The Greatest Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
two do get through, they will cost five times more than ever before.
Beg her not to be taken in by this for one moment and quote case of Robert's aunt, elderly maiden lady living in Chester, who has, since outbreak of war, purchased set of silver dessert-knives, large chiming clock, bolt of white muslin, new rabbit-skin neck-tie and twenty-four lead pencils—none of which she required—solely because she has been told in shops that these will in future be unobtainable. Serena looks impressed and refugee and I shake hands once more.
Serena takes me to her sitting-room, squeezes past two colossal trunks in very small hall, which Serena explains as being luggage of her refugees. The rest of it is in the kitchen and under the beds, except largest trunk of all which couldn't be got beyond ground floor and has had to be left with hall-porter.
Four O'clock News on wireless follows. Listeners once more informed of perfect unanimity on all points between French and English Governments. Make idle suggestion to Serena that it would be much more interesting if we were suddenly to be told that there had been several sharp divergences of opinion. And probably much truer too, says Serena cynically, and anyway, if they always agree so perfectly, why meet at all? She calls it waste of time and money.
Am rather scandalised at this, and say so, and Serena immediately declares that she didn't mean a word of it, and produces tea and admirable cakes made by Austrian refugee. Conversation takes the form—extraordinarily prevalent in all circles nowadays—of exchanging rather singular pieces of information, never obtained by direct means but always heard of through friends of friends.
Roughly tabulated, Serena's news is to following effect:
The whole of the B.B.C. is really functioning from a place in the Cotswolds, and Broadcasting House is full of nothing but sandbags.
A Home for Prostitutes has been evacuated from a danger zone outside London to Aldershot.
(At this I protest, and Serena admits that it was related by young naval officer who has reputation as a wit.)
A large number of war casualties have already reached London, having come up the Thames in barges, and are installed in blocks of empty flats by the river—but nobody knows they're there.
Hitler and Ribbentrop are no longer on speaking terms.
Hitler and Ribbentrop have made it up again.
The Russians are going to turn dog on the Nazis at any moment.
In return for all this, I am in a position to inform Serena:
That the War Office is going to Carnarvon Castle.
A letter has been received in London from a German living in Berlin, with a private message under the stamp saying that a revolution is expected to break out at any minute.
President Roosevelt has been flown over the Siegfried Line and flown back to Washington again, in the strictest secrecy.
The deb. at the canteen, on being offered a marshmallow out of a paper bag, has said: What is a marshmallow? (Probably related to a High Court Judge.)
The Russians are determined to assassinate Stalin at the first opportunity.
A woman fainted in the middle of Regent Street yesterday and two stretcher-bearers came to the rescue and put her on the stretcher, then dropped it and fractured both her arms. Serena assures me that in the event of her being injured in any air-raid she has quite decided to emulate Sir Philip Sidney and give everybody else precedence.
Talking of that, would it be a good idea to practise wearing our gas-masks?
Agree, though rather reluctantly, and we accordingly put them on and sit opposite one another in respective armchairs, exchanging sepulchral-sounding remarks from behind talc-and-rubber snouts.
Serena says she wishes to time herself, as she doesn't think she will be able to breathe for more than four minutes at the very most.
Explain that this is all nerves. Gas-masks may be rather warm—(am streaming from every pore)—and perhaps rather uncomfortable, and certainly unbecoming—but any sensible person can breathe inside them for hours.
Serena says I shall be sorry when she goes off into a dead faint.
The door opens suddenly and remaining Austrian refugees, returned early from Bromley, walk in and, at sight presented by Serena and myself, are startled nearly out of their senses and enquire in great agitation What is happening.
Remove gas-mask quickly—Serena hasn't fainted at all but is crimson in the face, and hair very untidy—and we all bow and shake hands.
Letter-writing refugee joins us—shakes hands again—and we talk agreeably round tea-table till the letter-motif recurs—they all say they have letters to write, and—presumably final—handshaking closes séance.
Just as I prepare to leave, Serena's bell rings and she says It's J. L. and I'm to wait, because she wants me to meet him.
J. L. turns out to be rather distinguished-looking man, face perfectly familiar to me from Radio Times and other periodicals as he is well-known writer and broadcaster. (Wish I hadn't been so obliging about gas-mask, as hair certainly more untidy than Serena's and have not had the sense to powder my nose.)
J. L. is civility itself and pretends to have heard of me often—am perfectly certain he hasn't—and even makes rather indefinite reference to my Work, which he qualifies as well known, but wisely gives conversation another turn immediately without committing himself further.
Serena produces sherry and enquires what J. L. is doing.
Well, J. L. is writing a book.
He is, as a matter of fact, going on with identical book—merely a novel—that he was writing before war began. It isn't that he wants to do it, or that he thinks anybody else wants him to do it. But he is over military age, and the fourteen different organisations to whom he has offered his services have replied, without exception, that they have far more people already than they know what to do with.
He adds pathetically that authors, no doubt, are very useless people.
Not more so than anybody else, Serena replies. Why can't they be used for propaganda?
J. L. and I—with one voice—assure her that every author in the United Kingdom has had exactly this idea, and has laid it before the Ministry of Information, and has been told in return to Stand By for the present.
In the case of Sir Hugh Walpole, to J. L.'s certain knowledge, a Form was returned on which he was required to state all particulars of his qualifications, where educated, and to which periodicals he has contributed, also names of any books he may ever have had published.
Serena enquires witheringly if they didn't want to know whether the books had been published at Sir H. W.'s own expense, and we all agree that if this is official reaction to Sir H.'s offer, the rest of us need not trouble to make any.
Try to console J. L. with assurance that there is to be a boom in books, as nobody will be able to do anything amusing in the evenings, what with black-out, petrol restrictions, and limitations of theatre and cinema openings, so they will have to fall back on reading.
Realise too late that this not very happily expressed.
J. L. says Yes indeed, and tells me that he finds poetry more helpful than anything else. The Elizabethans for choice. Don't I agree?
Reply at once that I am less familiar with the Elizabethan poets than I should like to be, and hope he may think this means that I know plenty of others. (Am quite unable to recall any poetry at all at the moment, except "How they Brought the Good News from Ghent" and cannot imagine why in the world I should have thought of that.)
Ah, says J. L. very thoughtfully, there is a lot to be said for prose. He personally finds that the Greeks provide him with escapist literature. Plato.
Should not at all wish him to know that The Fairchild Family performs the same service for me—but remember with shame that E. M.