entirely modern, house, which I feel certain — rightly, I discover later — has every newest labour-saving device ever invented.

  Bathroom especially — (all appears to be solid marble, black-and-white tiles, and dazzling polish) — impresses me immeasurably. Think regretfully, but with undiminished affection, of extremely inferior edition at home — paint peeling in several directions, brass taps turning green at intervals until treated by housemaid, and irregular collection of home-made brackets on walls, bearing terrific accumulation of half-empty bottles, tins of talcum powder and packets of Lux.