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
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