THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 12
_July 23rd._--Cannot avoid contrasting deliriously rapid flight of
time when on a holiday, with very much slower passage of days and even
hours, in other and more familiar surroundings.
(_Mem_.: This disposes once and for all of fallacy that days seem
long when spent in complete idleness. They seem, on the contrary, very
much longer when filled with ceaseless activities.)
Rose--always so gifted in discovering attractive and interesting
friends--is established in circle of gifted--and in some cases actually
celebrated--personalities. We all meet daily on rocks, and bathe in sea.
Temperature and surroundings very, very different to those of English
Channel or Atlantic Ocean, and consequently find myself emboldened to the
extent of quite active swimming. Cannot, however, compete with
Viscountess, who dives, or her friend, who has unique and very striking
method of doing back-fall into the water. Am, indeed, led away by spirit
of emulation into attempting dive on one solitary occasion, and am
convinced that I have plumbed the depths of the Mediterranean--have
doubts, in fact, of ever leaving it again--but on enquiring of extremely
kind spectator--(famous Headmistress)--How I went In, she replies gently:
About level with the Water, she thinks--and we say no more about it.
_July 25th._--Vicky writes affectionately, but briefly--Mademoiselle
at greater length, and quite illegibly, but evidently full of hopes that
I am enjoying myself. Am touched, and send each a picture-postcard.
Robin's letter, written from school, arrives later, and contains
customary allusions to boys unknown to me, also information that he has
asked two of them to come and stay with him in the holidays, and has
accepted invitation to spend a week with another. Postscript adds
straightforward enquiry, Have I bought any chocolate yet?
I do so forthwith.
_July 26th._--Observe in the glass that I look ten years younger
than on arrival here, and am gratified. This, moreover, in spite of what
I cannot help viewing as perilous adventure recently experienced in
(temporarily) choppy sea, agitated by _vent d'est_, in which no one
but Rose's Viscountess attempts to swim. She indicates immense and
distant rock, and announces her intention of swimming to it. I say that I
will go too. Long before we are half-way there, I know that I shall never
reach it, and hope that Robert's second wife will be kind to the
children. Viscountess, swimming calmly, says, Am I all right? I reply, Oh
quite, and am immediately submerged.
(Query: Is this a Judgement?)
Continue to swim. Rock moves further and further away. I reflect that
there will be something distinguished about the headlines announcing my
demise in such exalted company, and mentally frame one or two that I
think would look well in local paper. Am just turning my attention to
paragraph in our Parish Magazine when I hit a small rock, and am
immediately submerged again. Mysteriously rise again from the
foam--though not in the least, as I know too well, like Venus.
Death by drowning said to be preceded by mental panorama of entire past
life. Distressing reflection which very nearly causes me to sink again.
Even one recollection from my past, if injudiciously selected,
disconcerts me in the extreme, and cannot at all contemplate entire
series.. Suddenly perceive that space between myself and rock has
actually diminished. Viscountess--who has kept near me and worn slightly
anxious expression throughout--achieves it safely, and presently find
myself grasping at sharp projections with tips of my fingers and bleeding
profusely at the knees. Perceive that I have been, as they say, Spared.
(_Mem_.: Must try and discover for what purpose, if any.)
Am determined to take this colossal achievement as a matter of course,
and merely make literary reference to Byron swimming the
Hellespont--which would sound better if said in less of a hurry, and when
not obliged to gasp, and spit out several gallons of water.
Minor, but nerve-racking, little problem here suggests itself: What
substitute for a pocket-handkerchief exists when sea-bathing? Can
conceive of no occasion--except possibly funeral of nearest and
dearest--when this homely little article more frequently and urgently
required. Answer, when it comes, anything but satisfactory.
I say that I am cold--which is true--and shall go back across the rocks.
Viscountess, with remarkable tact, does not attempt to dissuade me, and I
go.
_July 27th._--End of holiday quite definitely in sight, and everyone
very kindly says, Why not stay on? I refer, in return, to Robert and the
children--and add, though not aloud, the servants, the laundry, the
Women's Institute, repainting the outside of bath, and the state of my
overdraft. Everyone expresses civil regret at my departure, and I go so
far as to declare recklessly that I shall be coming back next year--which
I well know to be unlikely in the extreme.
Spend last evening sending picture-postcards to everyone to whom I have
been intending to send them ever since I started.
_July 29th, London._--Return journey accomplished under greatly
improved conditions, travelling first-class in company with one of Rose's
most distinguished friends. (Should much like to run across Lady B. by
chance in Paris or elsewhere, but no such gratifying coincidence
supervenes. Shall take care, however, to let her know circles in which I
have been moving.)
Crossing as tempestuous as ever, and again have recourse to "An Austrian
Army" with same lack of success as before. Boat late, train even more so,
last available train for west of England has left Paddington long before
I reach Victoria, and am obliged to stay night in London. Put through
long-distance call to tell Robert this, but line is, as usual, in a bad
way, and all I can hear is "What?" As Robert, on his side, can apparently
hear even less, we do not get far. I find that I have no money, in spite
of having borrowed from Rose--expenditure, as invariably happens, has
exceeded estimate--but confide all to Secretary of my club, who agrees to
trust me, but adds, rather disconcertingly--"as it's for one night only".
_July 30th._--Readjustment sometimes rather difficult, after absence
of unusual length and character.
_July 31st._--The beginning of the holidays signalled, as usual, by
the making of appointments with dentist and doctor. Photographs taken at
Ste. Agathe arrive, and I am--perhaps naturally--much more interested in
them than anybody else appears to be. (Bathing dress shows up as being
even more becoming than I thought it was, though hair, on the other hand,
not at its best--probably owing to salt water.) Notice, regretfully, how
much more time I spend in studying views of myself, than on admirable
group of delightful friends, or even beauties of Nature, as exemplified
in camera studies of sea and sky.
Presents for Vicky, Mademoiselle, and our Vicar's wife all meet with
acclamation, and am gratified. Blue flowered chintz frock, however,
bought at Ste. Agathe for sixty-three francs, no longer becoming to me,
as sunburn fades and original sallowness returns to view. Even
Mademoiselle, usually so sympathetic in regard to clothes, eyes chintz
frock doubtfully, and says, "Tiens! On dirait un bal masqué." As she
knows, and I know, that the neighbourhood never has, and never will, run
to _bals masqués_, this equals unqualified condemnation of blue
chintz, and I remove it in silence to furthest corner of the wardrobe.
Helen Wills, says Cook, about to produce more kittens. Cannot say if
Robert does, or does not, know this.
Spend much time in writing to, and hearing from, unknown mothers whose
sons have been invited here by Robin, and one grandmother, with whose
descendant Robin is to spend a week. Curious impossibility of combining
dates and trains convenient to us all, renders this whole question
harassing in the extreme. Grandmother, especially, sends unlimited
letters and telegrams, to all of which I feel bound to reply--mostly with
civil assurances of gratitude for her kindness in having Robin to stay.
Very, very difficult to think of new ways of wording this--moreover, must
reserve something for letter I shall have to write when visit is safely
over.
_August 1st:_--Return of Robin, who has grown, and looks pale. He
has also purchased large bottle of brilliantine, and applied it to his
hair, which smells like inferior chemist's shop. Do not like to be
unsympathetic about this, so merely remain silent while Vicky exclaims
rapturously that it is _lovely_--which is also Robin's own opinion.
They get excited and scream, and I suggest the garden. Robin says that he
is hungry, having had no lunch. Practically--he adds conscientiously.
"Practically" turns out to be packet of sandwiches, two bottles of
atrocious liquid called Cherry Ciderette, slab of milk chocolate, two
bananas purchased on journey, and small sample tin of cheese biscuits,
swopped by boy called Sherlock, for Robin's last year's copy of _Pop's
Annual_.
Customary rather touching display of affection between Robin and Vicky
much to the fore, and am sorry to feel that repeated experience of
holidays has taught me not to count for one moment upon its lasting more
than twenty-four hours--if that.
(Query: Does motherhood lead to cynicism? This contrary to every
convention of art, literature, or morality, but cannot altogether escape
conviction that answer may be in the affirmative.)
In spite of this, however, cannot remain quite unmoved on hearing Vicky
inform Cook that when she marries, her husband will be _exactly_
like Robin. Cook replies indulgently, That's right, but come out of that
sauce-boat, there's a good girl, and what about Master Robin's wife? To
which Robin rejoins, he doesn't suppose he'll be _able_ to get a
wife exactly like Vicky, as she's so good, there couldn't be another one.
_August 2nd._--Noteworthy what astonishing difference made in entire
household by presence of one additional child. Robert finds one
marble--which he unfortunately steps upon--mysterious little empty box
with hole in bottom, and half of torn sponge on the stairs, and says,
This house is a perfect Shambles--which I think excessive. Mademoiselle
refers to sounds emitted by Robin, Vicky, the dog, and Helen Wills--all,
apparently, gone mad together in the hay-loft--as "tohu-bohu". Very
expressive word.
Meal-times, especially lunch, very, very far from peaceful. From time to
time remember, with pained astonishment, theories subscribed to in
pre-motherhood days, as to inadvisability of continually saying Don't,
incessant fault-finding, and so on. Should now be sorry indeed to count
number of times that I find myself forced to administer these and similar
checks to the dear children. Am often reminded of enthusiastic accounts
given me by Angela of other families, and admirable discipline obtaining
there without effort on either side. Should like--or far more probably
should _not_ like--to hear what dear Angela says about _our_
house, when visiting mutual friends or relations.
Rose writes cheerfully, still in South of France--sky still blue, rocks
red, and bathing as perfect as ever. Experience curious illusion of
receiving communication from another world, visited many aeons ago, and
dimly remembered. Weather abominable, and customary difficulty
experienced of finding indoor occupation for children that shall be
varied, engrossing, and reasonably quiet. Cannot imagine what will happen
if these conditions still prevail when visiting school-fellow--Henry by
name--arrives. I ask Robin what his friend's tastes are, and he says, Oh,
anything. I enquire if he likes cricket, and Robin replies, Yes, he
expects so. Does he care for reading? Robin says that he does not know. I
give it up, and write to Army and Navy Stores for large tin of Picnic
Biscuits.
Messrs. R. Sydenham, and two unknown firms from places in Holland, send
me little books relating to indoor bulbs. R. Sydenham particularly
optimistic, and, though admitting that failures have been known, pointing
out that all, without exception, have been owing to neglect of directions
on page twenty-two. Immerse myself in page twenty-two, and see that there
is nothing for it but to get R. Sydenham's Special Mixture for growing R.
Sydenham's Special Bulbs.
Mention this to Robert, who does not encourage scheme in any way, and
refers to last November. Cannot at the moment think of really good
answer, but shall probably do so in church on Sunday, or in other
surroundings equally inappropriate for delivering it.
_August 3rd._--Difference of opinion arises between Robin and his
father as to the nature and venue of former's evening meal, Robin making
sweeping assertions to the effect that All Boys of his Age have Proper
Late Dinner downstairs, and Robert replying curtly More Fools their
Parents, which I privately think unsuitable language for use before
children. Final and unsatisfactory compromise results in Robin's coming
nightly to the dining-room and partaking of soup, followed by interval,
and ending with dessert, during the whole of which Robert maintains
disapproving silence and I talk to both at once on entirely different
subjects.
(Life of a wife and mother sometimes very wearing.)
Moreover, Vicky offended at not being included in what she evidently
looks upon as nightly banquet of Lucullan magnificence, and covertly
supported in this rebellious attitude by Mademoiselle. Am quite struck by
extraordinary persistence with which Vicky, day after day, enquires
_Why_ she can't stay up to dinner too? and equally phenomenal number
of times that I reply with unvarying formula that Six years old is too
young, darling.
Weather cold and disagreeable, and I complain. Robert asserts that it is
really quite warm, only I don't take enough exercise. Have often noticed
curious and prevalent masculine delusion, to the effect that sympathy
should never, on any account, be offered when minor ills of life are in
question.
Days punctuated by recurrent question as to whether grass is, or is not,
too wet to be sat upon by children, and whether they shall, or shall not,
wear their woollen pullovers. To all enquiries as to whether they are
cold, they invariably reply, with aggrieved expressions, that they are
_Boiling_. Should like scientific or psychological explanation of
this singular state of affairs, and mentally reserve the question for
bringing forward on next occasion of finding myself in intellectual
society. This, however, seems at the moment remote in the extreme.
Cook says that unless help is provided in the kitchen they cannot
possibly manage all the work. I think this unreasonable, and quite
unnecessary expense. Am also aware that there is no help to be obtained
at this time of the year. Am disgusted at hearing myself reply in
hypocritically pleasant tone of voice that, Very well, I will see what
can be done. Servants, in truth, make cowards of us all.
_August 7th._--Local Flower Show takes place. We walk about in
Burberrys, on wet grass, and say that it might have been much worse, and
look at the day they had last week at West Warmington! Am forcibly
reminded of what I have heard of Ruth Draper's admirable sketch of
country Bazaar, but try hard not to think about this. Our Vicar's wife
takes me to look at the school-children's needlework, laid out in tent
amidst onions, begonias, and other vegetable products. Just as I am
admiring pink cotton camisole embroidered with mauve pansies, strange boy
approaches me and says, If I please, the little girl isn't very well, and
can't be got out of the swing-boat, and will I come, please. I go, our
Vicar's wife following, and saying--absurdly--that it must be the heat, and
those swingboats have always seemed to her very dangerous, ever since
there was a fearful accident at her old home, when the whole thing broke
down, and seven people were killed and a good many of the spectators
injured. A relief, after this, to find Vicky merely green in the face,
still clinging obstinately to the ropes and disregarding two men below
saying Come along out of it, missie, and Now then, my dear, and
Mademoiselle in terrific state of agitation, clasping her hands and
pacing backwards and forwards, uttering many Gallic ejaculations and
adjurations to the saints. Robin has removed himself to furthest corner
of the ground, and is feigning interest in immense carthorse tied up in
red ribbons.
(_N.B._ Dear Robin perhaps not so utterly unlike his father as one
is sometimes tempted to suppose.)
I tell Vicky, very, very shortly, that unless she descends instantly, she
will go to bed early every night for a week. Unfortunately, tremendous
outburst of "Land of Hope and Glory" from brass band compels me to say
this in undignified bellow, and to repeat it three times before it has
any effect, by which time quite large crowd has gathered round. General
outburst of applause when at last swing-boat is brought to a standstill,
and Vicky--mottled to the last degree--is lifted out by man in check coat
and tweed cap, who says _Here_ we are, Amy Johnson! to fresh
applause.
Vicky removed by Mademoiselle, not a moment too soon. Our Vicar's wife
says that children are all alike, and it may be a touch of ptomaine
poisoning, one never knows, and why not come and help her judge decorated
perambulators?
Meet several acquaintances and newly-arrived Miss Pankerton, who has
bought small house in village, and on whom I have not yet called. She
wears pince-nez and is said to have been at Oxford. All I can get out of
her is that the whole thing reminds her of Dostoeffsky.
Feel that I neither know nor care what she means. Am convinced, however,
that I have not heard the last of either Miss P. or Dostoeffsky, as she
assures me that she is the most unconventional person in the whole world,
and never stands on ceremony. If she meets an affinity, she adds, she
knows it directly, and then nothing can stop her. She just follows the
impulse of the moment, and may as like as not stroll in for breakfast, or
be strolled in upon for after-dinner coffee.
Am quite unable to contemplate Robert's reaction to Miss P. and
Dostoeffsky at breakfast, and bring the conversation to an end as quickly
as possible.
Find Robert, our Vicar, and neighbouring squire, looking at horses. Our
Vicar and neighbouring squire talk about the weather, but do not say
anything new. Robert says nothing.
Get home towards eight o'clock, strangely exhausted, and am discouraged
at meeting both maids just on their way to the Flower-Show Dance. Cook
says encouragingly that the potatoes are in the oven, and everything else
on the table, and she only hopes Pussy hasn't found her way in, on
account of the butter. Eventually do the washing-up, while Mademoiselle
puts children to bed, and I afterwards go up and read _Tanglewood
Tales_ aloud.
(Query, mainly rhetorical: Why are nonprofessional women, if married and
with children, so frequently referred to as "leisured"? Answer comes
there none.)
To be continued
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