Bathing takes place as usual, but additional excitement is provided by sudden dramatic appearance of unknown French youth who asks us all in turns if we are doctors, as a German gentleman is having a fit in a bathing-hut. Casabianca immediately dashes into the sea – which – he declares – an English doctor has just entered. (Query: Is this second sight, or what?) Robin and Vicky enquire with one voice if they can go and see the German gentleman having a fit, and are with great difficulty withheld from making one dash for his bathing-cabin, already surrounded by large and excited collection.
Opinions fly about to the effect that the German gentleman is unconscious – that he has come round – that he is already dead – that he has been murdered. At this, several people scream, and a French lady says Il ne manquait que cela! which makes me wonder what the rest of her stay at St Briac can possibly have been like.
Ask Robert if he does not think he ought to go and help, but he says What for? and walks away.
Casabianca returns, dripping, from the sea, followed by equally dripping stranger, presumably the doctor, and I hastily remove children from spectacle probably to be seen when bathing-hut opens; the last thing I hear being assurance from total stranger to Casabianca that he is tout à fait aimable.
Entire episode ends in anti-climax when Casabianca shortly afterwards returns, and informs us that The Doctor Said it was Indigestion, and the German gentleman is now walking home with his wife – who is, he adds impressively, a Norwegian. This, for reasons which continue to defy analysis, seems to add weight and respectability to whole affair.
We return to hotel, again caught in heavy shower, are besought by Robin and Vicky to stop and eat ices at revolting English tea-shop, which they patriotically prefer to infinitely superior French establishments, and weakly yield. Wind whistles through cotton frock – already wet through – that I have mistakenly put on, and Casabianca, after gazing at me thoughtfully for some moments, murmurs that I look Pale – which I think really means, Pale Mauve.
On reaching hotel, defy question of expense, and take hot bath, at cost of four francs, prix spécial.
Children, with much slamming of doors, and a great deal of conversation, eventually get to bed, and I say to Robert that we might look in at the dance after dinner – which seems easier than saying that I should like to go to it.
Robert’s reply much what I expected.
Eventually find myself crawling into dance-room, sideways, and sitting in severe draught, watching le tango, which nobody dances at all well. Casabianca, evidently feeling it his duty, reluctantly suggests that we should dance the next foxtrot – which we do, and it turns out to be Lucky Spot dance and we very nearly – but not quite – win bottle of champagne. This, though cannot say why, has extraordinarily encouraging effect, and we thereupon dance quite gaily until midnight.
August 18th. – Singular encounter takes place between Casabianca and particularly rigid and unapproachable elderly fellow-countryman in hotel, who habitually walks about in lounge wearing canary-yellow cardigan, and eyes us all with impartial dislike. Am therefore horrified when he enquires, apparently of universe at large: ‘What’s afoot?’ and Casabianca informatively replies: ‘Twelve inches one foot’ – evidently supposing himself to be addressing customary collection of small and unintelligent schoolboys. Canary-yellow cardigan is naturally infuriated, and says that he did not get up early in the morning in order to put conundrums, or listen to their idiotic solutions – and unpleasant situation threatens.
Further discussion is, however, averted by Vicky, who falls into large open space which has suddenly appeared in floor, and becomes entangled with pipes that I hope are Gas, but much fear may be Drains. She is rescued, amongst loud cries of Ah, pauvre petite! and Oh, là là! and Casabianca removes her and says austerely that People should look where they are going. Should like to retort that People should think what they are saying – but unfortunately this only occurs to me too late.
Robert, on being told of this incident, laughs whole-heartedly for the first time since coming to St Briac, and I reflect – as so frequently before – that masculine sense of humour is odd.
Discover that Robin is wearing last available pair of shorts, and that these are badly torn, which necessitates visit to Dinard to take white shorts to cleaners and buy material with which to patch grey ones. No one shows any eagerness to escort me on this expedition and I finally depart alone.
French gentleman with moustache occupies one side of bus and I the other, and we look at one another. Extraordinary and quite unheralded idea springs into my mind to the effect that it is definitely agreeable to find myself travelling anywhere, for any purpose, without dear Robert or either of the children. Am extremely aghast at this unnatural outbreak and try to ignore it.
(Query: Does not modern psychology teach that definite danger attaches to deliberate stifling of any impulse, however unhallowed? Answer probably Yes. Cannot, however, ignore the fact that even more definite danger probably attached to encouragement of unhallowed impulse. Can only conclude that peril lies in more or less every direction.)
The moustache and I look out of our respective windows, but from time to time turn round. This exercise not without a certain fascination. Should be very sorry indeed to recall in any detail peculiar fantasies that pass through my mind before Dinard is reached.
Bus stops opposite Casino, the moustache and I rise simultaneously – unfortunately bus gives a last jerk and I sit violently down again – and all is over. Final death-blow to non-existent romance is given when Robin’s white shorts, now in last stages of dirt and disreputability, slide out of inadequate paper wrappings and are collected from floor by bus-conductor and returned to me.
Dinard extremely cold, and full of very unengaging trippers, most of whom have undoubtedly come from Lancashire. I deal with cleaners, packet of Lux, chocolate for children, and purchase rose-coloured bathing-cloak for myself, less because I think it suitable or becoming than because I hope it may conduce to slight degree of warmth.
Am moved by obscure feelings of remorse – (what about, in Heaven’s name?) – to buy Robert a present, but can see nothing that he would not dislike immeasurably. Finally in desperation select small lump of lead, roughly shaped to resemble Napoleonic outline, and which I try to think may pass as rather unusual antique.
Do not like to omit Casabianca from this universal distribution, so purchase Tauchnitz edition of my own literary effort, but think afterwards that this is both tactless and egotistical, and wish I hadn’t done it. Drink chocolate in crowded pâtisserie, all by myself, and surrounded by screeching strangers; am sure that French cakes used to be nicer in far-away youthful days, and feel melancholy and middle-aged. Sight of myself in glass when I powder my nose does nothing whatever to dispel any of it.
August 19th. – Robert asks if Napoleonic figure is meant for a paperweight? I am inwardly surprised and relieved at this extremely ingenious idea, and at once say Yes, certainly. Can see by Robert’s expression that he feels doubtful, but firmly change subject immediately.
Day unmarked by any particularly sensational development except that waves are even larger than usual, and twice succeed in knocking me off my feet, the last time just as I am assuring Vicky that she is perfectly safe with me. Robert retrieves us both from extremest depths of the ocean, and Vicky roars. Two small artificial curls – Scylla and Charybdis – always worn under bathing-cap in order that my own hair may be kept dry – are unfortunately swept away, together with bathing-cap, in this disaster, and seen no more. Bathing-cap retrieved by Casabianca, but do not like to enquire whether he cannot also pursue Scylla and Charybdis, and am accordingly obliged to return to shore without them.
(Interesting, although unprofitable, speculation comes into being here: Would not conflict between chivalry and common sense have arisen if Casabianca had sighted elusive side-curls, Scylla and Charybdis? What, moreover, would have been acceptable formula for returning them to me? Should much like to put this p
roblem to him, but decide not to do so, at any rate for the present.)
August 21st. – End of stay at St Briac approaches, and I begin to feel sentimental, but this weakness unshared by anybody else.
Loss of Scylla and Charybdis very inconvenient indeed.
August 23rd. – Am put to shame by Vicky whilst sitting outside drinking coffee on the place with Robert and Casabianca, fellow-guests surrounding us on every side. She bawls from an upper window that she is just going to bed, but has not kissed Casabianca good-night and would like to do so. I crane my head upwards at very uncomfortable angle and sign to her to desist, upon which she obligingly yells that To-morrow morning will do, and everybody looks at us. Casabianca remains unperturbed, and merely says chillingly that he Hopes she will Wash her Face first. On thinking this over, it strikes me as surely unsurpassed effort as deterrent to undesired advances, and can only trust that Vicky will not brazenly persist in path of amorous indiscretion in spite of it.
(NB Am often a prey to serious anxiety as to dear Vicky’s future career. Question suggests itself: Is Success in Life incompatible with High Moral Ideals? Answer, whatever it is, more or less distressing. Can only trust that delightful scholastic establishment at Mickleham will be able to deal adequately with this problem.)
Robert shows marked tendency to say that Decent English Food again will come as a great relief, and is more cheerful than I have seen him since we left home. Take advantage of this to suggest that he and I should visit Casino at Dinard and play roulette, which may improve immediate finances, now very low, and in fact have twice had to borrow from Casabianca, without saying anything about it to Robert.
Casino agreed upon, and we put on best clothes – which have hitherto remained folded in suit-case and extremely inadequate shelves of small wardrobe that always refuses to open.
Bus takes us to Dinard at breakneck speed, and deposits us at Casino. All is electric light, advertisement – (Byrrh) – and vacancy, and bar-tender tells us that no one will think of arriving before eleven o’clock. We have a drink each, for want of anything better to do, and sit on green velvet sofa and read advertisements. Robert asks What is Gala des Toutous? and seems disappointed when I say that I think it is little dogs. Should like – or perhaps not – to know what he thought it was.
We continue to sit on green velvet sofa, and bar-tender looks sorry for us, and turns on more electric light. This obliges us, morally, to have another drink each, which we do. I develop severe pain behind the eyes – (Query: Wood-alcohol, or excess of electric light?) – and feel slightly sick. Also Byrrh now wavering rather oddly on wall.
Robert says Well, as though he were going to make a suggestion, but evidently thinks better of it again, and nothing transpires. After what seems like several hours of this, three men with black faces and musical instruments come in, and small, shrouded heap in far corner of salle reveals itself as a piano.
Bar-tender, surprisingly, has yet further resources at his command in regard to electric light, and we are flooded with still greater illumination. Scene still further enlivened by arrival of very old gentleman in crumpled dress-clothes, stout woman in a green beaded dress that suggests Kensington High Street, and very young girl with cropped hair and scarlet arms. They stand in the very middle of the salle and look bewildered, and I feel that Robert and I are old habitués.
Robert says dashingly What About Another Drink? and I say No, better not, and then have one, and feel worse than ever. Look at Robert to see if he has noticed anything, and am struck by curious air about him, as of having been boiled and glazed. Cannot make up my mind whether this is, or is not, illusion produced by my own state, and feel better not to enquire, but devote entire attention to focusing Byrrh in spot where first sighted, instead of pursuing it all over walls and ceiling.
By the time this more or less accomplished, quite a number of people arrived, though all presenting slightly lost and dégommé appearance.
Robert stares at unpleasant-looking elderly man with red hair, and says Good Heavens, if that isn’t old Pinkie Morrison, whom he last met in Shanghai Bar in nineteen-hundred-and-twelve. I say, Is he a friend? and Robert replies No, he never could stand the fellow, and old Pinkie Morrison is allowed to lapse once more.
Am feeling extremely ill, and obliged to say so, and Robert suggests tour of the rooms, which we accomplish in silence. Decide, by mutual consent, that we do not want to play roulette, or anything else, but would prefer to go back to bed, and Robert says he thought at the time that those drinks had something fishy about them.
I am reminded, by no means for the first time, of Edgeworthian classic, Rosamond and the Parly of Pleasure – but literary allusions never a great success with Robert at any time, and feel sure that this is no moment for taking undue risks.
We return to St Briac and make no further reference to evening’s outing, except that Robert enquires, just as I am dropping off to sleep, whether it seems quite worth while, having spent seventy francs or so just for the sake of being poisoned and seeing a foul sight like old Pinkie Morrison? This question entirely rhetorical, and make no attempt to reply to it.
August 24th. – Much struck with extreme tact and good feeling of Casabianca at breakfast, who, after one look at Robert and myself, refrains from pressing the point as to How We enjoyed the Casino last night?
August 27th. – Last Day now definitely upon us, and much discussion as to how we are to spend it. Robert suggests Packing – but this not intended to be taken seriously – and Casabianca assures us that extremely interesting and instructive Ruins lie at a distance of less than forty kilometres, should we care to visit them. Am sorry to say that none of us do care to visit them, though I endeavour to palliate this by feeble and unconvincing reference to unfavourable weather.
I say what about Saint Cast, which is reputed to have admirable water-chute? or swimming-baths at Dinard? Children become uncontrollably agitated here, and say Oh, please can we bathe in the morning, and then come back to hotel for lunch, and bathe again in the afternoon and have tea at English Tea-Rooms? As this programme is precisely the one that we have been following daily ever since we arrived, nothing could be easier, and we agree. I make mental note to the effect that the young are definitely dependent on routine, and have dim idea of evolving interesting little article on the question, to be handsomely paid for by daily Press – but nothing comes of it.
Packing takes place, and Casabianca reminds me – kindly, but with an air of having expected rather better staff-work – that Robin’s shorts are still at cleaners in Dinard. I say O Hell, and then weakly add -p to the end of it, and hope he hasn’t noticed, and he offers to go into Dinard and fetch them. I say No, no, really, I shouldn’t dream of troubling him, and he goes, but unfortunately brings back wrong parcel, from which we extract gigantic pair of white flannel trousers that have nothing to do with any of us.
French chambermaid, Germaine, who has followed entire affair from the start, says Mon Dieu! alors c’est tout à recommencer? which has a despairing ring, and makes me feel hopeless, but Casabianca again comes to the rescue and assures me that he can Telephone.
(NB Casabianca’s weekly remuneration entirely inadequate and have desperate thoughts of doubling it on the spot, but financial considerations render this impossible, and perhaps better concentrate on repaying him four hundred francs borrowed on various occasions since arrival here.)
We go to bathe as usual, and I am accosted by strange woman in yellow pyjamas – cannot imagine how she can survive the cold – who says she met me in South Audley Street some years ago, don’t I remember? Have no association whatever with South Audley Street, except choosing dinner-service there with Robert in distant days of wedding presents – (dinner-service now no longer with us, and replaced by vastly inferior copy of Wedgwood). However, I say Yes, yes, of course, and yellow pyjamas at once introduces My boy at Dartmouth – very lank and mottled, and does not look me in the eye – My Sister who Has a Villa Out Here, and My Sist
er’s Youngest Girl – Cheltenham College. Feel that I ought to do something on my side, but look round in vain, Robert, children and Casabianca all having departed, with superhuman rapidity, to extremely distant rock.
The sister with the villa says that she has read my book – ha-ha-ha – and how do I think of it all? I look blankly at her and say that I don’t know, and feel that I am being inadequate. Everybody else evidently thinks so too, and rather distressing silence ensues, ice-cold wind – cannot say why, or from whence – suddenly rising with great violence and blowing us all to pieces.
I say Well, more feebly than ever, and yellow pyjamas says Oh dear, this weather, really – and supposes that we shall all meet down here to-morrow, and I say Yes, of course, before I remember that we cross to-night – but feel quite unable to reopen discussion, and retire to bathing-cabin.
Robert enquires later who that woman was? and I say that I cannot remember, but think her name was something like Busvine.
After some thought, Robert says Was it Morton? to which I reply No, more like Chamberlain.
Hours later, remember that it was Heywood.
August 28th. – Depart from St Briac by bus at seven o’clock, amidst much agitation. Entire personnel of hotel assembles to see us off, and Vicky kisses everybody. Robin confines himself to shaking hands quite suddenly with elderly Englishman in plus-fours – with whom he has never before exchanged a word – and elderly Englishman says that Now, doors will no longer slam on his landing every evening, he supposes. (NB Disquieting thought: does this consideration perhaps account for the enthusiasm with which we are all being despatched on our way?)
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 21
