THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 2
_December 9th._--Rose staying here two days before going on to
London. Says All American houses are Always Warm, which annoys Robert. He
says in return that All American houses are Grossly Overheated and
Entirely Airless. Impossible not to feel that this would carry more
weight if Robert had ever been to America. Rose also very insistent about
efficiency of American Telephone Service, and inclined to ask for glasses
of cold water at breakfast time--which Robert does not approve of.
Otherwise dear Rose entirely unchanged and offers to put me up in her
West-End flat as often as I like to come to London. Accept gratefully.
(_N.B._ How very different to old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, with
bed-sitting-room and gas-ring in Norwich! But should not like to think
myself in any way a snob.)
On Rose's advice, bring bulb-bowls up from cellar and put them in
drawing-room. Several of them perfectly visible, but somehow do not look
entirely healthy. Rose thinks too much watering. If so, Cissie Crabbe
entirely to blame. (_Mem_.: Either move bulb-bowls upstairs, or tell
Ethel to show Lady Boxe into morning-room, if she calls. Cannot possibly
enter into further discussion with her concerning bulbs.)
_December 10th._--Robert, this morning, complains of insufficient
breakfast. Cannot feel that porridge, scrambled eggs, toast, marmalade,
scones, brown bread, and coffee give adequate grounds for this, but admit
that porridge is slightly burnt. How impossible ever to encounter burnt
porridge without vivid recollections of Jane Eyre at Lowood School, say I
parenthetically! This literary allusion not a success. Robert suggests
ringing for Cook, and have greatest difficulty in persuading him that
this course utterly disastrous.
Eventually go myself to kitchen, in ordinary course of events, and
approach subject of burnt porridge circuitously and with utmost care.
Cook replies, as I expected, with expressions of astonishment and
incredulity, coupled with assurances that kitchen range is again at
fault. She also says that new double-saucepan, fish-kettle, and nursery
tea-cups are urgently required. Make enquiries regarding recently
purchased nursery tea-set and am shown one handle without cup, saucer in
three pieces, and cup from which large semicircle has apparently been
bitten. Feel that Mademoiselle will be hurt if I pursue enquiries
further. (Note: Extreme sensibility of the French sometimes makes them
difficult to deal with.)
Read Life and Letters of distinguished woman recently dead, and am
struck, as so often, by difference between her correspondence and that of
less distinguished women. Immense and affectionate letters from
celebrities on every other page, epigrammatic notes from literary and
political acquaintances, poetical assurances of affection and admiration
from husband, and even infant children. Try to imagine Robert writing in
similar strain in the (improbable) event of my attaining celebrity, but
fail. Dear Vicky equally unlikely to commit her feelings (if any) to
paper.
Robin's letter arrives by second post, and am delighted to have it as
ever, but cannot feel that laconic information about boy--unknown to
me--called Baggs, having been swished, and Mr. Gompshaw, visiting master,
being kept away by Sore Throat--is on anything like equal footing with
lengthy and picturesque epistles received almost daily by subject of
biography, whenever absent from home.
Remainder of mail consists of one bill from chemist--(_Mem_.: Ask
Mademoiselle why _two_ tubes of Gibbs' Toothpaste within ten
days)--illiterate postcard from piano-tuner, announcing visit to-morrow,
and circular concerning True Temperance.
Inequalities of Fate very curious. Should like, on this account, to
believe in Reincarnation. Spend some time picturing to myself completely
renovated state of affairs, with, amongst other improvements, total
reversal of relative positions of Lady B. and myself.
(Query: Is thought on abstract questions ever a waste of time?)
_December 11th._--Robert, still harping on topic of yesterday's
breakfast, says suddenly Why Not a Ham? to which I reply austerely that a
ham is on order, but will not appear until arrival of R.'s brother
William and his wife, for Christmas visit. Robert, with every
manifestation of horror, says Are William and Angela coming to us for
_Christmas?_ This attitude absurd, as invitation was given months
ago, at Robert's own suggestion.
(Query here becomes unavoidable: Does not a misplaced optimism exist,
common to all mankind, leading on to false conviction that social
engagements, if dated sufficiently far ahead, will never really
materialise?)
Vicky and Mademoiselle return from walk with small white-and-yellow
kitten, alleged by them homeless and starving. Vicky fetches milk, and
becomes excited. Agree that kitten shall stay "for to-night" but feel
that this is weak.
(_Mem_.: Remind Vicky to-morrow that Daddy does not like cats.)
Mademoiselle becomes very French, on subject of cats generally, and am
obliged to check her. She is _blessée_, and all three retire to
schoolroom.
_December 12th._--Robert says out of the question to keep stray
kitten. Existing kitchen cat more than enough. Gradually modifies this
attitude under Vicky's pleadings. All now depends on whether kitten is
male or female. Vicky and Mademoiselle declare this is known to them, and
kitten already christened Napoleon. Find myself unable to enter into
discussion on the point in French. The gardener takes opposite view to
Vicky's and Mademoiselle's. They thereupon re-christen the kitten, seen
playing with an old tennis ball, as Helen Wills.
Robert's attention, perhaps fortunately, diverted by mysterious trouble
with the water-supply. He says The Ram has Stopped. (This sounds to me
Biblical.)
Give Mademoiselle a hint that H. Wills should not be encouraged to put in
injudicious appearances downstairs.
_December 13th._--Ram resumes activities. Helen Wills still with us.
_December 16th._--Very stormy weather, floods out and many trees
prostrated at inconvenient angles. Call from Lady Boxe, who says that she
is off to the South of France next week, as she Must have Sunshine. She
asks Why I do not go there too, and likens me to piece of chewed string,
which I feel to be entirely inappropriate and rather offensive figure of
speech, though perhaps kindly meant.
Why not just pop into the train, enquires Lady B., pop across France, and
pop out into Blue Sky, Blue Sea, and Summer Sun? Could make perfectly
comprehensive reply to this, but do not do so, question of expense having
evidently not crossed Lady B.'s horizon. (_Mem_.: Interesting
subject for debate at Women's Institute, perhaps: That Imagination is
incompatible with Inherited Wealth. On second thoughts, though, fear this
has a socialistic trend.)
Reply to Lady B. with insincere professions of liking England very much
even in the Winter. She begs me not to let myself become
parochially-minded.
Departure of Lady B. with many final appeals to me to reconsider South of
France. Make civil pretence, which deceives neither of us, of wavering,
and promise to ring her up in the event of a change of mind.
(Query: Cannot many of our moral lapses from Truth be frequently charged
upon the tactless persistence of others?)
_December 17th, London._--Come up to dear Rose's fiat for two days'
Christmas shopping, after prolonged discussion with Robert, who maintains
that All can equally well be done by Post.
Take early train so as to get in extra afternoon. Have with me Robert's
old leather suit-case, own ditto in fibre, large quantity of
chrysanthemums done up in brown paper for .Rose, small packet of
sandwiches, handbag, fur coat in case weather turns cold, book for
journey, and illustrated paper kindly presented by Mademoiselle at the
station. (Query: suggests itself: Could not some of these things have
been dispensed with, and if so which?)
Bestow belongings in the rack, and open illustrated paper with sensation
of leisured opulence, derived from unwonted absence of all domestic
duties.
Unknown lady enters carriage at first stop, and takes seat opposite. She
has expensive-looking luggage in moderate quantity, and small red morocco
jewel-case, also bran-new copy, without library label, of _Life of Sir
Edward Marshall-Hall_. Am reminded of Lady B. and have recrudescence
of Inferiority Complex.
Remaining seats occupied by elderly gentleman wearing spats, nondescript
female in a Burberry, and young man strongly resembling an Arthur Watts
drawing. He looks at a copy of _Punch_, and I spend much time in
wondering if it contains an Arthur Watts drawing and if he is struck by
resemblance, and if so what his reactions are, whether of pain or
gratification.
Roused from these unprofitable, but sympathetic, considerations by
agitation on the part of elderly gentleman, who says that, upon his soul,
he is being dripped upon. Everybody looks at ceiling, and Burberry female
makes a vague reference to unspecified "pipes" which she declares often
"go like that". Someone else madly suggests turning off the' heat.
Elderly gentleman refuses all explanations and declares that _It comes
from the rack_. We all look with horror at Rose's chrysanthemums, from
which large drips of water descend regularly. Am overcome with shame,
remove chrysanthemums, apologise to elderly gentleman, and sit down again
opposite to superior unknown, who has remained glued to _Sir E.
Marshall-Hall_ throughout, and reminds me of Lady B. more than ever.
(_Mem_.: Speak to Mademoiselle about officiousness of thrusting
flowers into water unasked, just before wrapping up.)
Immerse myself in illustrated weekly. Am informed by it that Lord Toto
Finch (inset) is responsible for camera-study (herewith) of the Loveliest
Legs in Los Angeles, belonging to well-known English Society girl, near
relation (by the way) of famous racing peer, father of well-known Smart
Set twins (portrait overleaf).
(Query: Is our popular Press going to the dogs?)
Turn attention to short story, but give it up on being directed, just as
I become interested, to page XLVIIb, which I am quite unable to locate.
Become involved instead with suggestions for Christmas Gifts. I
want my gifts, the writer assures me, to be individual and yet
appropriate--beautiful, and yet enduring. Then why not Enamel
dressing-table set, at £94 16s. 4d. or Set of crystal-ware, exact replica
of early English cut-glass, at moderate price of £34 17s. 9d.?
Why not, indeed?
Am touched to discover further on, however, explicit reference to Giver
with Restricted Means--though even here, am compelled to differ from
author's definition of restricted means. Let originality of thought, she
says, add character to trifling offering. Would not many of my friends
welcome suggestion of a course of treatment--(six for 5 guineas)--at
Madame Dolly Varden's Beauty Parlour in Piccadilly to be placed to my
account?
Cannot visualise myself making this offer to our Vicar's wife, still less
her reception of it, and decide to confine myself to one-and-sixpenny
calendar with picture of sunset on Scaw Fell, as usual.
(Indulge, on the other hand, in a few moments' idle phantasy, in which I
suggest to Lady B. that she should accept from me as a graceful and
appropriate Christmas gift, a course of Reducing Exercises accompanied by
Soothing and Wrinkle-eradicating Face Massage.)
This imaginative exercise brought to a conclusion by arrival.
Obliged to take taxi from station, mainly owing to chrysanthemums (which
would not combine well with two suit-cases and fur coat on moving
stairway, which I distrust and dislike anyhow, and am only too apt to
make conspicuous failure of Stepping Off with Right Foot foremost)--but
also partly owing to fashionable locality of Rose's flat, miles removed
from any Underground.
Kindest welcome from dear Rose, who is most appreciative of
chrysanthemums. Refrain from mentioning unfortunate incident with elderly
gentleman in train.
_December 19th._--Find Christmas shopping very exhausting. Am
paralysed in the Army and Navy Stores on discovering that List of Xmas
Presents is lost, but eventually run it to earth in Children's Books
Department. While there choose book for dear Robin, and wish for the
hundredth time that Vicky had been less definite about wanting Toy
Greenhouse and _nothing else_. This apparently unprocurable.
(_Mem_.: Take early opportunity of looking up story of the Roc's Egg
to tell Vicky.)
Rose says "Try Selfridge's." I protest, but eventually go there, find
admirable--though expensive--Toy Greenhouse, and unpatriotically purchase
it at once. Decide not to tell Robert this.
Choose appropriate offerings for Rose, Mademoiselle, William, and
Angela--(who will be staying with us, so gifts must be above
calendar-mark)--and lesser trifles for everyone else. Unable to decide
between almost invisibly small diary, and really handsome card, for
Cissie Crabbe, but eventually settle on diary, as it will fit into
ordinary-sized envelope.
_December 20th._--Rose takes me to see St. John Ervine's play, and
am much amused. Overhear one lady in stalls ask another: Why don't
_you_ write a play, dear? Well, says the friend, it's so difficult,
what with one thing and another, to find _time_. Am staggered.
(Query: Could I write a play myself? Could we _all_ write plays, if
only we had the time? Reflect that St. J. E. lives in the same county as
myself, but feel that this does not constitute sound excuse for writing
to ask him how he finds the time to write plays.)
_December 22nd._--Return home. One bulb in partial flower, but not
satisfactory.
December 23rd.--Meet Robin at the Junction. He has lost his ticket,
parcel of sandwiches, and handkerchief, but produces large wooden
packing-case, into which little shelf has been wedged. Understand that
this represents result of Carpentry Class--expensive "extra" at
school--and is a Christmas present. Will no doubt appear on bill in due
course.
Robin says essential to get gramophone record called "Is Izzy Azzy Wozz?"
(_N.B._ Am often struck by disquieting thought that the dear
children are entirely devoid of any artistic feeling whatever, in art,
literature, or music. This conviction intensified after hearing "Is Izzy
Azzy Wozz?" rendered fourteen times running on the gramophone, after I
have succeeded in obtaining record.)
Much touched at enthusiastic greeting between Robin and Vicky.
Mademoiselle says, "Ah, c'est gentil!" and produces a handkerchief, which
I think exaggerated, especially as in half-an-hour's time she comes to me
with complaint that R. and V. have gone up into the rafters and are
shaking down plaster from nursery ceiling. Remonstrate with them from
below. They sing "Is Izzy Azzy Wozz?" Am distressed at this, as providing
fresh confirmation of painful conviction that neither has any ear for
music, nor ever will have.
Arrival of William and Angela, at half-past three. Should like to hurry
up tea, but feel that servants would be annoyed, so instead offer to show
them their rooms, which they know perfectly well already. We exchange
news about relations. Robin and Vicky appear, still singing "Is Izzy Azzy
Wozz?" Angela says that they have grown. Can see by her expression that
she thinks them odious, and very badly brought-up. She tells me about the
children in the last house she stayed at. All appear to have been
miracles of cleanliness, intelligence, and charm. A. also adds, most
unnecessarily, that they are musical, and play the piano nicely.
(_Mem_.: A meal the most satisfactory way of entertaining any guest.
Should much like to abridge the interval between tea and dinner--or else
to introduce supplementary collation in between.)
At dinner we talk again about relations, and ask one another if anything
is ever heard of poor Frederick, nowadays, and how Mollie's marriage is
turning out, and whether Grandmama is thinking of going to the East Coast
again this summer. Am annoyed because Robert and William sit on in the
dining-room until nearly ten o'clock, which makes the servants late.
_December 24th._--Take entire family to children's party at
neighbouring Rectory. Robin says Damn three times in the Rector's
hearing, an expression never used by him before or since, but apparently
reserved for this unsuitable occasion. Party otherwise highly successful,
except that I again meet recent arrival at the Grange, on whom I have not
yet called. She is a Mrs. Somers, and is said to keep Bees. Find myself
next to her at tea, but cannot think of anything to say about Bees,
except Does she _like_ them, which sounds like a bad riddle, so
leave it unsaid and talk about Preparatory Schools instead. (Am
interested to note that no two parents ever seem to have heard of one
another's Preparatory Schools. Query: Can this indicate an undue number
of these establishments throughout the country?)
After dinner, get presents ready for children's stockings. William
unfortunately steps on small glass article of doll's furniture intended
for Vicky, but handsomely offers a shilling in compensation, which I
refuse. Much time taken up in discussing this. At eleven P.M. children
still wide awake. Angela suggests Bridge and asks Who is that Mrs. Somers
we met at the Rectory, who seems to be interested in Bees? (A. evidently
more skilled than myself in social amenities, but do not make this
comment aloud.)
_Xmas Day._--Festive, but exhausting, Christmas. Robin and Vicky
delighted with everything, and spend much of the day eating. Vicky
presents' her Aunt Angela with small square of canvas on which blue
donkey is worked in cross-stitch. Do not know whether to apologise for
this or not, but eventually decide better to say nothing, and hint to
Mademoiselle that other design might have been preferable.
The children perhaps rather too much _en évidence_, as Angela,
towards tea-time, begins to tell me that the little Maitlands have such a
delightful nursery, and always spend entire day in it except when out for
long walks with governess and dogs.
William asks if that Mrs. Somers is one of the _Dorsetshire_ lot--a
woman who knows about Bees.
Make a note that I really must call on Mrs. S. early next week. Read up
something about Bees before going.
Turkey and plum-pudding cold in the evening, to give servants a rest.
Angela looks at bulbs, and says What made me think they would be in
flower for Christmas? Do not reply to this, but suggest early bed for us
all.
_December 27th._--Departure of William and Angela. Slight shock
administered at eleventh hour by Angela, who asks if I realise that
_she_ was winner of first prize in last week's _Time and Tide_
Competition, under the pseudonym of _Intelligensia_. Had naturally
no idea of this, but congratulate her, without mentioning that I entered
for same competition myself, without success.
(Query: Are Competition Editors always sound on questions of literary
merit? Judgement possibly becomes warped through overwork.)
Another children's party this afternoon, too large and elaborate. Mothers
stand about it in black hats and talk to one another about gardens,
books, and difficulty of getting servants to stay in the country. Tea
handed about the hall in a detached way, while children are herded into
another room. Vicky and Robin behave well, and I compliment them on the
way home, but am informed later by Mademoiselle that she has found large
collection of chocolate biscuits in pocket of Vicky's party-frock.
(_Mem_.: Would it be advisable to point out to Vicky that this
constitutes failure in intelligence, as well as in manners, hygiene, and
common honesty?)
To be continued
