Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Niece shows me her children — charming small boy, angelic baby — both, needless to say, have curls. She asks civilly about Robin and Vicky, and I can think of nothing whatever to the credit of either, so merely reply that they are at school.

  N.B. Victorian theory as to maternal pride now utterly discredited. Affection, yes. Pride, no.

  We have dinner — niece has changed into blue frock which suits her and is, of course, exactly right for the occasion. I do the best I can with old red dress and small red cap that succeeds in being thoroughly unbecoming without looking in the least up to date, and endeavour to make wretched little compact from bag do duty for missing powder-puff. Results not good.

  We have a meal, am introduced to husband — also young — and we talk about Rose, mutual friends, Time and Tide and Electrolux cleaners.

  Evening at Institute reasonably successful — am much impressed by further display of efficiency from niece, as President — I speak about Books, and obtain laughs by introduction of three entirely irrelevant anecdotes, am introduced to felt hat and fur coat, felt hat and blue jumper, felt hat and tweeds, and so on. Names of all alike remain impenetrably mysterious, as mine no doubt to them.

  (Flight of fancy here as to whether this deplorable, but customary, state of affairs is in reality unavoidable? Theory exists that it has been completely overcome in America, where introductions always entirely audible and frequently accompanied by short biographical sketch. Should like to go to America.)

  Niece asks kindly if I am tired. I say No not at all, which is a lie, and she presently takes me home and I go to bed. Spare-room admirable in every respect, but no waste-paper basket. This solitary flaw in general perfection a positive relief.

  October 8th. — All endeavours to communicate with Rose by telephone foiled, as her housekeeper invariably answers, and says that she is Out. Can quite understand this. Resolve that dignified course is to take no further steps, and leave any advances to Rose.

  This resolution sets up serious conflict later in day, when I lunch with Viscountess, originally met as Rose’s friend, as she does nothing but talk of her with great enthusiasm, and I am torn between natural inclination to respond and sense of definite grievance at Rose’s present behaviour.

  Lunch otherwise highly successful. Have not bought new hat, which is as well, as Viscountess removes hers at an early stage, and is evidently quite indifferent to millinery.

  October 10th. — Am exercised over minor domestic problem, of peculiarly prosaic description, centering round collection of Dust-bins in small, so-called back garden of Doughty Street flat. All these dust-bins invariably brim-full, and am convinced that contents of alien waste-paper baskets contribute constantly to mine, as have no recollection at all of banana-skin, broken blue-and-white saucer, torn fragments of Police-Court Gazette, or small, rusty tin kettle riddled with holes.

  Contemplate these phenomena with great dislike, but cannot bring myself to remove them, so poke my contribution down with handle of feather-duster, and retire.

  October 13th. — Call upon Rose, in rather unusual frame of mind which suddenly descends upon me after lunch — cannot at all say why — impelling me to demand explanation of strange behaviour last week.

  Rose at home, and says How nice to see me, which takes the wind out of my sails, but I rally, and say firmly that That is All Very Well, but what about that evening at the Women’s Institute? At this Rose, though holding her ground, blanches perceptibly, and tells me to sit down quietly and explain what I mean. Am very angry at quietly, which sounds as if I usually smashed up all the furniture, and reply — rather scathingly — that I will do my best not to rouse the neighbourhood. Unfortunately, rather unguarded movement of annoyance results in upsetting of small table, idiotically loaded with weighty books, insecurely fastened box of cigarettes, and two ash-trays. We collect them again in silence — cigarettes particularly elusive, and roll to immense distances underneath sofa and behind electric fire — and finally achieve an arm-chair apiece, and glare at one another across expanse of Persian rug.

  Am astonished that Rose is able to look me in the face at all, and say so, and long and painful conversation ensues, revealing curious inability on both our parts to keep to main issue. Should be sorry to recall in any detail exact number and nature of utterly irrelevant observations exchanged, but have distinct recollection that Rose asserts at various times that: (a) If I had been properly psycho-analysed years ago, I should realise that my mind has never really come to maturity at all. (b) It is perfectly ridiculous to wear shoes with such high heels. (c) Robert is a perfect saint and has a lot to put up with. (d) No one in the world can be readier than Rose is to admit that I can Write, but to talk about The Piano is absurd.

  Cannot deny that in return I inform her, in the course of the evening, that: (a) Her best friend could never call Rose tidy — look at the room now! (b) There is a great difference between being merely impulsive, and being utterly and grossly inconsiderate. (c) Having been to America does not, in itself, constitute any claim to infallibility on every question under the sun. (d) Naturally, what’s past is past, and I don’t want to remind her about the time she lost her temper over those idiotic iris-roots.

  Cannot say at what stage I am reduced to tears, but this unfortunately happens, and I explain that it is entirely due to rage, and nothing else. Rose suddenly says that there is nothing like coffee, and rings the bell. Retire to the bathroom in great disorder, mop myself up — tears highly unbecoming, and should much like to know how film-stars do it, usual explanation of Glycerine seems to me quite inadequate — Return to sitting-room and find that Rose, with extraordinary presence of mind, has put on the gramophone. Listen in silence to Rhapsody in Blue, and feel better.

  Admirable coffee is brought in, drink some, and feel better still. Am once more enabled to meet Rose’s eye, which now indicates contrition, and we simultaneously say that this is Perfectly Impossible, and Don’t let’s quarrel, whatever we do. All is harmony in a moment, and I kiss Rose, and she says that the whole thing was her fault, from start to finish, and I say No, it was mine absolutely, and we both say that we didn’t really mean anything we said.

  (Cold-blooded and slightly cynical idea crosses my mind later that entire evening has been complete waste of nervous energy, if neither of us meant any of the things we said — but refuse to dwell on this aspect of the case.)

  Eventually go home feeling extraordinarily tired. Find letter from Vicky, with small drawing of an elephant, that I think distinctly clever and modernistic, until I read letter and learn that it is A Table, laid for Dinner, also communication from Literary Agent saying how much he looks forward to seeing my new manuscript. (Can only hope that he enjoys the pleasures of anticipation as much as he says, since they are, at present rate of progress, likely to be prolonged.)

  Am also confronted by purple envelope and silver cypher, now becoming familiar, and scrawled invitation from Pamela Pringle to lunch at her flat, and meet half a dozen dear friends who simply adore my writing. Am sceptical about this, but shall accept, from degraded motives of curiosity to see the dear friends, and still more degraded motives of economy, leading me to accept a free meal from whatever quarter offered.

  October 16th. — Find myself in very singular position as regards the Bank, where distinctly unsympathetic attitude prevails in regard to quite small overdraft. Am interviewed by the Manager, who says he very much regrets that my account at present appears to be absolutely Stationary. I say with some warmth that he cannot regret it nearly as much as I do myself, and dead-lock appears to have been reached. Manager — cannot imagine why he thinks it a good idea — suddenly opens a large file, and reads me out extract from correspondence with very unendearing personality referred to as his Director, instructing him to bring pressure to bear upon this client — (me). I say Well, that’s all right, he has brought pressure to bear, so he needn’t worry — but perfect understanding fails to establish itself, and we part in gloom.


  Idle fantasy of suddenly acquiring several hundreds of thousands of pounds by means of Irish Sweep ticket nearly causes me to be run over by inferior-looking lorry with coal.

  October 18th. — Go to Woolworth’s to buy paper handkerchiefs — cold definitely impending — and hear excellent sixpenny record, entitled “Around the Corner and Under the Tree”, which I buy. Tune completely engaging, and words definitely vulgar, but not without cheap appeal. Something tells me that sooner or later I shall be explaining purchase away by saying that I got it to amuse the children.

  (Note: Self-knowledge possibly beneficial, but almost always unpleasant to a degree.)

  Determine to stifle impending cold, if only till after Pamela’s luncheon-party to-morrow, and take infinite trouble to collect jug, boiling water, small bottle of Friar’s Balsam and large bath-towel. All is ruined by one careless movement, which tips jug, Friar’s Balsam and hot water down front of my pyjamas. Am definitely scalded — skin breaks in one place and turns scarlet over area of at least six inches — try to show presence of mind and remember that Butter is The Thing, remember that there is no butter in the flat — frantic and irrelevant quotation here, It was the Best butter — remember vaseline, use it recklessly, and retire to bed in considerable pain and with cold unalleviated.

  October 19th. — Vagaries of Fate very curious and inexplicable. Why should severe cold in the head assail me exactly when due to lunch with Pamela Pringle in character of reasonably successful authoress, in order to meet unknown gathering of smart Society Women? Answer remains impenetrably mysterious.

  Take endless trouble with appearance, decide to wear my Blue, then take it all off again and revert to my Check, but find that this makes me look like a Swiss nursery governess, and return once more to Blue. Regret, not for the first time, that Fur Coat, which constitutes my highest claim to distinction of appearance, will necessarily have to be discarded in hall.

  Sloane Street achieved, as usual, via bus No. 19, and I again confront splendours of Pamela’s purple front door. Am shown into empty drawing-room, where I meditate in silence on unpleasant, but all-too-applicable, maxim that It is Provincial to Arrive too Early. Presently strange woman in black, with colossal emerald brooch pinned in expensive-looking frills of lace, is shown in, and says How d’y do, very amiably, and we talk about the weather, Gandhi and French poodles. (Why? There are none in the room, and can trace no association of ideas whatsoever.)

  Two more strange women in black appear, and I feel that my Blue is becoming conspicuous. All appear to know one another well, and to have met last week at lunch, yesterday evening at Bridge, and this morning at an Art Exhibition: No one makes any reference to Pamela, and grave and unreasonable panic suddenly assails me that I am in wrong flat altogether. Look madly round to see if I can recognise any of the furniture, and woman with osprey and rope of pearls enquires if I am missing that precious horse. I say No, not really — which is purest truth — and wonder if she has gone off her head. Subsequent conversation reveals that horse was made of soapstone.

  (Query: What is soapstone? Association here with Lord Darling, but cannot work out in full.)

  More and more anxious about non-appearance of Pamela P., especially when three more guests arrive — black two-piece, black coat-and-skirt, and black crêpe-de-chine with orange-varnished nails. (My Blue now definitely revealed as inferior imitation of Joseph’s coat, no less, and of very nearly equal antiquity.)

  They all call one another by Christian names, and have much to say about mutual friends, none of whom I have ever heard of before. Someone called Goo-goo has had influenza, and while this is being discussed, I am impelled to violent sneezing fit. Everybody looks at me in horror, and conversation suffers severe check.

  (Note: Optimistic conviction that two handkerchiefs will last out through one luncheon party utterly unjustified in present circumstances. Never forget this again.)

  Door flies open and Pamela Pringle, of whom I have now given up all hope, rushes in, kisses everybody, falls over little dog — which has mysteriously appeared out of the blue and vanishes again after being fallen over — and says Oh do we all know one another, and isn’t she a fearfully bad hostess but she simply could not get away from Amédé, who really is a Pet. (Just as I have decided that Amédé is another little dog, it turns out that he is a Hairdresser.)

  Lunch is announced, and we all show customary reluctance to walking out of the room in simple and straightforward fashion, and cluster round the threshold with self-depreciating expressions until herded out by Pamela. I find myself sitting next to her — quite undeserved position of distinction, and probably intended for somebody else — with extraordinarily elegant black crêpe-de-chine on other side.

  Black crepe-de-chine says that she adored my book, and so did her husband, and her sister-in-law, who is Clever and never says Anything unless she really Means It, thought it quite marvellous. Having got this off her chest, she immediately begins to talk about recent visit of her own to Paris, and am forced to the conclusion that her standards of sincerity must fall definitely below those of unknown sister-in-law.

  Try to pretend that I know Paris as well as she does, but can see that she is not in the least taken in by this.

  Pamela says Oh, did she see Georges in Paris, and what are the new models like? but crêpe-de-chine shakes her head and says Not out yet, and Georges never will show any Spring things before December, at very earliest — which to me sounds reasonable, but everybody else appears to feel injured about it, and Pamela announces that she sometimes thinks seriously about letting Gaston make for her instead of Georges — which causes frightful sensation. Try my best to look as much startled and horrified as everybody else, which is easy as am certain that I am about to sneeze again — which I do.

  (Both handkerchiefs now definitely soaked through and through, and sore will be out on upper lip before day is over.)

  Conversation veers about between Paris, weight-reduction — (quite unnecessary, none of them can possibly weigh more than seven stone, if that) — and annexation by someone called Diana of second husband of someone else called Tetsie, which everyone agrees was utterly justified, but no reason definitely given for this, except that Tetsie is a perfect darling, we all know, but no one on earth could possibly call her smartly turned-out.

  (Feel that Tetsie and I would have at least one thing in common, which is more than I can say about anybody else in the room — but this frame of mind verging on the sardonic, and not to be encouraged.)

  Pamela turns to me just as we embark on entirely admirable coupe Jacques, and talks about books, none of which have been published for more than five minutes and none of which, in consequence, I have as yet read — but feel that I am expected to be on my own ground here, and must — like Mrs. Dombey — make an effort, which I do by the help of remembering Literary Criticisms in Time and Tide’s issue of yesterday.

  Interesting little problem hovers on threshold of consciousness here: How on earth do Pamela and her friends achieve conversation about books which I am perfectly certain they have none of them read? Answer, at the moment, baffles me completely.

  Return to drawing-room ensues; I sneeze again, but discover that extreme left-hand corner of second pocket handkerchief is still comparatively dry, which affords temporary, but distinct, consolation.

  On the whole, am definitely relieved when emerald-brooch owner says that It is too, too sad, but she must fly, as she really is responsible for the whole thing, and it can’t begin without her — which might mean a new Permanent Wave, or a command performance at Buckingham Palace, but shall never now know which, as she departs without further explanation.

  Make very inferior exit of my own, being quite unable to think of any reason for going except that I have been wanting to almost ever since I arrived, — which cannot, naturally, be produced. Pamela declares that having me has been Quite Wonderful, and we part.

  Go straight home and to bed, and Housekeeper from upstairs most kindly b
rings me hot tea and cinnamon, which are far too welcome for me to make enquiry that conscience prompts, as to their rightful ownership.

  October 23rd. — Telephone bell rings at extraordinary hour of eleven-eighteen P.M., and extremely agitated voice says Oh is that me, to which I return affirmative answer and rather curt rider to the effect that I have been in bed for some little while. Voice then reveals itself as belonging to Pamela P. — which doesn’t surprise me in the least — who is, she says, in great, great trouble, which she cannot possibly explain. (Should much like to ask whether it was worth while getting me out of bed in order to hear that no explanation is available.) But, Pamela asks, will I, whatever happens, swear that she has spent the evening with me, in my flat? If I will not do this, then it is — once more — perfectly impossible to say what will happen. But Pamela knows that I will — I always was a darling — and I couldn’t refuse such a tiny, tiny thing, which is simply a question of life and death.

  Am utterly stunned by all this, and try to gain time by enquiring weakly if Pamela can by any chance tell me where she really has spent the evening? Realise as soon as I have spoken that this is not a tactful question, and am not surprised when muffled scream vibrates down receiver into my ear. Well, never mind that, then, I say, but just give me some idea as to who is likely to ask me what Pamela’s movements have been, and why. Oh, replies Pamela, she is the most absolutely misunderstood woman on earth, and don’t I feel that men are simply brutes? There isn’t one of them — not one — whom one can trust to be really tolerant and broad-minded and understanding. They only want One Thing.

  Feel quite unable to cope with this over telephone wire, and am, moreover, getting cold, and find attention straying towards possibility of reaching switch of electric fire with one hand whilst holding receiver with the other. Flexibility of the human frame very remarkable, but cannot altogether achieve this and very nearly overbalance, but recover in time to hear Pamela saying that if I will do this one thing for her, she will never, never forget it. There isn’t anyone else, she adds, whom she could ask. (Am not at all sure if this is any compliment.) Very well, I reply, if asked, I am prepared to say that Pamela spent the evening with me here, but I hope that no one will ask and Pamela must distinctly understand that this is the first and last time I shall ever do anything of the kind. Pamela begins to be effusive, but austere voice from the unseen says that Three Minutes is Up, will we have another Three, to which we both say No simultaneously, and silence abruptly supervenes.