The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Conversation runs on personal and domestic lines, and proves thoroughly congenial, after recent long spell of social and literary exertions. Moreover, Anthony Adverse motif entirely absent, which is a relief.

  Reluctantly leave this agreeable atmosphere in order to present myself at Department Store, in accordance with explicit instructions received from Pete.

  Arrange, however, to go with James next day and be shown house of George Washington.

  Store is, as usual, large and important, and I enter it with some trepidation, and very nearly walk straight out again on catching sight of large and flattering photograph of myself, taken at least three years ago, propped up in prominent position. Printed notice below says that I am Speaking at Four O’clock this afternoon.

  Memory transports me to village at home, and comparative frequency with which I Speak, alternately with Our Vicar’s Wife, at Women’s Institute, Mothers’ Union, and the like organisations, and total absence of excitement with which both of us are alike hailed. Fantastic wonder crosses my mind as to whether photograph, exhibited beforehand, say in Post Office window, would be advisable, but on further reflection decide against this.

  (Photograph was taken in Bond Street, head and shoulders only, and can distinctly recollect that Vicky, on seeing it, enquired in horrified tones if I was all naked?)

  Enquire for book department, am told to my confusion that I am in it, and realise with horror that I am, but have been completely lost in idiotic and unprofitable reverie. Make no attempt to explain myself, but simply ask for Mrs Roberta Martin, head of department. She appears – looks about twenty-five but is presumably more – and welcomes me very kindly.

  Would I like tea before I speak, or after?

  She asks this so nicely that I am impelled to candour, and say that I wouldn’t really like tea at all, but could we have a cup of coffee together afterwards?

  We could, and do.

  Find ourselves talking about boys. Mrs R. M. says she has a son of fourteen, which I find quite incredible, and very nearly tell her so, but am restrained by sudden obscure association with extraordinary behaviour of General Clarence Dove.

  Boys a great responsibility, we agree, but very nice. Her Sidney and my Robin have points in common. Did Sidney like parties in early childhood? No, not at all. Wild horses wouldn’t drag him to one. Am relieved to hear it, especially when his mother adds that It All Came Later.

  Have vision of Robin, a year or two hence, clamouring for social life. (Probably finding it very difficult to get, now I come to think of it, as neighbourhood anything but populous.)

  Time, with all this, passes very agreeably, and Mrs Roberta Martin and I part with mutual esteem and liking.

  Take a look round various departments as I go out, and see several things I should like to buy, but am already doubtful if funds are going to hold out till return to New York, so restrict myself to small sponge, pad of note-paper, and necklace of steel beads that I think may appeal to Mademoiselle and go with her Grey.

  November 22nd. – Home of George Washington inspected, and am much moved by its beauty. Enquire where historical cherry-tree can be seen, but James replies – surely rather cynically? – that cherry-tree episode now practically discredited altogether. Find this hard to believe.

  (Mem.: Say nothing about it at home. Story of George W. and cherry-tree not infrequently useful as illustration when pointing out to dear Vicky the desirability of strict truthfulness. Moreover, entire story always most popular when playing charades.)

  On leaving George Washington, we proceed to home of General Robert E. Lee, but unfortunately arrive there too late and have to content ourselves with pressing our noses against the windows. Subsequently miss the way, in terrific maze of avenues that surround the house, find gate at last and discover that it is locked, have visions of staying there all night, but subsequently unfastened gate is reached, and we safely emerge.

  James shows me the Lincoln Memorial, and I definitely think it the most beautiful thing, without exception, that I have seen in America.

  Tour is concluded by a drive through Washington, and I see the outside of a good many Embassies, and am reluctantly obliged to conclude that the British one is far indeed from being the most beautiful amongst them. Decide that the Japanese one is the prettiest.

  Evening spent with James and Elizabeth. Katherine still engaging, but slightly inclined to scream when left alone in bedroom. (Am forcibly reminded of dear Robin’s very early days.)

  Leave early, as I fancy James and Elizabeth both kept thoroughly short of sleep by infant Katherine. Cannot, however, deter James from driving me back to Hotel. Am greatly impressed with this chivalrous, and universal, American custom.

  James and I part at the door, strawberry-clad negro porters spring to attention as I enter, and I perceive, to my horror, that General Clarence Dove is sitting in the hall, doing nothing whatever, directly between me and elevator. Turn at once to the newspaper-stand and earnestly inspect motion-picture magazines – in which I am not in the least interested – cigars, cigarettes and picture-postcards. Take a long time choosing six of these, and paying for them. Cannot, however, stand there all night, and am at last compelled to turn round. General Clarence Dove still immovable. Decide to bow as I go past, but without slackening speed, and this proves successful, and I go up to bed without hearing more of my book about America.

  November 23rd. – Am introduced by James to important Head of Department, Miss Bassell, who kindly takes me to the White House, where I am shown State Rooms and other items of interest.

  Portraits of Presidents’ Wives in long rows present rather discouraging spectacle. Prefer not to dwell on these, but concentrate instead on trying to remember Who was Dolly Madison? Decide – tentatively – that she must have been an American equivalent of Nell Gwyn, but am not sufficiently sure about it to say anything to Miss B. In any case, have no idea which, if any, of America’s presidents would best bear comparison with King Charles II.

  Lunch-party brings my stay in Washington to a close, and James and Elizabeth – kind-hearted and charming to the last – take me and my luggage to the station. Am relieved to find that both look rested, and are able to assure me that dear little Katherine allowed them several hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Say good-bye to them with regret, and promise that I will come and stay with them in their first Consulate, but add proviso – perhaps rather ungraciously? – that it must be in a warm climate.

  Find myself wondering as train moves out what dear Robert will say to the number of future invitations that I have both given and accepted?

  November 25th. – Philadelphia reached yesterday, and discover in myself slight and irrational tendency to repeat under my breath: ‘I’m off to Philadelphia in the morning’. Do not know, or care, where this quotation comes from.

  Unknown hostess called Mrs Elliot receives me, and I join enormous house-party consisting of all her relations. Do not succeed, from one end of visit to the other, in discovering the name of any single one of them.

  Mrs E. says she likes The Wide Wide World. Am pleased at this, and we talk about it at immense length, and I tell her that a Life of Susan Warner exists, which she seems to think impossible, as she has never heard of it. Promise to send her a copy from England, and am more convinced than ever – if possible – that we are none of us prophets in our own country.

  (Mem.: Make note of Mrs Elliot’s address. Also send postcard to favourite second-hand bookseller to obtain copy of Susan Warner for me. Shall look extremely foolish if it isn’t forthcoming, after all I’ve said. But must not meet trouble half-way.)

  Lecture – given, unfortunately, by myself – takes place in the evening at large Club. Everyone very kind, and many intelligent questions asked, which I do my best to answer. Secretary forgets to give me my fee, and lack courage to ask for it, but it subsequently arrives by special delivery, just as I am going to bed.

  November 27th. – Unexpected arrival of guardian angel
Ramona Herdman from New York. Am delighted to see her, and still more so when she gives me collection of letters from England. As usual, am on my way to book-store where I have to make short speech, and am unable to read letters in any but the most cursory way – but ascertain that no calamity has befallen anybody, that Robert will be glad to hear when he is to meet me at Southampton, and that Caroline Concannon has written a book, and it has instantly been accepted by highly superior publishing-house. Am not in the least surprised at this last piece of information. C. C. exactly the kind of young person to romp straight to success. Shall probably yet see small blue oval announcement on the walls of 57 Doughty Street, to the effect that they once sheltered the celebrated writer, Caroline Concannon. Feel that the least I can do is to cable my congratulations, and this I do, at some expense.

  Miss Ramona Herdman and I then proceed to book-store, where we meet head of department, Mrs Kooker. Talk about Vera Brittain – Testament of Youth selling superbly, says Mrs K. – also new film, Little Women, which everyone says I must see in New York – (had always meant to, anyway) – and recent adoption by American women of tomato-juice as a substitute for cocktails.

  Conversation then returns to literature, and Mrs Kooker tells me that Christmas sales will soon be coming on, but that Thanksgiving interferes with them rather badly. Try and look as if I thoroughly understood and sympathised with this, but have to give it up when she naïvely enquires whether Thanksgiving has similar disastrous effect on trade in England? Explain, as delicately as I can, that England has never, so far as I know, returned any particular thanks for occasion thus commemorated in the United States, and after a moment Mrs K. sees this, and is amused.

  Customary talk takes place – shall soon be able to say it in my sleep – and various listeners come up and speak to me kindly afterwards. Completely unknown lady in brown tells me that we met years ago, and she remembers me so well, and is so glad to see me again. Respond to this as best I can, and say – with only too much truth – that the exact whereabouts of our last encounter has, temporarily, escaped me. What! cries the lady reproachfully, have I forgotten dear old Scarborough?

  As I have never in my life set foot in dear old Scarborough, this proves very, very difficult to answer. Do not, in fact, attempt to do so, but merely shake hands with her again and turn attention to someone who is telling me that she has a dear little granddaughter, aged five, who says most amusing things. If only, grandmother adds wistfully, she could remember them, she would tell them to me, and then I should be able to put them into a book.

  Express regrets – unfortunately civil, rather than sincere – at having to forgo this privilege, and we separate. Miss Herdman – has mysteriously produced a friend and a motor-car – tells me that I am going with her to tea at the house of a distinguished critic. Alexander Woollcott? I say hopefully, and she looks rather shocked and replies No, no, don’t I remember that A. W. lives in unique apartment in New York, overlooking the East River? There are, she adds curtly, other distinguished critics besides Alexander Woollcott, in America. Have not the courage, after this gaffe, to enquire further as to my present destination.

  Tea-party, however, turns out pleasantly – which is, I feel, more than I deserve – and I enjoy myself, except when kind elderly lady – mother of hostess – suddenly exclaims that We mustn’t forget we have an Englishwoman as our guest, and immediately flings open two windows. Ice-cold wind blows in, and several people look at me – as well they may – with dislike and resentment.

  Should like to tell them that nobody is more resentful of this hygienic outburst than I am myself – but cannot, of course, do so. Remind myself instead that a number of English people have been known to visit the States, only to die there of pneumonia.

  Am subsequently driven back to Mrs Elliot’s by R. Herdman and friend, Miss H. informing me on the way that a speaking engagement has been made for me at the Colony Club in New York. At this the friend suddenly interposes, and observes morosely that the Colony Club is easily the most difficult audience in the world. They look at their wrist-watches all the time.

  Can quite see what fun this must be for the speaker, and tell Miss H. that I do not think I can possibly go to the Colony Club at all but she takes no notice.

  November 28th. New York. – Return to New York, in company with Miss Herdman, and arrive at Essex House once more. Feel that this is the first step towards home, and am quite touched and delighted when clerk at bureau greets me as an old habituée. Feel, however, that he is disappointed in me when I am obliged to admit, in reply to enquiry, that I did not get to Hollywood – and was not, in fact, invited to go there. Try to make up for this by saying that I visited World Fair at Chicago extensively – but can see that this is not at all the same thing.

  Letters await me, and include one from Mademoiselle, written as usual in purple ink on thin paper, but crossed on top of front page in green – association here with Lowell Thomas – who says that she is all impatience to see me once more, it seems an affair of centuries since we met in ‘ce brouhaha de New-York’, and she kisses my hand with the respectful affection.

  (The French given to hyperbolical statements. No such performance has ever been given by Mademoiselle, or been permitted by myself to take place. Am inclined to wonder whether dear Vicky’s occasional lapses from veracity may not be attributed to early influence of devoted, but not flawless, Mademoiselle?)

  Just as I come to this conclusion, discover that Mademoiselle has most touchingly sent me six American Beauty roses, and immediately reverse decision as to her effect on Vicky’s morals. This possibly illogical, but definitely understandable from feminine point of view.

  Ring up Mademoiselle – who screeches a good deal and is difficult to hear, except for Mon Dieu! which occurs often – thank her for letter and roses, and ask if she can come and see a film with me to-morrow afternoon. Anything she likes, but not Henry VIII. Mais non, mais non, Mademoiselle shrieks, and adds something that sounds like ‘ce maudit roi’, which I am afraid refers to the Reformation, but do not enter on controversial discussion and merely suggest Little Women instead.

  Ah, cries Mademoiselle, voilà une bonne idée! Cette chère vie de famille – ce gentil roman de la jeunesse – cette drôle de Jo – cœur d’or – tête de linotte – and much else that I do not attempt to disentangle.

  Agree to everything, suggest lunch first – but this, Mademoiselle replies, duty will not permit – appoint meeting-place and ring off.

  Immediate and urgent preoccupation, as usual, is my hair, and retire at once to hotel Beauty-parlour, where I am received with gratifying assurances that I have been missed, and competently dealt with.

  Just as I get upstairs again telephone bell rings once more, and publishers demand – I think unreasonably – immediate decision as to which boat I mean to sail in, and when. Keep my head as far as possible, turn up various papers on which I feel sure I have noted steamship sailings – (but which all turn out to be memos about buying presents for the maids at home, pictures of America for the Women’s Institute, and evening stockings for myself) – and finally plump for the Berengaria.

  Publishers, with common sense rather than tenderness, at once reply that they suppose I had better go tourist class, as purposes of publicity have now been achieved, and it will be much cheaper.

  Assent to this, ring off, and excitedly compose cable to Robert.

  November 29th. – Gratifying recrudescence of more or less all the people met on first arrival in New York, who ring up and ask me to lunch or dine before I sail.

  Ella Wheelwright sends round note by hand, lavishly invites me to lunch once, and dine twice, and further adds that she is coming to see me off when I sail. Am touched and impressed, and accept lunch, and one dinner, and break it to her that she will have to see me off – if at all – tourist section. Morning filled by visit to publishers’ office, where I am kindly received, and told that I have Laid Some Very Useful Foundations, which makes me feel like a Distinguished
Personage at the opening of a new Town Hall.

  Lecture-agent, whom I also visit, is likewise kind, but perhaps less enthusiastic, and hints that it might be an advantage if I had more than two lectures in my repertoire. Am bound to admit that this seems reasonable. He further outlines, in a light-hearted way, scheme by which I am to undertake lengthy lecture-tour next winter, extending – as far as I can make out – from New York to the furthermost point in the Rockies, and including a good deal of travelling by air.

  Return modified assent to all of it, graciously accept cheque due to me, and depart.

  Lunch all by myself in a Childs’, and find it restful, after immense quantities of conversation indulged in of late. Service almost incredibly prompt and efficient, and find myself wondering how Americans can endure more leisurely methods so invariably prevalent in almost every country in Europe.

  Soon afterwards meet Mademoiselle, and am touched – but embarrassed – by her excessive demonstrations of welcome. Have brought her small present from Chicago World Fair, but decide not to bestow it until moment immediately preceding separation, as cannot feel at all sure what form her gratitude might take.

  We enter picture-house, where I have already reserved seats – Mademoiselle exclaims a good deal over this, and says that everything in America is un prix fou – and Mademoiselle takes off her hat, which is large, and balances it on her knee. Ask her if this is all right, or if she hadn’t better put it under the seat, and she first nods her head and then shakes it, but leaves hat where it is.

  Comic film precedes Little Women and is concerned with the misadventure of a house-painter. Am irresistibly reminded of comic song of my youth: ‘When Father papered the parlour, You couldn’t see Pa for paste’. Am unfortunately inspired to ask Mademoiselle if she remembers it too. Comment? says Mademoiselle a good many times.