THE COLLECTED WORKS OF E. M. DELAFIELD (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
I know well that Robert will flatly refuse to escort me--but do not see now how I can possibly get out of it. (Query: Would it be possible to compel Casabianca to act as my partner, however much against his inclination? This solution possibly undignified, but not without rather diverting aspect.)
Look for Vicky in place, where she habitually spends much time, playing with mongrel French dogs in gutter. Elderly English spinster--sandy-haired, and name probably Vi--tells me excitedly that some of the dogs have not been behaving quite decently, and it isn't very nice for my little girl to be with them. I reply curtly that Dogs will be Dogs, and think--too late--of many much better answers. Dogs all seem to me to be entirely respectable and well-conducted and see no reason whatever for interfering with any of them. Instead, go with Robin to grocery across the street, where we buy peaches, biscuits and bunches of small black grapes. It pours with rain, Vicky and dogs disperse, and we return indoors to play General Information in obscure corner of dining-room.
Casabianca proves distressingly competent at this, and defeats everybody, Robert included, with enquiry: "What is Wallis's line?" which eventually turns out to be connected with distinction--entirely unintelligible to me--between one form of animal life and another. Should like to send him to explain it to Vi, and see what she says--but do not, naturally, suggest this.
Children ask excessively ancient riddles, and supply the answers themselves, and Robert concentrates on arithmetical problems. Receive these in silence, and try and think of any field of knowledge in which I can hope to distinguish myself--but without success. Finally, Robin challenges me with what are Seven times Nine? to which I return brisk, but, as it turns out, incorrect, reply. Casabianca takes early opportunity of referring, though kindly, to this, and eventually suggests that half an hour's arithmetic daily would make my accounts much simpler. I accept his offer, although inwardly aware that only drastic reduction of expenditure, and improbable increase of income, could really simplify accounts--but quite agree that counting on fingers is entirely undesirable procedure, at any time of life, but more especially when early youth is past.
Bathing takes place as usual, but additional excitement is provided by sudden dramatic appearance of unknown French youth who asks us all in turns if we are doctors, as a German gentleman is having a fit in a bathing-hut. Casabianca immediately dashes into the sea--which--he declares--an English doctor has just entered. (Query: Is this second sight, or what?) Robin and Vicky enquire with one voice if they can go and see the German gentleman having a fit, and are with great difficulty withheld from making one dash for his bathing-cabin, already surrounded by large and excited collection.
Opinions fly about to the effect that the German gentleman is unconscious--that he has come round--that he is already dead--that he has been murdered. At this, several people scream, and a French lady says Il ne manquait que cela! which makes me wonder what the rest of her stay at St. Briac can possibly have been like.
Ask Robert if he does not think he ought to go and help, but he says What for? and walks away.
Casabianca returns, dripping, from the sea, followed by equally dripping stranger, presumably the doctor, and I hastily remove children from spectacle probably to be seen when bathing-hut opens; the last thing I hear being assurance from total stranger to Casabianca that he is tout à fait aimable.
Entire episode ends in anti-climax when Casabianca shortly afterwards returns, and informs us that The Doctor Said it was Indigestion, and the German gentleman is now walking home with his wife--who is, he adds impressively, a Norwegian. This, for reasons which continue to defy analysis, seems to add weight and respectability to whole affair.
We return to hotel, again caught in heavy shower, are besought by Robin and Vicky to stop and eat ices at revolting English tea-shop, which they patriotically prefer to infinitely superior French establishments, and weakly yield. Wind whistles through cotton frock--already wet through--that I have mistakenly put on, and Casabianca, after gazing at me thoughtfully for some moments, murmurs that I look Pale--which I think really means, Pale Mauve.
On reaching hotel, defy question of expense, and take hot bath, at cost of four francs, prix spécial.
Children, with much slamming of doors, and a great deal of conversation, eventually get to bed, and I say to Robert that we might look in at the dance after dinner--which seems easier than saying that I should like to go to it.
Robert's reply much what I expected. Eventually find myself crawling into dance-room, sideways, and sitting in severe draught, watching le tango, which nobody dances at all well. Casabianca, evidently feeling it his duty, reluctantly suggests that we should dance the next foxtrot--which we do, and it turns out to be Lucky Spot dance and we very nearly--but not quite--win bottle of champagne. This, though cannot say why, has extraordinarily encouraging effect, and we thereupon dance quite gaily until midnight.
August 18th.--Singular encounter takes place between Casabianca and particularly rigid and unapproachable elderly fellow-countryman in hotel, who habitually walks about in lounge wearing canary-yellow cardigan, and eyes us all with impartial dislike. Am therefore horrified when he enquires, apparently of universe at large: "What's afoot?" and Casabianca informatively replies: "Twelve inches one foot"--evidently supposing himself to be addressing customary collection of small and unintelligent schoolboys. Canary-yellow cardigan is naturally infuriated, and says that he did not get up early in the morning in order to put conundrums, or listen to their idiotic solutions--and unpleasant situation threatens.
Further discussion is, however, averted by Vicky, who falls into large open space which has suddenly appeared in floor, and becomes entangled with pipes that I hope are Gas, but much fear may be Drains. She is rescued, amongst loud cries of Ah, pauvre petite! and Oh, là là! and Casabianca removes her and says austerely that People should look where they are going. Should like to retort that People should think what they are saying--but unfortunately this only occurs to me too late.
Robert, on being told of this incident, laughs whole-heartedly for the first time since coming to St. Briac, and I reflect--as so frequently before--that masculine sense of humour is odd.
Discover that Robin is wearing last available pair of shorts, and that these are badly torn, which necessitates visit to Dinard to take white shorts to cleaners and buy material with which to patch grey ones. No one shows any eagerness to escort me on this expedition and I finally depart alone.
French gentleman with moustache occupies one side of bus and I the other, and we look at one another. Extraordinary and quite unheralded idea springs into my mind to the effect that it is definitely agreeable to find myself travelling anywhere, for any purpose, without dear Robert or either of the children. Am extremely aghast at this unnatural outbreak and try to ignore it.
(Query: Does not modern psychology teach that definite danger attaches to deliberate stifling of any impulse, however unhallowed? Answer probably Yes. Cannot, however, ignore the fact that even more definite danger probably attached to encouragement of unhallowed impulse. Can only conclude that peril lies in more or less every direction.)
The moustache and I look out of our respective windows, but from time to time turn round. This exercise not without a certain fascination. Should be very sorry indeed to recall in any detail peculiar fantasies that pass through my mind before Dinard is reached.
Bus stops opposite Casino, the moustache and I rise simultaneously--unfortunately bus gives a last jerk and I sit violently down again--and all is over. Final death-blow to non-existent romance is given when Robin's white shorts, now in last stages of dirt and disreputability, slide out of inadequate paper wrappings and are collected from floor by bus-conductor and returned to me.
Dinard extremely cold, and full of very unengaging trippers, most of whom have undoubtedly come from Lancashire. I deal with cleaners, packet of Lux, chocolate for children, and purchase rose-coloured bathing-cloak for myself, less because I think it suitable or becoming than because I hope it may conduce to slight degree of warmth.
Am moved by obscure feelings of remorse--(what about, in Heaven's name?)--to buy Robert a present, but can see nothing that he would not dislike immeasurably. Finally in desperation select small lump of lead, roughly shaped to