The Greatest Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
not in the least find that it becomes less unpleasant with repetition, but rather the contrary. Experience customary difficulty in getting to the point, and Bank Manager and I discuss weather, political situation, and probable Starters for the Grand National with passionate suavity for some time. Inevitable pause occurs, and we look at one another across immense expanse of pink blotting-paper. Irrelevant impulse rises in me to ask if he has other supply, for use, in writing-table drawer, or if fresh pad is brought in whenever a client calls. (Strange divagations of the human brain under the stress of extreme nervousness presents itself here as interesting topic for speculation. Should like to hear opinion of Professor met last night on this point. Subject far preferable to Molecules.)
Long, and rather painful, conversation follows. Bank Manager kind, but if he says the word "security" once, he certainly says it twenty times. Am, myself, equally insistent with "temporary accommodation only", which I think sounds thoroughly businesslike, and at the same time optimistic as to speedy repayment. Just as I think we are over the worst, Bank Manager reduces me to spiritual pulp by suggesting that we should see how the Account Stands at the Moment. Am naturally compelled to agree to this with air of well-bred and detached amusement, but am in reality well aware that the Account Stands—or, more accurately, totters—on a Debit Balance of Thirteen Pounds, two shillings, and tenpence. Large sheet of paper, bearing this impressive statement, is presently brought in and laid before us.
Negotiations resumed.
Eventually emerge into the street with purpose accomplished, but feeling completely unstrung for the day. Rose is kindness personified, produces Bovril and an excellent lunch, and agrees with me that it is All Nonsense to say that Wealth wouldn't mean Happiness, because we know quite well that it would.
March 21st.—Express to Rose serious fear that I shall lose my reason if no house-parlourmaid materialises. Rose, as usual, sympathetic, but can suggest nothing that I have not already tried. We go to a Sale in order to cheer ourselves up, and I buy yellow linen tennis-frock—£1 9s. 6d.—on strength of newly-arranged overdraft, but subsequently suffer from the conviction that I am taking the bread out of the mouths of Robin and Vicky.
Rather painful moment occurs when I suggest the Italian Exhibition to Rose, who replies—after a peculiar silence—that it is now over. Can think of nothing whatever to say, and do not care for dear Rose's expression, so begin at once to discuss new novels with as much intelligence as I can muster.
March 22nd.—Completely amazed by laconic postcard from Robert to say that local Registry Office can supply us with house-parlourman, and if I am experiencing difficulty in finding anyone, had we not better engage him? I telegraph back Yes, and then feel that I have made a mistake, but Rose says No, and refuses to let me rush out and telegraph again, for which, on subsequent calmer reflection, I feel grateful to her—and am sure that Robert would be still more so, owing to well-authenticated masculine dislike of telegrams.
Spend the evening writing immense letter to Robert enclosing list of duties of house-parlourman. (Jib at thought of being called by him in the mornings with early tea, and consult Rose, who says boldly, Think of waiters in Foreign Hotels!—which I do, and am reminded at once of many embarrassing episodes which I would rather forget.) Also send detailed instructions to Robert regarding the announcement of this innovation to Cook. Rose again takes up modern and fearless attitude, and says that Cook, mark her words, will be delighted.
I spend much of the night thinking over the whole question of running the house successfully, and tell myself—not by any means for the first time—that my abilities are very, very deficient in this direction. Just as the realisation of this threatens to overwhelm me altogether, I fall asleep.
March 25th.—Return home, to Robert, Helen Wills, and new house-parlourman, who is—I now learn for the first time—named Fitzsimmons. I tell Robert that it is impossible that he should be called this. Robert replies, Why not? Can only say that if Robert cannot see this for himself, explanation will be useless. Then, says Robert, no doubt we can call him by his first name. This, on investigation, turns out to be Howard. Find myself quite unable to cope with any of it, and the whole situation is met by my never calling the house-parlourman anything at all except "you" and speaking of him to Robert as "Howard Fitzsimmons", in inverted commas as though intending to be funny. Very unsatisfactory solution.
Try to tell Robert all about London—(with exception of Italian Exhibition, which I do not mention)—but Aladdin lamp flares up, which interferes, and have also to deal with correspondence concerning Women's Institute Monthly Meeting, replacement of broken bedroom tumblers—attributed to Ethel—disappearance of one pyjama-jacket and two table-napkins in the wash, and instructions to Howard Fitzs. concerning his duties. (Mem.: Must certainly make it crystal-clear that acceptable formula, when receiving an order, is not "Right-oh!" Cannot, at the moment, think how to word this, but must work it out, and then deliver with firmness and precision.)
Robert very kind about London, but perhaps rather more interested in my having met Barbara Blenkinsop—which, after all, I can do almost any day in the village—than in my views on Nine till Six (the best play I have seen for ages) or remarkable increase of traffic in recent years. Tell Robert by degrees about my new clothes. He asks when I expect to wear them, and I reply that one never knows—which is only too true—and conversation closes.
Write long letter to Angela, for the express purpose of referring casually to Rose's distinguished friends, met in London.
March 27th.—Angela replies to my letter, but says little about distinguished society in which I have been moving, and asks for full account of my impressions of Italian Exhibition. She and William, she says, went up on purpose to see it, and visited it three times. Can only say—but do not, of course, do so—that William must have been dragged there by the hair of his head.
March 28th.—Read admirable, but profoundly discouraging, article in Time and Tide relating to Bernard Shaw's women, but applying to most of us. Realise—not for the first time—that intelligent women can perhaps best perform their duty towards their own sex by devastating process of telling them the truth about themselves. At the same time, cannot feel that I shall really enjoy hearing it. Ultimate paragraph of article, moreover, continues to haunt me most unpleasantly with reference to own undoubted vulnerability where Robin and Vicky are concerned. Have very often wondered if Mothers are not rather A Mistake altogether, and now definitely come to the conclusion that they are.
Interesting speculation as to how they might best be replaced interrupted by necessity of seeing that Fitzs. is turning out spare-bedroom according to instructions. Am unspeakably disgusted at finding him sitting in spare-room armchair, with feet on the window-sill. He says that he is "not feeling very well". Am much more taken aback than he is, and lose my head to the extent of replying: "Then go and be it in your own room." Realise afterwards that this might have been better worded.
April 2nd.—Barbara calls. Can she, she says, speak to me in confidence? I assure her that she can, and at once put Helen Wills and kitten out of the window in order to establish confidential atmosphere. Sit, seething with excitement, in the hope that I am at least going to be told that Barbara is engaged. Try to keep this out of sight, and to maintain expression of earnest and sympathetic attention only, whilst Barbara says that it is sometimes very difficult to know which way Duty lies, that she has always thought a true woman's highest vocation is home-making, and that the love of a Good Man is the crown of life. I say Yes, Yes, to all of this. (Discover, on thinking it over, that I do not agree with any of it, and am shocked at my own extraordinary duplicity.)
Barbara at length admits that Crosbie has asked her to marry him—he did it, she says, at the Zoo—and go out with him as his wife to the Himalayas. This, says Barbara, is where all becomes difficult. She may be old-fashioned—no doubt she is—but can she leave her mother alone? No, she cannot. Can she, on the other hand, give up dear Crosbie, who has never loved a girl before, and says that he never will again? No, she cannot.