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

Interview with Mademoiselle takes place after lunch, and is fully as unpleasant as I anticipated.

( Mem. : Generalisation, so frequently heard, to the effect that things are never as bad as one expects them to be, once more proved untrue up to the hilt.)

Main conclusions to emerge from this highly distressing conference are: (a) That Mademoiselle is pas du tout susceptible, tout au contraire ; (b) that she is profoundly blessée , and froissée , and agacée , and (c) that she could endure every humiliation and privation heaped upon her, if at least her supper might be brought up punctually.

This sudden introduction of entirely new element in the whole situation overcomes me completely, and we both weep.

I say, between sobs, that we both wish nothing except what is best for Vicky, and Mademoiselle replies with an offer to cut herself into a thousand pieces, and we agree to postpone further discussion for the moment.

The French not only extraordinarily exhausting to themselves and others in times of stress, but also possess very marked talent for transferring their own capacity for emotion to those with whom they are dealing.

Interesting speculation rises in my mind as to Robert's probable reactions to recent conversation with Mademoiselle, had he been present at it, but am too much exhausted to pursue subject further.

June 23rd. --Find myself in London with greatest possible relief. Rose takes one look at me, and then enquires if we have had a death in the house. I explain atmospheric conditions recently prevailing there, and she assures me that she quite understands, and the sooner I get my new permanent wave the better. Following this advice, I make early appointment.

We go to see Charles Laughton in Payment Deferred , and am confirmed in previous opinion that he is the most intelligent actor I have ever seen in my life. Rose says, On the English stage, in a cosmopolitan manner, and I say Yes, yes, very thoughtfully, and hope she does not realise that my acquaintance with any other stage is confined to performance of La Grande Duchesse at Boulogne, witnessed in childhood, and one sight of the Guitrys in Paris, about eleven years ago.

June 24th. --Rose takes me to visit school, which she says she is pretty certain I shall not like. Then why, I ask, go there? She replies that it is better to leave no stone unturned, and anyhow it will give me some idea of the kind of thing.

(On thinking over this reply, it seems wholly inadequate, but at the time am taken in by it.)

We go by train to large and airy red-brick establishment standing on a hill and surrounded by yellow-ochre gravel which I do not like. The Principal--colouring runs to puce and canary, and cannot avoid drawing inward parallel between her and the house--receives us in large and icy drawing-room, and is bright. I catch Rose's eye and perceive that she is unfavourably impressed, as I am myself, and that we both know that This will Never Do--nevertheless we are obliged to waste entire morning inspecting class-rooms--very light and cold--dormitories--hideously tidy, and red blankets like an institution--and gymnasium with dangerous-looking apparatus.

Children all look healthy, except one with a bandage on leg, which Principal dismisses lightly, when I enquire, as boils--and adds that child was born in India. (This event must have taken place at least ten years ago, and cannot possibly have any bearing on the case.)

Rose, behind Principal's back, forms long sentence silently with her lips, of which I do not understand one word, and then shakes her head violently. I shake mine in reply, and we are shown Chapel--chilly and unpleasant building--and Sick-room, where forlorn-looking child with inadequate little red cardigan on over school uniform is sitting in a depressed way over deadly-looking jigsaw puzzle of extreme antiquity.

The Principal says Hallo, darling, unconvincingly, and darling replies with a petrified stare, and we go out again.

I say Poor little thing! and Principal replies, more brightly than ever, that Our children love the sick-room, they have such a good time there. (This obviously untrue--and if not, reflects extremely poorly on degree of enjoyment prevalent out of the sick-room.)

Principal, who has referred to Vicky throughout as "your daughter" in highly impersonal manner, now presses on us terrific collection of documents, which she calls All Particulars, I say that I Will Write, and we return to station.

I tell Rose that really, if that is her idea of the kind of place I want--but she is apologetic, and says the next one will be quite different, and she does , really, know exactly what I want. I accept this statement, and we entertain ourselves on journey back to London by telling one another how much we disliked the Principal, her establishment, and everything connected with it.

I even go so far as to suggest writing to parents of bandaged child with boils, but as I do not know either her name or theirs, this goes no further.

(Am occasionally made uneasy at recollection of pious axiom dating back to early childhood, to the effect that every idle word spoken will one day have to be accounted for. If this is indeed fact, can foresee a thoroughly well-filled Eternity for a good many of us.)

June 25th. --Undergo permanent wave, with customary interludes of feeling that nothing on earth can be worth it, and eventual conviction that it was .

The hairdresser tells me that he has done five heads this week, all of which came up beautifully. He also assures me that I shall not be left alone whilst the heating is on, and adds gravely that no client ever is left alone at that stage--which has a sinister sound, and terrifies me. However, I emerge safely, and my head is also declared to have come up beautifully--which it has.

I go back to Rose's flat, and display waves, and am told that I look fifteen years younger--which leaves me wondering what on earth I could have looked like before, and how long I have been looking it.

Rose and I go shopping, and look in every shop to see if my recent publication is in window, which it never is except once. Rose suggests that whenever we do not see book, we ought to go in and ask for it, with expressions of astonishment, and I agree that certainly we ought. We leave it at that.

June 26th. --Inspect another school, and think well of Headmistress, also of delightful old house and grounds. Education, however, appears to be altogether given over to Handicrafts--green raffia mats and mauve paper boxes--and Self-expression--table manners of some of the pupils far from satisfactory. Decide, once more, that this does not meet requirements, and go away again.

Rose takes me to a party, and introduces me to several writers, one male and eight females. I wear new mauve frock, purchased that afternoon, and thanks to that and permanent wave, look nice, but must remember to have evening shoes re-covered, as worn gold brocade quite unsuitable.

Tall female novelist tells me that she is a friend of a friend of a friend of mine--which reminds me of popular song--and turns out to be referring to young gentleman known to me as Jahsper, once inflicted upon us by Miss Pankerton. Avoid tall female novelist with horror and dismay for the remainder of the evening.

June 28th. --Letter reaches me forwarded from home, written by contemporary of twenty-three years ago, then Pamela Warburton and now Pamela Pringle. She has heard so much of me from Mrs. Callington-Clay (who has only met me once herself and cannot possibly have anything whatever to say about me, except that I exist) and would so much like to meet me again. Do I remember picnic on the river in dear old days now so long ago? Much, writes Pamela Pringle--as well she may--has happened since then, and perhaps I have heard that after many troubles, she has at last found Peace, she trusts lasting. (Uncharitable reflection crosses my mind that P. P., judging from outline of her career given by Mrs. Callington-Clay, had better not count too much upon this, if by Peace she means matrimonial stability.)