Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
Welcome back to Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.
M.
Delafield.
E.
M.
Delafield's daughter,
Rosamund,
Had this to say about her mother.
My mother,
In real life Mrs.
Paul Dashwood,
But more generally known as E.
M.
Delafield,
Would always write sitting by the drawing room window,
Pencil in hand and manuscript on her lap and never seemed to mind being interrupted.
So we've reached Chapter 25 and before we go ahead,
Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable.
Settling down into your chair or your bed,
Relaxing your hands,
Softening your shoulders and loosening your jaw.
That's great.
So if you're ready,
Then I shall begin.
July the 6th.
Decide definitely on joining Rose at St Agathe and write and tell her so.
Die now cast and Rubicon crossed,
Or rather will be on achieving further side of the channel.
Robert,
On the whole,
Takes lenient view of entire project and says he supposes that nothing else will satisfy me and better not count on really hot weather promised by Rose,
But take good supply of woolen underwear.
Mademoiselle is sympathetic,
But theatrical.
Go to Women's Institute meeting and tell our secretary that I'm afraid I shall have to miss our next committee meeting.
She immediately replies that the date can easily be altered.
I protest,
But I'm defeated by small calendar which she at once produces and begs me to select my own date and says it will be all the same to the 11 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 WI 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 the 12th.
Pay farewell calls and receive much good advice.
Our vicar says 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 to the skin and also offers loan of small traveling medicine chest for emergencies.
Discussion follows as to whether bisulfate of quinine is or is not a dutiable article and is finally brought to inconclusive conclusion by our vicars 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 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 ho 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.
She'd 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 book 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 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 seasickness 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 ascents 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 Rodine 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.
I'm 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 I'm 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 plow boy.
Good works she supposes have been taking me plodding round the village as usual.
The way I go on day after day is just too marvellous.
Reply with utmost distinctness that I'm just on the point of starting for the south of France where I am joining a party of distinguished friends.
This is 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 is 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 penchant 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 the 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 suitcase whence it is extracted with some difficulty by mademoiselle later.
Finally decide on little Dorit 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 the 15th.
Memo remind Robert before starting that Gladys's wages are due on Saturday.
Speak about having my room turned out.
Speak about laundry.
Speak to mademoiselle about Vicky's teeth.
Glycothymeline.
Helen Wells not on the bed and lining of Tussauds coat right to the butcher.
Wash hair.
To be continued.
