The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  October 17th. – Conference at publisher’s office concerning my future movements, in which I take passive, rather than active part. Head of well-known lecture agency is present, and tells me about several excellent speaking-engagements that he might have got for me if: (a) He had had longer notice, (b) All the Clubs in America hadn’t been affected by the depression, and (c) I could arrange to postpone my sailing for another three months.

  Since (a) and (b) cannot now be remedied, and I entirely refuse to consider (c), deadlock appears to have been reached, but agent suddenly relents and admits that he can, by dint of superhuman exertions, get me one or two bookings in various places that none of them seem to be less than eighteen hours’ journey apart. I agree to everything, only stipulating for Chicago where I wish to visit literary friend Arthur and his family, and to inspect the World Fair.

  Social whirl, to which I am by now becoming accustomed, follows, and I am put into the hands of extraordinarily kind and competent guardian angel, picturesquely named Ramona Herdman. She takes me to the Vanderbilt Hotel for so-called tea, which consists of very strong cocktails and interesting sandwiches. I meet Miss Isabel Paterson, famous literary critic, by whom I am completely fascinated, but also awe-stricken in the extreme, as she has terrific reputation and is alarmingly clever in conversation.

  She demolishes one or two English novelists, in whose success I have always hitherto believed implicitly, but is kind about my own literary efforts, and goes so far as to hope that we shall meet again. I tell her that I am going to Chicago and other places, and may be lecturing, and she looks at the floor and says, Yes, Clubwomen, large women with marcelled hair, wearing reception gowns.

  Am appalled by this thumbnail sketch, and seriously contemplate cancelling tour altogether.

  Ella Wheelwright joins us. She now has on a black ensemble, and hair done in quite a new way – and we talk about books. I say that I have enjoyed nothing so much as Flush, but Miss Paterson again disconcerts me by muttering that to write a whole book about a dog is Simply Morbid.

  Am eventually taken to Essex House by Ella W., who asks, very kindly, if there is anything she can do for me. Yes, there is. She can tell me where I can go to get my hair shampooed and set, and whether it will be much more expensive than it is at home. In reply, Ella tells me that her own hair waves naturally. It doesn’t curl – that isn’t what she means at all – but it just waves. In damp weather, it just goes into natural waves. It always has done this, ever since she was a child. But she has it set once a month, because it looks nicer. Hairdresser always tells her that it’s lovely hair to do anything with, because the wave is really natural.

  She then says Good-night and leaves me, and I decide to have my own inferior hair, which does not wave naturally, washed and set in the Hotel Beauty-parlour.

  Oct. 23rd. – Extraordinary week-end with Ella Wheelwright on Long Island, at superb country-house which she refers to as her cottage. She drives me out from New York very kindly, but should enjoy it a great deal more if she would look in front of her, instead of at me, whilst negotiating colossal and unceasing stream of traffic. This, she says gaily, is what she has been looking forward to – a really undisturbed tête-à-tête in which to hear all about my reactions to America and the American Woman. I say, What about the American Man? but this not a success, Ella evidently feeling that reactions, if any, on this subject are of no importance whatever to anybody.

  She then tells me that she spent a month last year in London, staying at the Savoy, and gives me her opinion of England, which is, on the whole, favourable. I say at intervals that I see what she means, and utter other non-committal phrases whenever it occurs to me that if I don’t say something she will guess that I am not really listening.

  We gradually leave New York behind and creep into comparative country – bright golden trees excite my admiration, together with occasional scarlet ones – Ella still talking – have not the least idea what about, but continue to ejaculate from time to time. Presently country mansion is reached, three large cars already standing in front of door, and I suggest that other visitors have arrived. But Ella says Oh no, one is her other car, and the remaining two belong to Charlie. Decide that Charlie must be her husband, and wonder whether she has any children, but none have ever been mentioned, and do not like to ask.

  House is attractive – furniture and decorations very elaborate – am particularly struck by enormous pile of amber beads coiled carelessly on one corner of old oak refectory table, just where they catch the light – and I am taken up winding staircase, carpeted in rose colour.

  (Evidently no children, or else they use a separate staircase.)

  Ella’s bedroom perfectly marvellous. Terrific expanse of looking-glass, and sofa has eighteen pillows, each one different shade of purple. Should like to count number of jars and bottles – all with mauve enamel tops – in bathroom, but this would take far too long, and feel it necessary, moreover, to concentrate on personal appearance, very far from satisfactory. Am aware that I cannot hope to compete with Ella, who is looking wonderful in white wool outfit obviously made for her in Paris, but make what efforts I can with powder and lipstick, try to forget that I am wearing my Blue, which never has suited me and utterly refuses to wear out. Decide to take off my hat, but am dissatisfied with my hair when I have done so, and put it on again and go downstairs. Complete house-party is then revealed to me, sitting on silk cushions outside French windows, the whole thing being entirely reminiscent of illustrations to society story in American magazine. I am introduced, everyone is very polite, and complete silence envelops the entire party.

  Young man in white sweater at last rises to the occasion and asks me what I think of Anthony Adverse. Am obliged to reply that I haven’t read it, which gets us no further. I then admire the trees, which are beautiful, and everybody looks relieved and admires them too, and silence again ensues.

  Ella, with great presence of mind, says that it is time for cocktails, these are brought, and I obediently drink mine and wonder what Our Vicar’s Wife would say if she could see me now. This leads, by natural transition, to thoughts of television, and I ask my neighbour – grey flannels and flaming red hair – whether he thinks that this will ever become part of everyday life. He looks surprised – as well he may – but replies civilly that he doubts it very much. This he follows up by enquiring whether I have yet read Anthony Adverse.

  Charlie materialises – imagine him to be Ella’s husband, but am never actually told so – and we all go in to lunch, which is excellent.

  (Standard of American cooking very, very high indeed. Reflect sentimentally that Robert is, in all probability, only having roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, then remember difference in time between here and England, and realise that beef and Yorkshire pudding are either in the past or the future, although cannot be quite sure which.)

  Tennis is suggested for the afternoon, and Ella tells me that she can easily find me a pair of shoes. As I am far from sharing this confidence – every other woman in the room looks like size 5, whereas I take 6½ – and think my Blue very ill-adapted to the tennis-court, I say that I would rather look on, and this I do. They all play extremely well, and look incredibly handsome, well dressed, and athletic. I decide, not for the first time, that Americans are a great deal more decorative than Europeans.

  Just as inferiority complex threatens to overwhelm me altogether, I am joined by Ella, who says that she is taking me to a tea-party. Tea-parties are A Feature of Life on Long Island, and it is essential, says Ella, that I should attend one.

  Everybody else turns out to be coming also, a complete platoon of cars is marshalled and we drive off, about two people to every car, and cover total distance of rather less than five hundred yards.

  Am by this time becoming accustomed to American version of a tea-party, and encounter cocktails and sandwiches with equanimity, but am much struck by scale on which the entertainment is conducted; large room being entirely filled by people, including y
oung gentleman who is playing the piano violently and has extremely pretty girl on either side of him, each with an arm round his waist.

  It now becomes necessary to screech at really terrific pitch, and this everyone does. Cannot feel that Anthony Adverse motif, which still recurs, has gained by this, nor do my own replies to questions concerning the length of my stay, my reactions to America, and opinion of the American Woman. Ella, who has heroically introduced everybody within sight, smiles and waves at me encouragingly, but is now too firmly wedged in to move, and I sit on a sofa, next to slim woman in scarlet, and she screams into my ear, and tells me that she is a Southerner, and really lives in the South.

  Am obliged to give up all hope of hearing everything she says, but can catch quite a lot of it, and am interested. She was, she tells me, the mascot of the baseball team at her College. Whenever a match took place, she was carried on to the field by two members of the team. (Frightful vision assails me of similar extravagance taking place on village football ground at home, and results, especially as to mud and bruises, that would certainly ensue.) On one occasion, yells my neighbour, the opposing team objected to her presence – (am not surprised) – but her Boys held firm. Either, said her Boys, they had their mascot on the field, or else the whole match must be called off.

  Cannot, unfortunately, hear the end of the story, but feel certain that it was favourable to the mascot and her Boys. Experience temporary difficulty in thinking out reasonably polite answer to such a singular statement, and finally say that it must have been rather fun, which is weak, and totally untrue, at least as far as the teams were concerned – but as all is lost in surrounding noise, it matters little. People walk in and out, and scream at one another – should be interested to identify my host and hostess, but see no hope of this whatever. Ella presently works her way up to me and makes signs that she is ready to leave, and we struggle slowly into the air again.

  Remaining members of Ella’s house-party, whom I am now rather disposed to cling to, as being old and familiar friends, all gradually reassemble, and we return to Ella’s house, where I discover that recent vocal efforts have made my throat extremely sore.

  October 25th. – English mail awaits me on return to New York Hotel and is handed to me by reception-clerk with agreeable comment to the effect that the Old Country hasn’t forgotten me this time. Feel that I can’t possibly wait to read mail till I get upstairs, but equally impossible to do so in entrance-hall, and am prepared to make a rush for the elevator when firm-looking elderly woman in black comes up and addresses me by name. Says that she is very glad indeed to know me. Her name is Katherine Ellen Blatt, which may not mean anything to me, but stands for quite a lot to a section of the American public.

  I try to look intelligent, and wonder whether to ask for further details or not, but something tells me that I am going to hear them anyway, so may as well make up my mind to it. Invite Miss Blatt to sit down and wait for me one moment whilst I go up and take off my hat – by which I really mean tear open letters from Robert and the children – but she says, No, she’d just love to come right upstairs with me. This she proceeds to do, and tells me on the way up that she writes articles for the women’s magazines and that she makes quite a feature of describing English visitors to America, especially those with literary interests. The moment she heard that I was in New York she felt that she just had to come around right away and have a look at me (idea crosses my mind of replying that A Cat may look at a King, but this colloquialism probably unappreciated, and in any case Miss B. gives me no time).

  Bed still unmade, which annoys me, especially as Miss B. scrutinises entire room through a pince-nez and asks, What made me come here, as this is a place entirely frequented by professional people? She herself could, if I wish it, arrange to have me transferred immediately to a women’s club, where there is a lovely group of highly intelligent cultivated women, to which she is proud to say that she belongs. Can only hope that my face doesn’t reflect acute horror that invades me at the idea of joining any group of women amongst whom is to be numbered Miss Blatt.

  Incredibly tedious half-hour ensues. Miss B. has a great deal to say, and fortunately seems to expect very little answer, as my mind is entirely fixed on letters lying unopened in my handbag. She tells me, amongst other things, that Noel Coward, Somerset Maugham – whom she calls ‘Willie’, which I think profane – the Duchess of Atholl, Sir Gerald du Maurier and Miss Amy Johnson are all very dear friends of hers, and she would never dream of letting a year pass without going to England and paying each of them a visit. I say rather curtly that I don’t know any of them, and add that I don’t really feel I ought to take up any more of Miss Blatt’s time. That, declares Miss Blatt, doesn’t matter at all. I’m not to let that worry me for a moment. To hear about dear old London is just everything to her, and she is just crazy to be told whether I know her close friends, Ellen Wilkinson, Nancy Astor and Ramsay MacDonald. Frantic impulse assails me and I say, No, but that the Prince of Wales is a great friend of mine. Is that so? returns Miss Blatt quite unmoved. She herself met him for the first time last summer at Ascot and they had quite a talk. (If this really true, can only feel perfectly convinced that any talk there was emanated entirely from Miss B.)

  Just as I feel that the limits of sanity have been reached, telephone bell rings and I answer it and take complicated message from Lecture Agent about Buffalo, which at first I think to be Natural History, but afterwards realise is a town.

  Continuity of atmosphere is now destroyed and I remain standing and inform Miss Blatt that I am afraid that I shall have to go out. She offers to take me up-town, and I thank her and say No. Then, she says, it won’t be any trouble to take me down-town. This time I say No without thanking her.

  We spend about ten minutes saying good-bye. Miss Blatt assures me that she will get in touch with me again within a day or two, and meanwhile will send me some of her articles to read, and I finally shut the door on her and sit down on the bed, after locking the door for fear she should come back again.

  Tear open letters from Robert and the children, read them three times at least, become homesick and rather agitated, and then read them all over again. Robert says that he will be glad when I get home again – (am strongly tempted to book my passage for to-morrow) – and adds details about the garden. Our Vicar, he adds, preached quite a good sermon on Sunday last, and Cook’s sponge-cake is improving. Vicky’s letter very affectionate, with rows of kisses and large drawing of a horse with short legs and only one visible ear. The Literary Society at school, writes Vicky, is reading Masefield, and this she enjoys very much. Am a good deal impressed and try to remember what I know of Masefield’s work and how much of it is suitable for nine years old.

  Robin’s letter, very long and beautifully written, contains urgent request for any American slang expressions that I may meet with, but it must be new slang. Not, he explicitly states, words like Jake and Oke, which everybody knows already. He also hopes that I am enjoying myself and have seen some gangsters. A boy called Saunders is now reading a P. G. Wodehouse book called Love Among the Chickens. A boy called Badger has had his front tooth knocked out. There isn’t, says Robin in conclusion, much to write about, and he sends Best Love.

  Receive also charming letter from Caroline Concannon, who says, gratifyingly, that she misses me, and adds in a vague way that everything is ALL RIGHT in the flat. Remaining correspondence mostly bills, but am quite unable to pay any attention to them for more reasons than one, and merely put them all together in an elastic band and endorse the top one ‘Bills’, which makes me feel business-like and practically produces illusion of having paid them already.

  Extraordinary feeling of exhaustion comes over me, due partly to emotion and partly to visit of Miss Katherine Ellen Blatt, and I decide to go out and look at shop-windows on Fifth Avenue, which I do, and enjoy enormously.

  Later in the day am conducted to a Tea – cocktails and sandwiches as usual. Meet distinguished author and cri
tic, Mr Alexander Woollcott, who is amusing and talks to me very kindly. In the middle of it telephone bell rings and he conducts conversation with – presumably – an Editor, in which he says, No, no, he must positively decline to undertake any more work. The terms, he admits, are wonderful, but it simply can’t be done. No, he can’t possibly reconsider his decision. He has had to refuse several other offers of the same kind already. He can undertake nothing more. On this he rings off and resumes conversation just as if nothing has happened. Am completely lost in awe and admiration.

  Oct. 26th. – Telephone message reaches me just as I am contemplating familiar problem of packing more into suit-cases, hat-box and attaché-case than they can possibly contain. Will I at once get into touch with Mrs Margery Brown, who has received a letter about me from Mrs Tressider in England? Conviction comes over me in a rush that I cannot, and will not, do anything of the kind, and I go on packing.

  Telephone bell rings – undoubtedly Mrs Margery Brown – and I contemplate leaving it unanswered, but am mysteriously unable to do so. Decide to pretend that I am my Secretary and say that I’ve gone out. Do so, but find myself involved in hideous and unconvincing muddle, in which all pronouns become badly mixed up. Discover, moreover, after some moments, that I am not talking to Mrs Margery Brown at all, but to unknown American lady who repeats patiently that an old friend wishes to come round and see me. Name of old friend is unintelligible to me throughout, but finally I give way and say Very well, I shall be here for another hour before starting for Chicago.

  (Am not, in actual point of fact, departing for Chicago until to-night. Query: Would it not, when time permits, be advisable to concentrate very seriously on increasing tendency to distort the truth to my own convenience? Ans.: Advisable, perhaps, but definitely unnerving, and investigation probably better postponed until safely returned to home surroundings. Cannot wholly escape the suspicion that moral standards are largely dependent upon geographical surroundings.)