THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
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_September 24th._--Frightful welter of packing, putting away, and
earnest consultations of School List. Robin gives everybody serious
injunctions about not touching anything _whatever_ in his
bedroom--which looks like inferior pawnbroking establishment at
stocktaking time--and we all more or less commit ourselves to leaving it
alone till Christmas holidays--which is completely out of the question.
He is taken away by Robert in the car, looking forlorn and infantile, and
Vicky roars. I beseech her to desist at once, but am rebuked by
Mademoiselle, who says, "Ah, elle a tant de coeur!" in tone which implies
that she cannot say as much for myself.
_October 1._--Tell Robert about proposed short tour to Chick,
Little March, and Crimpington, on behalf of W. Is. He says little, but
that little not very enthusiastic. I spend many hours--or so it
seems--looking out Notes for Talks, and trying to remember anecdotes that
shall be at once funny and suitable. (This combination rather unusual.)
Pack small bag, search frantically all over writing-table, bedroom, and
drawing-room for W.I. Badge--which is at last discovered by Mademoiselle
in remote corner of drawer devoted to stockings--and take my departure.
Robert drives me to station, and I beg that he will keep an eye on the
bulbs whilst I am away.
_October 2nd._--Bus from Chick conveys me to Little March, after
successful meeting last night, at which I discourse on Amateur
Theatricals, am applauded, thanked by President in the chair--name
inaudible--applauded once more, and taken home by Assistant Secretary,
who is putting me up for the night. We talk about the Movement--Annual
Meeting at Blackpool perhaps a mistake, why not Bristol or
Plymouth?--difficulty of thinking out new Programmes for monthly
meetings, and really magnificent performance of Chick at recent
Folk-dancing Rally, at which Institute members called upon to go through
"Gathering Peas-cods" no less than three times--two of Chick's best
performers, says Assistant Secretary proudly, being grandmothers. I
express astonished admiration, and we go on to Village Halls, Sir Oswald
Mosley, and methods of removing ink-stains from linen. Just as Assistant
Secretary--who is unmarried and lives in nice little cottage--has
escorted me to charming little bedroom, she remembers that I am
eventually going on to Crimpington, and embarks on interesting scandal
about two members of Institute there, and unaccountable disappearance of
one member's name from Committee. This keeps us up till eleven o'clock,
when she begs me to say nothing whatever about her having mentioned the
affair, which was all told her in strictest confidence, and we part.
Reach Little March, via the bus--which is old, and rattles--in time for
lunch. Doctor's sister meets me--elderly lady with dog--and talks about
hunting. Meeting takes place at three o'clock, in g delightful Hut, and
am impressed by business-like and efficient atmosphere. Doctor's sister,
in the chair, introduces me--unluckily my name eludes her at eleventh
hour, but I hastily supply it and she says, "Of course, of course"--and I
launch out into A Visit to Switzerland. As soon as I have finished,
elderly member surges up from front row and says that this has been
particularly interesting to _her_, as she once lived in Switzerland
for nearly fourteen years and knows every inch of it from end to end. (My
own experience confined to six weeks round and about Lucerne, ten years
ago.)
We drink cups of tea, eat excellent buns, sing several Community Songs,
and Meeting comes to an end. Doctor's sister's two-seater, now altogether
home-like, receives me once again, and I congratulate her on
Institute. She smiles and talks about hunting.
Evening passes off quietly, doctor comes in--elderly man with two
dogs--he also talks about hunting, and we all separate for bed at ten
o'clock.
_October 3rd._--Part early from doctor, sister, dogs, and
two-seater, and proceed by train to Crimpington, as Meeting does not take
place till afternoon, and have no wish to arrive earlier than I need.
Curious cross-country journey with many stops, and one change involving
long and draughty wait that I enliven by cup of Bovril.
Superb car meets me, with superb chauffeur who despises me and my bag at
sight, but is obliged to drive us both to Crimping-ton Hall. Butler
receives me, and I am conducted through immense and chilly hall with
stone flags to equally immense and chilly drawing-room, where he leaves
me. Very small fire is lurking behind steel bars at far end of room, and
I make my way to it past little gilt tables, large chairs, and sofas,
cabinets apparently lined with china cups and lustre tea-pots, and
massive writing-tables entirely furnished with hundreds of photographs in
silver frames. Butler suddenly reappears with the _Times_, which he
hands to me on small salver. Have already read it from end to end in the
train, but feel obliged to open it and begin all over again. He looks
doubtfully at the fire, and I hope he is going to put on more coal, but
instead he goes away, and is presently replaced by Lady Magdalen Crimp,
who is about ninety-five and stone-deaf. She wears black, and large fur
cape--as well she may. She produces trumpet, and I talk down it, and she
smiles and nods, and has evidently not heard one word--which is just as
well, as none of them worth hearing. After some time she suggests my
room, and we creep along slowly for about quarter of a mile, till first
floor is reached, and vast bedroom with old-fashioned four-poster in the
middle of it. Here she leaves me, and I wash, from little brass jug of
tepid water, and note--by no means for the first time--that the use of
powder, when temperature has sunk below a certain level, merely casts
extraordinary azure shade over nose and chin.
Faint hope of finding fire in dining-room is extinguished on entering it,
when I am at once struck by its resemblance to a mausoleum. Lady M. and I
sit down at mahogany circular table, she says Do I mind a Cold Lunch? I
shake my head, as being preferable to screaming "No" down trumpet--though
equally far from the truth--and we eat rabbit-cream, coffee-shape, and
Marie biscuits.
Conversation spasmodic and unsatisfactory, and I am reduced to looking at
portraits on wall, of gentlemen in wigs and ladies with bosoms, also
objectionable study of dead bird, dripping blood, lying amongst oranges
and other vegetable matter. (Should like to know what dear Rose, with her
appreciation of Art, would say to this.) Later we adjourn to
drawing-room--fire now a mere ember--and Lady M. explains that she is not
going to the Meeting, but Vice-President will look after me, and she
hopes I shall enjoy Recitation Competition--some of our members really
very clever, and one in particular, so amusing in dialect. I nod and
smile, and continue to shiver, and presently car fetches me away to
village. Meeting is held in reading-room, which seems to me perfect
paradise of warmth, and I place myself as close as possible to large
oil-stove. Vice-President--very large and expansive in blue--conducts
everything successfully, and I deliver homily about What Our Children
Read, which is kindly received. After tea--delightfully hot, in fact
scalds me, but I welcome it--Recitation Competition takes place and have
to rivet my attention on successive members, who mount a little platform
and declaim in turns. We begin with not very successful rendering of
verses hitherto unknown to me, entitled "Our Institute", and which turn
out to be original composition of reciter. This followed by "Gunga Din"
and very rousing poem about Keeping the Old Flag Flying. Elderly member
then announces "The Mine" and is very dramatic and impressive, but not
wholly intelligible, which I put down to Dialect. Finally award first
place to "The Old Flag", and second to "The Mine", and present prizes. Am
unfortunately inspired to observe that dialect poems are always so
interesting, and it then turns out that "The Mine" wasn't in dialect at
all. However, too late to do anything about it.
Meeting is prolonged, for which I am thankful, but finally can no longer
defer returning to arctic regions of Crimpington Hall. Lady M. and I
spend evening cowering over grate, and exchanging isolated remarks, and
many nods and smiles, across ear-trumpet. Finally I get into enormous
four-poster, covered by very inadequate supply of blankets, and clutching
insufficiently heated hot-water bottle.
_October 5th._--Develop really severe cold twenty-four hours after
reaching home. Robert says that all Institutes are probably full of
germs--which is both unjust and ridiculous.
_October 13th._--Continued cold and cough keep me in house, and make
me unpopular with Robert, Cook, and Gladys--the latter of whom both catch
my complaint. Mademoiselle keeps Vicky away, but is sympathetic, and
brings Vicky to gesticulate dramatically at me from outside the
drawing-room window, as though I had the plague. Gradually this state of
affairs subsides, my daily quota of pocket-handkerchiefs returns to the
normal, and Vapex, cinnamon, camphorated oil, and jar of cold cream all
go back to medicine-cupboard in bathroom once more.
Unknown benefactor sends me copy of new Literary Review, which seems to
be full of personal remarks from well-known writers about other
well-known writers. This perhaps more amusing to themselves than to
average reader. Moreover, competitions most alarmingly literary, and I
return with immense relief to old friend _Time and Tide_.
_October 17th._--Surprising invitation to evening party--Dancing,
9.30--at Lady B.'s. Cannot possibly refuse, as Robert has been told to
make himself useful there in various ways; moreover, entire neighbourhood
is evidently being polished off, and see no object in raising question as
to whether we have, or have not, received invitation. Decide to get new
dress, but must have it made locally, owing to rather sharply worded
enquiry from London shop which has the privilege of serving me, as to
whether I have not overlooked overdue portion of account? (Far from
overlooking it, have actually been kept awake by it at night.) Proceed to
Plymouth, and get very attractive black taffeta, with little pink and
blue posies scattered over it. Mademoiselle removes, and washes, Honiton
lace from old purple velvet every-night tea-gown, and assures me that it
will be _gentil á croquer_ on new taffeta. Also buy new pair black
evening-shoes, but shall wear them every evening for at least an hour in
order to ensure reasonable comfort at party.
Am able to congratulate myself that great-aunt's diamond ring, for once,
is at home when needed.
Robert rather shatteringly remarks that he believes the dancing is only
for the _young_ people, and I heatedly enquire how line of
demarcation is to be laid down? Should certainly not dream of accepting
ruling from Lady B. on any such delicate question. Robert merely repeats
that only the young will be _expected_ to dance, and we drop the
subject, and I enquire into nature of refreshments to be expected at
party, as half-past nine seems to me singularly inhospitable hour,
involving no regular meal whatever. Robert begs that I will order dinner
at home exactly as usual, and make it as substantial as possible, so as
to give him every chance of keeping awake at party, and I agree that this
would indeed appear desirable.
_October 9th._--Rumour that Lady B.'s party is to be in Fancy Dress
throws entire neighbourhood into consternation. Our Vicar's wife comes
down on gardener's wife's bicycle--borrowed, she says, for greater speed
and urgency--and explains that, in her position, she does not think that
fancy dress would do at all--unless perhaps _poudré_, which, she
asserts, is different, but takes ages to brush out afterwards. She asks
what I am going to do, but am quite unable to enlighten her, as black
taffeta already completed. Mademoiselle, at this, intervenes, and
declares that black taffeta can be transformed by a touch into Dresden
China Shepherdess _à ravir_. Am obliged to beg her not to be
ridiculous, nor attempt to make me so, and she then insanely suggests
turning black taffeta into costume for (a) Mary Queen of Scots, (b) Mme.
de Pompadour, (c) Cleopatra.
I desire her to take Vicky for a walk; she is _blessée_, and much
time is spent in restoring her to calm.
Our Vicar's wife--who has meantime been walking up and down drawing-room
in state of stress and agitation--says What about asking somebody else?
What about the Kellways? Why not ring them up?
We immediately do so, and are lightheartedly told by Mary Kellway that it
_is_ Fancy Dress, and she is going to wear her Russian Peasant
costume--absolutely genuine, brought by sailor cousin from Moscow long
years ago--but if in difficulties, can she lend me anything? Reply
incoherently to this kind offer, as our Vicar's wife, now in
uncontrollable agitation, makes it impossible for me to collect my
thoughts. Chaos prevails, when Robert enters, is frenziedly appealed to
by our Vicar's wife, and says Oh, didn't he say so? one or two people
_have_ had "Fancy Dress" put on invitation cards, as Lady B.'s own
house-party intends to dress up, but no such suggestion has been made to
majority of guests.
Our Vicar's wife and I agree at some length that, really, nobody in this
world _but_ Lady B. would behave like this, and we have very good
minds not to go near her party. Robert and I then arrange to take our
Vicar and his wife with us in car to party, she is grateful, and goes.
_October 23rd._--Party takes place. Black taffeta and Honiton lace
look charming and am not dissatisfied with general appearance, after
extracting two quite unmistakable grey hairs. Vicky goes so far, as to
say that I look Lovely, but enquires shortly afterwards why old people so
often wear black--which discourages me.
Received by Lady B. in magnificent Eastern costume, with pearls dripping
all over her, and surrounded by bevy of equally bejewelled friends. She
smiles graciously and shakes hands without looking at any of us, and
strange fancy crosses my mind that it would be agreeable to bestow on her
sudden sharp shaking, and thus compel her to recognise existence of at
least one of guests invited to her house. Am obliged, however, to curb
this unhallowed impulse, and proceed quietly into vast drawing-room, at
one end of which band is performing briskly on platform.
Our Vicar's wife--violet net and garnets--recognises friends, and takes
our Vicar away to speak to them. Robert is imperatively summoned by Lad y
B.--(Is she going to order him to take charge of cloak room, or
what?)--and I am greeted by an unpleasant-looking Hamlet, who suddenly
turns out to be Miss Pankerton. Why, she asks accusingly, am I not in
fancy dress? It would do me all the good in the world to give myself over
to the Carnival spirit. It is what I _need_. I make enquiry for
Jahsper--should never be surprised to hear that he has come as
Ophelia--but Miss P. replies that Jahsper is in Bloomsbury again.
Bloomsbury can do nothing without Jahsper. I say, No, I suppose not, in
order to avoid hearing any more about either Jahsper or Bloomsbury, and
talk to Mary Kellway--who looks nice in Russian Peasant costume--and
eventually dance with her husband. We see many of our neighbours, most of
them not in fancy dress, and am astounded at unexpected sight of
Blenkinsops' Cousin Maud, bounding round the room with short, stout
partner, identified by Mary's husband as great hunting man.
Lady B.'s house-party, all in expensive disguises and looking highly
superior, dance languidly with one another, and no introductions take
place.
It later becomes part of Robert's duty to tell everyone that supper is
ready, and we all flock to buffet in dining-room, and are given excellent
sandwiches and unidentified form of cup. Lady B.'s expensive-looking
house-party nowhere to be seen, and Robert tells me in gloomy aside that
he thinks they are in the library, having champagne. I express
charitable--and improbable--hope that it may poison them, to which Robert
merely replies, Hush, not so loud--but should not be surprised to know
that he agrees with me.
Final, and most unexpected, incident of the evening is when I come upon
old Mrs. Blenkinsop, all over black jet and wearing martyred expression,
sitting in large armchair underneath platform, and exactly below
energetic saxophone. She evidently has not the least idea how to account
for her presence there, and saxophone prevents conversation, but can
distinguish something about Maud, and not getting between young things
and their pleasure, and reference to old Mrs. B. not having very much
longer to spend amongst us. I smile and nod my head, then feel that this
may look unsympathetic, so frown and shake it, and am invited to dance by
male Frobisher--who talks about old furniture and birds. House-party
reappear, carrying balloons, which they distribute like buns at a
School-feast, and party proceeds until midnight.
Band then bursts into Auld Lang Syne and Lady B. screams Come along, Come
along, and all are directed to forma circle. Singular mêlée ensues, and I
see old Mrs. Blenkinsop swept from armchair and clutching our Vicar with
one hand and unknown young gentleman with the other. Our Vicar's wife is
holding hands with Miss Pankerton--whom she cannot endure--and looks
distraught, and Robert is seized upon by massive stranger in scarlet, and
Cousin Maud. Am horrified to realise that I am myself on one side
clasping hand of particularly offensive young male specimen of
house-party, and on the other that of Lady B. We all shuffle round to
well-known strains, and sing For _Ole_ Lang Syne, For _Ole_
Lang Syne, over and over again, since no one appears to know any other
words, and relief is general when this exercise is brought to a close.
Lady B., evidently fearing that we shall none of us know when she has had
enough of us, then directs band to play National Anthem, which is done,
and she receives our thanks and farewells.
Go home, and on looking at myself in the glass am much struck with
undeniable fact that at the end of a party I do not look nearly as nice
as I did at the beginning. Should like to think that this applies to
every woman, but am not sure--and anyway, this thought ungenerous--like
so many others.
Robert says, Why don't I get into Bed? I say, Because I am writing my
Diary. Robert replies, kindly, but quite definitely, that In his opinion,
That is Waste of Time.
I get into bed, and am confronted by Query: Can Robert be right?
Can only leave reply to Posterity.
THE END
