The Provincial Lady Series. E. M. Delafield

      THE

      PROVINCIAL

      LADY SERIES

      Diary of a Provincial Lady,

      The Provincial Lady Goes Further,

      The Provincial Lady in America, &

      The Provincial Lady in Wartime

       By

E. M. DELAFIELD

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      Contents

       E. M. Delafield

       DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY

       THE PROVINCIAL LADY GOES FURTHER

       THE PROVINCIAL LADY IN AMERICA

       THE PROVINCIAL LADY IN WARTIME

      E. M. Delafield

      Edmée Elizabeth Monica Dashwood was born in Steyning, England in 1890.

      In 1911, aged twenty-one, she joined a French religious order in Belgium, penning an account of her experience, The Brides of Heaven, which would eventually be published in her biography.

      At the outbreak of World War I, she worked as a voluntary nurse, publishing her first novel, Zella Sees Herself, in 1917.

      Delafield wrote for the rest of her life, publishing a novel almost every year, but she is best-remembered for her Diary of a Provincial Lady, (1930), which was hugely popular with readers and has since never been out of print. As well as a number of sequels to the novel, Delafield also published short stories and a handful of plays, and was an authority on the Brontës.

      She died during World War II, aged 53.

      DIARY OF A

      PROVINCIAL LADY

      First published in 1930

      November 7th.—Plant the indoor bulbs. Just as I am in the middle of them, Lady Boxe calls. I say, untruthfully, how nice to see her, and beg her to sit down while I just finish the bulbs. Lady B. makes determined attempt to sit down in armchair where I have already placed two bulb-bowls and the bag of charcoal, is headed off just in time, and takes the sofa.

      Do I know, she asks, how very late it is for indoor bulbs? September, really, or even October, is the time. Do I know that the only really reliable firm for hyacinths is Somebody of Haarlem? Cannot catch the name of the firm, which is Dutch, but reply Yes, I do know, but think it my duty to buy Empire products. Feel at the time, and still think, that this is an excellent reply. Unfortunately Vicky comes into the drawing-room later and says: "O Mummie, are those the bulbs we got at Woolworths?"

      Lady B. stays to tea. (Mem.: Bread-and-butter too thick. Speak to Ethel.) We talk some more about bulbs, the Dutch School of Painting, our Vicar's wife, sciatica, and All Quiet on the Western Front.

      (Query: Is it possible to cultivate the art of conversation when living in the country all the year round?)

      Lady B. enquires after the children. Tell her that Robin—whom I refer to in a detached way as "the boy" so that she shan't think I am foolish about him—is getting on fairly well at school, and that Mademoiselle says Vicky is starting a cold.

      Do I realise, says Lady B., that the Cold Habit is entirely unnecessary, and can be avoided by giving the child a nasal douche of salt-and-water every morning before breakfast? Think of several rather tart and witty rejoinders to this, but unfortunately not until Lady B.'s Bentley has taken her away.

      Finish the bulbs and put them in the cellar. Feel that after all cellar is probably draughty, change my mind, and take them all up to the attic.

      Cook says something is wrong with the range.

      

      November 8th.—Robert has looked at the range and says nothing wrong whatever. Makes unoriginal suggestion about pulling out dampers. Cook very angry, and will probably give notice. Try to propitiate her by saying that we are going to Bournemouth for Robin's half-term, and that will give the household a rest. Cook replies austerely that they will take the opportunity to do some extra cleaning. Wish I could believe this was true.

      Preparations for Bournemouth rather marred by discovering that Robert, in bringing down the suit-cases from the attic, has broken three of the bulb-bowls. Says he understood that I had put them in the cellar, and so wasn't expecting them.

      

      November 11th.—Bournemouth. Find that history, as usual, repeats itself. Same hotel, same frenzied scurry round the school to find Robin, same collection of parents, most of them also staying at the hotel. Discover strong tendency to exchange with fellow-parents exactly the same remarks as last year, and the year before that. Speak of this to Robert, who returns no answer. Perhaps he is afraid of repeating himself? This suggests Query: Does Robert, perhaps, take in what I say even when he makes no reply?

      Find Robin looking thin, and speak to Matron who says brightly, Oh no, she thinks on the whole he's put on weight this term, and then begins to talk about the New Buildings. (Query: Why do all schools have to run up New Buildings about once in every six months?)

      Take Robin out. He eats several meals, and a good many sweets. He produces a friend, and we take both to Corfe Castle. The boys climb, Robert smokes in silence, and I sit about on stones. Overhear a woman remark, as she gazes up at half a tower, that has withstood several centuries, that This looks fragile—which strikes me as a singular choice of adjective. Same woman, climbing over a block of solid masonry, points out that This has evidently fallen off somewhere.

      Take the boys back to the hotel for dinner. Robin says, whilst the friend is out of hearing: "It's been nice for us, taking out Williams, hasn't it?" Hastily express appreciation of this privilege.

      Robert takes the boys back after dinner, and I sit in hotel lounge with several other mothers and we all talk about our boys in tones of disparagement, and about one another's boys with great enthusiasm.

      Am asked what I think of Harriet Hume but am unable to say, as I have not read it. Have a depressed feeling that this is going to be another case of Orlando about which was perfectly able to talk most intelligently until I read it, and found myself unfortunately unable to understand any of it.

      Robert