Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  I enquire if his arm hurts him — at which he looks blankly astonished — inspect the cut, produce iodine and apply it, and finally return to Modern Freedom in Marriage, distinctly shattered, whilst window-cleaner resumes work, but this time without song.

  Literary inspiration more and more evasive every moment, and can think of nothing whatever about Modern Freedom except that it doesn’t exist in the provinces. Ideas as to Marriage not lacking, but these would certainly not be printed by any newspaper on earth, and should myself be deeply averse from recording them in any way.

  Telephone rings and I instantly decide that: (a) Robert has died suddenly. (b) Literary Agent has effected a sale of my film-rights, recent publication, for sum running into five figures, pounds not dollars. (c) Robin has met with serious accident at school. (d) Pamela Pringle wishes me once more to cover her tracks whilst engaged in pursuing illicit amour of one kind or another.

  (Note: Swiftness of human (female) imagination surpasses that of comet’s trail across the heavens quite easily. Could not this idea be embodied in short poem? Am convinced, at the moment, that some such form of expression would prove infinitely easier than projected article about Modern Freedom, etc.)

  I say Yes? into the telephone — entire flight of fancy has taken place between two rings — and unknown contralto voice says that I shan’t remember her — which is true — but that she is Helen de Liman de la Pelouse and we met at Pamela Pringle’s at lunch one day last October. To this I naturally have to reply Oh yes, yes — indeed we did — as if it all came back to me — which it does, in a way, only cannot possibly remember anything except collection of women all very much better dressed and more socially competent than myself, and am perfectly certain that H. de L. de la P. was never introduced by name at all. (Would probably have taken too long, in crowded rush of modern life.)

  Will I forgive last-minute invitation and come and dine to-night and meet one or two people, all interested in Books, and H. de la P.’s cousin, noted literary critic whom I may like to know? Disturbing implication here that literary critics allow their judgment to be influenced by considerations other than aesthetic and academic ones — but cannot unravel at the moment, and merely accept with pleasure and say What time and Where? Address in large and expensive Square is offered me, time quarter to nine if that isn’t too late? (Query: What would happen, if I said Yes, it is too late? Would entire scheme be reorganised?)

  Am recalled from this rather idle speculation by window-cleaner — whose very existence I have completely forgotten — taking his departure noisily, but with quite unresentful salutation, and warning — evidently kindly intended — that them cords are wore through and need seeing to. I make a note on the blotting-paper to this effect, and am again confronted with perfectly blank sheet of paper waiting to receive masterpiece of prose concerning Modern Freedom in Marriage. Decide that this is definitely not the moment to deal with it, and concentrate instead on urgent and personal questions concerned with to-night’s festivity. Have practically no alternative as to frock — recently acquired silver brocade — and hair has fortunately been shampoo’d and set within the last three days so still looks its best — evening cloak looks well when on, and as it will remain either in hall or hostess’s bedroom, condition of the lining need concern no one but myself and servant in attendance — who will be obliged to keep any views on the subject concealed. Shoes will have to be reclaimed immediately from the cleaners, but this easily done. More serious consideration is that of taxi-fare, absolutely necessitated by situation of large and expensive Square, widely removed from bus or tube routes. Am averse from cashing cheque, for very sound reason that balance is at lowest possible ebb and recent passages between Bank and myself give me no reason to suppose that they will view even minor overdraft with indulgence — and am only too well aware that shopping expedition and laundry-book between them have left me with exactly fivepence in hand.

  Have recourse, not for the first time, to perhaps rather infantile, but by no means unsuccessful, stratagem of unearthing small hoards of coins distributed by myself, in more affluent moments, amongst all the hand-bags I possess in the world.

  Two sixpences, some halfpence, one florin and a half-crown are thus brought to light, and will see me handsomely through the evening, and breakfast at Lyons’ next morning into the bargain.

  Am unreasonably elated by this and go so far as to tell myself that very likely I shall collect some ideas for Modern Freedom article in general conversation to-night and needn’t bother about it just now.

  Rose comes in unexpectedly, and is immediately followed by Felicity Fairmead, but they do not like one another and atmosphere lacks entrain altogether. Make rather spasmodic conversation about the children, The Miracle — which we all three of us remember perfectly well in the old days at Olympia, but all declare severally that we were more or less children at the time and too young to appreciate it — and State of Affairs in America, which we agree is far worse than it is here. This is openly regretted by Rose (because she knows New York well and enjoyed being there) and by me (because I have recently met distinguished American publisher and liked him very much) and rejoiced in by Felicity (because she thinks Prohibition is absurd). Feminine mentality rather curiously and perhaps not altogether creditably illustrated here. Have often wondered on exactly what grounds I am a Feminist, and am sorry to say that no adequate reply whatever presents itself. Make note to think entire question out dispassionately when time permits — if it ever does.

  Rose and Felicity both refuse my offer of tea and mixed biscuits — just as well, as am nearly sure there is no milk — and show strong inclination to look at one another expectantly in hopes of an immediate departure. Rose gives in first, and goes, and directly she has left Felicity asks me what on earth I see in her, but does not press for an answer. We talk about clothes, mutual friends, and utter impossibility of keeping out of debt. Felicity — who is, and always has been, completely unworldly, generous and utterly childlike — looks at me with enormous brown eyes, and says solemnly that nothing in this world — NOTHING — matters except Money, and on this she takes her departure. I empty cigarette ash out of all the ash-trays — Felicity doesn’t smoke at all and Rose and I only had one cigarette each, but results out of all proportion — and go through customary far-sighted procedure of turning down bed, drawing curtains and filling kettle for hot-water bottle, before grappling with geyser, of which I am still mortally terrified, and getting ready for party. During these operations I several times encounter sheet of paper destined to record my views about Modern Freedom in Marriage, but do nothing whatever about it, except decide again how I shall spend the money.

  Am firmly resolved against arriving too early, and do not telephone for taxi until half-past eight, then find number engaged, and operator — in case of difficulty dial 0 — entirely deaf to any appeal. Accordingly rush out into the street — arrangement of hair suffers rather severely — find that I have forgotten keys and have to go back again — make a second attack on telephone, this time with success, rearrange coiffure and observe with horror that three short minutes in the open air are enough to remove every trace of powder from me, repair this, and depart at last.

  After all this, am, as usual, first person to arrive. Highly finished product of modern civilisation, in white satin with no back and very little front, greets me, and I perceive her to be extremely beautiful, and possessed of superb diamonds and pearls. Evidently Helen de Liman de la Pelouse. This conjecture confirmed when she tells me, in really very effective drawl, that we sat opposite to one another at Pamela Pringle’s luncheon party, and may she introduce her husband? Husband is apparently Jewish — why de Liman de la Pelouse? — and looks at me in a rather lifeless and exhausted way and then gives me a glass of sherry, evidently in the hope of keeping me quiet. H. de L. de la P. talks about the weather — May very wet, June very hot, English climate very uncertain — and husband presently joins in and says all the same things in slightly d
ifferent words. We then all three look at one another in despair, until I am suddenly inspired to remark that I have just paid a most interesting visit to the studio of a rather interesting young man whose work I find interesting, called Hipps. (Should be hard put to it to say whether construction of this sentence, or implication that it conveys, is the more entirely alien to my better principles.) Experiment proves immediately successful, host and hostess become animated, and H. de L. de la P. says that Hipps is quite the most mordant of the younger set of young present-day satirists, don’t I think, and that last thing of his definitely had patine. I recklessly agree, but am saved from further perjury by arrival of more guests. All are unknown to me, and fill me with terror, but pretty and harmless creature in black comes and stands next me, and we talk about 1066 and All That and I say that if I’d known in time that the authors were schoolmasters I should have sent my son to them at all costs, and she says Oh, have I children? — but does not, as I faintly hope, express any surprise at their being old enough to go to school at all — and I say Yes, two, and then change the subject rather curtly for fear of becoming involved in purely domestic conversation.

  Find myself at dinner between elderly man with quantities of hair, and much younger man who looks nice and smiles at me. Make frantic endeavours, without success, to read names on little cards in front of them, and wish violently that I ever had sufficient presence of mind to listen to people’s names when introduced — which I never do.

  Try the elderly man with Hipps. He does not respond. Switch over to thinking he knows a friend of mine, Mrs. Pringle? No, he doesn’t think so. Silence follows, and I feel it is his turn to say something, but as he doesn’t, and as my other neighbour is talking hard to pretty woman in black, I launch into Trade Depression and Slump in America, and make a good deal of use of all the more intelligent things said by Rose and Felicity this afternoon. Elderly neighbour still remains torpid except for rather caustic observation concerning Mr. Hoover. Do not feel competent to defend Mr. Hoover, otherwise should certainly do so, as by this time am filled with desire to contradict everything elderly neighbour may ever say. He gives me, however, very little opportunity for doing so, as he utters hardly at all and absorbs himself in perfectly admirable lobster Thermidor. Final effort on my part is to tell him the incident of the window-cleaner, which I embroider very considerably in rather unsuccessful endeavour to make it amusing, and this at last unseals his lips and he talks quite long and eloquently about Employers’ Liability, which he views as an outrage. Consume lobster silently, in my turn, and disagree with him root and branch, but feel that it would be waste of time to say so and accordingly confine myself to invaluable phrase: I See What He Means.

  We abandon mutual entertainment with great relief shortly afterwards, and my other neighbour talks to me about books, says that he has read mine and proves it by a quotation, and I decide that he must be distinguished critic spoken of by H. de L. de la P. Tell him the story of window-cleaner, introducing several quite new variations, and he is most encouraging, laughs heartily, and makes me feel that I am a witty and successful raconteuse — which in saner moments I know very well that I am not.

  (Query: Has this anything to do with the champagne? Answer, almost certainly, Yes, everything.)

  Amusing neighbour and myself continue to address one another exclusively — fleeting wonder as to what young creature in black feels about me — and am sorry when obliged to ascend to drawing-room for customary withdrawal. Have a feeling that H. de L. de la P. — who eyes me anxiously — is thinking that I am Rather A Mistake amongst people who all know one another very well indeed. Try to tell myself that this is imagination, and all will be easier when drinking coffee, which will not only give me occupation — always a help — but clear my head, which seems to be buzzing slightly.

  H. de L. de la P. refers to Pamela — everybody in the room evidently an intimate friend of Pamela’s, and general galvanisation ensues. Isn’t she adorable? says very smart black-and-white woman, and Doesn’t that new platinum hair suit her too divinely? asks somebody else, and we all cry Yes, quite hysterically, to both. H. de L. de la P. then points me out and proclaims — having evidently found a raison d’ etre for me at last — that I have known Pamela for years and years — longer than any of them. I instantly become focus of attention, and everyone questions me excitedly.

  Do I know what became of the second husband? — Templer-Something was his name. No explanation ever forthcoming of his disappearance, and immediate replacement by somebody else. Have I any idea of Pamela’s real age? Of course she looks too, too marvellous, but it is an absolute fact that her eldest child can’t possibly be less than fifteen, and it was the child of the second marriage, not the first.

  Do I know anything about that Pole who used to follow her about everywhere, and was supposed to have been shot by his wife in Paris on account of P. P.?

  Is it true that Pringle — unfortunate man — isn’t going to stand it any longer and has threatened to take Pamela out to Alaska to live?

  And is she — poor darling — still going about with the second husband of that woman she’s such friends with?

  Supply as many answers as I can think of to all this, and am not perturbed as to their effect, feeling perfectly certain that whatever I say Pamela’s dear friends have every intention of believing, and repeating, whatever they think most sensational and nothing else.

  This conviction intensified when they, in their turn, overwhelm me with information.

  Do I realise, says phenomenally slim creature with shaven eyebrows, that Pamela will really get herself into difficulties one of these days, if she isn’t more careful? That, says the eyebrows — impressively, but surely inaccurately — is Pamela’s trouble. She isn’t careful. Look at the way she behaved with that South American millionaire at Le Touquet!

  Look, says somebody else, at her affair with the Prince. Reckless — no other word for it.

  Finally H. de L. de la P. — who has been quietly applying lip-stick throughout the conversation — begs us all to Look at the type of man that falls for Pamela. She knows that Pamela is attractive, of course — sex-appeal, and all that — but after all, that can’t go on for ever, and then what will be left? Nothing whatever. Pamela’s men aren’t the kind to go on being devoted. They simply have this brief flare-up, and then drift off to something younger and newer. Every time. Always.

  Everybody except myself agrees, and several people look rather relieved about it. Conversation closes, as men are heard upon the stairs, with H. de L. de la P. assuring us all that Pamela is one of her very dearest friends, and she simply adores her — which is supported by assurances of similar devotion from everyone else. Remain for some time afterwards in rather stunned condition, thinking about Friendship, and replying quite mechanically, and no doubt unintelligently, to thin man who stands near me — (wish he would sit, am getting crick in my neck) — and talks about a drawing in Punch of which he thought very highly, but cannot remember if it was Raven Hill or Bernard Partridge, nor what it was about, except that it had something to do with Geneva.

  Evening provides no further sensation, and am exceedingly sleepy long before somebody in emeralds and platinum makes a move. Pleasant man who sat next me at dinner has hoped, in agreeable accents, that we shall meet again — I have echoed the hope, but am aware that it has no foundation in probability — and H. de L. de la P. has said, at parting, that she is so glad I have had an opportunity of meeting her cousin, very well known critic. Do not like to tell her that I have never identified this distinguished littérateur at all, and leave the house still uninformed as to whether he was, or was not, either of my neighbours at dinner. Shall probably now never know.

  July 1st. — Once more prepare to leave London, and am haunted by words of out-of-date song once popular: How’re you Going to Keep’ em Down on the Farm, Now that they’ve seen Paree? Answer comes there none.

  Day filled with various activities, including packing, which I d
islike beyond anything on earth and do very badly — write civil letter to H. de L. de la P. to say that I enjoyed her dinner-party, and ring up Rose in order to exchange good-byes. Rose, as usual, is out — extraordinary gadabout dear Rose is — and I leave rather resentful message with housekeeper, and return to uncongenial task of folding garments in sheets of tissue paper that are always either much too large or a great deal too small.

  Suitcase is reluctant to close, I struggle for some time and get very hot, success at last, and am then confronted by neatly folded dressing-gown which I have omitted to put in.

  Telephone rings and turns out to be Emma Hay, who is very very excited about satire which she says she has just written and which will set the whole of London talking. If I care to come round at once, says Emma, she is reading it aloud to a few Really Important People, and inviting free discussion and criticism afterwards.

  I express necessary regrets, and explain that I am returning to the country in a few hours’ time.

  What, shrieks Emma, leaving London? Am I mad? Do I intend to spend the whole of the rest of my life pottering about the kitchen, and seeing that Robert gets his meals punctually, and that the children don’t bring muddy boots into the house? Reply quite curtly and sharply: Yes, I Do, and ring off — which seems to me, on the whole, the quickest and most rational method of dealing with Emma.

  July 4th. — Return home has much to recommend it, country looks lovely, everything more or less in bloom, except strawberries, which have unaccountably failed, Robert gives me interesting information regarding recent sale of heifer, and suspected case of sclerosis of the liver amongst neighbouring poultry, and Helen Wills claws at me demonstratively under the table as I sit down to dinner. Even slight faux pas on my own part, when I exclaim joyfully that the children will be home in a very short time now, fails to create really serious disturbance of harmonious domestic atmosphere.