I begin all over again about Brittany, heavily backed by Robin, who says It is well known that all foreigners live on snails. (At this I look apprehensively at Mademoiselle, but fortunately she has not heard.)
Robert’s sole contribution to discussion is that England is quite good enough for him.
(Could easily remind Robert of many occasions, connected with Labour Government activities in particular, when England has been far from good enough for him – but refrain.)
Would it not, I urge, be an excellent plan to shut up the house for a month, and have thorough change, beneficial to mind and body alike? (Should also, in this way, gain additional time in which to install new cook, but do not put forward this rather prosaic consideration.)
Just as I think my eloquence is making headway, Robert pushes back his chair and says Well, all this is great waste of time, and he wants to get the calf off to market – which he proceeds to do.
Mademoiselle then begs for ten minutes’ Serious Conversation – which I accord with outward calm and inward trepidation. The upshot of the ten minutes – which expand to seventy by the time we have done with them – is that the entire situation is more than Mademoiselle’s nerves can endure, and unless she has a complete change of environment immediately, she will succomber.
I agree that this must at all costs be avoided, and beg her to make whatever arrangements suit her best. Mademoiselle weeps, and is still weeping when Gladys comes in to clear the breakfast things. (Cannot refrain from gloomy wonder as to nature of comments that this prolonged tête-à-tête will give rise to in kitchen.)
Entire morning seems to pass in these painful activities, without any definite result, except that Mademoiselle does not appear at lunch, and both children behave extraordinarily badly.
(Mem.: A mother’s influence, if any, almost always entirely disastrous. Children invariably far worse under maternal supervision than any other.)
Resume Brittany theme with Robert once more in the evening, and suggest – stimulated by unsuccessful lunch this morning – that a Holiday Tutor might be engaged. He could, I say, swim with Robin, which would save me many qualms, and take children on expeditions. Am I, asks Robert, prepared to pay ten guineas a week for these services? Reply to this being self-evident, I do not make it, and write a letter to well-known scholastic agency.
July 29th. – Brittany practically settled, small place near Dinard selected, passports frantically looked for, discovered in improbable places, such as linen cupboard, and – in Robert’s case – acting as wedge to insecurely poised chest of drawers in dressing-room – and brought up to date at considerable expense.
I hold long conversations with Travel Agency regarding hotel accommodation and registration of luggage, and also interview two holiday tutors, between whom and myself instant and violent antipathy springs up at first sight.
One of these suggests that seven and a half guineas weekly would be suitable remuneration, and informs me that he must have his evenings to himself, and the other one assures me that he is a good disciplinarian but insists upon having a Free Hand. I reply curtly that this is not what I require, and we part.
July 30th. – Wholly frightful day, entirely given up to saying good-bye to Mademoiselle. She gives us all presents, small frame composed entirely of mussel shells covered with gilt paint falling to Robert’s share, and pink wool bed-socks, with four-leaved clover worked on each, to mine. We present her in return with blue leather hand-bag – into inner pocket of which I have inserted cheque – travelling-clock, and small rolled-gold brooch representing crossed tennis racquets, with artificial pearl for ball – (individual effort of Robin and Vicky). All ends in emotional crescendo, culminating in floods of tears from Mademoiselle, who says nothing except Mais voyons! Il faut se calmer, and then weeps harder than ever. Should like to see some of this feeling displayed by children, but they remain stolid, and I explain to Mademoiselle that the reserve of the British is well known, and denotes no lack of heart, but rather the contrary.
(On thinking this over, am pretty sure that it is not in the least true – but am absolutely clear that if occasion arose again, should deliberately say the same thing.)
August 4th. – Travel to Salisbury, for express purpose of interviewing Holiday Tutor, who has himself journeyed from Reading. Terrific expenditure of time and money involved in all this makes me feel that he must at all costs be engaged – but am aware that this is irrational, and make many resolutions against foolish impetuosity.
We meet in uninspiring waiting-room, untenanted by anybody else, and I restrain myself with great difficulty from saying ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?’ which would probably make him doubtful of my sanity.
Tutor looks about eighteen, but assures me that he is nearly thirty, and has been master at Prep School in Huntingdonshire for years and years.
(NB Huntingdon most improbable-sounding, but am nearly sure that it does exist. Mem.: Look it up in Vicky’s atlas on return home.)
Conversation leads to mutual esteem. I am gratified by the facts that he neither interrupts me every time I speak, nor assures me that he knows more about Robin than I do – (Query: Can he really be a schoolmaster?) – and we part cordially, with graceful assurances on my part that ‘I will write’. Just as he departs I remember that small, but embarrassing issue still has to be faced, and recall him in order to enquire what I owe him for to-day’s expenses? He says Oh, nothing worth talking about, and then mentions a sum which appals me. Pay it, however, without blenching, although well aware it will mean that I shall have to forgo tea in the train, owing to customary miscalculation as to amount of cash required for the day.
Consult Robert on my return; he says Do as I think best, and adds irrelevant statement about grass needing cutting, and I write to Huntingdonshire forthwith, and engage tutor to accompany us to Brittany.
Painful, and indeed despairing, reflections ensue as to relative difficulties of obtaining a tutor and a cook.
August 6th. – Mademoiselle departs, with one large trunk and eight pieces of hand luggage, including depressed-looking bouquet of marigolds, spontaneously offered by Robin. (NB Have always said, and shall continue to say, that fundamentally Robin has nicer nature than dear Vicky.) We exchange embraces; she promises to come and stay with us next summer, and says Allons, du courage, n’est-ce pas? and weeps again. Robert says that she will miss her train, and they depart for the station, Mademoiselle waving her handkerchief to the last, and hanging across the door at distinctly dangerous angle.
Vicky says cheerfully How soon will the Tutor arrive? and Robin picks up Helen Wills and offers to take her to see if there are any greengages – (which there cannot possibly be, as he ate the last ones, totally unripe, yesterday).
Second post brings me letter from Emma Hay, recalling Belgium – where, says Emma, I was the greatest success, underlined – which statement is not only untrue, but actually an insult to such intelligence as I may possess. She hears that I have taken a flat in London – (How?) – and is more than delighted, and there are many, many admirers of my work who will want to meet me the moment I arrive.
Am distressed at realising that although I know every word of dear Emma’s letter to be entirely untrue, yet nevertheless cannot help being slightly gratified by it. Vagaries of human vanity very, very curious. Cannot make up my mind in what strain to reply to Emma, so decide to postpone doing so at all for the present.
Children unusually hilarious all the evening, and am forced to conclude that loss of Mademoiselle leaves them entirely indifferent.
Read Hatter’s Castle after they have gone to bed, and am rapidly reduced to utmost depths of gloom. Mentally compose rather eloquent letter to Book Society explaining that most of us would rather be exhilarated than depressed, although at the same time handsomely admitting that book is, as they themselves claim, undoubtedly powerful. But remember Juan in America – earlier choice much approved by myself – and decide to forbear. Also Robert says Do I know that it stru
ck half-past ten five minutes ago? which I know means that he wants to put out Helen Wills, bolt front door and extinguish lights. I accordingly abandon all thoughts of eloquent letters to unknown littérateurs and go to bed.
August 7th. – Holiday Tutor arrives, and I immediately turn over both children to him, and immerse myself in preparations for journey, now imminent, to Brittany. At the same time, view of garden from behind bedroom window curtains permits me to ascertain that all three are amicably playing tip-and-run on lawn. This looks like auspicious beginning, and am relieved.
August 8th. – Final, and exhaustive, preparations for journey. Eleventh-hour salvation descends in shape of temporary cook, offered me through telephone by Mary Kellway, who solemnly engages to send her over one day before our return. Maids dismissed on holiday, gardener and wife solemnly adjured to Keep an Eye on the house and feed Helen Wills, and I ask tutor to sit on Robin’s suit-case so that I can shut it, then forget having done so and go to store-cupboard for soap – French trains and hotels equally deficient in this commodity – and return hours later to find him still sitting there, exactly like Casabianca. Apologise profusely, am told that it does not matter, and suit-case is successfully dealt with.
Weather gets worse and worse, Shipping Forecast reduces us all to despair – (except Vicky, who says she does so hope we shall be wrecked) – and gale rises hourly. I tell Casabianca that I hope he’s a good sailor; he says No, very bad indeed, and Robert suddenly announces that he can see no sense whatever in leaving home at all.
August 10th. – St Briac achieved, at immense cost of nervous wear and tear. Casabianca invaluable in every respect, but am – rather unjustly – indignant when he informs me that he has slept all night long. History of my own night very different to this, and have further had to cope with Vicky, who does not close an eye after four a.m. and is brisk and conversational, and Robin, who becomes extremely ill from five onwards.
Land at St Malo, in severe gale and torrents of rain, and Vicky and Robin express astonishment at hearing French spoken all round them, and Robert says that the climate reminds him of England. Casabianca says nothing, but gives valuable help with luggage and later on tells us, very nicely, that we have lost one suit-case. This causes delay, also a great deal of conversation between taxi-driver who is to take us to St Briac, porter and unidentified friend of taxi-driver’s who enters passionately into the whole affair and says fervently Ah, grâce à Dieu! when suit-case eventually reappears. Entire incident affords taxi-driver fund for conversation all the way to St Briac, and he talks to us over his shoulder at frequent intervals. Robert does not seem to appreciate this, and can only hope that taxi-driver is no physiognomist, as if so, his feelings will inevitably be hurt.
We pass through several villages, and I say This must be it, to each, and nobody takes any notice except Casabianca, who is polite and simulates interest, until we finally whisk into a little place and stop in front of cheerful-looking Hotel with awning and little green tables outside – all dripping wet. Am concerned to notice no sign of sea anywhere, but shelve this question temporarily, in order to deal with luggage, allotment of bedrooms – (mistake has occurred here, and Madame shows cast-iron determination to treat Casabianca and myself as husband and wife) – and immediate cafés complets for all. These arrive, and we consume them in the hall under close and unwavering inspection of about fifteen other visitors, all British and all objectionable-looking.
Inspection of rooms ensues; Robin says When can we bathe – at which, in view of temperature, I feel myself growing rigid with apprehension – and general process of unpacking and settling in follows. Robert, during this, disappears completely, and is only recovered hours later, when he announces that The Sea is about Twenty Minutes’ Walk.
General feeling prevails that I am to blame about this, but nothing can be done, and Casabianca, after thoughtful silence, remarks that Anyway the walk will warm us. Cannot make up my mind whether this is, or is not, high example of tact. Subsequent experience, however, proves that it is totally untrue, as we all – excepting children – arrive at large and windy beach in varying degrees of chilliness. Sea is extremely green, with large and agitated waves, blown about by brisk East wind. Incredible and stupefying reflection that in less than quarter of an hour we shall be in the water – and am definitely aware that I would give quite considerable sum of money to be allowed to remain in my clothes, and on dry land. Have strong suspicion that similar frame of mind prevails elsewhere, but all cram ourselves into two bathing-huts with false assumption of joviality, and presently emerge, inadequately clad in bathing-suits.
(NB Never select blue bathing-cap again. This may be all right when circulation normal, but otherwise, effect repellent in the extreme.)
Children dash in boldly, closely followed by Holiday Tutor – to whom I mentally assign high marks for this proof of devotion to duty, as he is pea-green with cold, and obviously shivering – Robert remains on edge of sea, looking entirely superior, and I crawl with excessive reluctance into several inches of water and there become completely paralysed. Shrieks from children, who say that It is Glorious, put an end to this state of affairs, and eventually we all swim about, and tell one another that really it isn’t so very cold in the water, but better not stay in too long on the first day.
Regain bathing-huts thankfully and am further cheered by arrival of ancient man with eau chaude pour les pieds.
Remainder of day devoted to excellent meals, exploring of St Briac between terrific downpours of rain, and purchase of biscuits, stamps, writing-pad, peaches – (very inexpensive and excellent) – and Tauchnitz volume of Sherlock Holmes for Robin, and Robinson Crusoe for Vicky.
Children eventually disposed of in bed, and Robert and Casabianca discuss appearance of our fellow-visitors with gloom and disapproval, and join in condemning me for suggesting that we should enter into conversation with all or any of them. Cannot at all admire this extremely British frame of mind, and tell them so, but go up to bed immediately before they have time to answer.
August 13th. – Opinion that St Briac is doing us all good, definitely gaining ground. Bathing becomes less agonising, and children talk French freely with Hotel chambermaids, who are all charming. Continental breakfast unhappily not a success with Robert, who refers daily to bacon in rather embittered way, but has nothing but praise for langoustes and entrecôtes which constitute customary luncheon menu.
Casabianca proves admirable disciplinarian, after fearful contest with Robin concerning length of latter’s stay in water. During this episode, I remain in bathing-hut, dripping wet and with one eye glued to small wooden slats through which I can see progress of affairs. Just as I am debating whether to interfere or not, Robin is vanquished, and marched out of sea with appalling calm by Casabianca. Remainder of the day wrapped in gloom, but reconciliation takes place at night, and Casabianca assures me that all will henceforward be well. (NB The young often very optimistic.)
August 15th. – I enter into conversation with two of fellow-guests at hotel, one of whom is invariably referred to by Robert as ‘the retired Rag-picker’ owing to unfortunate appearance, suggestive of general decay. He tells me about his wife, dead years ago – (am not surprised at this) – who was, he says, a genius in her own way. Cannot find out what way was. He also adds that he himself has written books. I ask what about, and he says Psychology, but adds no more. We talk about weather – bad here, but worse in England – Wolverhampton, which he once went through and where I have never been at all – and humane slaughter, of which both of us declare ourselves to be in favour. Conversation then becomes languid, and shows a tendency to revert to weather, but am rescued by Casabianca, who says he thinks I am wanted – which sounds like the police, but is not.
Casabianca inclined to look superior, and suggest that really, the way people force their acquaintance upon one when abroad – but I decline to respond to this and tell him in return that there will be a dance at the hotel to-night and that I intend to
go to it. He looks horror-stricken, and says no more.
Small problem of conduct arises here, as had no previous intention whatever of patronising dance, where I know well that Robert will flatly refuse to escort me – but do not see now how I can possibly get out of it. (Query: Would it be possible to compel Casabianca to act as my partner, however much against his inclination? This solution possibly undignified, but not without rather diverting aspect.)
Look for Vicky in place, where she habitually spends much time, playing with mongrel French dogs in gutter. Elderly English spinster – sandy-haired, and name probably Vi – tells me excitedly that some of the dogs have not been behaving quite decently, and it isn’t very nice for my little girl to be with them. I reply curtly that Dogs will be Dogs, and think – too late – of many much better answers. Dogs all seem to me to be entirely respectable and well-conducted and see no reason whatever for interfering with any of them. Instead, go with Robin to grocery across the street, where we buy peaches, biscuits and bunches of small black grapes. It pours with rain, Vicky and dogs disperse, and we return indoors to play General Information in obscure corner of dining-room.
Casabianca proves distressingly competent at this, and defeats everybody, Robert included, with enquiry: ‘What is Wallace’s Line?’ which eventually turns out to be connected with distinction – entirely unintelligible to me – between one form of animal life and another. Should like to send him to explain it to Vi, and see what she says – but do not, naturally, suggest this.
Children ask excessively ancient riddles, and supply the answers themselves, and Robert concentrates on arithmetical problems. Receive these in silence, and try and think of any field of knowledge in which I can hope to distinguish myself – but without success. Finally, Robin challenges me with what are Seven times Nine? to which I return brisk, but, as it turns out, incorrect, reply. Casabianca takes early opportunity of referring, though kindly, to this, and eventually suggests that half an hour’s arithmetic daily would make my accounts much simpler. I accept his offer, although inwardly aware that only drastic reduction of expenditure, and improbable increase of income, could really simplify accounts – but quite agree that counting on fingers is entirely undesirable procedure, at any time of life, but more especially when early youth is past.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 20
