THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 3
_January 1st, 1930._--We give a children's party ourselves. Very,
very exhausting performance, greatly complicated by stormy weather, which
keeps half the guests away, and causes grave fears as to arrival of the
conjurer.
Decide to have children's tea in the dining-room, grown-ups in the study,
and clear the drawing-room for games and conjurer. Minor articles of
drawing-room furniture moved up to my bedroom, where I continually knock
myself against them. Bulb-bowls greatly in everybody's way and are put on
window-ledges in passage, at which Mademoiselle says: "Tiens! ça fait un
drôle d'effet, ces malheureux petits brins de verdure!" Do not like this
description at all.
The children from neighbouring Rectory arrive too early, and are shown
into completely empty drawing-room. Entrance of Vicky, in new green
party-frock, with four balloons, saves situation.
(Query: What is the reason that clerical households are always
unpunctual, invariably arriving either first, or last, at any gathering
to which bidden?)
Am struck at variety of behaviour amongst mothers, some so helpful in
organising games and making suggestions, others merely sitting
about. (_N.B._ For sake of honesty, should rather say _standing_
about, as supply of chairs fails early.) Resolve always to send Robin and
Vicky to parties without me, if possible, as children without parents
infinitely preferable from point of view of hostess. Find it difficult to
get "Oranges and Lemons" going, whilst at same time appearing to give
intelligent attention to remarks from visiting mother concerning
Exhibition of Italian Pictures at Burlington House. Find myself telling
her how marvellous I think them, although in actual fact have not yet
seen them at all. Realise that this mis-statement should be corrected at
once, but omit to do so, and later find myself involved in entirely
unintentional web of falsehood. Should like to work out how far morally
to blame for this state of things, but have not time.
Tea goes off well. Mademoiselle presides in dining-room, I in
study. Robert and solitary elderly father--(looks more like a
grandfather)--stand in doorway and talk about big-game shooting and
the last General Election, in intervals of handing tea.
Conjurer arrives late, but is a success with children. Ends up with
presents from a bran-tub, in which more bran is spilt on carpet,
children's clothes, and house generally, than could ever have been got
into tub originally. Think this odd, but have noticed similar phenomenon
before.
Guests depart between seven and half-past, and Helen Wills and the dog
are let out by Robin, having been shut up on account of crackers, which
they dislike.
Robert and I spend evening helping servants to restore order, and trying
to remember where ash-trays, clock, ornaments, and ink were put for
safety.
_January 3rd._--Hounds meet in the village. Robert agrees to take
Vicky on the pony. Robin, Mademoiselle, and I walk to the Post Office to
see the start, and Robin talks about Oliver Twist, making no reference
whatever to hunt from start to finish, and viewing horses, hounds, and
huntsmen with equal detachment. Am impressed at his non-suggestibility,
but feel that some deep Freudian significance may lie behind it all. Feel
also that Robert would take very different view of it.
Meet quantities of hunting neighbours, who say to Robin, "Aren't you
riding too?" which strikes one as lacking in intelligence, and ask me if
we have lost many trees lately, but do not wait for answer, as what they
really want to talk about is the number of trees they have lost
themselves.
Mademoiselle looks at hounds and says, "Ah, ces bons chiens!" also
admires horses, "quelles bêtes superbes"--but prudently keeps well away
from all, in which I follow her example.
Vicky looks nice on pony, and I receive compliments about her, which I
accept in an off-hand manner, tinged with incredulity, in order to show
that I am a modern mother and should scorn to be foolish about my
children.
Hunt moves off, Mademoiselle remarking, "Voilà bien le sport anglais!"
Robin says: "Now can we go home?" and eats milk-chocolate. We return to
the house and I write order to the Stores, post-card to the butcher, two
letters about Women's Institutes, one about Girl Guides, note to the
dentist asking for appointment next week, and make memorandum in
engagement-book that I _must_ call on Mrs. Somers at the Grange.
Am horrified and incredulous at discovery that these occupations have
filled the entire morning.
Robert and Vicky return late, Vicky plastered with mud from head to foot
but unharmed. Mademoiselle removes her, and says no more about _le
sport anglais_.
_January 4th._--A beautiful day, very mild, makes me feel that with
any reasonable luck Mrs. Somers will be out, and I therefore call at the
Grange. She is, on the contrary, in. Find her in the drawing-room,
wearing printed velvet frock that I immediately think would look nice on
_me_. No sign anywhere of Bees, but am getting ready to enquire
about them intelligently when Mrs. Somers suddenly says that her Mother
is here, and knows my old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, who says that I am
so _amusing_. The Mother comes in--very elegant Marcel wave--(cannot
imagine where she got it, unless she has this moment come from
London)--and general air of knowing how to dress in the country. She is
introduced to me--name sounds exactly like Eggchalk but do not think this
possible--and says she knows my old school-friend Miss Crabbe, at
Norwich, and has heard all about how very, very amusing I am. Become
completely paralysed and can think of nothing whatever to say except that
it has been very stormy lately. Leave as soon as possible.
_January 5th._--Rose, in the kindest way, offers to take me as her
guest to special dinner of famous Literary Club if I will come up to
London for the night. Celebrated editor of literary weekly paper in the
chair, spectacularly successful author of famous play as guest of honour.
Principal authors, poets, and artists from--says Rose--all over the
world, expected to be present.
Spend much of the evening talking to Robert about this. Put it to him:
(a) That no expense is involved beyond 3rd class return ticket to London;
(b) that in another twelve years Vicky will be coming out, and it is
therefore incumbent on me to Keep in Touch with People; (c) that this is
an opportunity that will never occur again; (d) that it isn't as if I
were asking him to come too. Robert says nothing to (a) or (b) and only
"I should hope not" to (c), but appears slightly moved by (d). Finally
says he supposes I must do as I like, and very likely I shall meet some
old friends of my Bohemian days when living with Rose in Hampstead.
Am touched by this, and experience passing wonder if Robert can be
feeling slightly jealous. This fugitive idea dispelled by his immediately
beginning to speak about failure of hot water this morning.
_January 7th._--Rose takes me to Literary Club dinner. I wear my
Blue. Am much struck by various young men who have defiantly put on
flannel shirts and no ties, and brushed their hair up on end. They are
mostly accompanied by red-headed young women who wear printed crêpe
frocks and beads. Otherwise, everyone in evening dress. Am introduced to
distinguished Editor, who turns out to be female and delightful. Should
like to ask her once and for all why prizes in her paper's weekly
competition are so often divided, but feel this would be unsuitable and
put Rose to shame.
Am placed at dinner next to celebrated best-seller, who tells me in the
kindest way how to evade paying super-tax. Am easily able to conceal from
him the fact that I am not at present in a position to require this
information. Very distinguished artist sits opposite, and becomes more
and more convivial as evening advances. This encourages me to remind him
that we have met before--which we have, in old Hampstead days. He
declares enthusiastically that he remembers me perfectly--which we both
know to be entirely untrue--and adds wildly that he has followed my work
ever since. Feel it better to let this pass unchallenged. Later on,
distinguished artist is found to have come out without any money, and all
in his immediate neighbourhood are required to lend him amount demanded
by head-waiter.
Feel distinctly thankful that Robert is not with me, and am moreover
morally certain that distinguished artist will remember nothing whatever
in the morning, and will therefore be unable to refund my
three-and-sixpence.
Rose handsomely pays for my dinner as well as her own.
(This suggests _Mem_.: That English cooking, never unduly
attractive, becomes positively nauseating on any public occasion, such as
a banquet. Am seriously distressed at probable reactions of foreign
visitors to this evening's fish, let alone other items.)
Young gentleman is introduced to me by Rose--(she saying in rapid murmur
that he is part-author of a one-act play that has been acted three times
by a Repertory company in Jugo-Slavia.) It turns out later that he has
met Lady Boxe, who struck him, he adds immediately, as a poisonous woman.
We then get on well together. (Query: Is not a common hate one of the
strongest links in human nature? Answer, most regrettably, in the
affirmative.)
Very, very distinguished Novelist approaches me (having evidently
mistaken me for someone else), and talks amiably. She says that she can
only write between twelve at night and four in the morning, and not
always then. When she cannot write, she plays the organ. Should much like
to ask whether she is married--but get no opportunity of asking that or
anything else. She tells me about her sales. She tells me about her last
book. She tells me about her new one. She says that there are many people
here to whom she _must_ speak, and pursues well-known Poet--who does
not, however, allow her to catch up with him. Can understand this.
Speeches are made. Am struck, as so often, by the eloquence and
profundity of other people, and reflect how sorry I should be to have to
make a speech myself, although so often kept awake at night composing
wholly admirable addresses to the servants, Lady B., Mademoiselle, and
others--which, however, never get delivered.
Move about after dinner, and meet acquaintance whose name I have
forgotten, but connect with literature. I ask if he has published
anything lately. He says that his work is not, and never can be, for
publication. Thought passes through my mind to the effect that this
attitude might with advantage be adopted by many others. Do not say so,
however, and we talk instead about Rebecca West, the progress of
aviation, and the case for and against stag-hunting.
Rose, who has been discussing psychiatry as practised in the U.S.A. with
Danish journalist, says Am I ready to go? Distinguished artist who sat
opposite me at dinner offers to drive us both home, but his friends
intervene. Moreover, acquaintance whose name I have forgotten takes me
aside, and assures me that D.A. is quite unfit to take anybody home, and
will himself require an escort. Rose and I depart by nearest Tube, as
being wiser, if less exalted, procedure.
Sit up till one o'clock discussing our fellow-creatures, with special
reference to those seen and heard this evening. Rose says I ought to come
to London more often, and suggests that outlook requires broadening.
_January 9th._--Came home yesterday. Robin and Mademoiselle no
longer on speaking terms, owing to involved affair centering round a
broken window-pane. Vicky, startlingly, tells me in private that she has
learnt a new Bad Word, but does not mean to use it. Not now, anyway, she
disquietingly adds.
Cook says she hopes I enjoyed my holiday, and it is very quiet in the
country. I leave the kitchen before she has time to say more, but am only
too well aware that this is not the last of it.
Write grateful letter to Rose, at the same time explaining difficulty of
broadening my outlook by further time spent away from home, just at
present.
_January 14th._--I have occasion to observe, not for the first time,
how extraordinarily plain a cold can make one look, affecting hair,
complexion, and features generally, besides nose and upper lip. Cook
assures me that colds always run through the house and that she herself
has been suffering from sore throat for weeks, but is never one to make a
fuss. (Query: Is this meant to imply that similar fortitude should be,
but is not, displayed by me?) Mademoiselle says she _hopes_ children
will not catch my cold, but that both sneezed this morning. I run short
of handkerchiefs.
_January 16th._--We all run short of handkerchiefs.
_January 17th._--Mademoiselle suggests butter-muslin. There is none
in the house. I say that I will go out and buy some. Mademoiselle says,
"No, the fresh air gives pneumonia." Feel that I ought to combat this
un-British attitude, but lack energy, especially when she adds that she
will go herself--"Madame, j'y cours." She puts on black kid gloves,
buttoned boots with pointed tips and high heels, hat with little feather
in it, black jacket and several silk neckties, and goes, leaving me to
amuse Robin and Vicky, both in bed. Twenty minutes after she has started,
I remember it is early-closing day.
Go up to night-nursery and offer to read Lamb's _Tales from
Shakespeare_. Vicky says she prefers _Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred_.
Robin says that he would like _Gulliver's Travels_. Compromise on
Grimm's Fairy Tales, although slightly uneasy as to their being in
accordance with best modern ideals. Both children take immense interest
in story of highly undesirable person who wins fortune, fame, and
beautiful Princess by means of lies, violence, and treachery. Feel sure
that this must have disastrous effect on both in years to come.
Our Vicar's wife calls before Mademoiselle returns. Go down to her,
sneezing, and suggest that she had better not stay. She says, much better
not, and she won't keep me a minute. Tells me long story about the Vicar
having a stye on one eye. I retaliate with Cook's sore throat. This leads
to draughts, the, heating apparatus in church, and news of Lady Boxe in
South of France: The Vicar's wife has had a picture postcard from her
(which she produces from bag), with small cross marking bedroom window of
hotel. She says, It's rather interesting, isn't it? to which I reply Yes,
it is, very, which is not in the least true. (_N.B._ Truth-telling
in everyday life extraordinarily difficult. Is this personal, and highly
deplorable, idiosyncrasy, or do others suffer in the same way? Have
momentary impulse to put this to our, Vicar's wife, but decide better
not.)
How, she says, are the dear children, and how is my husband? I reply
suitably, and she tells me about cinnamon, Viapex, gargling with
glycerine of thymnol, blackcurrant tea, onion broth, friar's balsam,
linseed poultices, and thermogene wool. I sneeze and say Thank you--thank
you very much, a good many times.. She goes, but turns back at the door
to tell me about wool next the skin, nasal douching, and hot milk last
thing at night. I say Thank you, again.
On returning to night-nursery, find that Robin has unscrewed top of
hot-water bottle in Vicky's bed, which apparently contained several
hundred gallons of tepid water, now distributed through and through
pillows, pyjamas, sheets, blankets, and mattresses of both. I ring for
Ethel--who helps me to reorganise entire situation and says It's like a
hospital, isn't it, trays up and down stairs all day long, and all this
extra work.
_January 20th._--Take Robin, now completely restored, back to
school. I ask the Headmaster what he thinks of his progress. The
Headmaster answers that the New Buildings will be finished before Easter,
and that their numbers are increasing so rapidly that he will probably
add on a New Wing next term, and perhaps I saw a letter of his in the
_Times_ replying to Dr. Cyril Norwood? Make mental note to the
effect that Headmasters are a race apart, and that if parents would
remember this, much time could be saved.
Robin and I say good-bye with hideous brightness, and I cry all the way
back to the station.
_January 22nd._--Robert startles me at breakfast by asking if my
cold--which he has hitherto ignored--is better. I reply that it has gone.
Then why, he asks, do I look like that? Refrain from asking like what, as
I know only too well. Feel that life is wholly unendurable, and decide
madly to get a new hat.
Customary painful situation between Bank and myself necessitates
expedient, also customary, of pawning great-aunt's diamond ring, which I
do, under usual conditions, and am greeted as old friend by Plymouth
pawnbroker, who says facetiously, And what name will it be _this_
time?
Visit four linen-drapers and try on several dozen hats. Look worse and
worse in each one, as hair gets wilder and wilder, and expression paler
and more harassed. Decide to get myself shampooed and waved before doing
any more, in hopes of improving the position.
Hairdresser's assistant says, It's a pity my hair is losing all its
colour, and have I ever thought of having it touched up? After long
discussion, I do have it touched up, and emerge with mahogany-coloured
head. Hairdresser's assistant says this will wear off "in a few days". I
am very angry, but all to no purpose. Return home in old hat, showing as
little hair as possible, and keep it on till dressing time--but cannot
hope to conceal my shame at dinner.
_January 23rd._--Mary Kellway telegraphs she is motoring past here
this morning, can I give her lunch? Telegraph Yes, delighted, and rush to
kitchen. Cook unhelpful and suggests cold beef and beetroot. I say Yes,
excellent, unless perhaps roast chicken and bread sauce even better? Cook
talks about the oven. Compromise in the end on cutlets and mashed
potatoes, as, very luckily, this is the day butcher calls.
Always delighted to see dear Mary--so clever and amusing, and able to
write stories, which actually get published and paid for--but very uneasy
about colour of my hair, which is not wearing off in the least. Think
seriously of keeping a hat on all through lunch, but this, on the whole,
would look even more unnatural. Besides, could not hope that it would
pass without observation from Vicky, let alone Robert.
_Later._--Worst fears realised, as to hair. Dear Mary, always so
observant, gazes at it in nerve-shattering silence but says nothing, till
I am driven to make half-hearted explanation. Her only comment is that
she cannot imagine why anybody should deliberately make themselves look
ten years older than they need. Feel that, if she wishes to discourage
further experiments on my part, this observation could scarcely be
improved upon. Change the subject, and talk about the children. Mary most
sympathetic, and goes so far as to say that my children have brains,
which encourages me to tell anecdotes about them until I see Robert
looking at me, just as I get to Robin's precocious taste for really good
literature. By curious coincidence second post brings letter from Robin,
saying that he wishes to collect cigarette-cards and will I send him all
the types of National Beauty, Curious Beaks, and Famous Footballers, that
I can find. Make no comment on this singular request aloud.
Mary stays to tea and we talk about H. G. Wells, Women's Institutes,
infectious illness, and _Journey's End_. Mary says she cannot go and
see this latter because she always cries at the theatre. I say, Then once
more will make no difference. Discussion becomes involved, and we drop
it. Vicky comes in and immediately offers to recite. Can see that Mary
(who has three children of her own) does not in the least want to hear
her, but she feigns enthusiasm politely. Vicky recites: "Maître Corbeau
sur un arbre perché"--(_N.B._ Suggest to Mademoiselle that Vicky's
repertory should be enlarged. Feel sure that I have heard Maitre Corbeau,
alternately with La Cigale et la Fourmi, some eight hundred times within
the last six months.)
After Mary has gone, Robert looks at me and suddenly remarks: "Now
_that's_ what I call an attractive woman." Am gratified at his
appreciation of talented friend, but should like to be a little clearer
regarding exact significance of emphasis on the word _that_. Robert,
however, says no more, and opportunity is lost as Ethel comes in to say
Cook is sorry she's run right out of milk, but if I will come to the
store-cupboard she thinks there's a tin of Ideal, and she'll make do with
that.
_January 25th._--Attend a Committee Meeting in the village to
discuss how to raise funds for Village Hall. Am asked to take the chair.
Begin by saying that I know how much we all have this excellent object
at heart, and that I feel sure there swill be no lack of suggestions as
to best method of obtaining requisite sum of money. Pause for
suggestions, which is met with death-like silence. I say, There are so
many ways to choose from--implication being that I attribute silence to
plethora of ideas, rather than to absence of them. (_Note_: Curious
and rather depressing, to see how frequently the pursuit of Good Works
leads to apparently unavoidable duplicity.) Silence continues, and I say
Well, twice, and Come, come, once. (Sudden impulse to exclaim, "I lift
up my finger and I say Tweet, Tweet," is fortunately overcome.) At last:
extract a suggestion of a concert from Mrs. L. (whose son plays the
violin) and a whist-drive from Miss P. (who won Ladies' First Prize at
the last one). Florrie P. suggests a dance and is at once reminded that
it will be Lent. She says that Lent isn't what it was. Her mother says
the Vicar is one that holds with Lent, and always has been. Someone else
says That reminds her, has anyone heard that old Mr. Small passed away
last night? We all agree that eighty-six is a great age. Mrs. L. says
that on her mother's side of the family, there is an aunt of
ninety-eight. Still with us, she adds. The aunt's husband, on the other
hand, was gathered just before his sixtieth birthday. Everyone says, You
can't ever _tell_, not really. There is a suitable pause before we
go back to Lent and the Vicar. General opinion that a concert isn't like
a dance, and needn't--says Mrs. L.--interfere.
On this understanding, we proceed. Various familiar items--piano solo,
recitation, duet, and violin solo from Master L.--are all agreed upon.
Someone says that Mrs. F. and Miss H. might do a dialogue, and has to be
reminded that they are no longer on speaking terms, owing to strange
behaviour of Miss H. about her bantams. Ah, says Mrs. S., it wasn't only
_bantams_ was at the bottom of it, there's two sides to every
question. (There are at least twenty to this one, by the time we've done
with it.)
Sudden appearance of our Vicar's wife, who says apologetically that she
made a mistake in the time. I beg her to take the chair. She refuses. I
insist. She says No, no, positively not, and takes it.
We begin all over again, but general attitude towards Lent much less
elastic.
Meeting ends at about five o'clock. Our Vicar's wife walks 'home with me,
and tells me that I look tired. I ask her to come in and have tea. No,
she says, no, it's too kind of me, but she must go on to the far end of
the parish. She remains standing at the gate telling me about old
Small--eighty-six a great age--till quarter-to-six, when she departs,
saying that she cannot _think_ why I am looking so tired.
_February 11th._--Robin writes again about cigarette-cards. I send
him all those I have collected, and Vicky produces two which she has
obtained from the garden-boy. Find that this quest grows upon one, and am
apt now, when in Plymouth or any other town, to scan gutters, pavements,
and tram-floors in search of Curious Beaks, Famous Football Players, and
the like. Have even gone so far as to implore perfect stranger, sitting
opposite me in train, _not_ to throw cigarette-card out of the
window, but give it to me instead. Perfect stranger does so with an air
of courteous astonishment, and as he asks for no explanation, am obliged
to leave him under the impression that I have merely been trying to force
him into conversation with me.
(_Note:_ Could not short article, suitable for _Time and Tide_,
be worked up on some such lines as: Lengths to which Mother-love may
legitimately go? On second thoughts abandon the idea, as being faintly
reminiscent of _démodé_ enquiry: Do Shrimps make Good Mothers?)
Hear that Lady Boxe has returned from South of France and is entertaining
house-party. She sends telephone message by the butler, asking me to tea
to-morrow. I accept. (Why?)
_February 12th._--Insufferable behaviour of Lady B. Find large
party, all of whom are directed at front door to go to the Hard Courts,
where, under inadequate shelter, in Arctic temperature, all are compelled
to watch young men in white flannels keeping themselves warm by banging a
little ball against a wall. Lady B. wears an emerald-green leather coat
with fur collar and cuffs. I, having walked down, have on ordinary coat
and skirt, and freeze rapidly. Find myself next unknown lady who talks
wistfully about the tropics. Can well understand this. On other side
elderly gentleman, who says conversationally that this Naval Disarmament
is All his Eye. This contribution made to contemporary thought, he says
no more. Past five o'clock before we are allowed to go in to tea, by
which time am only too well aware that my face is blue and my hands
purple. Lady B. asks me at tea how the children are, and adds, to the
table at large, that I am "A Perfect Mother". Am naturally avoided,
conversationally, after this, by everybody at the tea-table. Later on,
Lady B. tells us about South of France. She quotes repartees made by
herself in French, and then translates them.
(Unavoidable Query presents itself here: Would a verdict of Justifiable
Homicide delivered against their mother affect future careers of children
unfavourably?)
Discuss foreign travel with unknown, but charming, lady in black. We are
delighted with one another--or so I confidently imagine--arid she begs me
to go and see her if I am ever in her neighbourhood. I say that I
will--but am well aware that courage will fail me when it comes to the
point. Pleasant sense of mutual sympathy suddenly and painfully shattered
by my admitting--in reply to direct enquiry--that I am _not_ a
gardener--which the lady in black is, to an extent that apparently
amounts to monomania. She remains charming, but quite ceases to be
delighted with me, and I feel discouraged.
(_N.B._ _Must_ try to remember that Social Success is seldom
the portion of those who habitually live in the provinces. No doubt they
serve some other purpose in the vast field of Creation--but have not yet
discovered what.)
Lady B. asks if I have seen the new play at the Royalty. I say No. She
says Have I been to the Italian Art Exhibition? I have not. She enquires
what I think of _Her Privates We_--which I haven't yet read--and I
at once give her a long and spirited account of my reactions to it. Feel
after this that I had better go, before I am driven to further excesses.
Shall she, says Lady B., ring for my car? Refrain from replying that no
amount of ringing will bring my car to the door all by itself, and say
instead that I walked. Lady B. exclaims that this is Impossible, and that
I am Too Marvellous, Altogether. Take my leave before she can add that I
am such a Perfect Countrywoman, which I feel is coming next.
Get home--still chilled to the bone owing to enforced detention at Hard
Court--and tell Robert what I think of Lady B. He makes no answer, but I
feel he agrees.
Mademoiselle says: "Tiens! Madame a mauvaise mine. On dirait un
cadavre..."
Feel that this is kindly meant, but do not care about the picture that it
conjures up.
Say good-night to Vicky, looking angelic in bed, and ask what she is
thinking about, lying there. She disconcertingly replies with briskness:
"Oh, Kangaroos and things."
(_Note:_ The workings of the infant mind very, very difficult to
follow, sometimes. Mothers by no means infallible.)
_February 14th._--Have won first prize in _Time and Tide_
competition, but again divided. Am very angry indeed, and write excellent
letter to the Editor under false name, protesting against this iniquitous
custom. After it has gone, become seriously uneasy under the fear that
the use of a false name is illegal. Look through _Whitaker_, but can
find nothing but Stamp Duties and Concealment of Illegitimate Births, so
abandon it in disgust.
Write to Angela--under my own name--to enquire kindly if _she_ went
in for the competition. Hope she did, and that she will have the decency
to say so.
_February 16th._--Informed by Ethel, as she calls me in the morning,
that Helen Wills has had six kittens, of which five survive.
Cannot imagine how I shall break this news to Robert. Reflect--not for
the first time--that the workings of Nature are most singular.
Angela writes that she _didn't_ go in for competition, thinking the
subject puerile, but that she solved "Merope's" Crossword puzzle in
fifteen minutes.
(_N.B._ This last statement almost certainly inaccurate.)
_February 21st._--Remove bulb-bowls, with what is left of bulbs, to
greenhouse. Tell Robert that I hope to do better another year. He
replies, Another year, better not waste my money. This reply depresses
me, moreover weather continues Arctic, and have by no means recovered
from effects of Lady B.'s so-called hospitality.
Vicky and Mademoiselle spend much time in boot-cupboard, where Helen
Wills is established with five kittens. Robert still unaware of what has
happened, but cannot hope this ignorance will continue. Must, however,
choose suitable moment for revelation--which is unlikely to occur today
owing to bath-water having been cold again this morning.
Lady B. calls in the afternoon--not, as might have been expected, to see
if I am in bed with pneumonia, but to ask if I will help at a Bazaar
early in May. Further enquiry reveals that it is in aid of the Party
Funds. I say What Party? (Am well aware of Lady B.'s political views, but
resent having it taken for granted that mine are the same--which they are
not.)
Lady B. says she is Surprised. Later on she says Look at the Russians,
and even, Look at the Pope. I find myself telling her to Look at
Unemployment--none of which gets us any further. Am relieved when tea
comes in, and still more so when Lady B. says she really mustn't wait, as
she has to call on such a number of Tenants. She asks after Robert, and I
think seriously of replying that he is out receiving the Oath of
Allegiance from all the vassals on the estate, but decide that this would
be undignified.
Escort Lady B. to the hall-door. She tells me that the oak dresser would
look better on the other side of the hall, and that it is a mistake to
put mahogany and walnut in the same room. Her last word is that she will
Write, about the bazaar. Relieve my feelings by waving small red flag
belonging to Vicky, which is lying on the hall-stand, and saying _A la
lanterne_! as chauffeur drives off. Rather unfortunately, Ethel
chooses this moment to walk through the hall. She says nothing, but looks
astonished.
To be continued
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