The Greatest Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
Vierge qui a tout arrange!" which sounds like a travel agency, and shocks me.
Go to Women's Institute Meeting and tell our Secretary that I am afraid I shall have to miss our next Committee Meeting. She immediately replies that the date can easily be altered. I protest, but am defeated by small calendar, which she at once produces, and begs me to select my own date, and says that It will be All the Same to the eleven other members of the Committee.
(Have occasional misgivings at recollection of rousing speeches made by various speakers from our National Federation, to the effect that all W.I. members enjoy equal responsibilities and equal privileges...Can only hope that none of them will ever have occasion to enter more fully into the inner workings of our Monthly Committee Meetings.)
July 12th.—Pay farewell calls, and receive much good advice. Our Vicar says that it is madness to drink water anywhere in France, unless previously boiled and filtered; our Vicar's wife shares Robert's distrust as to climate, and advises Jaeger next the skin, and also offers loan of small travelling medicine-chest for emergencies. Discussion follows as to whether Bisulphate of Quinine is, or is not, dutiable article, and is finally brought to inconclusive conclusion by our Vicar's pronouncing definitely that, in any case, Honesty is the Best Policy.
Old Mrs. Blenkinsop—whom I reluctantly visit whenever I get a letter from Barbara saying how grateful she is for my kindness—adopts quavering and enfeebled manner, and hopes she may be here to welcome me home again on my return, but implies that this is not really to be anticipated. I say Come, come, and begin well-turned sentence as to Mrs. B.'s wonderful vitality, when Cousin Maud bounces in, and inspiration fails me on the spot. What Hol says Cousin Maud—(or at least, produces the effect of having said it, though possibly slang slightly more up-to-date than this—but not much)—What is all this about our cutting a dash on the Lido or somewhere, and leaving our home to take care of itself? Talk about the Emancipation of Females, says Cousin Maud. Should like to reply that no one, except herself, ever does talk about it—but feel this might reasonably be construed as uncivil, and do not want to upset unfortunate old Mrs. B., whom I now regard as a victim pure and simple. Ignore Cousin Maud, and ask old Mrs. B. what books she would advise me to take. Amount of luggage strictly limited, both as to weight and size, but could manage two very long ones, if in pocket editions, and another to be carried in coat-pocket for journey.
Old Mrs. B.—probably still intent on thought of approaching dissolution—suddenly says that there is nothing like the Bible—suggestion which I feel might more properly have been left to our Vicar. Naturally, give her to understand that I agree, but do not commit myself further. Cousin Maud, in a positive way that annoys me, recommends No book At All, especially when crossing the sea. It is well known, she affirms, that any attempt to fix the eyes on printed page while ship is moving induces sea-sickness quicker than anything else. Better repeat poetry, or the multiplication-table, as this serves to distract the mind. Have no assurance that the multiplication-table is at my command, but do not reveal this to Cousin Maud.
Old Mrs. B., abandoning Scriptural attitude, now says, Give her Shakespeare. Everything is to be found in Shakespeare. Look at King Lear, she says. Cousin Maud assents with customary energy—but should be prepared to take considerable bet that she has never read a word of King Lear since it was—presumably—stuffed down her throat at dear old Roedean, in intervals of cricket and hockey.
We touch on literature in general—old Mrs. B. observes that much that is published nowadays seems to her unnecessary, and why so much Sex in everything?—Cousin Maud says that books collect dust, anyway, and whisks away inoffensive copy of Time and Tide with which old Mrs. B. is evidently solacing herself in intervals of being hustled in and out of baby Austin—and I take my leave. Am embraced by old Mrs. B. (who shows tendency to have one of her old-time Attacks, but is briskly headed off it by Cousin Maud) and slapped on the back by Cousin Maud in familiar and extremely offensive manner.
Walk home, and am overtaken by well-known blue Bentley, from which Lady B. waves elegantly, and commands chauffeur to stop. He does so, and Lady B. says, Get in, Get in, never mind muddy boots—which makes me feel like a plough-boy. Good works, she supposes, have been taking me plodding round the village as usual? The way I go on, day after day, is too marvellous. Reply with utmost distinctness that I am just on the point of starting for the South of France, where I am joining party of distinguished friends. (This not entirely untrue, since dear Rose has promised introduction to many interesting acquaintances, including Viscountess.)
Really, says Lady B. But why not go at the right time of year? Or why not go all the way by sea?—yachting too marvellous. Or why not, again, make it Scotland, instead of France?
Do not reply to any of all this, and request to be put down at the corner. This is done, and Lady B. waves directions to chauffeur to drive on, but subsequently stops him again, and leans out to say that she can find out all about quite inexpensive pensions for me if I like. I do not like, and we part finally.
Find myself indulging in rather melodramatic fantasy of Bentley crashing into enormous motor-bus and being splintered to atoms. Permit chauffeur to escape unharmed, but fate of Lady B. left uncertain, owing to ineradicable impression of earliest childhood to the effect that It is Wicked to wish for the Death of Another. Do not consider, however, that severe injuries, with possible disfigurement, come under this law—but entire topic unprofitable, and had better be dismissed.
July 14th.—Question of books to be taken abroad undecided till late hour last night. Robert says, Why take any? and Vicky proffers Les Malheurs de Sophie, which she puts into the very bottom of my suit-case, whence it is extracted with some difficulty by Mademoiselle later. Finally decide on Little Dorrit and The Daisy Chain, with Jane Eyre in coat-pocket. Should prefer to be the kind of person who is inseparable from volume of Keats, or even Jane Austen, but cannot compass this.
July 15th.—Mem.: Remind Robert before starting that Gladys's wages due on Saturday. Speak about having my room turned out. Speak about laundry. Speak to Mademoiselle about Vicky's teeth, glycothymoline, Helen Wills not on bed, and lining of tussore coat. Write butcher. Wash hair.
July 17th.—Robert sees me off by early train for London, after scrambled and agitating departure, exclusively concerned with frantic endeavours to induce suit-case to shut. This is at last accomplished, but leaves me with conviction that it will be at least equally difficult to induce it to open again. Vicky bids me cheerful, but affectionate, good-bye and then shatters me at eleventh hour by enquiring trustfully if I shall be home in time to read to her after tea? As entire extent of absence has already been explained to her in full, this enquiry merely senseless—but serves to unnerve me badly, especially as Mademoiselle ejaculates: "Ah! la pauvre chère mignonne!" into the blue.
(Mem.: The French very often carried away by emotionalism to wholly preposterous lengths.)
Cook, Gladys, and the gardener stand at hall-door and hope that I shall enjoy my holiday, and Cook adds a rider to the effect that It seems to be blowing up for a gale, and for her part, she has always had a Norror of death by drowning. On this, we drive away.
Arrive at station too early—as usual—and I fill in time by asking Robert if he will telegraph if anything happens to the children, as I could be back again in twenty-four hours. He only enquires in return whether I have my passport? Am perfectly aware that passport is in my small purple dressing-case, where I put it a week ago, and have looked at it two or three times every day ever since—last time just before leaving my room forty-five minutes ago. Am nevertheless mysteriously impelled to open hand-bag, take out key, unlock small purple dressing-case, and verify presence of passport all over again.
(Query: Is not behaviour of this kind well known in therapeutic circles as symptomatic of mental derangement? Vague but disquieting association here with singular behaviour of Dr. Johnson in London streets—but too painful to be pursued to a finish.)
Arrival of train, and I say good-bye to Robert, and madly enquire if he would rather