The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  (Waddell and I have met exactly once before, on which occasion we did not speak, and am morally certain that he would not know me again if he saw me.)

  Bell rings, and influx of very young gentlemen supervenes, and are all greeted by Pamela and introduced to me as Tim and Nicky and the Twins. I remain anonymous throughout, but Pamela lavishly announces that I am very, very clever and literary – with customary result of sending all the very young gentlemen into the furthermost corner of the room, from whence they occasionally look over their shoulders at me with expressions of acute horror.

  They are followed by Waddell – escorting, to my immense relief, Rose’s Viscountess, whom I greet as an old friend, at which she seems faintly surprised, although in quite a kind way – and elderly American with a bald head. He sits next me, and wants to know about Flag days, and – after drinking something out of a little glass handed me in a detached way by one of the very young gentlemen – I suddenly find myself extraordinarily eloquent and informative on the subject.

  Elderly American encourages me by looking at me thoughtfully and attentively while I speak – (difference in this respect between Americans and ourselves is marked, and greatly to the advantage of the former) – and saying at intervals that what I am telling him Means Quite a Lot to him – which is more than it does to me. Long before I think I have exhausted the subject, Pamela removes the American by perfectly simple and direct method of telling him to come and talk to her, which he obediently does – but bows at me rather apologetically first.

  Waddell immediately refills my glass, although without speaking a word, and Rose’s Viscountess talks to me about Time and Tide. We spend a pleasant five minutes, and at the end of them I have promised to go and see her, and we have exchanged Christian names. Can this goodwill be due to alcohol? Have a dim idea that this question had better not be propounded at the moment.

  Room is by this time entirely filled with men, cigarette smoke and conversation. Have twice said No, really, not any more, thank you, to Waddell, and he has twice ignored it altogether, and continued to pour things into my glass, and I to drink them. Result is a very strange mixture of exhilaration, utter recklessness and rather sentimental melancholy. Am also definitely giddy and aware that this will be much worse as soon as I attempt to stand up.

  Unknown man, very attractive, sitting near me, tells me of very singular misfortune that has that day befallen him. He has, to his infinite distress, dealt severe blow with a walking-stick to strange woman, totally unknown to him, outside the Athenaeum. I say Really, in concerned tones, Was that just an accident? Oh yes, purest accident. He was showing a friend how to play a stroke at golf, and failed to perceive woman immediately behind him. This unhappily resulted in the breaking of her spectacles, and gathering of a large crowd, and moral obligation on his own part to drive her immense distance in a taxi to see (a) a doctor, (b) an oculist, (c) her husband, who turned out to live at Richmond. I sympathise passionately, and suggest that he will probably have to keep both woman and her husband for the rest of their lives, which, he says, had already occurred to him.

  This dismays us both almost equally, and we each drink another cocktail.

  Pamela – had already wondered why she had left attractive unknown to me so long – now breaks up this agreeable conversation, by saying that Waddell will never, never, forgive anybody else for monopolising me, and I simply must do my best to put him into a really good mood, as Pamela has got to tell him about her dressmaker’s bill presently, so will I be an angel – ? She then removes delightful stranger, and I am left in a dazed condition. Have dim idea that Waddell is reluctantly compelled by Pamela to join me, and that we repeatedly assure one another that there are No Good Plays Running Nowadays. Effect of this eclectic pronouncement rather neutralised later, when it turns out that Waddell never patronises anything except talkies, and that I haven’t set foot inside a London theatre for eight and a half months.

  Later still it dawns on me that I am almost the last person left at the party, except for Waddell, who has turned on the wireless and is listening to Vaudeville, and Pamela, who is on the sofa having her palm read by one young man, while two others hang over the back of it and listen attentively.

  I murmur a very general and unobtrusive good-bye, and go away. Am not certain, but think that hall-porter eyes me compassionately, but we content ourselves with exchange of rather grave smiles – no words.

  Am obliged to return to Doughty Street in a taxi, owing to very serious fear that I no longer have perfect control over my legs.

  Go instantly to bed on reaching flat, and room whirls round and round in distressing fashion for some time before I go to sleep.

  May 25th. – Life one round of gaiety, and feel extremely guilty on receiving a letter from Our Vicar’s Wife, saying that she is certain I am working hard at a New Book, and she should so like to hear what it’s all about and what its name is. If I will tell her this, she will speak to the girl at Boots’, as every little helps. She herself is extremely busy, and the garden is looking nice, but everything very late this year. PS Have I heard that old Mrs Blenkinsop is going to Bournemouth?

  Make up my mind to write really long and interesting reply to this, but when I sit down to do so find that I am quite unable to write anything at all, except items that would appear either indiscreet, boastful or scandalous. Decide to wait until after Emma Hay’s party in Little James Street, as this will give me something to write about.

  (Mem.: Self-deception almost certainly involved here, as reflection makes it perfectly evident that Our Vicar’s Wife is unlikely in the extreme to be either amused or edified by the antics of any acquaintances brought to my notice via Emma.)

  Go down to Mickleham by bus – which takes an hour and a half – to see Vicky, who is very lively and affectionate, and looks particularly well, but declares herself to be overworked. I ask What at? and she says Oh, Eurhythmics. It subsequently appears that these take place one afternoon in every week, for one hour. She also says that she likes all her other lessons and is doing very well at them, and this is subsequently confirmed by higher authorities. Again patronise bus route – an hour and three-quarters, this time – and return to London, feeling exactly as if I had had a night journey to Scotland, travelling third-class and sitting bolt upright all the way.

  May 26th. – Emma – in green sacque that looks exactly like démodé window-curtain, sandals and varnished toe-nails – calls for me at flat, and we go across to Little James Street. I ask whom I am going to meet and Emma replies, with customary spaciousness, Everyone, absolutely Everyone, but does not commit herself to names, or even numbers.

  Exterior of Little James Street makes me wonder as to its capacities for dealing with Everyone, and this lack of confidence increases as Emma conducts me into extremely small house and down narrow flight of stone stairs, the whole culminating in long, thin room with black walls and yellow ceiling, apparently no furniture whatever, and curious, but no doubt interesting, collection of people all standing screaming at one another.

  Emma looks delighted and says Didn’t she tell me it would be a crush, that man over there is living with a negress now, and if she gets a chance she will bring him up to me.

  (Should very much like to know with what object, since it will obviously be impossible for me to ask him the only thing I shall really be thinking about.)

  Abstracted-looking man with a beard catches sight of Emma, and says Darling, in an absent-minded manner, and then immediately moves away, followed, with some determination, by Emma.

  Am struck by presence of many pairs of horn-rimmed spectacles, and marked absence of evening dress, also by very odd fact that almost everybody in the room has either abnormally straight or abnormally frizzy hair. Conversation in my vicinity is mainly concerned with astonishing picture on the wall, which I think represents Adam and Eve at very early stage indeed, but am by no means certain, and comments overheard do not enlighten me in the least. Am moreover seriously exercised in
my mind as to exact meaning of tempo, brio, appassionata and coloratura as applied to art.

  Strange man enters into conversation with me, but gives it up in disgust when I mention Adam and Eve, and am left with the impression – do not exactly know why – that picture in reality represents Sappho on the Isle of Lesbos.

  (Query: Who was Sappho, and what was Isle of Lesbos?)

  Emma presently reappears, leading reluctant-looking lady with red hair, and informs her in my presence that I am a country mouse – which infuriates me – and adds that we ought to get on well together, as we have identical inferiority complexes. Red-haired lady and I look at one another with mutual hatred, and separate as soon as possible, having merely exchanged brief comment on Adam and Eve picture, which she seems to think has something to do with the ’nineties and the Yellow Book.

  Make one or two abortive efforts to find out if we have a host or hostess, and if so what they look like, and other more vigorous efforts to discover a chair, but all to no avail, and finally decide that as I am not enjoying myself, and am also becoming exhausted, I had better leave. Emma makes attempt that we both know to be half-hearted to dissuade me, and I rightly disregard it altogether and prepare to walk out, Emma at the last moment shattering my nerve finally by asking what I think of that wonderful satirical study on the wall, epitomising the whole of the modern attitude towards Sex?

  June 1st. – Life full of contrasts, as usual, and after recent orgy of Society, spend most of the day in washing white gloves and silk stockings, and drying them in front of electric fire. Effect of this on gloves not good, and remember too late that writer of Woman’s Page in illustrated daily paper has always deprecated this practice.

  Pay a call on Robert’s Aunt Mary, who lives near Battersea Bridge, and we talk about relations. She says How do I think William and Angela are getting on? which sounds like preliminary to a scandal and excites me pleasurably, but it turns out to refer to recent venture in Bee-keeping, no reference whatever to domestic situation, and William and Angela evidently giving no grounds for agitation at present.

  Aunt Mary asks about children, says that school is a great mistake for girls, and that she does so hope Robin is good at games – which he isn’t – and do I find that it answers to have A Man in the house? Misunderstanding occurs here, as I take this to mean Robert, but presently realise that it is Casabianca.

  Tea and seed-cake appear, we partake, and Aunt Mary hopes that my writing does not interfere with home life and its many duties, and I hope so too, but in spite of this joint aspiration, impression prevails that we are mutually dissatisfied with one another. We part, and I go away feeling that I have been a failure. Wish I could believe that Aunt Mary was similarly downcast on her own account, but have noticed that this is seldom the case with older generation.

  Find extraordinary little envelope waiting for me at flat, containing printed assurance that I shall certainly be interested in recent curiosities of literature acquired by total stranger living in Northern manufacturing town, all or any of which he is prepared to send me under plain sealed cover. Details follow, and range from illustrated History of Flagellation to Unexpurgated Erotica.

  Toy for some time with idea that it is my duty to communicate with Scotland Yard, but officials there probably overworked already, and would be far more grateful for being left in peace, so take no action beyond consigning envelope and contents to the dust-bin.

  June 9th. – Am rung up on the telephone by Editor of Time and Tide and told that We are Giving a Party on June 16th, at newest Park Lane Hotel. (Query: Is this the Editorial We, or does she conceivably mean she and I? – because if so, must at once disabuse her, owing to present financial state of affairs.) Will I serve on the Committee? Yes, I will. Who else is on it? Oh, says the Editor, Ellen Wilkinson is on it, only she won’t be able to attend any of the meetings. I make civil pretence of thinking this a business-like and helpful arrangement, and ask Who Else? Our Miss Lewis, says the Editor, and rings off before I can make further enquiries. Get into immediate touch with Our Miss Lewis, who turns out to be young, and full of activity. I make several suggestions, mostly to the effect that she should do a great deal of hard work, she accedes delightfully, and I am left with nothing to do except persuade highly distinguished Professor to take the Chair at Debate which is to be a feature of the party.

  June 11th. – Distinguished Professor proves far less amenable than I had expected, and am obliged to call in Editorial assistance. Am informed by a side-wind that Distinguished Professor has said she Hates me, which seems to me neither dignified nor academic method of expressing herself – besides being definitely un-Christian.

  Apart from this, preparations go on successfully, and I get myself a new frock for the occasion.

  June 16th. – Reach Hotel at 4 o’clock, marvellous weather, frock very successful, and all is couleur-de-rose. Am met by official, to whom I murmur Time and Tide? and he commands minor official, at his elbow, to show Madam the Spanish Grill. (Extraordinary and unsuitable association at once springs to mind here, with Tortures of the Inquisition.) The Spanish Grill is surrounded by members of the Time and Tide Staff – Editor materialises, admirably dressed in black, and chills me to the heart by saying that as I happen to be here early I had better help her receive arrivals already beginning. (This does not strike me as a happy way of expressing herself.) Someone produces small label, bearing name by which I am – presumably – known to readers of Time and Tide, and this I pin to my frock, and feel exactly like one of the lesser exhibits at Madame Tussaud’s.

  Distinguished Professor, who does not greet me with any cordiality, is unnecessarily insistent on seeing that I do my duty, and places me firmly in receiving line. Several hundred millions then invade the Hotel, and are shaken hands with by Editor and myself. Official announcer does marvels in catching all their names and repeating them in superb shout. After every tenth name he diversifies things by adding, three semitones lower, The Editor receiving, which sounds like a Greek chorus, and is impressive.

  Delightful interlude when I recognise dear Rose, with charming and beautifully dressed doctor friend from America, also Rose’s niece – no reference made by either of us to Women’s Institutes – the Principal from Mickleham Hall, of whom I hastily enquire as to Vicky’s welfare and am told that she is quite well, and Very Good which is a relief, – and dear Angela, who is unfortunately just in time to catch this maternal reference, and looks superior. Regrettable, but undoubtedly human, aspiration crosses my mind that it would be agreeable to be seen by Lady B. in all this distinguished society, but she puts in no appearance, and have very little doubt that next time we meet I shall be riding a bicycle strung with parcels on way to the village, or at some similar disadvantage.

  Soon after five o’clock I am told that We might go and have some tea now – which I do, and talk to many very agreeable strangers. Someone asks me Is Francis Iles here? and I have to reply that I do not know, and unknown woman suddenly joins in and assures me that Francis Iles is really Mr Aldous Huxley, she happens to know. Am much impressed, and repeat this to several people, by way of showing that I possess inside information, but am disconcerted by unknown gentleman who tells me, in rather grave and censorious accents, that I am completely mistaken, as he happens to know that Francis Iles is in reality Miss Edith Sitwell. Give the whole thing up after this, and am presently told to take my seat on platform for Debate.

  Quite abominable device has been instituted by which names of speakers are put into a hat, and drawn out haphazard, which means that none of us knows when we are to speak except one gentleman who has – with admirable presence of mind – arranged to have a train to catch, so that he gets called upon at once.

  Chairman does her duties admirably – justifies my insistence over and over again – speeches are excellent, and audience most appreciative.

  Chairman – can she be doing it on purpose, from motives of revenge? – draws my name late in the day, and find myself obliged to fo
llow after admirable and experienced speakers, who have already said everything that can possibly be said. Have serious thoughts of simulating a faint, but conscience intervenes, and I rise. Special Providence mercifully arranges that exactly as I do so I should meet the eye of American publisher, whom I know well and like. He looks encouraging – and I mysteriously find myself able to utter. Great relief when this is over.

  Short speech from Time and Tide’s Editor brings down the house, and Debate is brought to a close by the Chairman.

  Party definitely a success, and am impressed by high standard of charm, good looks, intelligence, and excellent manners of Time and Tide readers. Unknown and delightful lady approaches me, and says, without preliminary of any kind: How is Robert? which pleases me immensely, and propose to send him a postcard about it to-night.

  Am less delighted by another complete stranger, who eyes me rather coldly and observes that I am What She Calls Screamingly Funny. Cannot make up my mind if she is referring to my hat, my appearance generally, or my contributions to Time and Tide. Can only hope the latter.

  Am offered a lift home in a taxi by extremely well-known novelist, which gratifies me, and hope secretly that as many people as possible see me go away with him, and know who he is – which they probably do – and who I am – which they probably don’t.

  Spend entire evening in ringing up everybody I can think of, to ask how they enjoyed the Party.

  June 18th. – Heat-wave continues, and everybody says How lovely it must be in the country, but personally think it is lovely in London, and am more than content.

  Write eloquent letter to Robert suggesting that he should come up too, and go with me to Robin’s School Sports on June 25th and that we should take Vicky. Have hardly any hope that he will agree to any of this.

  Rose’s Viscountess – henceforth Anne to me – rings up, and says that she has delightful scheme by which Rose is to motor me on Sunday to place – indistinguishable on telephone – in Buckinghamshire, where delightful Hotel, with remarkably beautiful garden, exists, and where we are to meet Anne and collection of interesting literary friends for lunch. Adds flatteringly that it will be so delightful to meet me again – had meant to say this myself about her, but must now abandon it, being unable to think out paraphrase in time. Reply that I shall look forward to Sunday, and we ring off.