The Greatest Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
right in taking it in.
Robert enquires very amiably what I have been writing lately, and I say lightly, Oh, an article on Modern Freedom in Marriage, and then remember that I haven't done a word of it, and ask Robert to give me some ideas. He does so, and they are mostly to the effect that People talk a great deal of Rubbish nowadays, and that Divorce may be All Very Well in America, and the Trouble with most women is that they haven't got nearly Enough to Do. At this I thank Robert very much and say that will do splendidly--which is true in the spirit, though not the letter--but he appears to be completely wound up and unable to stop, and goes on for quite a long time, telling me to Look at Russia, and wishing to know How I should like to see the children whisked off to Siberia--which I think forceful but irrelevant.
Become surprisingly sleepy at ten o'clock--although this never happened to me in London--and go up to bed.
Extraordinary and wholly undesirable tendency displays itself to sit upon window-seat and think about Myself--but am well aware that this kind of thing never a real success, and that it will be the part of wisdom to get up briskly instead and look for shoe-trees to insert in evening-shoes--which I accordingly do; and shortly afterwards find myself in bed and ready to go to sleep.
July 8th.--Short, but rather poignant article on Day-Dreaming which appears in to-day's Time and Tide over signature of L. A. G. Strong, strangely bears out entry in my diary previous to this one. Am particularly struck--not altogether agreeably, either--by Mr. Strong's assertion that: "Day-dreaming is only harmful when it constitutes a mental rebellion against the circumstances of our life, which does not tend to any effort to improve them".
This phrase, quite definitely, exactly epitomises mental exercise in which a large proportion of my life is passed. Have serious thoughts of writing to Mr. Strong, and asking him what, if anything, can be done about it--but morning passes in telephone conversation with the Fishmiddle-cut too expensive, what about a nice sole?--post card to Cissie Crabbe, in return for view of Scarborough with detached enquiry on the back as to How I am and How the children are--other post cards to tradespeople, cheque to the laundry, cheque to Registry Office, and cheque to local newsagent--and Mr. Strong is superseded. Nevertheless am haunted for remainder of the day by recollection surging up at unexpected moments, of the harmfulness of daydreams. Foresee plainly that this will continue to happen to me at intervals throughout the rest of life.
Just before lunch Our Vicar's Wife calls, and says that It's too bad to disturb me, and she has only just popped in for one moment and has to nip off to the school at once, but she did so want to talk to me about the concert, and hear all about London. Rather tedious and unnecessary argument follows as to whether she will or will not stay to lunch, and ends--as I always knew it would--in my ringing bell and saying Please lay an extra place for lunch, at the same time trying to send silent telepathic message to Cook that meat-pie alone will now not be enough, and she must do something with eggs or cheese as first course.
(Cook's interpretation of this subsequently turns out to be sardines, faintly grilled, lying on toast, which I think a mistake, but shall probably not say so, as intentions good.)
Our Vicar's Wife and I then plunge into the concert, now only separated from us by twenty-four hours. What, says Our Vicar's Wife hopefully, am I giving them? Well--how would it be if I gave them "John Gilpin"? (Know it already and shall not have to learn anything new.) Splendid, perfectly splendid, Our Vicar's Wife asserts in rather unconvinced accents. The only thing is, Didn't I give it to them at Christmas, and two years ago at the Church Organ Fête, and, unless she is mistaken, the winter before that again when we got up that entertainment for St. Dunstan's?
If this is indeed fact, obviously scheme requires revision. What about "An Austrian Army"? "An Austrian Army?" says Our Vicar's Wife. Is that the League of Nations?
(Extraordinary frequency with which the unfamiliar is always labelled the League of Nations appalls me.)
I explain that it is very, very interesting example of Alliterative Poetry, and add thoughtfully: "Apt Alliteration's Artful Aid", at which Our Vicar's Wife looks astounded, and mutters something to the effect that I mustn't be too clever for the rest of the world.
Conversation temporarily checked, and I feel discouraged, and am relieved when gong rings. This, however, produces sudden spate of protests from Our Vicar's Wife, who says she really must be off, she couldn't dream of staying to lunch, and what can she have been thinking of all this time?
Entrance of Robert--whose impassive expression on being unexpectedly confronted with a guest I admire--gives fresh turn to entire situation, and we all find ourselves in dining-room quite automatically.
Conversation circles round the concert, recent arrivals at neighbouring bungalow, on whom we all say that we must call, and distressing affair in the village which has unhappily ended by Mrs. A. of Jubilee Cottages being summonsed for assault by her neighbour Mrs. H. Am whole-heartedly thrilled by this, and pump Our Vicar's Wife for details, which she gives spasmodically, but has to switch off into French, or remarks about the weather, whenever parlour-maid is in the room.
Cook omits to provide coffee--in spite of definite instructions always to do so when we have a guest--and have to do the best I can with cigarettes, although perfectly well aware that Our Vicar's Wife does not smoke, and never has smoked.
Concert appears on the tapis once more, and Robert is induced to promise that he will announce the items. Our Vicar's Wife, rather nicely, says that everyone would love it if dear little Vicky could dance for us, and I reply that she will still be away at school, and Our Vicar's Wife replies that she knows that, she only meant how nice it would be if she hadn't been away at school, and could have danced for us. Am ungrateful enough to reflect that this is as singularly pointless an observation as ever I heard.
What, asks Our Vicar's Wife, am I doing this afternoon? Why not come with her and call on the new people at the bungalow and get it over? In this cordial frame of mind we accordingly set out, and I drive Standard car, Our Vicar's Wife observing--rather unnecessarily--that it really is wonderful how that car goes on and on and on.
Conversation continues, covering much ground that has been traversed before, and only diversified by hopes from me that the bungalow inhabitants may all be out, and modification from Our Vicar's Wife to the effect that she is hoping to get them to take tickets for the concert.
Aspirations as to absence of new arrivals dashed on the instant of drawing up at their gate, as girl in cretonne overall, older woman--probably mother--with spectacles, and man in tweeds, are all gardening like mad at the top of the steps. They all raise themselves from stooping postures, and all wipe their hands on their clothes--freakish resemblance here to not very well co-ordinated revue chorus--and make polite pretence of being delighted to see us. Talk passionately about rock-gardens for some time, then are invited to come indoors, which we do, but cretonne overall and man in tweeds--turns out to be visiting uncle--sensibly remain behind and pursue their gardening activities.
We talk about the concert--two one-and-sixpenny tickets disposed of successfully--hostess reveals that she thinks sparrows have been building in one of the water-pipes, and I say Yes, they do do that, and Our Vicar's Wife backs me up, and shortly afterwards we take our leave.
On passing through village, Our Vicar's Wife says that we may just as well look in on Miss Pankerton, as she wants to speak to her about the concert. I protest, but to no avail, and we walk up Miss P.'s garden-path and hear her practising the violin indoors, and presently she puts her head out of ground-floor window and shrieks--still practising--that we are to walk straight in, which we do, upon which she throws violin rather recklessly on to the sofa--which is already piled with books, music, newspapers, appliances for raffia-work, garden-hat, hammer, chisel, sample tin of biscuits, and several baskets--and shakes us by both hands. She also tells me that she sees I have taken her advice, and released a good many of my inhibitions in that book of mine. Should like to deny violently having ever taken any advice of Miss P.'s at all, or even noticed that she'd given it, but she goes on to say that I ought to pay more attention