Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  This proves to be agreeably scandalous, and relates astonishing behaviour of various prominent people. C. C. also adds that she thinks it will amuse me to hear that a great friend of hers is divorcing his wife and twelve co-respondents will be cited, there could have been many more, but only twelve names have come out. Am disturbed by Caroline’s idea of what is likely to amuse me, but after a while feel that perhaps she has not wholly misjudged me after all.

  Forgive her everything when final page of letter reveals that she has been to visit both Robin and Vicky at school, and gives full and satisfactory account of each, even entering into details regarding Robin’s purchases at penny-in-the-slot machines on pier, and Vicky’s plate.

  Letter concludes, as usual, with sweeping and optimistic assertion that Everything in Doughty Street is Absolutely All Right, the carpets want cleaning rather badly, and Caroline will try and get them done before I get back, also the chandelier, absolutely pitch-black.

  Caroline Concannon is followed by Felicity — blue envelope and rather spidery handwriting — who hopes that I am making some money. She herself is overdrawn at the Bank and can’t make it out, she knows she has spent far less than usual in the last six months, but it’s always the way. Felicity further hopes that I have good news of the children, and it will be nice to know I’m safely home again, and ends with renewed reference to finance, which is evidently an overwhelming preoccupation. Feel sorry for Felicity, and decide to send her another postcard, this time from Toronto.

  Remaining correspondence includes earnest letter of explanation — now some weeks out of date — from laundry concerning pair of Boy’s Pants — about which I remember nothing whatever — begging letter from a Society which says that it was established while King William IV. was still on the throne — and completely illegible letter from Mary Kellway.

  Make really earnest effort to decipher this, as dear Mary always so amusing and original — but can make out nothing whatever beyond my own name — which I naturally know already — and statement that Mary’s husband has been busy with what looks like — but of course cannot be — pencils and geranium-tops — and that the three children have gone either to bed, to the bad, to board or to live at place which might be either Brighton, Ilford or Egypt.

  Feel that this had better be kept until time permits of my deciphering it, and that all comment should be reserved until I can feel really convinced of exact nature of items enumerated. In the meanwhile, dear Mary has received no postcards at all, and decide that this omission must be repaired at earliest opportunity.

  November 11th. — Reach Toronto at preposterous hour of 5.55 A.M. and decide against night-travelling once and for ever, day having actually started with Customs inspection considerably before dawn. Decide to try and see what I can of Canada and glue my face to the window, but nothing visible for a long while. Am finally rewarded by superb sunrise, but eyelids feel curiously stiff and intelligence at lowest possible ebb. Involve myself in rather profound train of thought regarding dependence of artistic perception upon physical conditions, but discover in the midst of it that I am having a nightmare about the children both being drowned, and have dropped two books and one glove.

  Coloured porter appears with clothes-brush, and is evidently convinced that I cannot possibly present myself to Canadian inspection without previously submitting to his ministrations. As I feel that he is probably right, I stand up and am rather half-heartedly dealt with, and then immediately sit down again, no doubt in original collection of dust, and weakly present porter with ten cents, at which he merely looks disgusted and says nothing.

  Train stops, and I get out of it, and find myself — as so often before — surrounded by luggage on strange and ice-cold platform, only too well aware that I probably look even more dégommée than I feel.

  Canadian host and hostess, with great good-feeling, have both turned out to meet me, and am much impressed at seeing that neither cold nor early rising have impaired complexion of my hostess. Find myself muttering quotation —

  Alike to her was time or tide,

  November’s snow, or July’s pride —

  but Canadian host, Mr. Lee, says Did I speak? and I have to say No, no, nothing at all, and remind myself that talking aloud to oneself is well-known preliminary to complete mental breakdown. Make really desperate effort, decide that I am awake and that the day has begun — began, in fact, several hours ago — and that if only I am given a cup of very strong coffee quite soon, I shall very likely find myself restored to normal degree of alertness.

  Mr. Lee looks kind; Mrs. Lee — evidently several years younger — is cheerful and good-looking, and leads the way to small car waiting outside station.

  This appears to me to be completely filled already by elderly lady in black, large dog and little girl with pigtails. These, I am told, are the near neighbours of the Lees. Should like to ask why this compels them to turn out at four o’clock in the morning in order to meet complete stranger, but do not, naturally, do so.

  Explanation is presently proffered, to the effect that the Falls of Niagara are only eighty miles away, and I am to visit them at once, and the little girl — Minnie — has never seen them either, so it seemed a good opportunity. Minnie, at this, jumps up and down on the seat and has to be told to Hush, dear. Her mother adds that Minnie is very highly strung. She always has been, and her mother is afraid she always will be. The doctor has said that she has, at nine years old, the brain of a child of fifteen. I look at Minnie, who at once assumes an interesting expression and puts her head on one side, at which I immediately look away again, and feel that I am not going to like Minnie. (This impression definitely gains ground as day goes on.) Mrs. Lee, on the other hand, earns gratitude almost amounting to affection by saying that I must have breakfast and a bath before anything else, and that both these objectives can be attained on the way to Niagara.

  I ask what about my luggage? and am told that a friend of some cousins living near Hamilton has arranged to call for it later and convey it to Mr. Lee’s house. Am impressed, and decide that mutual readiness to oblige must be a feature of Canadian life. Make mental note to develop this theme when talking to Women’s Institute at home.

  At this point Minnie’s mother suddenly asks What we are all here for, if not to help one another, and adds that, for her part, her motto has always been: Lend a Hand. Revulsion of feeling at once overtakes me, and I abandon all idea of impressing the Women’s Institute with the desirability of mutual good-will.

  Car takes us at great speed along admirable roads — very tight squeeze on back seat, and Minnie kicks me twice on the shins and puts her elbow into my face once — and we reach house standing amongst trees.

  Is this, I civilly enquire of Mrs. Lee, her home? Oh dear no. The Lees live right on the other side of Toronto. This is Dr. MacAfie’s place, where we are all having breakfast. And a bath, adds Mrs. L., looking at me compassionately. Dr. MacAfie and his wife both turn out to be Scotch. They receive us kindly, and Mrs. L. at once advocates the bathroom for me.

  Bath is a success, and I come down very hungry, convinced that it must be nearer lunch-time than breakfast-time. Clock, however, declares it to be just half-past seven. Find myself counting up number of hours that must elapse before I can hope to find myself in bed and asleep. Results of this calculation very discouraging.

  Breakfast, which is excellent, restores me, and we talk about America — the States very unlike Canada — the Dominions — life in Canada very like life in the Old Country — snow very early this year and my impressions of Chicago World Fair.

  Minnie interrupts a good deal, and says Need she eat bacon, and If she went on a big ship to England she knows she’d be very sick. At this everybody laughs — mine very perfunctory indeed — and her mother says that really, the things that child says...and it’s always been like that, ever since she was a tiny tot. Anecdotes of Minnie’s infant witticisms follow, and I inwardly think of all the much more brilliant remarks made by Robin an
d Vicky. Should much like an opportunity for retailing these, and do my best to find one, but Minnie’s mother gives me no opening whatever.

  Expedition to Niagara ensues, and I am told on the way that it is important for me to see the Falls from the Canadian side, as this is greatly superior to the American side. Can understand this, in a way, as representing viewpoint of my present hosts, but hope that inhabitants of Buffalo, where I go next, will not prove equally patriotic and again conduct me immense distances to view phenomenon all over again.

  Am, however, greatly impressed by Falls, and say so freely. Mr. Lee tells me that I really ought to see them by night, when lit up by electricity, and Mrs. Lee says No, that vulgarises them completely, and I reply Yes to both of them, and Minnie’s mother asks What Minnie thinks of Niagara, to which Minnie squeaks out that she wants her dinner right away this minute, and we accordingly proceed to the Hotel.

  Buy a great many postcards. Minnie watches this transaction closely, and says that she collects postcards. At this I very weakly present her with one of mine, and her mother says that I am really much too kind — with which I inwardly agree. This opinion intensified on return journey, when Minnie decides to sit on my lap, and asks me long series of complicated questions, such as Would I rather be an alligator who didn’t eat people, or a man who had to make his living by stealing, or a tiny midget in a circus? Reply to these and similar conundrums more or less in my sleep, and dimly hear Minnie’s mother telling me that Minnie looks upon her as being just a great, big, elder sister, and always tells her everything just as it pops into her little head, and don’t I feel that it’s most important to have the complete confidence of one’s children?

  Can only think, at the moment, that it’s most important to have a proper amount of sleep.

  Mr. Lee’s house is eventually attained, and proves to be outside Toronto. Minnie and her parent are dropped at their own door, and say that they will be popping in quite soon, and I get out of car and discover that I am alarmingly stiff, very cold, and utterly exhausted.

  Am obliged to confess this state of affairs to Mrs. Lee, who is very kind, and advises bed. Can only apologise, and do as she suggests.

  November 12th. — Spend comparatively quiet day, and feel better. Host and hostess agree that I must remain indoors, and as it snows violently I thankfully do so, and write very much overdue letters.

  Quiet afternoon and evening of conversation. Mr. Lee wants to know about the Royal Family — of which, unfortunately, I can tell him little except what he can read for himself in the papers — and Mrs. Lee asks if I play much Bridge. She doesn’t, she adds hastily, mean on Sundays. Am obliged to reply that I play very little on any day of the week, but try to improve this answer by adding that my husband is very good at cards. Then, says Mrs. Lee, do I garden? No — unfortunately not. Mrs. Lee seems disappointed, but supposes indulgently that writing a book takes up quite a lot of time, and I admit that it does, and we leave it at that.

  Am rather disposed, after this effort, to sit and ponder on extreme difficulty of ever achieving continuity of conversation when in the society of complete strangers. Idle fancy crosses my mind that Mr. Alexander Woollcott would make nothing of it at all, and probably conduct whole conversation all by himself with complete success. Wonder — still more idly — if I shall send him a postcard about it, and whether he would like one of Niagara.

  November 12th. (continued). — Main purpose of Canadian visit — which is small lecture — safely accomplished. Audience kind, rather than enthusiastic. Mrs. Lee says that she could tell I was nervous. Cannot imagine more thoroughly discouraging comment than this.

  Mr. Lee very kindly takes me to visit tallest building in the British Empire, which turns out to be a Bank. We inspect Board-rooms, offices, and finally vaults, situated in basement and behind enormous steel doors, said to weigh incredible number of tons and only to be opened by two people working in conjunction. I ask to go inside, and am aghast when I do so by alarming notice on the wall which tells me that if I get shut into the vaults by accident I am not to be alarmed, as there is a supply of air for several hours. Do not at all like the word “several”, which is far from being sufficiently specific, and have horrid visions of being shut into the vaults and spending my time there in trying to guess exactly when “several” may be supposed to be drawing to an end. Enquire whether anyone has ever been locked into the vaults, and if they came out mad, but Mr. Lee only replies No one that he has ever heard of, and appears quite unmoved by the idea.

  Have often associated banking with callousness, and now perceive how right I was.

  Evening is passed agreeably with the Lees until 9 o’clock, when Minnie and parent descend upon us and we all talk about Minnie for about half an hour. Take cast-iron resolution before I sleep never to make either of the dear children subjects of long conversations with strangers.

  (Mem.: To let Robert know of this resolution, as feel sure he would approve of it.)

  November 13th. — Five o’clock train is selected to take me to Buffalo, and am surprised and relieved to find that I have not got to travel all night, but shall arrive in four and a half hours. Luncheon-party is kindly given in my honour by the Lees — Minnie not present, but is again quoted extensively by her mother — and I am asked more than once for opinion on relative merits of Canada and the United States. Can quite see that this is very delicate ground, and have no intention whatever of committing myself to definite statement on the point. Talk instead about English novelists — Kipling evidently very popular, and Hugh Walpole looked upon as interesting new discovery — and I am told by several people that I ought to go to Quebec.

  As it is now impossible for me to do so, this leads to very little, beyond repeated assurances from myself that I should like to go to Quebec, and am exceedingly sorry not to be going there. One well-informed lady tells me that Harold Nicolson went there and liked it very much. Everybody receives this in respectful silence, and I feel that Harold Nicolson has completely deflated whatever wind there may ever have been in my sails.

  Morale is restored later by my host, who takes me aside and says that I have been Just a breath of fresh air from the Old Country, and that I must come again next year. Am touched, and recklessly say that I will. Everyone says good-bye very kindly, and gentleman hitherto unknown — tells me that he will drive me to the station, as he has to go in that direction later. Minnie’s mother heaps coals of fire on my head by telling me that she has a little present for my children, and is going just across the street to get it. This she does, and present turns out to be a Service revolver, which she thinks my boy may like. Can reply with perfect truth that I feel sure of it, and am fortunately not asked for my own reaction; or Robert’s.

  Revolver, of which I am secretly a good deal afraid, is wedged with the utmost difficulty into the least crowded corner of my attaché-case, and I take my departure.

  Rather strange sequel follows a good deal later, when I am having dinner on train and am called out to speak to Customs official. Cannot imagine what he wants me for, and alarming visions of Sing-Sing assail me instantly. Go so far as to decide that I shall try and brief Mr. Clarence Darrow for the defence — but this probably because he is the only American barrister whose name I can remember.

  Customs awaits me in the corridor, and looks very grave. Is mine, he enquires, the brown attaché-case under the fur coat in the parlour-car? Yes, it is. Then why, may he ask, do I find it necessary to travel with a revolver? Freakish impulse momentarily assails me, and I nearly — but not quite — reply that I have to do so for the protection of my virtue. Realise in time that this flippancy would be quite out of place, and might very likely land me in serious trouble, so take wiser and more straightforward course of telling Customs the whole story of the Service revolver.

  He receives it sympathetically, and tells me that he is a family man himself. (Association here with Dickens— “I’m a mother myself, Mr. Copperfull” — but Customs perhaps not literary, or may p
refer Mark Twain, so keep it to myself.)

  Conversation follows, in which I learn names and ages of the whole family of Customs, and in return show him small snapshot of Robin and Vicky with dog Kolynos, playing in the garden. Customs says That’s a fine dog, and asks what breed, but says nothing about R. and V. Am slightly disappointed, but have noticed similar indifference to the children of others on the part of parents before.

  November 13th (continued). — Train, in the most singular way, arrives at Buffalo ahead of time. Large and very handsome station receives me, and I walk about vast hall, which I seem to have entirely to myself. Red-capped porter, who is looking after my luggage, seems prepared to remain by it for ever in a fatalistic kind of way, and receives with indifference my announcement that Someone will be here to meet me by and by.

  Can only hope I am speaking the truth, but feel doubtful as time goes on. Presently, however, tall lady in furs appears, and looks all round her, and I say “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” but not aloud — and approach her. Am I, I ask, speaking to Mrs. Walker? Lady, in a most uncertain voice, replies No, no — not Mrs. Walker. We gaze at one another helplessly and she adds, in a still more uncertain voice: Mrs. Luella White Clarkson. To this I can think of no better reply than Oh, and we walk away from one another in silence, only, however, to meet again repeatedly in our respective perambulations. (Should much like to know what peculiar law governs this state of affairs. Station is perfectly enormous, and practically empty, and neither Mrs. L. W. C. nor myself has the slightest wish ever again to come face to face with one another, yet we seem perfectly unable to avoid doing so. Eventually take to turning my back whenever I see her approaching, and walking smartly in the opposite direction.)

  Mental comparison of American and English railway stations follows, and am obliged to admit that America wins hands down. Have never in my life discovered English station that was warm, clean or quiet, or at which waiting entailed anything but complete physical misery. Compose long letter to Sir Felix Pole on the subject, and have just been publicly thanked by the Lord Mayor of London for ensuing reformations, when I perceive Red-cap making signs. Mrs. Walker — small lady in black, very smart, and no resemblance whatever to Mrs. L. W. C. — has appeared. She apologises very nicely for being late, and I apologise — I hope also very nicely — for the train’s having been to early — and we get into her motor which is, as usual, very large and magnificent. (Remarkable contrast between cars to which I am by now becoming accustomed and ancient Standard so frequently pushed up the hills at home — but have little doubt that I shall be delighted to find myself in old Standard once more.)