E. Delafield - The Collected Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition)

Modern fiction! says Cyril explosively. How utterly lousy it all is! He will, he admits, give me Shaw—(for whom I haven't asked)—but there are no writers living to-day. Not one. I say Come, Come, what about ourselves? but Mr. de M. G. evidently quite impervious to this witty shaft and embarks on very long monologue, in the course of which he demolishes many worldwide reputations. Am extremely thankful when we are interrupted by Mrs. Smiley, at the sight of whom C. de M. G. at once gets on to his feet and walks away. (Deduce from this that they have met before.)

Mrs. Smiley has come, she tells me, in order to find out if I will give a little Reading from Something of my Own at to-night's concert. No, I am very sorry, but I cannot do anything of the kind. Now why? Mrs. S. argumentatively enquires. No one will be critical, in fact as likely as not they won't listen, but it will give pleasure. Do I not believe in brightening this sad old world when I get the chance? For Mrs. Smiley's own part, she never grudges a little trouble if it means happiness for others. Naturally, getting up an entertainment of this kind means hard work, and probably no thanks at the end of it—but she feels it's a duty. That's all. Just simply a duty. I remain unresponsive, and Mrs. S. shakes her head and leaves me.

(If I see or hear any more of Mrs. S. shall almost certainly feel it my duty, if not my pleasure, to kick her overboard at earliest possible opportunity.)

Concert duly takes place, in large saloon, and everyone—presumably with the exception of Cyril—attends it. Various ladies sing ballads, mostly about gardens or little boys with sticky fingers—a gentleman plays a concertina solo, not well, and another gentleman does conjuring tricks. Grand finale is a topical song, said to have been written by Mrs. Smiley, into which references to all her fellow-passengers are introduced not without ingenuity. Should much like to know how she has found out so much about them all in the time.

Appeal is then made—by Mrs. Smiley—for Naval Charity to which we are all asked to subscribe—Mrs. Smiley springs round the room with a tambourine, and we all drop coins into it—and we disperse.

Obtain glimpse, as I pass smoking-saloon, of Mr. H. Cyril de Mullins Green drinking what looks like brandy-and-soda, and telling elderly gentleman—who has, I think, reached senility—that English Drama has been dead—absolutely dead —ever since the Reformation.

December 7th. —Pack for—I hope—the last time, and spend most of the day listening to various reports that We shan't be in before midnight, We shall get in by four o'clock this afternoon, and We can't get in to-day at all.

Finally notice appears on a board outside dining-saloon, informing us that we shall get to Southampton at nine P.M. and that dinner will be served at six—(which seems to me utterly unreasonable).—Luggage to be ready and outside cabins at four o'clock. (More unreasonable still.) Every possible preparation is completed long before three o'clock, and I feel quite unable to settle down to anything at all, and am reduced to watching Mrs. Smiley play table-tennis with one of the Canadian triplets, and beat him into a cocked hat.

Dinner takes place at six o'clock—am far too much excited to eat any—and from thence onward I roam uneasily about from one side of ship to the other, and think that every boat I see is tender from Southampton conveying Robert to meet me.

Am told at last by deck-steward—evidently feeling sorry for me—that tender is the other side, and I rush there accordingly, and hang over the side and wave passionately to familiar figure in blue suit. Familiar figure turns out to be that of complete stranger.

Scan everybody else in advancing tender, and decide that I have at last sighted Robert—raincoat and felt hat—but nerve has been rather shattered and am doubtful about waving. This just as well, as raincoat is afterwards claimed by unknown lady in tweed coat and skirt, who screams: Is that you, Dad? and is in return hailed with: Hello, Mum, old girl! how are you!

I decide that Robert has (a) had a stroke from excitement, (b) been summoned to the death-bed of one of the children, (c) missed the tender.

Remove myself from the rail in dejection, and immediately come face to face with Robert, who has mysteriously boarded the ship unperceived. Am completely overcome, and disgrace myself by bursting into tears.

Robert pats me very kindly and strolls away and looks at entirely strange pile of luggage whilst I recover myself. Recovery is accelerated by Mrs. Smiley, who comes up and asks me If that is my husband? to which I reply curtly that it is, and turn my back on her.

Robert and I sit down on sofa outside the dining-saloon, and much talk follows, only interrupted by old friend the table-steward, who hurries out and greets Robert with great enthusiasm, and says that he will personally see my luggage through the Customs.

This he eventually does, with the result that we get through with quite unnatural rapidity, and have a choice of seats in boat-train. Say good-bye to old friend cordially, and with suitable recognition of his services.

Robert tells me that He is Glad to See Me Again, and that the place has been very quiet. I tell him in return that I never mean to leave home again as long as I live, and ask if there are any letters from the children?

There is one from each, and I am delighted. Furthermore, says Robert, Our Vicar's Wife sent her love, and hopes that we will both come to tea on Thursday, five o'clock, not earlier because of the Choir Practice.

Agree with the utmost enthusiasm that this will be delightful, and feel that I am indeed Home again.

THE END

Table of Contents

The Provincial Lady in Moscow

They Also Serve: The Provincial Lady in Leningrad

To Speak My Mind About Russia: The Provincial Lady in Odessa

Table of Contents

Tourists in all the Intourist hotels in all the principal towns of Soviet Russia exchange the same fragments of conversation.

"Have you done Moscow yet?"

"No, I'm going there to-morrow night. I came in by Odessa. I've done Kharkov and Rostov and Kiev."

"Ah, then you're going out by sea from Leningrad. Unless you're flying from Moscow?"

"No, I shall be going by sea. Have you done Odessa and the south?"

"No, I've done the Caucasus. You should do the Caucasus. What is Odessa like?"

"Odessa is delightful. The hotel at Rostov was good except for the cockroaches. The food was bad at Kharkov.'

"Ah, there was a Frenchman here yesterday who had just come from Kharkov, and he said the food wasn't good."

And at this gratifying coincidence everybody looks pleased.

Sometimes it is a little like the survivors of a shipwreck meeting on a fragment of desert island.

"Are you still all right for soap?"

"Yes, I shall just last out till Kiev. What about you?"

"Oh, I'm all right. I brought a great deal. But my ink is pretty low."

"There's an American lady who can let you have ink. She gave me some in Leningrad and she's coming on here. She had safety-pins too."

"How marvelous! Perhaps she'd like some soda-mints or aspirins. I have heaps of those."

"I dare say. Or Keatings. Or perhaps you could lend her a book."

People part at Moscow and meet again, sometimes most unwillingly, at Yalta. They ask one another how they have been getting on, and if they met the French astronomer and the English journalist and the noisy young Finns with the portable gramophone. Those who met at Leningrad, and were in the same train coming from Moscow, and parted gracefully at Tillls only to be once more confronted with one another at Gorki, are bound by some unwritten law to sit at the same table for meals. At first, I often wondered whether they really like to do this, or if they just feel obliged to do it for old sake's sake. Later on I fall under the same spell, and the question is answered.