Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Yes, on the whole I think I can.

  (Wonder what she would feel about extremely shabby bedroom at home, total absence of either private bathroom or Toulouse-Lautrec, and sitting-room downstairs in which Robert, children, cat, dog and myself all congregate together round indifferent wood fire. This vision, however, once more conducive to home-sickness, and hastily put it aside and look at all the books in the five bookcases to see what I can read in the bath.)

  Am surprised and gratified to find that I have remembered to pack everything I want, and perform satisfactory toilette, twice interrupted by offers of assistance from lady’s maid, who looks astonished when I refuse them. Look at myself in three different mirrors, decide — rather ungenerously — that I am better-looking than my hostess, and on this reassuring reflection proceed downstairs.

  November 5th (continued). — Decide that I am, beyond a doubt, making acquaintance with Millionaire Life in America, and that I must take mental notes of everything I see and eat, for benefit of Robert and the Women’s Institute. Hostess, waiting in the drawing-room, has now gone into mauve chiffon, triple necklace of large uncut amethysts, and at least sixteen amethyst bracelets. Do not think much of mauve chiffon, but am definitely envious of uncut amethysts, and think to myself that they would look well on me.

  Hostess is vivacious — talks to me in a sparkling manner about World Fair, the South — which I must, at all costs, visit — and California, which is, she says, overrated. But not, I urge, the climate? Oh yes, the climate too. Am disillusioned by this, and think of saying that even Wealth cannot purchase Ideal Climatic Conditions, but this far too reminiscent of the Fairchild Family, and is instantly dismissed.

  Arthur and Billy come down, and I experience renewed tendency to cling to their society in the midst of so much that is unfamiliar, and reflect that I shall never again blame dear Robin for invariably electing to sit next to his own relations at parties. Guests arrive — agreeable man with bald head comes and talks to me, and says that he has been looking forward to meeting me again, and I try, I hope successfully, to conceal fact that I had no idea that we had ever met before.

  Dinner follows — table is made of looking-glass, floor has looking-glass let into it and so has ceiling. This arrangement impressive in the extreme, though no doubt more agreeable to some of us than to others. Try to imagine Robert, Our Vicar and even old Mrs. Blenkinsop in these surroundings, and fail completely.

  After dinner return to quite another drawing-room, and sit next to yellow-satin lady with iron-grey hair, who cross-questions me rather severely on my impressions of America, and tells me that I don’t really like Chicago, as English people never do, but that I shall adore Boston. Am just preparing to contradict her when she spills her coffee all over me. We all scream, and I get to my feet, dripping coffee over no-doubt-invaluable Persian rug, and iron-grey lady, with more presence of mind than regard for truth, exclaims that I must have done it with my elbow and what a pity it is! Cannot, in the stress of the moment, think of any form of words combining both perfect candour and absolute courtesy in which to tell her that she is not speaking the truth and that her own clumsiness is entirely responsible for disaster. Iron-grey woman takes the initiative and calls for cold water — hot water no good at all, the colder the better, for coffee.

  (Query: Why does she know so much about it? Is it an old habit of hers to spill coffee? Probably.)

  Extensive sponging follows, and everybody except myself says that It ought to be All Right now — which I know very well only means that they are all thoroughly tired of the subject and wish to stop talking about it.

  Sit down again at furthest possible distance from iron-grey woman — who is now informing us that if my frock had been velvet she would have advised steaming, not sponging — and realise that, besides having ruined my frock, I am also running grave risk of rheumatic fever, owing to general dampness.

  Remainder of the evening, so far as I am concerned, lacks entrain.

  November 6th. — Chicago visit draws to a close, and Pete, after a last solemn warning to me about the importance of visiting book-stores in all the towns I go to, returns to New York, but tells me that we shall meet again somewhere or other very soon. Hope that this is meant as a pleasant augury, rather than a threat, but am by no means certain.

  November 7th. — Wake up in middle of the night and remember that I never asked Robert to water indoor bulbs, planted by me in September and left, as usual, in attic. Decide to send him a cable in the morning. Doze again, but wake once more with strong conviction that cable would not be a success as: (a) It might give Robert a shock. (b) He would think it extravagant. Decide to write letter about bulbs instead.

  Final spate of social activities marks the day, and includes further visit to World Fair, when I talk a great deal about buying presents for everybody at home, but in the long run only buy Indian silver bracelet with turquoise for Caroline C. (Will take up no extra room in flat, and am hoping she will wear it, rather than leave it about.)

  Telegram is brought me in the course of the afternoon, am seized by insane conviction that it must be from Robert to say he has watered the bulbs, but this stretching long arm of coincidence altogether too far, and decide instead that Robin has been mortally injured at football. Turns out to be communication of enormous length inviting me to Lecture in New York some weeks hence followed by lunch at which many distinguished writers hope to be present which will mean many important contacts also publicity Stop Very cordially Katherine Ellen Blatt. Read all this through at least four times before any of it really sinks in, and then send back brief, but I hope civil, refusal.

  Eat final dinner with Arthur and his family — tell them how much I hope they will all come and stay with Robert and myself next summer — and part from them with extreme regret.

  Just as I am leaving, another telegram arrives: Please reconsider decision cannot take no for an answer literary luncheon really important function will receive wide press publicity letter follows Stop Very sincerely Katherine Ellen Blatt.

  Am a good deal stunned by this and decide to wait a little before answering.

  Arthur sees me off at station, and I board immense train on which I appear to be the only passenger. Procedure ensues with which I am rapidly becoming familiar, including unsatisfactory wash in small Toilet Compartment which only provides revolting little machine that oozes powder instead of decent soap. Reflect how much Robert would dislike this. Thought of Robert is, as usual, too much for me, and I retire to sleeping accommodation behind customary green curtains, and prepare to sink into a sentimental reverie, but discover that I am sitting on green paper bag into which porter has put my hat. Revulsion of feeling follows, and I give way to anger instead of sorrow.

  November 8th. — Consider in some detail American preference for travelling at night, and decide that I do not, on the whole, share it. Meals undoubtedly excellent, but other arrangements poor, and arrival in small hours of the morning utterly uncongenial.

  Cleveland reached at 8 A.M. — eyes still bunged with sleep and spirits at a very low ebb — and am met by extremely blue-eyed Miss V. from book-store who says that she has Heard About me from Pete. She gets into a car with me but does not say where she is taking me, and talks instead about Winchester — which she says she has never seen — American novels, and the Chicago World Fair. (Can foresee that long before the end of tour I shall have said all I have to say about World Fair, and shall find myself trying to invent brand-new details.)

  Drive through a great many streets, and past large numbers of superb shop-fronts, and presently Miss V. says in a reverent voice, There is Hallé Brothers, and I say Where, and have a vague idea that she is referring to local Siamese Twins, but this turns out complete mistake and Hallé Brothers revealed as enormous department store, in which Miss V. is in charge of book department. Moreover Mrs. Hallé, it now appears, is to be my hostess in Cleveland and we have practically reached her house.

  At this I look frantically i
n my hand-bag, discover that I have left lipstick in the train, do what I can with powder-compact, but results on pale-green complexion not at all satisfactory, and realise, not for the first time, that accidental sitting on my hat in the train did it no good.

  Mrs. Hallé, however, receives me kindly in spite of these misfortunes, shows me very nice bedroom which she says belongs to her daughter Katherine, now in Europe, and says that breakfast will be ready when I am. Spend some time walking round Katherine’s bedroom, and am deeply impressed by her collection of books, which comprises practically everything that I have always meant to read. Decide that Katherine must be wholly given over to learning, but reverse this opinion on going into Katherine’s bathroom and finding it filled with coloured glass bottles, pots, and jars of the most exotic description. Evidently other and more frivolous preoccupations as well.

  This conjecture confirmed when I meet Katherine’s sister Jane at breakfast — very pretty and well dressed, and can probably do everything in the world well. Distinct tendency comes over me to fall into rather melancholy retrospect concerning my own youth, utterly denuded of any of the opportunities afforded to present generation. Remind myself in time, however, that this reflection is as wholly un-original as any in the world, and that I myself invariably dislike and despise those who give vent to it.

  Excellent coffee and bacon help further to restore me, and I decide that almost every sorrow can probably be assuaged by a respectable meal. (Mem.: Try to remember this and act upon it next time life appears to be wholly intolerable.)

  Programme for the day is then unfolded, and comprises — to my surprise — inspection of three schools. The blue-eyed Miss V. has said that I am interested in education. Think this over, decide that I ought to be interested in education, and that therefore I probably am, and accept with what is invariably referred to by dear Vicky as alacricity.

  Morning is accordingly spent in visiting schools, of which I like two and am staggered by the third, which is said to be on totally New Age lines, and designed in order to enable the very young — ages two to nine — to develop their own life-pattern without interference.

  We get various glimpses of the life-patterns, many of which seem to me to be rather lacking in coherence, and are shown round by very earnest lady with projecting teeth, wearing a cretonne smock.

  She says that the Little Ones are never interfered with, and that punishments are unknown. Even supervision is made as unobtrusive as possible. This she demonstrates by conducting us to landing on the staircase, where large window overlooks playground. Here, she says, teachers and parents can watch the little people at play. Play very often a great revelation of character.

  Can see no reason in the world why little people should not look up from play and plainly perceive the noses of their parents and guardians earnestly pressed to the window above them — but do not, naturally, say so.

  We then inspect Art — angular drawings of crooked houses and deformed people and animals, painted in pale splotches of red and green and yellow — Handwork — paper boxes with defective corners, and blue paper mats — and Carpentry — a great many pieces of wood and some sawdust.

  Just as we leave Bathrooms — each child, says the cretonne smock passionately, has its own little tooth-brush in its own little mug — on our way downstairs to Gymnasium, Miss V. draws my attention to a door with a little grille in it, through which we both peer in some astonishment.

  Infant child aged about three is revealed, sitting in solitude on tiny little chair in front of tiny little table gazing thoughtfully at a dinner-plate. What, I ask the cretonne smock, is this? She looks distressed and replies Oh, that’s the Food Problem.

  We all three contemplate this distressing enigma in silence, and the Food Problem gazes back at us with intelligent interest and evident gratification, and we shortly afterwards retire.

  Should be very sorry indeed to see New Age methods adopted at eminently sane and straightforward establishment where Vicky is — I hope — at present receiving education.

  November 9th. — Life in Cleveland agreeable, but rushed. Book-store talk takes place as ordained by Pete, and is principally remarkable because Lowell Thomas, celebrated American writer, precedes me and gives very amusing lecture. Entire book department turned upside-down searching for green ink, as it is, says Miss V., well known that Lowell T. never will autograph his books in any other colour. Am frightfully impressed by this, and join in green-ink hunt. It is finally run to earth, and I suggest gumming on small label with L. T.’s name and telling him that it has been waiting ever since his last visit. Am unfortunately never informed whether this ingenious, though perhaps not very straightforward, scheme is actually adopted.

  Shake hands with Lowell Thomas afterwards, and like the look of him, and buy two of his books, which are all about Arabia, and will do for Robert. He autographs them in green ink, and I seriously contemplate telling Miss V. that it will be utterly impossible for me to sign a single volume of my own unless I can do so with an old-fashioned goose-quill and blue blotting-paper.

  Rather amusing incident then ensues, on my preferring modest request that I may be allowed to Wash My Hands. Will I, says Miss V., anxiously, be very careful indeed? No later than last year, celebrated Winner of Pulitzer Prize succeeded in locking the door in such a way that it was totally impossible to unlock it again, and there she was, says Miss V. agitatedly, unable to make anybody hear, and meanwhile everybody was looking for her all over the store, and couldn’t imagine what had happened, and eventually A Man had to break down the door.

  Am horrified by this tragedy, and promise to exercise every care, but feel that Miss V. is still reluctant to let me embark on so perilous an enterprise. Moreover, am stopped no less than three time’s, on my way down small and obscure passage, and told by various young employees to be very careful indeed, last year Pulitzer Prize-winner was locked in there for hours and hours and couldn’t be got out, man had to be sent for, door eventually broken down. Am reminded of the Mistletoe Bough and wonder if this distressing modern version has ever been immortalised in literature, and if not how it could be done.

  Various minor inspirations flit across my mind, but must be dealt with later, and I concentrate on warnings received, and succeed in locking and unlocking door with complete success.

  Pulitzer Prize-winner either remarkably unfortunate, or else strangely deficient in elementary manual dexterity. Am taken home in car by Mrs. Hallé — who tells me on the way the whole story of Pulitzer Prize-winner and her misfortune all over again — and am tactfully invited to rest before dinner.

  (Rumour that American hostesses give one no time to breathe definitely unjust.)

  November 10th. — Bid reluctant farewell to Cleveland. Last day is spent in visiting book store, signing name — which I shall soon be able to do in my sleep — and being taken by the Hallé family to see film: Private Life of Henry VIII. Charles Laughton is, as usual, marvellous, but film itself seems to me overrated. Tell Mrs. H. that I would leave home any day for C. Laughton, at which she looks surprised, and I feel bound to add that I don’t really mean it literally. She then takes me to the station and we part amicably with mutual hopes of again meeting, in England or elsewhere.

  Just as I am preparing to board train, Miss V. arrives with English mail for me, which she has received at eleventh hour and is kindly determined that I shall have without delay. Am extremely grateful, and settle down to unwonted luxury of immediate and uninterrupted reading.

  Robert, Vicky and Robin all well: Robert much occupied with British Legion concert, which he says was well attended, but accompanist suddenly overcome by influenza and great difficulty in finding a substitute. Miss Pankerton played Violin Solo, and this, says Robert, was much too long. Can well believe it. Nothing whatever in garden, but one indoor bulb shows signs of life. Am not at all exhilarated at this, and feel sure that bulbs would have done better under my own eye. Early Romans should certainly be well above ground by now.

&n
bsp; Only remaining news is that Lady B. has offered to organise Historical Pageant in the village next summer, featuring herself as Mary Queen of Scots, and everybody else as morns-dancers, jesters, knights and peasantry. Robert and Our Vicar dead against this, and Our Vicar’s Wife said to have threatened to resign the living. Living not hers to resign, actually, but am in complete sympathy with general attitude implied, and think seriously of cabling to say so.

  In any case, Why Mary Queen of Scots? No possible connection with remote village in Devonshire. Can only suppose that Lady B. can think of no better way of displaying her pearls.

  Surprised to find that dear Rose has actually remembered my existence — no doubt helped by extraordinarily interesting series of postcards sent at intervals ever since I left — and has written short letter to say that she hopes I am having a very interesting time, and she envies me for being in America, London is very cold and foggy. Brief references follow to concert, lecture on child-guidance, and several new plays recently attended by Rose, and she closes with best love and is mine ever. P.S. Agatha is engaged to Betty’s brother, followed by three marks of exclamation.

  Have never, to my certain knowledge, heard of Agatha, Betty or the brother in my life.

  Large envelope addressed by Caroline Concannon comes next, and discloses number of smaller envelopes, all evidently containing bills, also card of invitation to a Public Dinner, price one guinea, postcard from Cissie Crabbe — saying that it is a Long While since she had news of me — and a letter from C. C. herself.