Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Temporary gloom cast by the thought of Crosbie Carruthers killing himself is dissipated by the baby, who crawls about on the floor, and is said to be like his father. At this, however, old Mrs. Blenkinsop suddenly rebels, and announces that dear Baby is the image of herself as a tiny, and demands the immediate production of her portrait at four years old to prove her words. Portrait is produced, turns out to be a silhouette, showing pitch-black little profile with ringlets and necklace, on white background, and we all say Yes, we quite see what she means.

  Baby very soon afterwards begins to cry — can this be cause and effect? — and is taken away by Barbara.

  Mrs. B. tells us that it is a great joy to have them with her, she has given up the whole of the top floor to them, and it means engaging an extra girl, and of course dear Baby’s routine has to come before everything, so that her little house is upside-down — but that, after all, is nothing. She is old, her life is over, nothing now matters to her, except the welfare and happiness of her loved ones.

  Everybody rather dejected at these sentiments, and I seek to make a diversion by referring to approaching departure for America.

  Several pieces of information are then offered to me:

  The Americans are very hospitable.

  The Americans are so hospitable that they work one to death. (Analogy here with Barbara’s husband?)

  The Americans like the English.

  The Americans do not like the English at all.

  It is not safe to go out anywhere in Chicago without a revolver. (To this I might well reply that, so far as I am concerned, it would be even less safe to go out with one.)

  Whatever happens I must visit Hollywood, eat waffles, see a baseball match, lunch at a Women’s Club, go up to the top of the Woolworth Building, and get invited to the house of a millionaire so as to see what it’s like.

  All alcohol in America is wood-alcohol and if I touch it I shall die, or become blind or go raving mad.

  It is quite impossible to refuse to drink alcohol in America, because the Americans are so hospitable.

  Decide after this to go home, and consult Robert as to advisability of cancelling proposed visit to America altogether.

  Sept. 7th. — Instructions from America reach me to the effect that I am to stay at Essex House, in New York. Why Essex? Should much have preferred distinctive American name, such as Alabama or Connecticut House. Am consoled by enclosure, which gives photograph of superb skyscraper, and informs me that, if I choose, I shall be able to dine in the Persian Coffee Shop, under the direction of a French chef, graduate of the Escoffier School.

  The English Molyneux sends home my clothes in instalments, am delighted with flowered red silk which is — I hope — to give me self-confidence in mounting any platform on which I may have the misfortune to find myself — also evening dress, more or less devoid of back, in very attractive pale brocade. Show red silk to Our Vicar’s Wife, who says Marvellous, dear, but do not produce backless evening frock.

  Sept. 20th. — Letter arrives from complete stranger — signature seems to be Ella B. Chickhyde, which I think odd — informing me that she is so disappointed that the sailing of the Rotterdam has been cancelled, and we must sail instead by the Statendam, on October 7th, unless we like to make a dash for the previous boat, which means going on board the day after to-morrow, and will I be so kind as to telegraph? Am thrown into confusion by the whole thing, and feel that Robert will think it is all my fault — which he does, and says that Women Never Stick to Anything for Five Minutes Together — which is wholly unjust, but makes me feel guilty all the same. He also clears up identity of Ella B. Chickhyde, by saying that she must be the friend of that woman who came in a car on her way to Wales, and talked. This at once recalls Mrs. Tressider, and I telegraph to Ella B. Chickhyde to say that I hope to sail on the Statendam.

  Last day of the holidays then takes its usual course. I pack frantically in the intervals of reading Vice Versa aloud, playing Corinthian Bagatelle, sanctioning an expedition to the village to buy sweets, and helping Vicky over her holiday task, about which she has suddenly become acutely anxious, after weeks of brassy indifference.

  Sept. 21st. — Take children to London, and general dispersal ensues. Vicky drops large glass bottle of sweets on platform at Waterloo, with resultant breakage, amiable porter rushes up and tells her not to cry, as he can arrange it all. This he does by laboriously separating broken glass from sweets, with coal-black hands, and placing salvage in a piece of newspaper. Present him with a florin, and am not sufficiently strong-minded to prevent Vicky from going off with newspaper parcel bulging in coat pocket.

  Robin and I proceed to Charing Cross — he breaks lengthy silence by saying that to him it only seems one second ago that I was meeting him here, instead of seeing him off — and this moves me so much that I am quite unable to answer, and we walk down Platform Six — Special School-train — without exchanging a syllable. The place is, as usual, crowded with parents and boys, including minute creature who can scarcely be seen under grey wide-awake hat, and who I suggest must be a new boy. Robin, however, says Oh no, that’s quite an old boy, and seems slightly amused.

  Parting, thanks to this blunder on my part, is slightly less painful than usual, and I immediately go and have my hair washed and set, in order to distract my thoughts, before proceeding to Doughty Street. Caroline awaits me there, together with lavish display of flowers that she has arranged in my honour, which touches me, and entirely compensates for strange disorder that prevails all over flat. Moreover, C. C. extraordinarily sweet-tempered and acquiesces with apologies when I suggest the removal of tiny green hat, two glass vases and a saucepan, from the bathroom.

  Sept. 25th. — Attend dinner-party of most distinguished people, given by celebrated young publisher connected with New York house. Evening is preceded by prolonged mental conflict on my part, concerning — as usual — clothes. Caroline C. urges me to put on new backless garment, destined for America, but superstitious feeling that this may be unlucky assails me, and I hover frantically between very old blue and comparatively new black-and-white stripes. Caroline is sympathetic throughout, but at seven o’clock suddenly screams that she is due at a sherry party and must rush, she’d forgotten all about it.

  (Extraordinary difference between this generation and my own impresses me immensely. Should never, at C. C.’s age — or probably any other — have forgotten even a tea-party, let alone a sherry one. This no time, however, for indulging in philosophical retrospective studies.)

  Baby Austin, as usual, is at the door; C. C. leaps into it and vanishes, at terrific pace, into Guilford Street, leaving me to get into black-and-white stripes, discover that black evening shoes have been left at home, remember with relief that grey brocade ones are here and available, and grey silk stockings that have to be mended, but fortunately above the knee. Result of it all is that I am late, which I try to feel is modern, but really only consider bad-mannered.

  Party is assembled when I arrive, am delighted to see Distinguished Artist, well known to me in Hampstead days, whom I at once perceive to have been celebrating the occasion almost before it has begun — also famous man of letters next whom I am allowed to sit at dinner, and actor with Whom I have — in common with about ninety-nine per cent of the feminine population — been in love for years. (This state of affairs made much worse long before the end of the evening.)

  Party is successful from start to finish, everybody wishes me a pleasant trip to America, I am profoundly touched and feel rather inclined to burst into tears — hope this has nothing to do with the champagne — but fortunately remember in time that a’ scarlet nose and patchy face can be becoming to no one. (Marked discrepancy here between convention so prevalent in fiction, and state of affairs common to everyday life.)

  Am escorted home at one o’clock by Distinguished Artist and extraordinarily pretty girl called Dinah; and retire to sofa-bed in sitting-room, taking every precaution not to wake Caroline C., innocently s
lumbering in bedroom.

  Just as I have dropped asleep, hall-door bangs, and I hear feet rushing up the stairs, and wonder if it can be burglars, but decide that only very amateurish ones, with whom I could probably deal, would make so much noise. Point is settled by sudden appearance of light under bedroom door, and stifled, but merry rendering of “Stormy Weather” which indicates that C. C. has this moment returned from belated revels no doubt connected with sherry party. Am impressed by this fresh evidence of the gay life lived by the young to-day, and go to sleep again.

  Oct. 1st. — Return home yesterday coincides with strong tendency to feel that I can’t possibly go to America at all, and that most likely I shall never come back alive if I do, and anyway everything here will go to rack and ruin without me. Say something of these premonitions to Robert, who replies that (a) It would be great waste of money to cancel my passage now — (b) I shall be quite all right if I remember to look where I’m going when I cross the streets — and (c) he dares say Cook and Florence will manage very well. I ask wildly if he will cable to me if anything goes wrong with the children, and he says Certainly and enquires what arrangements I have made about the servants’ wages? Remainder of the evening passes in domestic discussion, interrupted by telephone call from Robert’s brother William, who says that he wishes to see me off at Southampton. Am much gratified by this, and think it tactful not to enquire why dear William’s wife Angela has not associated herself with the scheme.

  Oct. 7th. — Long and agitating day, of which the close finds me on board s.s. Statendam, but cannot yet feel wholly certain how this result has been achieved, owing to confusion of mind consequent on packing, unpacking — for purpose of retrieving clothes-brush and cheque-book, accidentally put in twenty-four hours too early — consulting numbers of Lists and Notes, and conveying self and luggage — six pieces all told, which I think moderate — to boat-train at Waterloo.

  Caroline Concannon has handsomely offered to go with me to Southampton, and I have accepted, and Felicity Fairmead puts in unexpected and gratifying appearance at Waterloo. I say, Isn’t she astonished to find me travelling first-class? and she replies No, not in the least, which surprises me a good deal, but decide that it’s a compliment in its way.

  Caroline C. and I have carriage to ourselves, but label on window announces that H. Press is to occupy Corner Seat, window side, facing engine. We decide that H. P. is evidently fussy, probably very old, and — says Caroline with an air of authority — most likely an invalid. The least we can do, she says, is to put all hand-luggage up on the rack and leave one side of carriage entirely free, so that he can put his feet up. Felicity says, Suppose he is lifted in on a wheel-chair? but this we disregard, as being mere conjecture. All, however, is wasted, as H. Press fails to materialise, and train, to unbounded concern of us all three, goes off without him.

  Robert and William meet us at Southampton, having motored from Devonshire and Wiltshire respectively, and take us on board tender, where we all sit in a draught, on very hard seats. Robert shows me letters he has brought me from home — one from Our Vicar’s Wife, full of good wishes very kindly expressed, and will I, if absolutely convenient, send photograph of Falls of Niagara, so helpful in talking to school-children about wonders of Nature — the rest mostly bills. I tell Robert madly that I shall pay them all from America — which I know very well that I shan’t — and we exchange comments, generally unfavourable, about fellow-passengers. Tender gets off at last — draught more pervasive than ever. Small steamers rise up at intervals, and Caroline says excitedly: There she is! to each of them. Enormous ship with four funnels comes into view, and I say: There she is! but am, as usual, wrong, and Statendam only reached hours later, when we are all overawed by her size, except Robert.

  On board Robert takes charge of everything — just as well, as I am completely dazed — conducts us to Cabin 89, miraculously produces my luggage, tells me to have dinner and unpack the moment the tender goes off — (this advice surely strikes rather sinister note?) — and shows me where dining-saloon is, just as though he’d been there every day for years.

  He then returns me to cabin, where William is quietly telling Caroline the story of his life, rings for steward and commands him to bring a bottle of champagne, and my health is drunk.

  Am touched and impressed, and wonder wildly if it would be of any use to beg Robert to change all his plans and come with me to America after all? Unable to put this to the test, as bell rings loudly and dramatically, tender is said to be just off, and farewells become imminent. Robert, William and Caroline are urged by various officials to Mind their Heads, please, and Step this way — I exchange frantic farewells with all three, feel certain that I shall never see any of them again, and am left in floods of tears in what seems for the moment to be complete and utter solitude, but afterwards turns out to be large crowd of complete strangers, stewards in white jackets and colossal palms in pots.

  Can see nothing for it but to follow Robert’s advice and go to dining-saloon, which I do, and find myself seated next to large and elderly American lady who works her way steadily through eight-course dinner and tells me that she is on a very strict diet. She also says that her cabin is a perfectly terrible one, and she knew the moment she set foot on the ship that she was going to dislike everything on board. She is, she says, like that. She always knows within the first two minutes whether she is going to like or dislike her surroundings. Am I, she enquires, the same? Should like to reply that it never takes me more than one minute to know exactly what I feel, not only about my surroundings, but about those with whom I have to share them. However, she waits for no answer, so this mot, as so many others, remains unuttered.

  Friend of Mrs. Tressider, whom I have forgotten all about, comes up half-way through dinner, introduces herself as Ella Wheelwright — Chickhyde evidently a mistake — and seems nice. She introduces married sister and husband, from Chicago, and tells me that literary American, who says he has met me in London, is also on board. Would I like to sit at their table for meals? I am, however, to be perfectly honest about this. Am perfectly honest and say Yes, I should, but wonder vaguely what would happen if perfect honesty had compelled me to say No?

  Elderly American lady seems faintly hurt at prospect of my desertion, and says resentfully how nice it is for me to have found friends, and would I like to come and look at her cabin? Question of perfect honesty not having here been raised, I do so, and can see nothing wrong with it whatever. Just as I am leaving it-which I do as soon as civility permits — see that name on door is H. Press. Must remember to send Felicity and Caroline postcards about this.

  Oct. 9th. — Interior of my own cabin becomes extremely familiar, owing to rough weather and consequent collapse. Feel that I shall probably not live to see America, let alone England again.

  Oct. 11th. — Emerge gradually from very, very painful state of affairs. New remedy for sea-sickness provided by Rose may or may not be responsible for my being still alive, but that is definitely the utmost that can be said for it.

  Remain flat on my back, and wish that I could either read or go to sleep, but both equally impossible. Try to recall poetry, by way of passing the time, and find myself involved in melancholy quotations: Sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things alternating with A few more years shall roll. Look at snapshots of Robert and the children, but this also a failure, as I begin to cry and wonder why I ever left them. Have died and been buried at sea several times before evening and — alternatively — have heard of fatal accident to Robin, dangerous illness of Vicky, and suicide of Robert, all owing to my desertion. Endless day closes in profound gloom and renewed nausea.

  Oct. 12th. — Situation improved, I get up and sit on deck, eat raw apple for lunch, and begin to feel that I may, after all, live to see America. Devote a good deal of thought, and still more admiration, to Christopher Columbus who doubtless performed similar transit to mine, under infinitely more trying conditions.

  Ella Wheelwr
ight comes and speaks to me — she looks blooming in almond-green dress with cape, very smart — and is compassionate. We talk about Mrs. Tressider — a sweet thing, says Ella W., and I immediately acquiesce, though description not in the least applicable to my way of thinking — and agree that The Boy does not look strong. (Perceive that this is apparently the only comment that ever occurs to anybody in connection with The Boy, and wonder if he is destined to go through life with this negative reputation and no other.)

  Just as I think it must be tea-time, discover that all ship clocks differ from my watch, and am informed by deck steward that The Time Goes Back an Hour every night. Pretend that I knew this all along, and had merely forgotten it, but am in reality astonished, and wish that Robert was here to explain.

  Day crawls by slowly, but not too unpleasantly, and is enlivened by literary American, met once before in London, who tells me all about English authors in New York, and gives me to understand that if popular, they get invited to cocktail parties two or three times daily, and if unpopular, are obliged to leave the country.

  Oct. 14th. — America achieved. Statue of Liberty, admirably lit up, greets me at about seven o’clock this evening, entrance to harbour is incredibly beautiful, and skyscrapers prove to be just as impressive as their reputation, and much more decorative.

  Just as I am admiring everything from top deck two unknown young women suddenly materialise — (risen from the ocean, like Venus?) — also young man with camera, and I am approached and asked if I will at once give my views on The United States, the American Woman and Modern American Novels. Young man says that he wishes to take my photograph, which makes me feel like a film star — appearance, unfortunately, does nothing to support this illusion — and this is duly accomplished, whilst I stand in dégagé attitude, half-way down companion-ladder on which I have never before set foot throughout the voyage.