THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 7
_March 25th._--Return home, to Robert, Helen Wills, and new
house-parlourman, who is--I now learn for the first time--named
Fitzsimmons. I tell Robert that it is impossible that he should be called
this. Robert replies, Why not? Can only say that if Robert cannot see
this for himself, explanation will be useless. Then, says Robert, no doubt
we can call him by his first name. This, on investigation, turns out to
be Howard. Find myself quite unable to cope with any of it, and the whole
situation is met by my never calling the house-parlourman anything at
all except "you" and speaking of him to Robert as "Howard Fitzsimmons", in
inverted commas as though intending to be funny. Very unsatisfactory
solution.
Try to tell Robert all about London--(with exception of Italian
Exhibition, which I do not mention)--but Aladdin lamp flares up, which
interferes, and have also to deal with correspondence concerning Women's
Institute Monthly Meeting, replacement of broken bedroom
tumblers--attributed to Ethel--disappearance of one pyjama-jacket and two
table-napkins in the wash, and instructions to Howard Fitzs. concerning
his duties. (_Mem_.: Must certainly make it crystal-clear that
acceptable formula, when receiving an order, is not "Right-oh!" Cannot,
at the moment, think how to word this, but must work it out, and then
deliver with firmness and precision.)
Robert very kind about London, but perhaps rather more interested in my
having met Barbara Blenkinsop--which, after all, I can do almost any day
in the village--than in my views on _Nine till Six_ (the best play I
have seen for ages) or remarkable increase of traffic in recent years.
Tell Robert by degrees about my new clothes. He asks when I expect to
wear them, and I reply that one never knows--which is only too true--and
conversation closes.
Write long letter to Angela, for the express purpose of referring
casually to Rose's distinguished friends, met in London.
_March 27th._--Angela replies to my letter, but says little about
distinguished society in which I have been moving, and asks for full
account of my impressions of Italian Exhibition. She and William, she
says, went up on purpose to see it, and visited it three times. Can only
say--but do not, of course, do so--that William must have been dragged
there by the hair of his head.
_March 28th._--Read admirable, but profoundly discouraging, article
in _Time and Tide_ relating to Bernard Shaw's women, but applying to
most of us. Realise--not for the first time--that intelligent women can
perhaps best perform their duty towards their own sex by devastating
process of telling them the truth about themselves. At the same time,
cannot feel that I shall really enjoy hearing it. Ultimate paragraph of
article, moreover, continues to haunt me most unpleasantly with reference
to own undoubted vulnerability where Robin and Vicky are concerned. Have
very often wondered if Mothers are not rather A Mistake altogether, and
now definitely come to the conclusion that they _are_.
Interesting speculation as to how they might best be replaced interrupted
by necessity of seeing that Fitzs. is turning out spare-bedroom according
to instructions. Am unspeakably disgusted at finding him sitting in
spare-room armchair, with feet on the window-sill. He says that he is
"not feeling very well". Am much more taken aback than he is, and lose my
head to the extent of replying: "Then go and be it in your own room."
Realise afterwards that this might have been better worded.
_April 2nd._--Barbara calls. Can she, she says, speak to me in
_confidence?_ I assure her that she can, and at once put Helen Wills
and kitten out of the window in order to establish confidential
atmosphere. Sit, seething with excitement, in the hope that I am at least
going to be told that Barbara is engaged. Try to keep this out of sight,
and to maintain expression of earnest and sympathetic attention only,
whilst Barbara says that it is sometimes very difficult to know which way
Duty lies, that she has always thought a true woman's highest vocation is
home-making, and that the love of a Good Man is the crown of life. I say
Yes, Yes, to all of this. (Discover, on thinking it over, that I do not
agree with any of it, and am shocked at my own extraordinary duplicity.)
Barbara at length admits that Crosbie has asked her to marry him--he did
it, she says, at the Zoo--and go out with him as his wife to the
Himalayas. This, says Barbara, is where all becomes difficult. She may be
old-fashioned--no doubt she is--but can she leave her mother alone? No,
she cannot. Can she, on the other hand, give up dear Crosbie, who has
never loved a girl before, and says that he never will again? No, she
cannot.
Barbara weeps. I kiss her. Howard Fitzsimmons selects this moment to walk
in with the tea, at which I sit down again in confusion and begin to talk
about the Vicarage daffodils being earlier than ours, just as Barbara
launches into the verdict in the Podmore Case. We gyrate uneasily in and
out of these topics while Howard Fitzsimmons completes his preparations
for tea. Atmosphere ruined, and destruction completed by my own necessary
enquiries as to Barbara's wishes in the matter of milk, sugar,
bread-and-butter, and so on. (_Mem_.: Must speak to Cook about
sending in minute segment of sponge-cake, remains of one which, to my
certain recollection, made its first appearance more than ten days ago.
Also, why perpetual and unappetising procession of small rock-cakes?)
Robert comes in, he talks of swine-fever, all further confidences become
impossible. Barbara takes her leave immediately after tea, only asking if
I could look in on her mother and have a Little Talk? I reluctantly agree
to do so, and she mounts her bicycle and rides off. Robert says, That
girl holds herself well, but it's a pity she has those ankles.
_April 4th._--Go to see old Mrs. Blenkinsop. She is, as usual,
swathed in shawls, but has exchanged _Lord Beaconsfield_ for
_Froude and Carlyle_. She says that I am very good to come and see a
poor old woman, and that she often wonders how it is that so many of the
younger generation seem to find their way to her by instinct. Is it, she
suggests, because her _heart_ has somehow kept young, in spite of
her grey hair and wrinkles, ha-ha-ha, and so she has always been able to
find the Silver Lining, she is thankful to say. I circuitously approach
the topic of Barbara. Mrs. B. at once says that the young are very hard
and selfish. This is natural, perhaps, but it saddens her. Not on her own
account--no, no, no--but because she cannot bear to think of what Barbara
will have to suffer from remorse when it is Too Late.
Feel a strong inclination to point out that this is _not_ finding
the Silver Lining, but refrain. Long monologue from old Mrs. B. follows.
Main points that emerge are: (a) That Mrs. B. has not got very many more
years to spend amongst us; (b) that all her life has been given up to
others, but that she deserves no credit for this, as it is just the way
she is made; (c) that all she wants is to see her Barbara happy, and it
matters nothing at all that she herself should be left alone and helpless
in her old age, and no one is to give a thought to that for a moment.
Finally, that it has never been her way to think of herself or of her own
feelings. People have often said to her that they believe she _has_
no self--simply, none at all.
Pause, which I do not attempt to fill, ensues.
We return to Barbara, and Mrs. B. says it is very natural that a girl
should be wrapped up in her own little concerns. I feel that we are
getting no further, and boldly introduce the name of Crosbie Carruthers.
Terrific effect on Mrs. B., who puts her hand on her heart, leans back,
and begins to gasp and turn blue. She is sorry, she pants, to be so
foolish, but it is now many nights since she has had any sleep at all,
and the strain is beginning to tell. I must forgive her. I hastily do
forgive her, and depart.
Very, very unsatisfactory interview.
Am told, on my way home, by Mrs. S. of the _Cross and Keys_, that a
gentleman is staying there who is said to be engaged to Miss Blenkinsop,
but the old lady won't hear of it, and he seems such a nice gentleman
too, though perhaps not quite as young as some, and do I think the
Himalayas would be All Right if there was a baby coming along? Exchange
speculations and comments with Mrs. S. for some time before recollecting
that the whole thing is supposed to be private, and that in any case
gossip is undesirable.
Am met at home by Mademoiselle with intelligent enquiry as to the
prospects of Miss Blenkinsop's immediate marriage, and the attitude
adopted by old Mrs. B. "Le coeur d'une mère," says Mademoiselle
sentimentally. Even the infant Vicky suddenly demands if that gentleman
at the _Cross and Keys_ is really Miss Blenkinsop's True Love? At
this, Mademoiselle screams, "Ah, mon Dieu, ces enfants anglais!" and is
much upset at impropriety of Vicky's language.
Even Robert enquires What All This Is, about Barbara Blenkinsop? I
explain, and he returns--very, very briefly--that old Mrs. Blenkinsop
ought to be Shot--which gets us no further, but meets with my entire
approval.
_April 10th._--Entire parish now seething with the _affaire_
Blenkinsop. Old Mrs. B. falls ill, and retires to bed. Barbara bicycles
madly up and down between her mother and the garden of the _Cross and
Keys_, where C. C. spends much time reading copies of _The Times of
India_ and smoking small cigars. We are all asked by Barbara What she
Ought to Do, and all give different advice. Deadlock appears to have been
reached, when C. C. suddenly announces that he is summoned to London and
must have an answer One Way or the Other immediately.
Old Mrs. B.--who has been getting better and taking Port--instantly gets
worse again and says that she will not long stand in the way of dear
Barbara's happiness.
Period of fearful stress sets in, and Barbara and C. C. say Good-bye in
the front sitting-room of the _Cross and Keys_. They have, says
Barbara in tears, parted For Ever, and Life is Over, and will I take the
Guides' Meeting for her to-night--which I agree to do.
_April 12th._--Return of Robin for the holidays. He has a cold, and,
as usual, is short of handkerchiefs. I write to the Matron about this,
but have no slightest hope of receiving either handkerchiefs or rational
explanation of their disappearance. Robin mentions that he has invited "a
boy" to come and stay for a week. I ask, Is he very nice and a great
friend of yours? Oh no, says Robin, he is one of the most unpopular boys
in the school. And after a moment he adds, _That's why_. Am touched,
and think that this denotes a generous spirit, but am also undeniably
rather apprehensive as to possible characteristics of future guest. I
repeat the story to Mademoiselle, who--as usual, when I praise Robin--at
once remarks: "Madame, notre petite Vicky n'a pas de défauts"--which is
neither true nor relevant.
Receive a letter from Mary K. with postscript: Is it true that Barbara
Blenkinsop is engaged to be married? and am also asked the same question
by Lady B., who looks in on her way to some ducal function on the other
side of the county. Have no time in which to enjoy being in the superior
position of bestowing information, as Lady B. at once adds that
_she_ always advises girls to marry, no matter what the man is like,
as any husband is better than none, and there are not nearly enough to go
round.
I immediately refer to Rose's collection of distinguished Feminists,
giving her to understand that I know them all well and intimately, and
have frequently discussed the subject with them. Lady B. waves her
hand--(in elegant white kid, new, not cleaned)--and declares That may be
all very well, but if they could have got _husbands_ they wouldn't
_be_ Feminists. I instantly assert that all have had husbands, and
some two or three. This may or may not be true, but have seldom known
stronger homicidal impulse. Final straw is added when Lady B. amiably
observes that _I_, at least, have nothing to complain of, as she
always thinks Robert such a safe, respectable husband for _any_
woman. Give her briefly to understand that Robert is in reality a
compound of Don Juan, the Marquis de Sade, and Dr. Crippen, but that we
do not care to let it be known locally. Cannot say whether she is or is
not impressed by this, as she declares herself obliged to go, because
ducal function "cannot begin without her". All I can think of is to
retort that Duchesses--(of whom, in actual fact, I do not know
any)--always remind me of Alice in Wonderland, as do white kid gloves of
the White Rabbit. Lady B. replies that I am always so well-read, and car
moves off leaving her with, as usual, the last word.
Evolve in my own mind merry fantasy in which members of the Royal Family
visit the neighbourhood and honour Robert and myself by becoming our
guests at luncheon. (Cannot quite fit Howard Fitzs. into this scheme, but
gloss over that aspect of the case.) Robert has just been raised to the
peerage, and I am, with a slight and gracious inclination of the head,
taking precedence of Lady B. at large dinner party, when Vicky comes in
to say that the Scissor-Grinder is at the door, and if we haven't
anything to grind, he'll be pleased to attend to the clocks or rivet any
china.
Am disconcerted at finding itinerant gipsy, of particularly low
appearance, encamped at back door, with collection of domestic articles
strewn all round him and his machine. Still more disconcerted at
appearance of Mademoiselle, in fits of loud and regrettable Gallic
merriment, bearing extremely unsuitable fragments of bedroom ware in
either hand...She, Vicky, and the Scissor-Grinder join in unseemly mirth,
and I leave them to it, thankful that at least Lady B. is by now well on
her way and cannot descend upon the scene. Am seriously exercised in my
mind as to probable standard of humour with which Vicky will grow up.
Look for Robin and eventually find him with the cat, shut up into totally
unventilated linen-cupboard, eating cheese which he says he found on the
back stairs.
(Undoubtedly, a certain irony can be found in the fact that I have
recently been appointed to new Guardians Committee, and am expected to
visit Workhouse, etc., with particular reference to children's quarters,
in order that I may offer valuable suggestions on questions of hygiene
and general welfare of inmates...Can only hope that fellow-members of the
Committee will never be inspired to submit my own domestic arrangements
to similar inspection.)
Write letters. Much interrupted by Helen Wills, wanting to be let out,
kitten, wanting to be let in, and dear Robin, who climbs all over all the
furniture, apparently unconscious that he is doing so, and tells me at
the same time, loudly and in full, the story of _The Swiss Family
Robinson_.
_April 14th._--Cook electrifies me by asking me if I have heard that
Miss Barbara Blenkinsop's engagement is on again, it's all over the
village. The gentleman, she says, came down by the 8.45 last night, and
is at the _Cross and Keys_. As it is exactly 9.15 A.M. when she
tells me this, I ask how she knows? Cook merely repeats that It is All
Over the Village, and that Miss Barbara will quite as like as not be
married by special licence, and old Mrs. B. is in such a way as never
was. Am disconcerted to find that Cook and I have been talking our heads
off for the better part of forty minutes before I remember that gossip is
both undignified and undesirable.
Just as I am putting on my hat to go down to the Blenkinsops' our Vicar's
wife rushes in. All is true, she says, _and more_. Crosbie
Carruthers, in altogether desperate state, has threatened suicide, and
written terrific farewell letter to Barbara, who has cried herself--as
our Vicar's wife rather strangely expresses it--to the merest
_pulp_, and begged him to Come At Once. A Blenkinsop Family Council
has been summoned--old Mrs. B. has had Attacks--(nobody quite knows what
of)--but has finally been persuaded to reconsider entire problem. Our
Vicar has been called in to give impartial advice and consolation to all
parties. He is there now. Surely, I urge, he will use all his influence
on behalf of C. C. and Barbara? Our Vicar's wife, agitated, says Yes,
Yes,--he is all in favour of young folk living their own lives, whilst at
the same time he feels that a mother's claims are sacred, and although he
realises the full beauty of self-sacrifice, yet on the other hand no one
knows better than he does that the devotion of a Good Man is not to be
lightly relinquished.
Feel that if this is to be our Vicar's only contribution towards the
solution of the problem, he might just as well have stayed at home--but
naturally do not impart this opinion to his wife. We decide to walk down
to the village, and do so. The gardener stops me on the way, and says he
thought I might like to know that Miss Barbara's young gentleman has
turned up again, and wants to marry her before he sails next month, and
old Mrs. Blenkinsop is taking on so, they think she'll have a stroke.
Similar information also reaches us from six different quarters in the
village. No less than three motor-cars and two bicycles are to be seen
outside old Mrs. B.'s cottage, but no one emerges, and I am obliged to
suggest that our Vicar's wife should come home with me to lunch. This she
does, after many demurs, and gets cottage-pie--(too much
onion)--rice-shape, and stewed prunes. Should have sent to the farm for
cream, if I had known.
_April 15th._--Old Mrs. Blenkinsop reported to have Come Round.
Elderly unmarried female Blenkinsop, referred to as Cousin Maud, has
suddenly materialised, and offered to live with her--Our Vicar has come
out boldly in support of this scheme--and Crosbie Carruthers has given
Barbara engagement ring with three stones, said to be rare Indian
Topazes, and has gone up to town to Make Arrangements. Immediate
announcement in the _Morning Post_ expected.
_April 18th._--Receive visit from Barbara, who begs that I will
escort her to London for quiet and immediate wedding. Am obliged to
refuse, owing to bad colds of Robin and Vicky, general instability of
domestic staff, and customary unsatisfactory financial situation. Offer
then passed on to our Vicar's wife, who at once accepts it. I undertake,
however, at Barbara's urgent request, to look in as often as possible on
her mother. Will I, adds Barbara, make it clear that she is not losing a
Daughter, but only gaining a Son, and two years will soon be over, and at
the end of that time dear Crosbie will bring her home to England. I
recklessly commit myself to doing anything and everything, and write to
the Army and Navy Stores for a luncheon-basket, to give as
wedding-present to Barbara. The Girl Guides present her with a
sugar-castor and a waste-paper basket embossed with raffia flowers. Lady
B. sends a chafing-dish with a card bearing illegible and far-fetched
joke connected with Indian curries. We all agree that this is not in the
least amusing. Mademoiselle causes Vicky to present Barbara with small
tray-cloth, on which two hearts are worked in cross-stitch.
To be continued
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