The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Return to suit-cases, and decide that if bottle of witch-hazel is rolled in paper it can perfectly well be placed inside bedroom slipper, and that it will make all the difference if I remove bulky evening wrap from its present corner of suit-case, and bestow it in the bottom of hat-box. Result of these manoeuvres not all I hope, as situation of best hat now becomes precarious, and I also suddenly discover that I have forgotten to pack photographs of Robin and Vicky, small red travelling clock, and pair of black shoes that are inclined to be too tight and that I never by any chance wear.

  Despair invades me and I am definitely relieved when knock at the door interrupts me. I open it and am greeted by a scream: – Ah, madame, quelle émotion! – and recognise Mademoiselle. She screams again, throws herself into my arms, says Mon Dieu, je vais me trouver mal, alors? and sinks on to the bed, but does not cease to talk. She is, she tells me, with une famille très américaine – assez comme-il-faut – (which I think an ungenerous description) – and has promised to remain with them in New York for six months, at the end of which they are going to Paris, where she originally met them. Are they nice, and is Mademoiselle happy? I enquire. To this Mademoiselle can only throw up her hands, gaze at the ceiling, and exclaim that le bonheur is bien peu de chose – with which I am unable to agree. She further adds that never, for one moment, day or night, does she cease to think of ce cher petit chez-nous du Devonshire and cet amour de Vicky.

  (If this is literally true, Mademoiselle cannot possibly be doing her duty by her present employers. Can also remember distinctly many occasions on which Mademoiselle, in Devonshire, wept and threw herself about in despair, owing to alleged dullness of the English countryside, insults heaped upon her by the English people, and general manque de cœur et de délicatesse of my own family, particularly Vicky.)

  All, however, is now forgotten, and we indulge in immense and retrospective conversation in which Mademoiselle goes so far as to refer sentimentally to ces bons jeux de cricket dans le jardin. Do not, naturally, remind her of the number of times in which ces bons jeux were brought to an abrupt end by Mademoiselle herself flinging down her bat and walking away saying Moi, je ne joue plus, owing to having been bowled out by Robin.

  She inspects photographs of the children and praises their looks extravagantly, but on seeing Robert’s only observes resentfully Tiens! on dirait qu’il a vieilli! She then looks piercingly at me, and I feel that only politeness keeps her from saying exactly the same thing about me, so turn the conversation by explaining that I am packing to go to Chicago.

  Packing! exclaims Mademoiselle. Ah, quelle horreur! Quelle façon de faire les choses! At this she throws off black kid gloves, small fur jacket, three scarves, large amethyst brooch, and mauve wool cardigan, and announces her intention of packing for me. This she does with extreme competence and unlimited use of tissue paper, but exclaims rather frequently that my folding of clothes is enough to briser le cœur.

  I beg her to stay and have lunch with me, and she says Mais non, mais non, c’est trop, but is finally persuaded, on condition that she may take down her hair and put it up again before going downstairs. To this I naturally agree, and Mademoiselle combs her hair and declares that it reminds her of le bon temps passé.

  Find it impossible to extract from her any coherent impressions of America as she only replies to enquiries by shaking her head and saying Ah, l’Amérique, l’Amérique! C’est toujours le dollarrr, n’est-ce pas? Decide, however, that Mademoiselle has on the whole met with a good deal of kindness, and is in receipt of an enormous salary.

  We lunch together in Persian Coffee Shop, Mademoiselle talking with much animation, and later she takes her departure on the understanding that we are to meet again before I sail.

  Send hurried postcards of Tallest Building in New York to Robin and Vicky respectively, tip everybody in Hotel who appears to expect it, and prepare myself for night journey to Chicago.

  Oct. 27th. – Remember, not without bitterness, that everybody in England has told me that I shall find American trains much too hot, Our Vicar’s Wife – who has never been to America – going so far as to say that a temperature of 100 degrees is quite usual. Find myself, on the contrary, distinctly cold, and am not in the least surprised to see snow on the ground as we approach Chicago.

  Postcards of the World Fair on sale in train, mostly coloured very bright blue and very bright yellow. I buy one of the Hall of Science – suitable for Robert – Observation Tower – likely to appeal to Robin – Prehistoric Animals – Vicky – and Streets of Paris, which has a sound of frivolity that I think will please Caroline Concannon. Rose and Felicity get Avenue of Flags and Belgian Village respectively, because I have nothing else left. Inscribe various rather illegible messages on all these, mostly to the effect that I am enjoying myself, that I miss them all very much, and that I haven’t time to write more just now, but will do so later.

  Breakfast is a success – expensive, but good – and I succeed in attaining a moderate cleanliness of appearance before train gets in. Customary struggle with suit-case ensues – pyjamas and sponge-bag shut in after prolonged efforts, and this achievement immediately followed by discovery that I have forgotten to put in brush and comb. At this, coloured porter comes to my rescue, and shortly afterwards Chicago is reached.

  Literary friend Arthur has not only gratifyingly turned up to meet me, but has brought with him very pretty younger sister, visiting friend from New York (male) and exclusive-looking dachshund, referred to as Vicki Baum.

  Moreover, representative from publishers puts in an appearance – hat worn at a very dashing angle – know him only as Pete and cannot imagine how I shall effect introductions, but this fortunately turns out to be unnecessary.

  Am rather moved at finding that both literary friend and Pete now appear to me in the light of old and dear friends, such is my satisfaction at seeing faces that are not those of complete strangers.

  Someone unknown takes a photograph, just as we leave station – this, says Arthur impressively, hasn’t happened since the visit of Queen Marie of Roumania – and we drive off.

  Chicago strikes me as full of beautiful buildings, and cannot imagine why nobody ever says anything about this aspect of it. Do not like to ask anything about gangsters, and see no signs of their activities, but hope these may be revealed later, otherwise children will be seriously disappointed. The lake, which looks to me exactly like the sea, excites my admiration, and building in which Arthur’s family lives turns out to be right in front of it.

  They receive me in kindest possible manner – I immediately fall in love with Arthur’s mother – and suggest, with the utmost tact, that I should like a bath at once. (After one look in the glass, can well understand why this thought occurred to them.)

  Perceive myself to be incredibly dirty, dishevelled and out of repair generally, and do what I can, in enormous bedroom and bathroom, to rectify this. Hair, however, not improved by my making a mistake amongst unaccustomed number of bath-taps, and giving myself quite involuntary shower.

  October 30th. – Feel quite convinced that I have known Arthur, his family, his New York friend and his dog all my life. They treat me with incredible kindness and hospitality, and introduce me to all their friends.

  Some of the friends – but not all – raise the Problem of the American Woman. Find myself as far as ever from having thought out intelligent answer to this, and have serious thoughts of writing dear Rose, and asking her to cable reply, if Problem is to pursue me wherever I go in the United States.

  Enormous cocktail-party is given by Arthur’s mother, entirely in honour of New York friend – whom I now freely address as Billy – and myself. Bond of union immediately established between us, as we realise joint responsibility of proving ourselves worthy of all this attention.

  Am introduced to hundreds of people – quite as many men as women, which impresses me, and which I feel vaguely should go at least half-way towards solving American Woman Problem, if only I could make the co
nnection – but clarity of thought distinctly impaired, probably by cocktails.

  Attractive woman in blue tells me that she knows a friend of mine: Mrs Tressider? I instinctively reply. Yes, Mrs Tressider. And The Boy too. He doesn’t look strong. I assert – without the slightest justification – that he is much stronger than he was, and begin to talk about the Fair. Am told in return that I must visit the Hall of Science, go up the Observation Tower, and inspect the Belgian Village.

  Complete stranger tells me that I am dining at her apartment to-morrow, another lady adds that she is looking forward to seeing me on Sunday at her home in the country, an elderly gentlemen remarks that he is so glad he is to have the pleasure of giving me lunch and taking me round the Fair, and another complete, and charming, stranger informs me that Arthur and I are to have tea at her house when we visit Chicago University.

  Am beginning to feel slightly dazed – cocktails have undoubtedly contributed to this – but gratified beyond description at so much attention and kindness, and have hazy idea of writing letter home to explain that I am evidently of much greater importance than any of us have ever realised.

  Am brought slightly down to earth again by remembrance that I am not in Chicago entirely for purpose of enjoyment, and that to-morrow Pete is escorting me to important department store, where I am to sign books and deliver short speech.

  Decide that I must learn this by heart overnight, but am taken to a symphony concert, come back very late, and go to bed instead.

  October 31st. – Am called for in the morning by Pete – hat still at very daring angle – and we walk through the streets. He tells me candidly that he does not like authors; I say that I don’t either, and we get on extremely well.

  Department store is the most impressive thing I have ever seen in my life, and the largest. We inspect various departments, including Modern Furniture, which consists of a number of rooms containing perfectly square sofas, coloured glass animals, cocktail appliances and steel chairs. Am a good deal impressed, and think that it is all a great improvement on older style, but at the same time cannot possibly conceive of Robert reading The Times seated on oblong black-and-green divan with small glass-topped table projecting from the wall beside him, and statuette of naked angular woman with large elbows exactly opposite.

  Moreover, no provision made anywhere for housing children, and do not like to enquire what, if anything, is ever done for them.

  Admirable young gentleman who shows us round says that the Modern Kitchen will be of special interest to me, and ushers us into it. Pete, at this stage, looks slightly sardonic, and I perceive that he is as well aware as I am myself that the Modern Kitchen is completely wasted on me. Further reflection also occurs to me that if Pete were acquainted with Cook he would realise even better than he does why I feel that the Modern Kitchen is not destined to hold any significant place in my life.

  Pete informs me that he is anxious to introduce me to charming and capable woman, friend of his, who runs the book department of the Store. He tells me her name, and I immediately forget it again. Later on, short exercise in Pelmanism enables me to connect wave in her hair with first name, which is Marcella. Remaining and more important half continues elusive, and I therefore call her nothing. Am impressed by her office, which is entirely plastered with photographs, mostly inscribed, of celebrities. She asks if I know various of these. I have to reply each time that I don’t, and begin to feel inferior. (Recollection here of Katherine Ellen Blatt, intimate personal friend of every celebrity that ever lived.) Become absent-minded, and hear myself, on being asked if I haven’t met George Bernard Shaw, replying No, but I know who he is. This reply not a success, and Marcella ceases to probe into the state of my literary connections.

  Soon afterwards I am escorted back to book department – should like to linger amongst First Editions, or even New Juveniles, but this is not encouraged – and young subordinate of Marcella’s announces that Quite a nice lot of people are waiting. Last week, she adds, they had Hervey Allen. Foresee exactly what she is going to say next, which is What do I think of Anthony Adverse, and pretend to be absorbed in small half-sheet of paper on which I have written rather illegible Notes.

  Quite a nice lot of people turns out to mean between four and five hundred ladies, with a sprinkling of men, all gathered round a little dais with a table behind which I am told to take up my stand. Feel a great deal more inclined to crawl underneath it and stay there, but quite realise that this is, naturally, out of the question.

  Marcella says a few words – I remind myself that nothing in the world can last for ever, and anyway they need none of them ever meet me again after this afternoon – and plunge forthwith into speech.

  Funny story goes well – put in another one which I have just thought of, and which isn’t so good – but that goes well too. Begin to think that I really am a speaker after all, and wonder why nobody at home has ever said anything about it, and how I am ever to make them believe it, without sounding conceited.

  Sit down amidst applause and try to look modest, until I suddenly catch sight of literary friend Arthur and his friend Billy, who have evidently been listening. Am rather agitated at this, and feel that instead of looking modest I merely look foolish.

  At this point Pete, who hasn’t even pretended to listen to me, for which I am grateful rather than otherwise, reappears from some quite other department where he has sensibly been spending his time, and says that I had better autograph a few books, as People will Like It.

  His idea of a few books runs into hundreds, and I sit and sign them and feel very important indeed. Streams of ladies walk past and we exchange a few words. Most of them ask How does one write a book? and several tell me that they heard something a few weeks ago which definitely ought to go into a book. This is usually a witticism perpetrated by dear little grandchild, aged six last July, but is sometimes merely a Funny Story already known to me, and – probably – to everybody else in the civilised world. I say Thank you, Thank you very much, and continue to sign my name. Idle fancy crosses my mind that it would be fun if I was J. P. Morgan, and all this was cheques.

  After a time Marcella retrieves me, and says that she has not forgotten I am an Englishwoman, and will want my Tea. Am not fond of tea at the best of times, and seldom take it, but cannot of course say so, and only refer to Arthur and his friend Billy, who may be waiting for me. No, not at all, says Marcella. They are buying tortoises. Tortoises? Yes, tiny little tortoises. There is, asserts Marcella, a display of them downstairs, with different flowers hand-painted on their shells. She takes advantage of the stunned condition into which this plunges me to take me back to her office, where we have tea – English note struck by the fact that it is pitch-black, and we have lemon instead of milk – and Pete rejoins us, and confirms rumour as to floral tortoises being on sale, only he refers to them as turtles. Later on, am privileged to view them, and they crawl about in a little basin filled with water and broken shells, and display unnatural-looking bunches of roses and forget-me-nots on their backs.

  Sign more books after tea, and am then taken away by friend Arthur, who says that his mother is waiting for me at the English-Speaking Union. (Why not at home, which I should much prefer?) However, the English-Speaking Union is very pleasant. I meet a number of people, they ask what I think of America, and if I am going to California, and I say in return that I look forward to visiting the Fair and we part amicably.

  Interesting and unexpected encounter with one lady, dressed in black and green, who says that when in New York she met my children’s late French governess. I scream with excitement, and black-and-green lady looks rather pitying, and says Oh yes, the world is quite a small place. I say contentiously No, no, not as small as all that, and Mademoiselle and I met in New York, and I do so hope she is happy and with nice people. She is, replies black-and-green lady severely, with perfectly delightful people – Southerners – one of our very oldest Southern families. They all speak with a real Southern accent. Sto
p myself just in time from saying that Mademoiselle will probably correct that, and ask instead if the children are fond of her. Black-and-green lady only repeats, in reply, that her friends belong to the oldest Southern family in the South, practically, and moves off looking as though she rather disapproves of me.

  This encounter, for reason which I cannot identify, has rather thrown me off my balance, and I shortly afterwards ask Arthur if we cannot go home. He says Yes, in the most amiable way, and takes me away in a taxi with his very pretty sister. Enquire of her where and how I can possibly get my hair washed, and she at once undertakes to make all necessary arrangements, and says that the place that does her hair can very well do mine. (As she is a particularly charming blonde, at least ten years younger than I am, the results will probably be entirely different, but keep this pessimistic reflection to myself.)

  Literary friend Arthur, with great good-feeling, says that he knows there are some letters waiting for me, which I shall wish to read in peace, and that he is sure I should like to rest before dinner-party, to which he is taking me at eight o’clock. (Should like to refer Katherine Ellen Blatt to dear Arthur, for lessons in savoir-faire.)

  Letters await me in my room, but exercise great self-control by tearing off my hat, throwing my coat on the floor, and dashing gloves and bag into different corners of the room before I sit down to read them.

  Only one is from England: Our Vicar’s Wife writes passionate enquiry as to whether I am going anywhere near Arizona, as boy in whom she and Our Vicar took great interest in their first parish – North London, five-and-twenty years ago – is supposed to have gone there and done very well. Will I make enquiries – name was Sydney Cripps, and has one front tooth missing, knocked out at cricket, – has written to Our Vicar from time to time, but last occasion nearly twelve years ago – Time, adds Our Vicar’s Wife, passes. All is well at home – very strange not to see me about – Women’s Institute Committee met last week, how difficult it is to please everybody.