THE COLLECTED WORKS OF E. M. DELAFIELD (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
Anything about my little friend Pamela Pringle, to which I reply Not that I know of, and say Good-night and ring off. Completely incredible coincidence ensues, and am rung up five minutes later by P. P. who alleges that she "had a feeling" I should be in London again. Become utterly helpless in the face of this prescience, and agree in enthusiastic terms to come to a cocktail party at Pamela's flat, meet her for a long talk at her Club, and go with her to the Royal Academy one morning. Entire prospect fills me with utter dismay, and go to bed in completely dazed condition.
Pamela rings up again just before midnight, and hopes so, so much she hasn't disturbed me or anything like that, but she forgot to say--she knows so well that I shan't misunderstand--there's nothing in it at all--only if a letter comes for her addressed to my flat, will I just keep it till we meet? Quite likely it won't come at all, but if it does, will I just do that and not say anything about it, as people are so terribly apt to misunderstand the simplest thing? Am I sure I don't mind? As by this time I mind nothing at all except being kept out of my bed any longer, I agree to everything, say that I understand absolutely, and am effusively thanked by Pamela and rung off.
May 21st.--Attend Pamela Pringle's cocktail party after much heart-searching as to suitable clothes for the occasion. Consult Felicity--on a postcard--who replies--on a postcard--that she hasn't the least idea, also Emma Hay (this solely because I happen to meet her in King's Road, Chelsea, not because I have remotest intention of taking her advice). Emma says lightly Oh, pyjamas are the thing, she supposes, and I look at her and am filled with horror at implied suggestion that she herself ever appears anywhere in anything of the kind. But, says Emma, waving aside question which she evidently considers insignificant, Will I come with her next week to really delightful evening party in Bloomsbury, where every single Worth While Person in London is to be assembled? Suggest in reply, with humorous intention, that the British Museum has, no doubt, been reserved to accommodate them all, but Emma not in the least amused, and merely replies No, a basement flat in Little James Street, if I know where that is. As it is within two minutes' walk of my own door, I do, and agree to be picked up by Emma and go on with her to the party.
She tells me that all London is talking about her slashing attack on G. B. Stern's new novel, and what did I feel? I ask where the slashing attack is to be found, and Emma exclaims Do I really mean that I haven't seen this month's Hampstead Clarionet? and I reply with great presence of mind but total disregard for truth, that they've probably Sold Out, at which Emma, though obviously astounded, agrees that that must be it, and we part amiably.
Question of clothes remains unsolved until eleventh hour, when I decide on black crêpe-de-chine and new hat that I think becoming.
Bus No. 19, as usual, takes me to Sloane Street, and I reach flat door at half-past six, and am taken up in lift, hall-porter--one of many--informing me on the way that I am the First. At this I beg to be taken down again and allowed to wait in the hall, but he replies, not unreasonably, that Someone has got to be first, miss. Revive at being called miss, and allow myself to be put down in front of P. P.'s door, where porter rings the bell as if he didn't altogether trust me to do it for myself--in which he is right--and I subsequently crawl, rather than walk, into Pamela's drawing-room. Severe shock ensues when Pamela--wearing pale pink flowered chiffon--reveals herself in perfectly bran-new incarnation as purest platinum blonde. Recover from this with what I consider well-bred presence of mind, but am shattered anew by passionate enquiry from Pamela as to whether I like it. Reply, quite truthfully, that she looks lovely, and all is harmony. I apologise for arriving early, and Pamela assures me that she is only too glad, and adds that she wouldn't have been here herself as early as this if her bedroom clock hadn't been an hour fast, and she wants to hear all my news. She then tells me all hers, which is mainly concerned with utterly unaccountable attitude of Waddell, who goes into a fit if any man under ninety so much as looks at Pamela. (Am appalled at cataclysmic nature of Waddell's entire existence, if this is indeed the case.)
Previous experience of Pamela's parties leads me to enquire if Waddell is to be present this afternoon, at which she looks astonished and says Oh Yes, she supposes so, he is quite a good host in his own way, and anyway she is sure he would adore to see me.
(Waddell and I have met exactly once before, on which occasion we did not speak, and am morally certain that he would not know me again if he saw me.)
Bell rings, and influx of very young gentlemen supervenes, and are all greeted by Pamela and introduced to me as Tim and Nicky and the Twins. I remain anonymous throughout, but Pamela lavishly announces that I am very, very clever and literary--with customary result of sending all the very young gentlemen into the furthermost corner of the room, from whence they occasionally look over their shoulders at me with expressions of acute horror.
They are followed by Waddell--escorting, to my immense relief, Rose's Viscountess, whom I greet as an old friend, at which she seems faintly surprised, although in quite a kind way--and elderly American with a bald head. He sits next me, and wants to know about Flag-days, and--after drinking something out of a little glass handed me in a detached way by one of the very young gentlemen--I suddenly find myself extraordinarily eloquent and informative on the subject.
Elderly American encourages me by looking at me thoughtfully and attentively while I speak--(difference in this respect between Americans and ourselves is marked, and greatly to the advantage of the former)--and saying at intervals that what I am telling him Means Quite a Lot to him--which is more than it does to me. Long before I think I have exhausted the subject, Pamela removes the American by perfectly simple and direct method of telling him to come and talk to her, which he obediently does--but bows at me rather apologetically first.
Waddell immediately refills my glass, although without speaking a word, and Rose's Viscountess talks to me about Time and Tide. We spend a pleasant five minutes, and at the end of them I have promised to go and see her, and we have exchanged Christian names. Can this goodwill be due to alcohol? Have a dim idea that this question had better not be propounded at the moment.
Room is by this time entirely filled with men, cigarette smoke and conversation. Have twice said No, really, not any more thank you, to Waddell, and he has twice ignored it altogether, and continued to pour things into my glass, and I to drink them. Result is a very strange mixture of exhilaration, utter recklessness and rather sentimental melancholy. Am also definitely feeling giddy and aware that this will be much worse as soon as I attempt to stand up.
Unknown man, very attractive, sitting near me, tells me of very singular misfortune that has that day befallen him. He has, to his infinite distress, dealt severe blow with a walking-stick to strange woman, totally unknown to him, outside the Athenaeum. I say Really, in concerned tones, Was that just an accident? Oh, yes, purest accident. He was showing a friend how to play a stroke at golf, and failed to perceive woman immediately behind him. This unhappily resulted in the breaking of her spectacles, and gathering of a large crowd, and moral obligation on his own part to drive her immense distance in a taxi to see (a) a doctor, (b) an oculist,(c) her husband, who turns out to live at Richmond. I sympathise passionately, and suggest that he will probably have to keep both woman and her husband for the rest of their lives, which, he says, had already occurred to him.
This dismays us both almost equally, and we each drink another cocktail.
Pamela--had already wondered why she had left attractive unknown to me so long--now breaks up this agreeable conversation, by saying that Waddell will never, never, forgive anybody else for monopolising me, and I simply must do my best to put him into a really good mood, as Pamela has got to tell him about her dressmaker's bill presently, so will I be an angel--? She then removes delightful stranger, and I am left in a dazed condition. Have dim idea that Waddell is reluctantly compelled by Pamela to join me, and that we repeatedly assure one another that there are No Good Plays Running Nowadays. Effect of this eclectic pronouncement rather neutralised later, when it turns out that Waddell never patronises anything except talkies, and that I haven't set foot inside a London theatre for eight-and-a-half months.
Later still it dawns on me that I am almost the last person left at the party, except for Waddell,