THE PROVINCIAL LADY SERIES - All 5 Novels in One Edition (Complete Edition). E. M. Delafield
mirror, and small powder-puff kept for emergencies in drawer of writing-table. (Discover, much later, that I have overdone powder-puff very considerably, and reflect, not for the first time, that we are spared much by inability—so misguidedly deplored by Scottish poet—to see ourselves as others see us.)
Door opens, and Miss Pankerton is shown in, followed—it seems to me reluctantly—by Jahsper. Miss P. has on military-looking cape, and béret as before, which strikes me as odd combination, and anyhow cape looks to me as though it might drip rain-drops on furniture, and I beg her to take it off. This she does with rather spacious gesture—(Can she have been seeing The Three Musketeers at local cinema?)—and unfortunately one end of it, apparently heavily weighted, hits Jahsper in the eye. Miss P. is very breezy and off-hand about this, but Jahsper, evidently in severe pain, falls into deep dejection, and continues to hold large yellow crêpe-de-chine handkerchief to injured eye for some time. Am distracted by wondering whether I ought to ask him if he would like to bathe it—which would involve taking him up to bathroom, probably untidy—and trying to listen intelligently to Miss P., who is talking about Proust.
This leads, by process that I do not follow, to a discussion on Christian names, and Miss P. says that All Flower Names are Absurd. Am horrified to hear myself replying, senselessly, that I think Rose is a pretty name, as one of my greatest friends is called Rose—to which Miss P. rightly answers that that, really, has nothing to do with it, and Jahsper, still dabbing at injured eye, contributes austere statement to the effect that only the Russians really understand Beauty in Nomenclature. Am again horrified at hearing myself interject "Ivan Ivanovitch" in entirely detached and irrelevant manner, and really begin to wonder if mental weakness is overtaking me. Moreover, am certain that I have given Miss P. direct lead in the direction of Dostoeffsky, about whom I do not wish to hear, and am altogether unable to converse.
Entire situation is, however, revolutionised by totally unexpected entrance of Robin—staggering beneath my fur coat and last summer's red crinoline straw hat—Henry, draped in blue kimono, several scarfs belonging to Mademoiselle, old pair of fur gloves, with scarlet school-cap inappropriately crowning all—and Vicky, wearing nothing whatever but small pair of green silk knickerbockers and large and unfamiliar black felt hat put on at rakish angle.
Completely stunned silence overtakes us all, until Vicky, advancing with perfect aplomb, graciously says, "How do you do?" and shakes hands with Jahsper and Miss P. in turn, and I succeed in surpassing already well-established record for utter futility,, by remarking that They have been Dressing Up.
Atmosphere becomes very, very strained indeed, only Vicky embarking on sprightly reminiscences of recent picnic, which meet with no response. Final depths of unsuccess are plumbed, when it transpires that Vicky's black sombrero, picked up in the hall, is in reality the property of Jahsper. I apologise profusely, the children giggle, Miss P. raises her eyebrows to quite unnatural heights, and gets up and looks at the book-shelves in a remote and superior way, and Jahsper says, Oh, never mind, it really is of no consequence, at the same time receiving hat with profound solicitude, and dusting it with two fingers.
Greatest possible relief when Miss P. declares that they must go, otherwise they will miss the Brahms Concerto on the wireless. I hastily agree that this would never do, and tell Robin to open the door. Just as we all cross the hall, Gladys is inspired to sound the gong for tea, and I am compelled to say, Won't they stay and have some? but Miss P. says she never takes anything at all between lunch and dinner, thanks, and Jahsper pretends he hasn't heard me and makes no reply whatever.
They march out into pouring rain, Miss P. once more giving martial fling to military cape—(at which Jahsper flinches, and removes himself some yards away from her)—and entirely disdaining small and elegant umbrella beneath which Jahsper and his black felt take refuge. Robin enquires, in tones of marked distaste, if I like those people? but I feel it better to ignore this, and recommend getting washed for tea. Customary discussion follows as to whether washing is, or is not, necessary.
(Mem.: Have sometimes considered—though idly—writing letter to the Times to find out if any recorded instances exist of parents and children whose views on this subject coincide. Topic of far wider appeal than many of those so exhaustively dealt with.)
August 25th.—Am displeased by Messrs. R. Sydenham, who have besought me, in urgently worded little booklet, to Order Bulbs Early, and when I do so—at no little inconvenience, owing to customary pressure of holidays—reply on a postcard that order will be forwarded "when ready". Have serious thoughts of cancelling the whole thing—six selected, twelve paper-whites, a dozen early assorteds, and a half bushel of Fibre, Moss, and Charcoal. Cannot very well do this, however, owing to quite recent purchase of coloured bowls from Woolworth's, as being desirable additions to existing collection of odd pots, dented enamel basins, large red glass jam-dish, and dear grandmamma's disused willow-pattern foot-bath.
Departure of the boy Henry—who says that he has enjoyed himself, which I hope is true—accompanied by Robin, who is to be met and extracted from train at Salisbury by uncle of boy with whom he is to stay.
(Query: How is it that others are so frequently able to obtain services of this nature from their relations? Feel no conviction that either William or Angela would react favourably, if called upon to meet unknown children at Salisbury or anywhere else.)
Vicky, Mademoiselle, and I wave goodbye from hall door—rain pouring down as usual—and Vicky seems a thought depressed at remaining behind. This tendency greatly enhanced by Mademoiselle's exclamation, on retiring into the house once more—"On dirait un tombeaul"
Second post brings letter from Barbara in the Himalayas, which gives me severe shock of realising that I haven't yet read her last one, owing to lack of time and general impression that it is illegibly scrawled and full of allusions to native servants. Remorsefully open this one, perceive with relief that it is quite short and contains nothing that looks like native servants, but very interesting piece of information, rather circuitously worded by dear Barbara, but still quite beyond misunderstanding. I tell Mademoiselle, who says "Ah, comme c'est touchant!" and at once wipes her eyes—display which I think excessive.
Robert, to whom I also impart news, goes to the other extreme, and makes no comment except "I daresay". On the other hand, our Vicar's wife calls, for the express purpose of asking whether I think it will be a boy or a girl, and of suggesting that we should at once go together and congratulate old Mrs. Blenkinsop. I remind her that Barbara stipulates in letter for secrecy, and our Vicar's wife says, Of course, of course—it had slipped her memory for the moment—but surely old Mrs. B. must know all about it? However, she concedes that dear Barbara may perhaps not wish her mother to know that we know, just yet, and concludes with involved quotation from Thomas a Kempis about exercise of discretion. We then discuss educational facilities in the Himalayas, the Carruthers nose—which neither of us cares about—and the desirability or otherwise of having twins. Our Vicar's wife refuses tea, talks about books—she likes to have something solid in hand, always—is reminded of Miss Pinkerton, about whom she is doubtful, but admits that it is early days to judge—again refuses tea, and assures me that she must go. She eventually stays to tea, and walks up and down the lawn with me afterwards, telling me of Lady B.'s outrageous behaviour in connection with purchase of proposed site for the Village Hall. This, as usual, serves to unite us in warm friendship, and we part cordially.
August 28th.—Picnic, and Cook forgets to put in the sugar. Postcard from Robin's hostess says that he has arrived, but adds nothing as to his behaviour, or impression that he is making, which makes me feel anxious.
August 31st.—Read The Edwardians which everybody else has read months ago—and am delighted and amused. Remember that V. Sackville-West and I once attended dancing classes together at the Albert Hall, many years ago, but feel that if I do mention this, everybody will think I am boasting—which indeed I should be—so better forget about it again, and in any case, dancing never my strongest point, and performance at Albert Hall extremely mediocre and may well be left in oblivion. Short letter from Robin which I am very glad to get, but which refers to nothing whatever except animals at home, and project for going out in a boat and diving from it on some unspecified future occasion. Reply