No 11

 

THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY

 

PART 11

 

  

July 6th._--Decide definitely on joining Rose at Ste. Agathe, and

write and tell her so. Die now cast, and Rubicon crossed--or rather will

be, on achieving further side of the Channel. Robert, on the whole, takes

lenient view of entire project, and says he supposes that nothing else

will satisfy me, and better not count on really hot weather promised by

Rose but take good supply of woollen underwear. Mademoiselle is

sympathetic, but theatrical, and exclaims: "C'est la Ste. Vierge qui a

tout arrange!" which sounds like a travel agency, and shocks me.

 

Go to Women's Institute Meeting and tell our Secretary that I am afraid I

shall have to miss our next Committee Meeting. She immediately replies

that the date can easily be altered. I protest, but am defeated by small

calendar, which she at once produces, and begs me to select my own date,

and says that It will be All the Same to the eleven other members of the

Committee.

 

(Have occasional misgivings at recollection of rousing speeches made by

various speakers from our National Federation, to the effect that all

W.I. members enjoy equal responsibilities and equal privileges...Can only

hope that none of them will ever have occasion to enter more fully into

the inner workings of our Monthly Committee Meetings.)

 

_July 12th._--Pay farewell calls, and receive much good advice. Our

Vicar says that it is madness to drink water anywhere in France, unless

previously boiled and filtered; our Vicar's wife shares Robert's distrust

as to climate, and advises Jaeger next the skin, and also offers loan of

small travelling medicine-chest for emergencies. Discussion follows as to

whether Bisulphate of Quinine is, or is not, dutiable article, and is

finally brought to inconclusive conclusion by our Vicar's pronouncing

definitely that, in _any_ case, Honesty is the Best Policy.

 

Old Mrs. Blenkinsop--whom I reluctantly visit whenever I get a letter

from Barbara saying how grateful she is for my kindness--adopts quavering

and enfeebled manner, and hopes she may be here to welcome me home again

on my return, but implies that this is not really to be anticipated. I

say Come, come, and begin well-turned sentence as to Mrs. B.'s wonderful

vitality, when Cousin Maud bounces in, and inspiration fails me on the

spot. What Hol says Cousin Maud--(or at least, produces the effect of

having said it, though possibly slang slightly more up-to-date than

this--but not much)--What is all this about our cutting a dash on the

Lido or somewhere, and leaving our home to take care of itself? Talk

about the Emancipation of Females, says Cousin Maud. Should like to reply

that no one, except herself, ever _does_ talk about it--but feel

this might reasonably be construed as uncivil, and do not want to upset

unfortunate old Mrs. B., whom I now regard as a victim pure and simple.

Ignore Cousin Maud, and ask old Mrs. B. what books she would advise me to

take. Amount of luggage strictly limited, both as to weight and size, but

could manage two very long ones, if in pocket editions, and another to be

carried in coat-pocket for journey.

 

Old Mrs. B.--probably still intent on thought of approaching

dissolution--suddenly says that there is nothing like the

Bible--suggestion which I feel might more properly have been left to our

Vicar. Naturally, give her to understand that I agree, but do not commit

myself further. Cousin Maud, in a positive way that annoys me, recommends

No book At All, especially when crossing the sea. It is well known, she

affirms, that any attempt to fix the eyes on printed page while ship is

moving induces sea-sickness quicker than anything else. Better repeat

poetry, or the multiplication-table, as this serves to distract the mind.

Have no assurance that the multiplication-table is at my command, but do

not reveal this to Cousin Maud.

 

Old Mrs. B., abandoning Scriptural attitude, now says, Give her

Shakespeare. Everything is to be found in Shakespeare. Look at _King

Lear_, she says. Cousin Maud assents with customary energy--but should

be prepared to take considerable bet that she has never read a word of

_King Lear_ since it was--presumably--stuffed down her throat at

dear old Roedean, in intervals of cricket and hockey.

 

We touch on literature in general--old Mrs. B. observes that much that is

published nowadays seems to her unnecessary, and why so much Sex in

everything?--Cousin Maud says that books collect dust, anyway, and

whisks away inoffensive copy of _Time and Tide_ with which old Mrs.

B. is evidently solacing herself in intervals of being hustled in and out

of baby Austin--and I take my leave. Am embraced by old Mrs. B. (who

shows tendency to have one of her old-time Attacks, but is briskly headed

off it by Cousin Maud) and slapped on the back by Cousin Maud in familiar

and extremely offensive manner.

 

Walk home, and am overtaken by well-known blue Bentley, from which Lady

B. waves elegantly, and commands chauffeur to stop. He does so, and Lady

B. says, Get in, Get in, never mind muddy boots--which makes me feel like

a plough-boy. Good works, she supposes, have been taking me plodding

round the village as usual? The way I go on, day after day, is too

marvellous. Reply with utmost distinctness that I am just on the point of

starting for the South of France, where I am joining party of

distinguished friends. (This not entirely untrue, since dear Rose has

promised introduction to many interesting acquaintances, including

Viscountess.)

 

Really, says Lady B. But why not go at the right time of year? Or why not

go all the way by sea?--yachting too marvellous. Or why not, again, make

it Scotland, instead of France?

 

Do not reply to any of all this, and request to be put down at the

corner. This is done, and Lady B. waves directions to chauffeur to drive

on, but subsequently stops him again, and leans out to say that she can

find out all about quite inexpensive _pensions_ for me if I like. I

do _not_ like, and we part finally.

 

Find myself indulging in rather melodramatic fantasy of Bentley crashing

into enormous motor-bus and being splintered to atoms. Permit chauffeur

to escape unharmed, but fate of Lady B. left uncertain, owing to

ineradicable impression of earliest childhood to the effect that It is

Wicked to wish for the Death of Another. Do not consider, however, that

severe injuries, with possible disfigurement, come under this law--but

entire topic unprofitable, and had better be dismissed.

 

_July 14th._--Question of books to be taken abroad undecided till

late hour last night. Robert says, Why take any? and Vicky proffers

_Les Malheurs de Sophie_, which she puts into the very bottom of my

suit-case, whence it is extracted with some difficulty by Mademoiselle

later. Finally decide on _Little Dorrit_ and _The Daisy Chain_,

with _Jane Eyre_ in coat-pocket. Should prefer to be the kind of

person who is inseparable from volume of Keats, or even Jane Austen, but

cannot compass this.

 

_July 15th._--_Mem._: Remind Robert before starting that

Gladys's wages due on Saturday. Speak about having my room turned out.

Speak about laundry. Speak to Mademoiselle about Vicky's teeth,

glycothymoline, Helen Wills _not_ on bed, and lining of tussore

coat. Write butcher. Wash hair.

 

_July 17th._--Robert sees me off by early train for London, after

scrambled and agitating departure, exclusively concerned with frantic

endeavours to induce suit-case to shut. This is at last accomplished, but

leaves me with conviction that it will be at least equally difficult to

induce it to open again. Vicky bids me cheerful, but affectionate,

good-bye and then shatters me at eleventh hour by enquiring trustfully if

I shall be home in time to read to her after tea? As entire extent of

absence has already been explained to her in full, this enquiry merely

senseless--but serves to unnerve me badly, especially as Mademoiselle

ejaculates: "Ah! la pauvre chère mignonne!" into the blue.

 

(_Mem_.: The French very often carried away by emotionalism to

wholly preposterous lengths.)

 

Cook, Gladys, and the gardener stand at hall-door and hope that I shall

enjoy my holiday, and Cook adds a rider to the effect that It seems to be

blowing up for a gale, and for her part, she has always had a Norror of

death by drowning. On this, we drive away.

 

Arrive at station too early--as usual--and I fill in time by asking

Robert if he will telegraph if anything happens to the children, as I

could be back again in twenty-four hours. He only enquires in return

whether I have my passport? Am perfectly aware that passport is in my

small purple dressing-case, where I put it a week ago, and have looked at

it two or three times every day ever since--last time just before leaving

my room forty-five minutes ago. Am nevertheless mysteriously impelled to

open hand-bag, take out key, unlock small purple dressing-case, and

verify presence of passport all over again.

 

(Query: Is not behaviour of this kind well known in therapeutic circles

as symptomatic of mental derangement? Vague but disquieting association

here with singular behaviour of Dr. Johnson in London streets--but too

painful to be pursued to a finish.)

 

Arrival of train, and I say good-bye to Robert, and madly enquire if he

would rather I gave up going at all? He rightly ignores this altogether.

 

(Query: Would not extremely distressing situation arise if similar

impulsive offer were one day to be accepted? This gives rise to

unavoidable speculation in regard to sincerity of such offers, and here

again, issue too painful to be frankly faced, and am obliged to shelve

train of thought altogether.)

 

Turn my attention to fellow-travellerdistrustful-looking woman with grey

hair--who at once informs me that door of lavatory--opening out of

compartment--has defective lock, and will not stay shut. I say Oh, in

tone of sympathetic concern, and shut door. It remains shut. We watch it

anxiously, and it flies open again. Later on, fellow-traveller makes

fresh attempt, with similar result. Much of the journey spent in this

exercise. I observe thoughtfully that Hope springs eternal in the human

breast, and fellow-traveller looks more distrustful than ever. She

finally says in despairing tones that Really, it isn't what she calls

very nice, and lapses into depressed silence. Door remains triumphantly

open.

 

Drive from Waterloo to Victoria, take out passport in taxi in order to

Have It Ready, then decide safer to put it back again in dressing-case,

which I do. (Dr. Johnson recrudesces faintly, but is at once dismissed.)

Observe with horror that trees in Grosvenor Gardens are swaying with

extreme violence in stiff gale of wind.

 

Change English money into French at Victoria Station, where superior

young gentleman in little kiosk refuses to let me have anything smaller

than one-hundredfranc notes. I ask what use that will be when it comes to

porters, but superior young gentleman remains adamant. Infinitely

competent person in blue and gold, labelled Dean & Dawson, comes to my

rescue, miraculously provides me with change, says Have I booked a seat,

pilots me to it, and tells me that he represents the best-known Travel

Agency in London. I assure him warmly that I shall never patronise any

other--which is true--and we part with mutual esteem. I make note on half

of torn luggage-label to the effect that it would be merest honesty to

write and congratulate D. & D. on admirable employe--but feel that I

shall probably never do it.

 

Journey to Folkestone entirely occupied in looking out of train window

and seeing quite large trees bowed to earth by force of wind. Cook's

words recur most unpleasantly. Also recall various forms of advice

received, and find it difficult to decide between going instantly to the

Ladies' Saloon, taking off my hat, and lying down Perfectly

Flat--(Mademoiselle's suggestion)--or Keeping in the Fresh Air at All

Costs and Thinking about Other Things--(course advocated on a postcard by

Aunt Gertrude). Choice taken out of my hands by discovery that Ladies'

Saloon is entirely filled, within five minutes of going on board, by

other people, who have all taken off their hats and are lying down

Perfectly Flat.

 

Return to deck, sit on suit-case, and decide to Think about Other Things.

Schoolmaster and his wife, who are going to Boulogne for a holiday, talk

to one another across me about University Extension Course, and

appear to be superior to the elements. I take out _Jane Eyre_ from

coatpocket--partly in faint hope of impressing them, and partly to

distract my mind--but remember Cousin Maud, and am forced to conclusion

that she may have been right. Perhaps advice equally correct in respect

of repeating poetry? Can think of nothing whatever, except extraordinary

damp chill which appears to be creeping over me. Schoolmaster suddenly

says to me: "Quite all _right_, aren't you?" To which I reply, Oh

yes, and he laughs in a bright and scholastic way, and talks about the

Matterhorn. Although unaware of any conscious recollection of it, find

myself inwardly repeating curious and ingenious example of alliterative

verse, committed to memory in my schooldays. (_Note:_ Can dimly

understand why the dying revert to impressions of early infancy.)

 

Just as I get to:

 

"Cossack Commanders cannonading come

Dealing destruction's devastating doom--"

 

elements overcome me altogether. Have dim remembrance of hearing

schoolmaster exclaim in authoritative tones to everybody within earshot:

"Make way for this lady--she is _Ill_"--which injunction he repeats

every time I am compelled to leave suitcase. Throughout intervals, I

continue to grapple, more or less deliriously, with alliterative poem,

and do not give up altogether until

 

"Reason returns, religious rights redound"

is reached. This I consider creditable.

 

Attain Boulogne at last, discover reserved seat in train, am told by

several officials whom I question that we do, or alternatively, do not,

change when we reach Paris, give up the elucidation of the point for the

moment, and demand--and obtain small glass of brandy, which restores me.

 

_July 18th, at Ste. Agathe._--Vicissitudes of travel very strange,

and am struck--as often--by enormous dissimilarity between journeys

undertaken in real life, and as reported in fiction. Can remember very

few novels in which train journey of any kind does not involve either (a)

Hectic encounter with member of opposite sex, leading to tense emotional

issue; (6) discovery of murdered body in hideously battered condition,

under circumstances which utterly defy detection; (c) elopement between

two people each of whom is married to somebody else, culminating in

severe disillusionment, or lofty renunciation.

 

Nothing of all this enlivens my own peregrinations, but on the other

hand, the night not without incident.

 

Second-class carriage full, and am not fortunate enough to obtain

corner-seat. American young gentleman sits opposite, and elderly French

couple, with talkative friend wearing blue béret, who trims his nails

with a pocket-knife and tells us about the state of the wine-trade.

 

I have dusty and elderly mother in black on one side, and her two

sons--names turn out to be Guguste and Dédé--on the other. (Dédé looks

about fifteen, but wears socks, which I think a mistake, but must beware

of insularity.)

 

Towards eleven o'clock we all subside into silence, except the blue

béret, who is now launched on tennis-champions, and has much to say about

all of them. American young gentleman looks uneasy at mention of any of

his compatriots, but evidently does not understand enough French to

follow blue béret's remarks--which is as well.

 

Just as we all--except indefatigable béret, now eating small

sausage-rolls--drop one by one into slumber, train stops at station and

fragments of altercation break out in corridor concerning admission, or

otherwise, of someone evidently accompanied by large dog. This is opposed

by masculine voice repeating steadily, at short intervals: "Un chien

n'est pas une personne," and heavily backed by assenting chorus,

repeating after him: "Mais non, un chien n'est pas une personne."

 

To this I fall asleep, but wake a long time afterwards, to sounds of

appealing enquiry, floating in from corridor: "Mais voyons--N'est-ce pas

qu'un chien n'est pas une personne?"

 

The point still unsettled when I sleep again, and in the morning no more

is heard, and I speculate in vain as to whether owner of the _chien_

remained with him on the station, or is having _tête-à-tête_ journey

with him in separate carriage altogether. Wash inadequately, in extremely

dirty accommodation provided, after waiting some time in lengthy queue.

Make distressing discovery that there is no way of obtaining breakfast

until train halts at Avignon. Break this information later to American

young gentleman, who falls into deep distress and says that he does not

know the French for grapefruit. Neither do I, but am able to inform him

decisively that he will not require it.

 

Train is late, and does not reach Avignon till nearly ten. American young

gentleman has a severe panic, and assures me that if he leaves the train

it will start without him. This happened once before at Davenport, Iowa.

In order to avoid similar calamity, on this occasion, I offer to procure

him a cup of coffee and two rolls, and successfully do so--but attend

first to my own requirements. We all brighten after this, and Guguste

announces his intention of shaving. His mother screams, and says, "Mais

c'est fou"--with which I privately agree--and everybody else remonstrates

with Guguste (except Dédé, who is wrapped in gloom), and points out that

the train is rocking, and he will cut himself. The blue béret goes so far

as to predict that he will decapitate himself, at which everybody

screams.

 

Guguste remains adamant, and produces shaving apparatus and a little mug,

which is given to Dédé to hold. We sit around in great suspense, and

Guguste is supported by one elbow by his mother, while he conducts

operations to a conclusion which produces no perceptible change whatever

in his appearance.

 

After this excitement, we all suffer from reaction, and sink into hot and

dusty silence. Scenery gets rocky and sandy, with heat-haze shimmering

over all, and occasional glimpses of bright blue-and-green sea.

 

At intervals train stops, and ejects various people. We lose the elderly

French couple--who leave a Thermos behind them and have to be screamed at

by Guguste from the window--and then the blue béret, eloquent to the

last, and turning round on the platform to bow as train moves off again.

Guguste, Deck, and the mother remain with me to the end, as they are

going on as far as Antibes. American young gentleman gets out when I do,

but lose sight of him altogether in excitement of meeting Rose, charming

in yellow embroidered linen. She says that she is glad to see me, and

adds that I look a Rag--which is true, as I discover on reaching hotel

and looking-glass--but kindly omits to add that I have smuts on my face,

and that petticoat has mysteriously descended two and a half inches below

my dress, imparting final touch of degradation to general appearance.

 

She recommends bath and bed, and I agree to both, but refuse proffered

cup of tea, feeling this would be altogether too reminiscent of English

countryside, and quite out of place. I ask, insanely, if letters from

home are awaiting me--which, unless they were written before I left, they

could not possibly be. Rose enquires after Robert and the children, and

when I reply that I feel I ought not really to have come away without

them, she again recommends bed. Feel that she is right, and go there.

 

 

      

 

To be continued

 

Return to Good in Parts Contents page

No 10

 

THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY

 

PART 10

 

         

 

_June 17th._--Entire household rises practically at dawn, in order

to take part in active preparations for Garden Fete. Mademoiselle

reported to have refused breakfast in order to put final stitches in

embroidered pink satin boot-bag for Fancy Stall, which she has, to my

certain knowledge, been working at for the past six weeks. At ten o'clock

our Vicar's wife dashes in to ask what I think of the weather, and to say

that she cannot stop a moment. At eleven she is still here, and has been

joined by several stall-holders, and tiresome local couple called White,

who want to know if there will be a Tennis Tournament, and if not, is

there not still time to organise one? I reply curtly in the negative to

both suggestions and they depart, looking huffed. Our Vicar's wife says

that this may have lost us their patronage at the Fete altogether, and

that Mrs. White's mother, who is staying with them, is said to be rich,

and might easily have been worth a couple of pounds to us.

 

Diversion fortunately occasioned by unexpected arrival of solid and

respectable-looking claret-coloured motor-car, from which Barbara and

Crosbie Carruthers emerge. Barbara is excited; C. C. remains calm but

looks benevolent. Our Vicar's wife screams, and throws a pair of scissors

wildly into the air. (They are eventually found in Bran Tub containing

Twopenny Dips, and are the cause of much trouble, as small child who

fishes them out maintains them to be _bona fide_ dip and refuses to

give them up.)

 

Barbara looks blooming, and says how wonderful it is to see the dear old

place quite unchanged. Cannot whole-heartedly agree with this, as it is

not three months since she was here last, but fortunately she requires no

answer, and says that she and C. C. are looking up old friends and will

return for the Opening of the Fete this afternoon.

 

Robert goes to meet old school-friend Cissie Crabbe at station, and Rose

and Ito help price garments at Jumble Stall. (Find that my views are not

always similar to those of other members of Committee. Why, for instance,

only three-and-sixpence for grey georgette only sacrificed reluctantly at

eleventh hour from my wardrobe?)

 

Arrival of Cissie Crabbe (wearing curious wool hat which I at once feel

would look better on Jumble Stall) is followed by cold lunch. Have made

special point of remembering nuts and banana sandwiches for Cissie, but

have difficulty in preventing Robin and Vicky--to whom I have omitted to

give explanation--making it obvious that they would prefer this diet to

cold lamb and salad. Just as tinned pineapple and junket stage is passed,

Robin informs me that there are people beginning to arrive, and we all

disperse in desperate haste and excitement, to reappear in best clothes.

I wear red foulard and new red hat, but find--as usual--that every

petticoat I have in the world is either rather too long or much too

short. Mademoiselle comes to the rescue and puts safety-pins in

shoulder-straps, one of which becomes unfastened later and causes me

great suffering. Rose, also as usual, looks nicer than anybody else in

delightful green delaine. Cissie Crabbe also has reasonably attractive

dress, but detracts from effect with numerous scarab rings, cameo

brooches, tulle scarves, enamel buckles, and barbaric necklaces.

Moreover, she clings (I think mistakenly) to little wool hat, which looks

odd. Robin and Vicky both present enchanting appearance, although Mary's

three little Kellways, all alike in pale rose tussore, undeniably

decorative. (Natural wave in hair of all three, which seems to me unjust,

but nothing can be done until Vicky reaches age suitable for Permanent

Waving.)

 

Lady Frobisher arrives--ten minutes too early--to open Fete, and is

walked about by Robert until our Vicar says, Well, he thinks perhaps that

we are now all gathered together...(Have profane impulse to add "_In

the sight of God_", but naturally stifle it.) Lady F. is poised

gracefully on little bank under the chestnut tree, our Vicar beside her,

Robert and myself modestly retiring a few paces behind, our Vicar's wife

kindly, but mistakenly, trying to induce various unsuitable people to

mount bank--which she humorously refers to as the Platform--when all is

thrown into confusion by sensational arrival of colossal Bentley

containing Lady B.--in sapphire-blue and pearls--with escort of

fashionable creatures, male and female, apparently dressed for Ascot.

 

"Go on, go on!" says Lady B., waving hand in white kid glove, and

dropping small jewelled bag, lace parasol, and embroidered handkerchief

as she does so. Great confusion while these articles are picked up and

restored, but at last we do go on, and Lady F. says what a pleasure it is

to her to be here to-day, what a desirable asset a Village Hall is, and

much else to the same effect. Our Vicar thanks her for coming here

to-day--so many claims upon her time--Robert seconds him with almost

incredible brevity--someone else thanks Robert and myself for throwing

open these magnificent grounds--(tennis-court, three flower borders, and

microscopic shrubbery)--I look at Robert, who shakes his head, thus

obliging me to make necessary reply myself, and our Vicar's wife, with

undeniable presence of mind, darts forward and reminds Lady F. that she

has forgotten to declare the Fete open. This is at once done and we

disperse to stalls and sideshows.

 

Am stopped by Lady B., who asks reproachfully, Didn't I know that she

would have been perfectly ready to open the Fete herself, if I had asked

her? Another time, she says, I am not to hesitate for a _moment_.

She then spends ninepence on a lavender bag, and drives off again with

expensive-looking friends. This behaviour provides topic of excited

conversation for us all, throughout the whole of the afternoon.

 

Everyone else buys nobly, unsuitable articles are raffled--(raffling

illegal, winner to pay sixpence)--guesses are made as to contents of

sealed boxes, number of currants in large cake, weight of bilious-looking

ham, and so on. Band arrives, is established on lawn, and plays

selections from _The Geisha_. Mademoiselle's boot-bag bought by

elegant purchaser in grey flannels, who turns out, on closer inspection,

to be Howard Fitzsimmons. Just as I recover from this, Robin, in wild

excitement, informs me that he has won a Goat in a raffle. (Goat has

fearful local reputation, and is of immense age and savageness.) Have no

time to do more than say how _nice_ this is, and he had better run

and tell Daddy, before old Mrs. B., Barbara, C. C., and Cousin Maud all

turn up together. (Can baby Austin _possibly_ have accommodated them

all?) Old Mrs. B. rather less subdued than at our last meeting, and goes

so far as to say that she has very little money to spend, but that she

always thinks a smile and a kind word are better than gold, with which I

inwardly disagree.

 

Am definitely glad to perceive that C. C. has taken up cast-iron attitude

of unfriendliness towards Cousin Maud, and contradicts her whenever she

speaks. Sports, tea, and dancing on the tennis-lawn all

successful--(except possibly from point of view of future

tennis-parties)--and even Robin and Vicky do not dream of eating final

ice cream cornets, and retiring to bed, until ten o'clock.

 

Robert, Rose, Cissie Crabbe, Helen Wills, and myself all sit in the

drawing-room in pleasant state of exhaustion, and congratulate ourselves

and one another. Robert has information, no doubt reliable, but source

remains mysterious, to the effect that we have Cleared Three Figures.

All, for the moment, is _couleur-de-rose_.

 

_June 23rd._--Tennis-party at wealthy and elaborate house, to which

Robert and I now bidden for the first time. (Also, probably, the last.)

Immense opulence of host and hostess at once discernible in fabulous

display of deck-chairs, all of complete stability and miraculous

cleanliness. Am introduced to youngish lady in yellow, and serious young

man with horn-rimmed spectacles. Lady in yellow says at once that she is

sure I have a lovely garden. (Why?)

 

Elderly, but efficient-looking, partner is assigned to me, and we play

against the horn-rimmed spectacles and agile young creature in expensive

crepe-de-chine. Realise at once that all three play very much better

tennis than I do. Still worse, realise that _they_ realise this.

Just as we begin, my partner observes gravely that he ought to tell me he

is a left-handed player. Cannot imagine what he expects me to do about

it, lose my head, and reply madly that That is Splendid.

 

Game proceeds, I serve several double-faults, and elderly partner becomes

graver and graver. At beginning of each game he looks at me and repeats

score with fearful distinctness, which, as it is never in our favour,

entirely unnerves me. At "Six-_one_" we leave the court and silently

seek chairs as far removed from one another as possible. Find myself in

vicinity of Our Member, and we talk about the Mace, peeresses in the

House of Lords--on which we differ--winter sports, and Alsatian dogs.

 

Robert plays tennis, and does well.

 

Later on, am again bidden to the court and, to my unspeakable horror,

told to play once more with elderly and efficient partner.

 

I apologise to him for this misfortune, and he enquires in return, with

extreme pessimism. Fifty years from now, what will it matter if we

_have_ lost this game? Neighbouring lady--probably his wife?--looks

agitated at this, and supplements it by incoherent assurances about its

being a great pleasure, in any case. Am well aware that she is lying, but

intention evidently very kind, for which I feel grateful. Play worse than

ever, and am not unprepared for subsequent enquiry from hostess as to

whether I think I have _really_ quite got over the measles, as she

has heard that it often takes a full year. I reply, humorously, that, so

far as tennis goes, it will take far more than a full year. Perceive by

expression of civil perplexity on face of hostess that she has entirely

failed to grasp this rather subtle witticism, and wish that I hadn't made

it. Am still thinking about this failure, when I notice that conversation

has, mysteriously, switched on to the United States of Ameerca, about

which we are all very emphatic. Americans, we say, undoubtedly

_hospitable_--but what about the War Debt? What about Prohibition?

What about Sinclair Lewis? Aimée MacPherson, and Co-education? By the

time we have done with them, it transpires that none of is have ever been

to America, but all hold definite views, which fortunately coincide with

the views of everybody else.

 

(Query: Could not interesting little experiment he tried, by possessor of

unusual amount of moral courage, in the shape of suddenly producing

perfectly brand-new opinion: for example, to the effect that Americans

have better manners than we have, or that their divorce laws are a great

improvement upon our own? Should much like to see effect of these, or

similar, psychological bombs, but should definitely wish Robert to he

absent from the scene.)

 

Announcement of tea breaks off these intelligent speculations.

 

Am struck, as usual, by infinite superiority of other people's food to my

own.

 

Conversation turns upon Lady B. and everyone says she is really very

kindhearted, and follows this up by anecdotes illustrating all her less

attractive qualities. Youngish lady in yellow declares that she met Lady

B. last week in London, face three inches thick in new sunburn-tan. Can

quite believe it. Feel much more at home after this, and conscious of new

bond of union cementing entire party. Sidelight thus thrown upon human

nature regrettable, but not to be denied. Even tennis improves after

this, entirely owing to my having told funny story relating to Lady B.'s

singular behaviour in regard to local Jumble Sale, which meets with

success. Serve fewer double-faults, but still cannot quite escape

conviction that whoever plays with me invariably loses the set--which I

cannot believe to be mere coincidence.

 

Suggest to Robert, on the way home, that I had better give up tennis

altogether, to which, after long silence--during which I hope he is

perhaps evolving short speech that shall be at once complimentary and yet

convincing--he replies that he does not know what I could take up

instead. As I do not know either, the subject is dropped, and we return

home in silence.

 

_June 27th._--Cook says that unless I am willing to let her have the

Sweep, she cannot possibly be responsible for the stove. I say that of

course she can have the Sweep. If not, Cook returns, totally disregarding

this, she really can't say what won't happen. I reiterate my complete

readiness to send the Sweep a summons on the instant, and Cook continues

to look away from me and to repeat that unless I _will_ agree to

having the Sweep in, there's no knowing.

 

This dialogue--cannot say why--upsets me for the remainder of the day.

 

_June 30th._--The Sweep comes, and devastates the entire day.

Bath-water and meals are alike cold, and soot appears quite irrelevantly

in portions of the house totally removed from sphere of Sweep's

activities. Am called upon in the middle of the day to produce

twelve-and-sixpence in cash, which I cannot do. Appeal to everybody in

the house, and find that nobody else can, either. Finally Cook announces

that the Joint has just come and can oblige at the back door, if I don't

mind its going down in the hook. I do not, and the Sweep is accordingly

paid and disappears on a motor-bicycle.

 

_July 3rd._--Breakfast enlivened by letter from dear Rose written

at, apparently, earthly paradise of blue sea and red rocks, on South

Coast of France. She says that she is having complete rest, and enjoying

congenial society of charming group of friends, and makes unprecedented

suggestion that I should join her for a fortnight. I am moved to

exclaim--perhaps rather thoughtlessly--that the most wonderful thing in

the world must be to be a childless widow--but this is met by

unsympathetic silence from Robert, which recalls me to myself, and impels

me to say that that isn't in the least what I meant.

 

(_Mem_.: Should often be very, very sorry to explain exactly what it

is that I _do_ mean, and am in fact conscious of deliberately

avoiding self-analysis on many occasions. Do not propose, however, to go

into this now or at any other time.)

 

I tell Robert that if it wasn't for the expense, and not having any

clothes, and the servants, and leaving Vicky, I should think seriously of

Rose's suggestion. Why, I enquire rhetorically, should Lady B. have a

monopoly of the South of France? Robert replies, Well--and pauses for

such a long while that I get agitated, and have mentally gone through the

Divorce Court with him, before he ends up by saying Well, again, and

picking up the _Western Morning News_. Feel--but do not say--that

this, as contribution to discussion, is inadequate. Am prepared, however,

to continue it single-handed sooner than allow subject to drop

altogether. Do so, but am interrupted first by entrance of Helen Wills

through the window--(Robert says, Dam' that cat, I shall have it drowned,

but only absent-mindedly)--and then by spirit-lamp, which is discovered

to be extinct, and to require new wick. Robert strongly in favour of

ringing immediately, but I discourage this, and undertake to speak about

it instead, and tie knot in pocket-handkerchief. (Unfortunately

overcharged memory fails later when in kitchen, and find myself unable to

recollect whether marmalade has run to sugar through remaining too long

in jar, or merely porridge lumpier than usual--but this a digression.)

 

I read Rose's letter all over again, and feel that I have here

opportunity of a lifetime. Suddenly hear myself exclaiming passionately

that Travel broadens the Mind, and am immediately reminded of our Vicar's

wife, who frequently makes similar remark before taking our Vicar to

spend fortnight's holiday in North Wales.

 

Robert finally says Well, again--this time tone of voice slightly more

lenient--and then asks if it is quite impossible for his bottle of Eno's

to be left undisturbed on bathroom shelf?

 

I at once and severely condemn Mademoiselle as undoubted culprit,

although guiltily aware that original suggestion probably emanated from

myself. And what, I add, about the South of France? Robert looks

astounded, and soon afterwards leaves the dining-room without having

spoken.

 

I deal with my correspondence, omitting Rose's letter. Remainder boils

down to rather uninspiring collection of Accounts Rendered, offensive

little pamphlet that makes searching enquiry into the state of my gums,

postcard from County Secretary of Women's Institutes with notice of

meeting that I am expected to attend, and warmly worded personal

communication addressed me by name from unknown Titled Gentleman, which

ends up with a request for five shillings if I cannot spare more, in aid

of charity in which he is interested. Whole question of South of France

is shelved until evening, when I seek Mademoiselle in schoolroom, after

Vicky has gone to bed. Am horrified to see that supper, awaiting her on

the table, consists of cheese, pickles, and slice of jam roly-poly,

grouped on single plate--(Would not this suggest to the artistic mind a

Still-life Study in Modern Art?)--flanked by colossal jug of cold water.

Is this, I ask, what Mademoiselle _likes_? She assures me that it is

and adds, austerely, that food is of no importance to her. She could go

without anything for days and days, without noticing it. From her early

childhood, she has always been the same.

 

(Query unavoidably suggests itself here: Does Mademoiselle really expect

me to believe her, and if so, what can be her opinion of my mental

capacity?)

 

We discuss Vicky: tendency to argumentativeness, I hint. "C'est un petit

coeur d 'or," returns Mademoiselle immediately. I agree, in modified

terms, and Mademoiselle at once points out dear Vicky's undeniable

obstinacy and self-will, and goes so far as to say: "Plus tard, ce sera

un esprit fort...elle ira loin, cette petite."

 

I bring up the subject of the South of France. Mademoiselle more than

sympathetic, assures me that I must, at all costs, go, adding--a little

unnecessarily--that I have grown many, many years older in the last few

months, and that to live as I do, without any distractions, only leads to

madness in the end.

 

Feel that she could hardly have worded this more trenchantly, and am a

good deal impressed.

 

(Query: Would Robert see the force of these representations, or not?

Robert apt to take rather prejudiced view of all that is not purely

English.)

 

Return to drawing-room and find Robert asleep behind the _Times_.

Read Rose's letter all over again, and am moved to make list of clothes

that I should require if I joined her, estimate of expenses--financial

situation, though not scintillating, still considerably brighter than

usual, owing to recent legacy--and even Notes, on back of envelope, of

instructions to be given to Mademoiselle, Cook, and the tradespeople,

before leaving.

 

To be continued

 

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