October 3rd. – Observe in myself tendency to go further and further in search of suitable cheap restaurants for meals – this not so much from economic considerations, as on extremely unworthy grounds that walking in the streets amuses me. (Cannot for one instant contemplate even remote possibility of Lady B.’s ever coming to hear of and do not even feel disposed to discuss it with Robert. Am, moreover, perfectly well aware that I have come to London to Write, and not to amuse myself.)
Determination to curb this spirit causes me to lunch at small establishment in Theobald’s Road, completely filled by hatless young women with cigarettes, one old lady with revolting little dog that growls at everyone, and small, pale youth who eats custard, and reads mysterious periodical entitled Helping Hands.
Solitary waitress looks harassed, and tells me – unsolicited – that she has only a small portion of The Cold left. I say Very Well, and The Cold, after long interval, appears, and turns out to be pork. Should like to ask for a potato, but waitress avoids me, and I go without.
Hatless young women all drink coffee in immense quantities, and I feel this is literary, and should like to do the same, but for cast-iron conviction that coffee will be nasty. Am also quite unattracted by custard, and finally ask for A Bun, please, and waitress – more harassed than ever – enquires in return if I mind the one in the window? I recklessly say No, if it hasn’t been there too long, and waitress says Oh, not very, and seems relieved.
Singular conversation between hatless young women engages my attention, and distracts me from rather severe struggle with the bun. My neighbours discuss Life, and the youngest of them remarks that Perversion has practically gone out altogether now. The others seem to view this as pessimistic, and assure her encouragingly that, so far, nothing else has been found to take its place. One of them adjures her to Look at Sprott and Nash – which sounds like suburban grocers, but is, I think, mutual friends. Everybody says Oh, of course, to Sprott and Nash, and seems relieved. Someone tells a story about a very old man, which I try without success to overhear, and someone else remarks disapprovingly that he can’t know much about it, really, as he’s well over seventy, and it only came into fashion a year or two ago. Conversation then becomes inconsequent, and veers about between Cavalcade, methods of hair-dressing, dog-breeding, and man called William – but with tendency to revert at intervals to Sprott and Nash.
Finish bun with great difficulty, pay tenpence for entire meal, leave twopence for waitress, and take my departure. Decide quite definitely that this, even in the cause of economy, wasn’t worth it. Remember with immense satisfaction that I lunch to-morrow at Boulestin’s with charming Viscountess, and indulge in reflections concerning strange contrasts offered by Life: cold pork and stale bun in Theobald’s Road on Tuesday, and lobster and poire Hélène – (I hope) – at Boulestin’s on Wednesday. Hope and believe with all my heart that similar startling dissimilarity will be observable in nature of company and conversation.
Decide to spend afternoon in writing and devote much time to sharpening pencils, looking for india-rubber – finally discovered inside small cavity of gramophone, intended for gramophone needles. This starts train of thought concerning whereabouts of gramophone needles, am impelled to search for them, and am eventually dumbfounded at finding them in a match-box, on shelf of kitchen cupboard. (Vague, but unpleasant, flight of fancy here, beginning with Vicky searching for biscuits in insufficient light, and ending in Coroner’s Court and vote of severe censure passed – rightly – by Jury.)
(Query: Does not imagination, although in many ways a Blessing, sometimes carry its possessor too far? Answer emphatically Yes.) Bell rings, and I open door to exhausted-seeming woman, who says she isn’t going to disturb me – which she has already done – but do I know about the new electric cleaner? I feel sorry for her, and feel that if I turn her away she will very likely break down altogether, so hear about new electric cleaner, and engage, reluctantly, to let it come and demonstrate its powers to-morrow morning. Woman says that I shall never regret it – which is untrue, as I am regretting it already – and passes out of my life.
Second interruption takes place when man – says he is Unemployed – comes to the door with a Poem, which he says he is selling. I buy the Poem for two shillings, which I know is weak, and say that he really must not send anyone else as I cannot afford it. He assures me that he never will, and goes.
Bell rings again, and fails to leave off. I am filled with horror, and look up at it – inaccessible position, and nothing to be seen except two mysterious little jam-jars and some wires. Climb on a chair to investigate, then fear electrocution and climb down again without having done anything. Housekeeper from upstairs rushes down, and unknown females from basement rush up, and we all look at the ceiling and say Better fetch a Man. This is eventually done, and I meditate ironical article on Feminism, while bell rings on madly. Man, however, arrives, says Ah, yes, he thought as much, and at once reduces bell to order, apparently by sheer power of masculinity.
Am annoyed, and cannot settle down to anything.
October 7th. – Extraordinary behaviour of dear Rose, with whom I am engaged – and have been for days past – to go and have supper to-night. Just as I am trying to decide whether bus to Portland Street or tube to Oxford Circus will be preferable, I am called up on telephone by Rose’s married niece, who lives in Hertfordshire, and is young and modern, to say that speaker for her Women’s Institute to-night has failed, and that Rose, on being appealed to, has at once suggested my name and expressed complete willingness to dispense with my society for the evening. Utter impossibility of pleading previous engagement is obvious; I contemplate for an instant saying that I have influenza, but remember in time that niece, very intelligently, started the conversation by asking how I was, and that I replied Splendid, thanks – and there is nothing for it but to agree.
(Query: Should much like to know if it was for this that I left Devonshire.)
Think out several short, but sharply worded, letters to Rose, but time fails; I can only put brush and comb, slippers, sponge, three books, pyjamas and hot-water bottle into case – discover later that I have forgotten powder-puff, and am very angry, but to no avail – and repair by train to Hertfordshire.
Spend most of journey in remembering all that I know of Rose’s niece, which is that she is well under thirty, pretty, talented, tremendous social success, amazingly good at games, dancing, and – I think – everything else in the world, and married to brilliantly clever young man who is said to have Made Himself a Name, though cannot at the moment recollect how.
Have strong impulse to turn straight round and go home again, sooner than confront so much efficiency, but non-stop train render this course impracticable.
Niece meets me – clothes immensely superior to anything that I ever have had, or shall have – is charming, expresses gratitude, and asks what I am going to speak about. I reply, Amateur Theatricals. Excellent of course, she says unconvincingly, and adds that the Institute has a large Dramatic Society already, that they are regularly produced by well-known professional actor, husband of Vice-President, and were very well placed in recent village-drama competition, open to all England.
At this I naturally wilt altogether, and say Then perhaps better talk about books or something – which sounds weak, even as I say it, and am convinced that niece feels the same, though she remains imperturbably charming. She drives competently through the night, negotiates awkward entrance to garage equally well, extracts my bag and says that It is Heavy – which is undeniable, and is owing to books, but cannot say so, as it would look as though I thought her house likely to be inadequately supplied – and conducts me into perfectly delightful, entirely modern, house, which I feel certain – rightly, I discover later – has every newest labour-saving device ever invented.
Bathroom especially – (all appears to be solid marble, black-and-white tiles, and dazzling polish) – impresses me immeasurably. Think regretfully, but with undiminished affe
ction, of extremely inferior edition at home – paint peeling in several directions, brass taps turning green at intervals until treated by housemaid, and irregular collection of home-made brackets on walls, bearing terrific accumulation of half-empty bottles, tins of talcum powder and packets of Lux.
Niece shows me her children – charming small boy, angelic baby – both, needless to say, have curls. She asks civilly about Robin and Vicky, and I can think of nothing whatever to the credit of either, so merely reply that they are at school.
(NB Victorian theory as to maternal pride now utterly discredited. Affection, yes. Pride, no.)
We have dinner – niece has changed into blue frock which suits her and is, of course, exactly right for the occasion. I do the best I can with old red dress and small red cap that succeeds in being thoroughly unbecoming without looking in the least up to date, and endeavour to make wretched little compact from bag do duty for missing powder-puff. Results not good.
We have a meal, am introduced to husband – also young – and we talk about Rose, mutual friends. Time and Tide and Electrolux cleaners.
Evening at Institute reasonably successful – am much impressed by further display of efficiency from niece, as President – I speak about Books, and obtain laughs by introduction of three entirely irrelevant anecdotes, am introduced to felt hat and fur coat, felt hat and blue jumper, felt hat and tweeds, and so on. Names of all alike remain impenetrably mysterious, as mine no doubt to them.
(Flight of fancy here as to whether this deplorable, but customary, state of affairs is in reality unavoidable? Theory exists that it has been completely overcome in America, where introductions always entirely audible and frequently accompanied by short biographical sketch. Should like to go to America.)
Niece asks kindly if I am tired. I say No, not at all, which is a lie, and she presently takes me home and I go to bed. Spare-room admirable in every respect, but no waste-paper basket. This solitary flaw in general perfection a positive relief.
October 8th. – All endeavours to communicate with Rose by telephone foiled, as her housekeeper invariably answers, and says that she is Out. Can quite understand this. Resolve that dignified course is to take no further steps, and leave any advances to Rose.
This resolution sets up serious conflict later in day, when I lunch with Viscountess, originally met as Rose’s friend, as she does nothing but talk of her with great enthusiasm, and I am torn between natural inclination to respond and sense of definite grievance at Rose’s present behaviour.
Lunch otherwise highly successful. Have not bought new hat, which is as well, as Viscountess removes hers at an early stage, and is evidently quite indifferent to millinery.
October 10th. – Am exercised over minor domestic problem, of peculiarly prosaic description, centering round collection of dust-bins in small, so-called back garden of Doughty Street flat. All these dust-bins invariably brim-full, and am convinced that contents of alien waste-paper baskets contribute constantly to mine, as have no recollection at all of banana-skin, broken blue-and-white saucer, torn fragments of Police-Court Gazette, or small, rusty tin kettle riddled with holes.
Contemplate these phenomena with great dislike, but cannot bring myself to remove them, so poke my contribution down with handle of feather-duster, and retire.
October 13th. – Call upon Rose, in rather unusual frame of mind which suddenly descends upon me after lunch – cannot at all say why – impelling me to demand explanation of strange behaviour last week.
Rose at home, and says How nice to see me, which takes the wind out of my sails, but I rally, and say firmly that That is All Very Well, but what about that evening at the Women’s Institute? At this Rose, though holding her ground, blanches perceptibly, and tells me to sit down quietly and explain what I mean. Am very angry at quietly, which sounds as if I usually smashed up all the furniture, and reply – rather scathingly – that I will do my best not to rouse the neighbourhood. Unfortunately, rather unguarded movement of annoyance results in upsetting of small table, idiotically loaded with weighty books, insecurely fastened box of cigarettes, and two ash-trays. We collect them again in silence – cigarettes particularly elusive, and roll to immense distances underneath sofa and behind electric fire – and finally achieve an armchair apiece, and glare at one another across expanse of Persian rug.
Am astonished that Rose is able to look me in the face at all, and say so, and long and painful conversation ensues, revealing curious inability on both our parts to keep to main issue. Should be sorry to recall in any detail exact number and nature of utterly irrelevant observations exchanged, but have distinct recollection that Rose asserts at various times that: (a) If I had been properly psychoanalysed years ago, I should realise that my mind has never really come to maturity at all. (b) It is perfectly ridiculous to wear shoes with such high heels. (c) Robert is a perfect saint and has a lot to put up with. (d) No one in the world can be readier than Rose is to admit that I can Write, but to talk about The Piano is absurd.
Cannot deny that in return I inform her, in the course of the evening, that: (a) Her best friend could never call Rose tidy – look at the room now! (b) There is a great difference between being merely impulsive, and being utterly and grossly inconsiderate. (c) Having been to America does not, in itself, constitute any claim to infallibility on every question under the sun. (d) Naturally, what’s past is past, and I don’t want to remind her about the time she lost her temper over those idiotic iris-roots.
Cannot say at what stage I am reduced to tears, but this unfortunately happens, and I explain that it is entirely due to rage, and nothing else. Rose suddenly says there is nothing like coffee, and rings the bell. Retire to the bathroom in great disorder, mop myself up – tears highly unbecoming, and should much like to know how film-stars do it, usual explanation of Glycerine seems to me quite inadequate – Return to sitting-room and find that Rose, with extraordinary presence of mind, has put on the gramophone. Listen in silence to Rhapsody in Blue, and feel better.
Admirable coffee is brought in, drink some, and feel better still. Am once more enabled to meet Rose’s eye, which now indicates contrition, and we simultaneously say that this is Perfectly Impossible, and Don’t let’s quarrel, whatever we do. All is harmony in a moment, and I kiss Rose, and she says that the whole thing was her fault, from start to finish, and I say No, it was mine absolutely, and we both say that we didn’t really mean anything we said.
(Cold-blooded and slightly cynical idea crosses my mind later that entire evening has been complete waste of nervous energy, if neither of us meant any of the things we said – but refuse to dwell on this aspect of the case.)
Eventually go home feeling extraordinarily tired. Find letter from Vicky, with small drawing of an elephant, that I think distinctly clever and modernistic, until I read letter and learn that it is A Table, laid for Dinner, also communication from Literary Agent saying how much he looks forward to seeing my new manuscript. (Can only hope that he enjoys the pleasures of anticipation as much as he says, since they are, at present rate of progress, likely to be prolonged.)
Am also confronted by purple envelope and silver cypher, now becoming familiar, and scrawled invitation from Pamela Pringle to lunch at her flat and meet half a dozen dear friends who simply adore my writing. Am sceptical about this, but shall accept, from degraded motives of curiosity to see the dear friends, and still more degraded motives of economy, leading me to accept a free meal from whatever quarter offered.
October 16th. – Find myself in very singular position as regards the Bank, where distinctly unsympathetic attitude prevails in regard to quite small overdraft. Am interviewed by the Manager, who says he very much regrets that my account at present appears to be absolutely Stationary. I say with some warmth that he cannot regret it nearly as much as I do myself, and deadlock appears to have been reached. Manager – cannot imagine why he thinks it a good idea – suddenly opens a large file, and reads me out extract from correspondence with very unen
dearing personality referred to as his Director, instructing him to bring pressure to bear upon this client – (me). I say Well, that’s all right, he has brought pressure to bear, so he needn’t worry – but perfect understanding fails to establish itself, and we part in gloom.
Idle fantasy of suddenly acquiring several hundreds of thousands of pounds by means of Irish Sweep ticket nearly causes me to be run over by inferior-looking lorry with coal.
October 18th. – Go to Woolworth’s to buy paper handkerchiefs – cold definitely impending – and hear sixpenny record, entitled ‘Around the Corner and Under the Tree’, which I buy. Tune completely engaging, and words definitely vulgar, but not without cheap appeal. Something tells me that sooner or later I shall be explaining purchase away by saying that I got it to amuse the children.
(Note: Self-knowledge possibly beneficial, but almost always unpleasant to a degree.)
Determine to stifle impending cold, if only till after Pamela’s luncheon-party to-morrow, and take infinite trouble to collect jug, boiling water, small bottle of Friar’s Balsam and large bath-towel. All is ruined by one careless movement, which tips jug, Friar’s Balsam and hot water down front of my pyjamas. Am definitely scalded – skin breaks in one place and turns scarlet over area of at least six inches – try to show presence of mind and remember that Butter is The Thing, remember that there is no butter in the flat – frantic and irrelevant quotation here, It was the Best butter – remember vaseline, use it recklessly, and retire to bed in considerable pain and with cold unalleviated.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 24
