Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  THE SALES-LADY. The Turban is one of the very newest models from Paris, moddam. The scarlet one, by rights, oughtn’t to be in the sale at all — but it’s just one of those daring little chapeaux that scarcely a dozen people could wear, if you know what I mean, moddam.

  Presumption is that moddam does know what she means, as she instantly wedges the scarlet hat on to the extreme back of her large, respectable-looking head, and gazes at the result in the mirror with excited hopefulness.

  THE MATRON. You wouldn’t call it too vivid, would you?

  THE SALES-LADY (registering scandalized astonishment). Vivid, moddam? That little hat vivid? Oh, moddam, it’s the colour, just now. Why, it’s positively macabre, I assure you, compared to what’s being worn in Paris, just now.

  General Impression, not to be avoided, that this may or may not be true, but that this particular Sales-lady has never in her life been nearer to Paris than the Hammersmith Palais de Danse.

  A DETERMINED VOICE. I beg your pardon — but I’ve already Decided on this Hat.

  A LESS DETERMINED VOICE. Excuse me, but ——

  THE D. V. I’m really very sorry, but you should have been quicker. The moment I saw that hat, I made up my mind. I always make up my mind very quickly, I’m afraid, and I knew At Once, that was My Hat.

  THE LESS D. V. But I’m afraid it’s mine. I ——

  THE D. V. Please don’t let’s have any unpleasantness. I assure you that I’m one of those people who never argue. I’m not at all annoyed, I assure you, but it’s quite useless to argue. If you’d seen the hat first, I should have been the first person to ask you to take it ——

  THE LESS D. V. But I must take it. I brought it here. It’s the hat I came in, and I only took it off to try on another hat.

  Just about an hour after the official closing-time: Collection of Young Ladies now transformed by means of coats, hats, and the absence of Floor-Walkers, into ordinary Young Londoners, preparing to go home.

  “I thought we’d never get rid of that last old trout! You’d have thought she’d see the place was practically closed.”

  “Coo, what price my feet to-night? Red-hot, they are.”

  “Worse by the end of the week, dear!”

  “That boy’s waiting for you again, outside the side entrance, Lily.”

  “Good-night, all. Sorry I can’t offer you a lift in the Rolls, but my shovver’s got the influenza, and so I shall be taking the Tube....”

  General Impression that there’s Nothing Like a Joke to Brighten Things Up a Bit.

  GENERAL IMPRESSION OF A DENTIST’S WAITING-ROOM

  First General Impression that this — like so much else — has changed, and there is no longer the old amount of Clean, Wholesome, English Fun to be derived from the whole subject of Dentistry ... since no one’s head is tied up in a handkerchief, no one is in tears, and no one says a word about False Teeth. O tempora! O mores! Mais où vont les neiges d’antan — and so on and so forth ... reflections that spring inevitably to the Thoughtful Mind in contemplating a careless generation....

  Temporary revival of the Thoughtful Mind at sight of the same old periodicals on the table, survivals of the old order of things ... a copy of the Sphere of seven years ago, two numbers of Punch dating from the Armistice, an Illustrated London News with most of the leaves torn out, and a mountainous erection of a strange little periodical — never encountered anywhere else in the civilized world — entitled How to Tell the Wild Flowers from the Birds — or something like that, anyway.

  A VERY SMALL CHILD (brightly). Don’t you love coming to the dentist, Mummie?

  MUMMIE (with that lack of candour so characteristic of a parent). Very much indeed, darling.

  THE V. S. C. I do hope he’ll use that nice buzzer, don’t you, Mummie?

  MUMMIE. I dare say he will, darling, if you ask him nicely.

  General Impression that in the old days, a dentist on receiving such a request as this, whether made nicely or otherwise, would certainly have suffered a severe nervous collapse from sheer astonishment ... but there you are — neither children nor dentists are what they used to be.

  A LADY IN A RAFFIA HAT (to a Friend). Well, as I was telling you: I simply didn’t answer one word. Not a single word. In fact, I couldn’t have spoken, if it had been to save my life. I simply said: “Charles,” I said, “I’m a woman of the world. Nothing shocks me. Nothing. But,” I said, “what I saw this morning with my own eyes, with my own eyes” I said, “has so absolutely horrified me, that I simply can’t speak of it.”

  THE FRIEND (to the relief of everyone else in the room). My dear! But what exactly was it that you saw?

  THE RAFFIA HAT. You know, darling — what I was telling you about in the taxi.

  THE FRIEND. What — About the H?

  General Impression that the friend isn’t playing the game at all with this mysterious reference, and has let down the rest of the room badly.

  Appearance of the Dental Parlourmaid (with — as is usual in all Dental Parlourmaids — quite the worst and most projecting set of discoloured teeth that ever disfigured human countenance) — enquiring if You will Kindly Step This Way, please.

  *

  In the Dentist’s Surgery.

  A NEW PATIENT. ... And I think the little gauze mask you’re wearing such a good idea, too.

  THE DENTIST (an infinitely tactful personality — as his singular choice of a profession indeed necessitates). All our modern men are going in for them. It’s really more agreeable for the patient....

  General Impression that, although he so charmingly puts it like this, there may be another, and exactly converse way of looking at it, although Wild Horses wouldn’t induce him to put it into words.

  *

  AN OCTOGENARIAN FEMALE PATIENT. I’m almost certain that some of these upper teeth are rather loose. Now I wonder why that is?

  THE DENTIST (in tones of concern and astonishment). Just let me make certain which ones you mean.... Well, certainly, there is a tendency.... Of course, even modern science hasn’t entirely got to the bottom of these things, you know ... there really seems no accounting for the slight Receding of the Gums that sometimes overtakes The Jaw in quite early Middle Life....

  General Impression that this could hardly have been better — even if more accurately — worded.

  *

  A VOLUBLE GENTLEMAN IN THE CHAIR. My experience of Government work, I may tell you ...

  Deft interposition, by the Dental Operator, of a gag, a small tube, a pad, a wedge, a quarter of a pound of Cement Stopping, three anonymous Instruments, and a couple of his own fingers.

  THE D. O. (with the utmost suavity). Just a minute....

  General Impression that Government Work simply isn’t in it with this kind of thing.

  GENERAL IMPRESSION OF A SERVANTS’ REGISTRY OFFICE

  First General Impression, that the inventor of a Noiseless typewriter ought to make a fortune. Humiliating conviction of one’s own significance — amounting, indeed, to invisibility — in the eyes of painted and efficient young persons.

  VOICE (abruptly). Can I direct you?

  A VERY APOLOGETIC LADY. Well — I’m looking, really, for a Kitchen-maid.

  General Impression that the Apologetic Lady is more fool than knave. She is conducted pityingly to a suave black-satin woman sitting at a large desk.

  THE BLACK-SATIN WOMAN (discouragingly). Yes?

  THE V. A. LADY. Well, I know it’s not easy to find them, of course, but I — well, as a matter of fact, I’m really looking for a kitchen-maid.

  THE B.-S. WOMAN. Town or Country?

  THE V. A. LADY. Oh, London.

  The V. A. Lady revives a little, as she says this, evidently feeling that it’s a point in her favour.

  “We don’t do London here. Miss Dalrymple! Take Madam to the Bureau for Town Situations.”

  Madam follows Miss Dalrymple to another desk, presided over by auburn hair and a pince-nez.

  THE PINCE-NEZ. For London? (S
uspiciously) Not suburbs, is it?

  V. A. LADY. Oh no. Nothing like that. Eaton Terrace.

  THE PINCE-NEZ. Ah! Right off the bus route, isn’t it?

  General Impression that the V. A. Lady has been shown up as an impostor, and that Eaton Terrace is a poor address to boast about, anyway.

  THE PINCE-NEZ. Did you want a kitchen-maid? They’re very difficult to get, you know.

  THE V. A. LADY (faintly). I’m offering good wages.

  THE P.-N. (sharply). What do you call good wages, Madam?

  THE V. A. LADY (temporizing). Well, what would you suggest yourself?

  THE P.-N. (evincing an iron determination not to help her in any way). Quite impossible to say, Madam. What have you been giving?

  THE V. A. LADY. Well, the last girl had thirty-four.

  The Pince-Nez lady shuts up the ledger with an air of finality and sketches a pitying smile. General Impression that the Apologetic Lady had better go, before worse befalls.

  THE V. A. LADY (hysterically). But I would go to forty. (The Pince-Nez maintains a brassy silence.) Or even forty-two. Perhaps — if she was experienced — I might say forty-five. (Slight symptoms of relenting on the part of the Pince-Nez lady and the ledger. Negotiations resumed.)

  In another Department an interview is progressing between a Mother and a candidate for the post of Nursery Governess, who has described herself on paper as young, bright, and willing, but gives rather the impression of being elderly, depressed, and unwilling to the point of stubbornness.

  THE MOTHER. It’s really not at all a hard place, especially for anyone who likes the country. The children are out a great deal. I like them to walk for an hour or two every day at least, in all weathers, and in-between-times you could just run about and play with them, don’t you know — the three boys are very active and the little girls rather tomboys — and of course we mustn’t neglect the lessons. I want the boys thoroughly well grounded for school, and they all do callisthenics, and those nice eurhythmics, you know, and then I should like you to teach them all five music, and drawing for the three eldest. Oh, and needlework for the girls. Then, of course, there’s just the mending, and I always ask my governess to make the baby’s little things. You see, you have the evenings quite to yourself. I’m afraid I’m out a good deal myself, but the children will keep you quite lively, you know. They’re never still, which I always think is such a good sign.

  THE N. G. (who has applied unavailingly for seven posts in the last five days and knows that she can’t pay for her lodgings any longer). And what salary are you offering?

  THE MOTHER (airily). Forty to fifty — but as you haven’t got any French ——

  THE N. G. (hastily). I’m quite ready to take forty-five ——

  General Impression that she has bitten off a good deal more than she can chew, but is lucky to have got the chance.

  At the Desk of the Presiding Deity — enthroned behind glass.

  THE P. D. Anything to-day?

  A CLERK. That woman we sent to Lady Poker is leaving.

  THE P. D. (unmoved). Ah, they’ve found out she drinks, then. Send her name to the gentleman in Belgrave Square who’s offering eighty, and you might let those American Ladies have it, and anybody else who’s offering over eighty. That’ll keep them quiet for a bit. No applications from permanent cooks, I suppose?

  THE CLERK. Not one.

  THE P. D. Then answer this letter from Curzon Street and say we’re giving the lady’s name and requirements to some first-class cooks, and that she ought to hear from them in a few days.

  Business proceeds briskly. General Impression that the whole question of Domestic Employment is in a rather parlous condition, and that it ought to be looked into.

  GENERAL IMPRESSION OF A WEST-END DRAPER’S

  First General Impression, that an extraordinary and unnatural amount of electric light is being cast over goods that it would be a good deal easier to select by daylight.

  A LADY IN A FUR COAT. Which way are Stockings, please?

  A GENTLEMAN IN A FROCK COAT. Ladies’ Hose, moddam? Through the Wovens and Round to the Right, moddam, just opposite Perfumery, you’ll find them.

  The Fur Coat obediently goes through the Wovens and Round to the Right, and having with difficulty disentangled Perfumery from Drugs and from Ladies’ Hairdressing, finds herself in Stockings.

  A YOUNG LADY. Can I help you, moddam?

  THE F. C. Stockings, please.

  THE Y. L. (very kindly, but in a faintly astonished voice). Stockings, moddam? Oh certainly, moddam. Any particular colour?

  THE F. C. Brown, please.

  General Impression amongst all the Young Ladies that moddam is a complete amateur at this kind of thing.

  THE Y. L. (gently). What shade did Moddam wish? Nigger, fawn, sunburn, beige?

  THE F. C. (with almost unbelievable strength of mind). Brown, I said.

  THE Y. L. (distantly). Of course, moddam, brown isn’t being worn this year. I doubt if we have anything in brown. But if you’d care to see the new tones of bronze, or tango, or nut, we have a very good selection.

  In the Inexpensive Evening Dress Department, where it is almost impossible to avoid a General Impression that Colour, at our present stage of British Civilization, is considered to be of more importance than Cut.

  An elegant young Mannequin is parading in a scarlet tea-gown before two ladies of matronly build.

  FIRST LADY (enthusiastically). There, that’s what I mean, dear. That delightfully slim line.

  THE FRIEND. Yes. Unless perhaps ... You don’t think the colour might be a tiny bit trying?

  THE SALES-LADY (very firmly indeed, and with a good deal of musical laughter). Oh no, moddam. The Colour isn’t trying. Not in the very least. It’s really a wonderful colour, in that way, if you see what I mean. No one could call it trying, moddam. (This is apparently true, as, after this, no one does.)

  On the Second Floor.

  AN EXHAUSTED SHOPPER. I want the Lift, please.

  The usual directions as to going Straight Through, Round to the Left and the Lift will be facing you, follow.

  LIFT ATTENDANT (impassively). Going up, please. Blouses, jumpers, ladies’ underwear, children’s outfitting, third floor, Elizabethan Restaurant, Tropical Lounge, Mannequin Parade, fourth floor.... Going up, please.

  HALF A DOZEN VOICES (entirely regardless of this). I want to go downstairs, please. The Ground floor.

  L. A. (looking straight through them and in a still more impassive voice). Going up, please.

  Disappearance of Lift. A fresh throng of exhausted shoppers hastens to the gate to await its reappearance. When this eventually takes place, the workings of some strange law entirely incomprehensible to the general public compel the L. A. to proclaim exactly as before:

  L. A. Going up, please. Blouses, jumpers ... and so on. Going up, please.

  Second disappearance. A rumour spreads that there is another Lift, just round the Department to the Right, and this will be Going Down, please. General Impression that if one makes a rush for it, the first Lift will inevitably reappear, this time on its way to the basement. The majority of Exhausted Shoppers give it up and go down by the Stairs.

  In the Coat Department a Gentleman is helping his wife to choose a winter coat. Fifteen of these garments are strewn on surrounding chairs and sofas, and a sixteenth is being Tried On.

  THE LADY. I like this one, Robert. (She has said this about almost all of them.) What do you think?

  ROBERT. Very nice, dear.

  THE LADY. But which do you think suits me best, Robert? This one, or the navy-blue, or that one with the fur collar, or the green?

  ROBERT (quite at random, but in the faint hope of hurrying things up a little). The green, I think, dear.

  SALES-LADY (enthusiastically). Moddam looked marvellous in the green, I thought. Won’t you slip it on again, moddam?

  Robert is assailed by an intimate and painful conviction that the Green will turn out to be the most expen
sive of the lot, and that his wife will insist upon having it because he said it was the one he really preferred her in, and anyway it’s always an economy in the end to get a thoroughly good thing.

  And this, indeed, is exactly what happens.

  GENERAL IMPRESSION OF A HUNT BALL

  General Impression (that we perfectly well remember registering last year, and the year before, and the year before that) of the large number of ladies who fail to realize that pink, red, orange, and scarlet frocks are a Mistake at Hunt Balls.

  A VERY YOUNG THING. Hallo, Edward, you idiot! You’re nearly too late; I’m practically booked up.

  EDWARD. I don’t really give a dam’ if you are. There are any number of leading hearties here that I want to dance with.

  THE V. Y. T. Don’t be so putridly off-hand. What about 7 and 8?

  EDWARD. All right, if you want to. See you later, then.

  General Impression that the mutual admiration of Edward and the V. Y. T. has, if anything, been increased by this sprightly passage of wits.

  A WIFE. What about dancing, dear?

  HER HUSBAND. Oh, must we?

  THE WIFE. Well you see, dear, I don’t really know how to do these new dances, and certainly you don’t, so I think we’d better just dance with one another till we pick it up a little.

  THE HUSBAND. It isn’t really what I call dancing at all. Just walking, I call it. (They walk accordingly.)

  THE WIFE. Simply splendid, dear — you see it’s quite easy — one and two and three and — the time is just a little bit tricky, every now and then — you didn’t happen to notice if this one is a waltz, or a foxtrot, or what, did you?

  Painful conviction that he didn’t gradually invades them both, as it does everyone else in the vicinity.

  ONE OF SOME TWENTY SUPERFLUOUS YOUNG WOMEN, TO ANOTHER (brightly). I simply love watching a scene like this — it’s almost more fun than dancing, I always think. All the little things one sees and hears, don’t you know!

  SECOND S. Y. W. (even more brightly). I know. People are simply killing, aren’t they? I always try and keep a dance or two free, just for the sake of watching.