Delafield

Burns’ (anglicised) line ‘Oh would some Power the gift to give us / To see ourselves as others see us’ was one which Delafield played with on a couple occasions (the brilliant collection of sketches As Others Hear Us, and the play To See Ourselves which later proved inspiration for VMC The Way Things Are). More broadly, I think it can be seen as the cornerstone of her writing – whether witty or sad or biting (and Delafield excels at all of these, in different works) her primary technique is demonstrating people’s lack of self-awareness.

Danielle and I have both been reading Gay Life (1933) and both our reviews will appear today – if I’ve understood time differences properly, then Danielle’s will come along later. It is another example of characters who have built up false images of themselves – but rather than having a single focus, Gay Life is filled with a cast of many. We see through nearly all of their eyes at different points, and thus Delafield builds up many perspectives on the same few days and group of people. They’re all on a long holiday in the South of France, staying at a hotel, mostly having stayed to the point where they know each other reasonably well and have separated wheat from chaff – usually getting stuck with the chaff. Delafield’s title, of course, uses ‘gay’ in its original sense – but also ironically. Despite the supposedly delights of the resort, few of the characters are enjoying themselves; even fewer have happy or uncomplicated relationships with those around them.

There are so many people – I ought to start introducing them. Hilary and Angie Moon are recently, and dejectedly, married (‘The little that they had ever had to say to one another had been said in the course of an electrically-charged fortnight, two years earlier, when they had fallen desperately in love.’) She’s already on the look-out for a new beau, but isn’t likely to find it in grumpy Mr. Bolham, still less his hapless secretary Denis. Angie’s not the only woman willing to welcome love – Coral Romayne is besotted with Buckland, the beefy holiday tutor hired ostensibly to teach her neglected son Patrick. There are a few more, but I don’t want to dizzy you.

EMD is mistress of the brief description which utterly reveals a character and their flaws. This, for instance, is Denis: ‘Morally – in the common acceptance of the term – he had remained impeccable, for he was both undersexed and inclined to a physical fastidiousness that he mistook for spirituality.’ And Dulcie, one of the most amusing characters in the novel, who is the daughter of a hotel entertainer, and thus treading an awkward line between guest and servant: ‘Dulcie continued to prattle. It was evidently her idea of good manners, to permit no interval of silence.’

One character I haven’t mentioned, who is awfully significant, is the novelist Chrissie Challoner. She is staying in a house near the cottage, and one of the central threads of this multi-faceted novel is her encounter with Denis. He’s had a rather pathetic life, but she immediately sees through his facade of worldliness – and rather falls in love with his true self. Which leads to all manner of moonlight proclamations and furtive assignations. Being honest, I was a bit worried at this point. A lot of interwar novelists try their hand at romance and flail a bit madly. It’s all much more comfortable for the reader when they’re being arch and detached – and there is nothing detached about Chrissie’s pondering on his inner being, declaring she has never felt this before, etc. etc. I daresay such things are enjoyable to the people experiencing them, but not really to the reader…

But, of course, I ought to have trusted Delafield not to err. After a few pages where it seems Denis may have finally met a woman who will understand and appreciate him… but no, I shan’t spoil the plot for you.

Besides, Delafield is never too earnest. The humour of The Provincial Lady is toned down, but makes it appearances, especially when Dulcie is on the scene.
“Mr. Bolham, is your bedroom door locked?”

“Why should my bedroom door be locked?” said Mr. Bolham. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

Dulcie gave a thin shriek of nervous laughter.

“You are funny, Mr. Bolham. I shall die. I suppose it did sound funny, me putting it like that. What I meant was, really, could I possibly pop in there, just for one second, to get something – well, it’s a bathing-cloak really – that’s fallen on to your balcony.”

“Again?”

Dulcie giggled uncertainly.

“It’s not my fault, Mr. Bolham,” she said at last, putting her head on one side.

“I know. It’s the Duvals.”

“It just dropped off their window-ledge, you know.”

“Did madame Duval send you to get it?”

Dulcie nodded.

“I expect she thought you might be a tiny bit cross, as it’s happened so often,” she suggested.

Mr. Bolham felt her eyeing him anxiously, to see if this would get a laugh. He maintained, without any difficulty, a brassy irresponsiveness, and Dulcie immediately changed her methods.

“I like to do anything I’m asked, always – my Pops says that’s one of the ways a little girl makes nice friends,” she observed in a sudden falsetto. “And Marcelle – she lets me call her Marcelle, you know – she’s always terribly sweet to me. So naturally, I like to run about and do errands for her, Mr. Bolham.”

“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed doing this one,” said Mr. Bolham sceptically. “I’ll send the towel, or whatever it is, up by the chambermaid.”
Although there are some central players in Gay Life, the cast is so wide that things don’t get dull or stilted. Delafield takes it in turns to focalise goings-on through the eyes of each character, so that we are still learning back-story well on into the last quarter of the novel – so it feels more like meeting every guest at a hotel than it does like a linear novel. Presumably that is the effect EMD wanted – and it certainly works. Plot isn’t entirely unimportant, though – and a Big Event rears its head towards the end.

Danielle asked me, in an email, what else I’d read by Delafield. I did a quick count on the back of a piece of scrap paper, and realised that I’ve read 19 books by EMD – mostly in pre-blog days, and a fair few in pre-uni days, when I could afford to indulge in one author for a month or two. (Favourites include: As Others Hear Us, Mrs. Harter, The War Workers, Faster! Faster!, Consequences…) Of that 19, I have read no duds. Gay Life isn’t the best of those reads – in fact, it probably lags somewhere towards the end – and yet it is really very good indeed. EMD deservedly has most of her fame from the Provincial Lady books, which are sublime and which I can well imagine reading every year for the rest of my life – but her other works shouldn’t be neglected. She seems incapable of writing a bad novel, and if most play towards sombreness and melancholy, she can never quite avoid the comic touch.

Gay Life is incredibly scarce, but you might be able to find it in a library. But you can’t go wrong with a Delafield – and I encourage you to look beyond the Provincial Lady books (and, of course, to read those IMMEDIATELY if you have yet to do so). It is wonderful that she is remembered at all, but she leaves a legacy of works which have been sadly neglected – have a hunt in your library archives and see what you can find! Go on, have a search now – and let me know what’s available in your area.

I’m looking forward to hearing Danielle’s response to this novel, and will put in a link here once her review appears. EDIT: here it is!

I’m off to the cinema tonight to see The Time Travel[l]er’s Wife, the novel by Audrey Niffenegger which I wrote about in a scattergun fashion last October. Since I’m otherwise engaged, I’ll save an in-depth book review for another night, and instead introduce you to one of my favourite books, EM Delafield’s As Others Hear Us.

A common experience for those who’ve loved The Diary of a Provincial Lady but have exhausted the four wonderful volumes of that series, is to read some of her works, and realise how different they are from Provincial Lady land. Consequences (published by Persephone Books), The Way Things Are and Thank Heaven Fasting (Virago Modern Classics) and the most easily available. All great books; none remotely like the Provincial Lady. Her witty, light, self-deprecating take on life is shifted for social issues, real torment, and a rather sombre tone. In my experience of EM Delafield’s works (and I’ve read, ooo let me see, eighteen of her books) only two have the same light, amusing feel of DoPL: and As Others Hear Us and General Impressions. I’m struggling to engage with a few books, as I mentioned, so I turned to the old reliable: As Others Hear Us.

The title plays on the old saw, from a Burns poem, ‘O would some power the giftie gie us / To see ourselves as others see us.’ It was a quotation of which EMD was fond, since she also named a play To See Ourselves (the play from which her novel The Way Things Are was more or less adapted.) EMD transfers this ‘see’ into ‘hear’, and thus plays with dialogue. There are four sections to this book, involving longer-running characters etc., but the bulk of it are these little scenes. They are entirely dialogue, little excerpts from people’s lives. They show what a brilliant way EMD has at exposing the nuances of people’s characters and relationships, all through their own words. Difficult to describe, so I’ve included a couple in their entirety, which I typed up years ago for a wonderful EMD site. I think you’ll either read them and be baffled at why I find them hilarious – or, like me, you’ll be desperate to read more.

Before I share them, I must be honest and say… As Others Hear Us is ruinously expensive. I didn’t pay much for it five years ago, but a quick check on the usual secondhand book sites suggests that you’ll be lucky to find an affordable copy – this is more a title to track down in your library or their inter-library loan facility. On the plus side, General Impressions is fairly affordable, and is a similar thing. The scenes in that one aren’t entirely dialogue, if I recall, but they are still incredibly funny. Do go and find either book. I’d love to see them reprinted, but I suppose this sketch-orientated kind of book isn’t very fashionable anymore… who knows, maybe the tide will turn. Here goes – ‘The Reconciliation’, and ‘At the Writing-Table’.

‘I came around because I really think the whole thing is too absurd.’ ‘So do I. I always did.’ ‘You can’t have half as much as I did. I mean really, when one comes to think of it. After all these years.’ ‘Oh, I know. And I dare say if you hadn’t, I should have myself. I’m sure the last thing I want is to go on like this. Because really, it’s too absurd.’ ‘That’s what I think. It is all right, then?’ ‘Absolutely, as far as I’m concerned. What I mean is, I never have believed in keeping things up. I’m not that kind of person.’ ‘Neither am I, for that matter.’ ‘Oh no, dear, I know. But I must say, you took the whole thing up exactly in the way I didn’t mean it, in a way. Not that it matters now.’ ‘Well, it’s all over now, but, to be absolutely honest, I must say I can’t quite see how anybody could possibly have taken it any other way. Not really, I mean.’ ‘Well, you said that I said every one said you were spoiling the child, and of course, what I really said wasn’t that at all.’ ‘Well, dear, you say that now, I know, but what you said at the time was exactly what I said you said. Or so it seemed to me.’ ‘Well, there’s not much object in going over the whole thing all over again now it’s over, is there? But if you’d come straight to me at the time, I must say I think it would all have been simpler. It doesn’t matter, of course, now it’s all over and done with, but I just think it would have been simpler, that’s all.’ ‘Still, dear, it’s perfectly simple as it is, isn’t it? If you think I spoil the child, you’re quite entitled to your own opinion, naturally. All I said was, that it seemed a pity to tell everybody that everybody thought so, when really it was just simply what you thought. And I must say, I can’t help being rather amused, but we all know that lookers-on see most of the game – it just amuses me, that’s all.’ ‘Very well, dear, if you choose to be offended you must be offended, that’s all. As I said at the time, and still say, no one is fonder of children than I am, but to let any child go to rack and ruin for want of one single word seems to me a pity, that’s all. Just a pity.’ ‘Have it your own way, dear. I shouldn’t dream of contradicting you. Actually, it was only the other day that someone was saying how extraordinarily well brought up the child seemed to be, but I dare say that’s got nothing to do with it whatever.’ ‘Well, all I’ve got to say is that it’s a pity.’ ‘And if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s ready to take offense. I never have been, and I never shall be.’ ‘Besides, while we’re on the subject, I don’t understand about the blue wool, and never shall understand.’ ‘We’ve gone over the whole of the blue wool at least twenty times already.’ ‘I dare say, and I’m not saying anything at all. In fact, I’d rather not.’ ‘And if it comes to that, I may not have said very much about it – it’s not my way – but it would be an absolute lie if I said that I didn’t remember all that fuss about the library books.’ ‘I said at the time, and I still say, that the library books were a storm in a tea-cup.’ ‘Very well, dear. Nobody wants to quarrel less than I do.’ ‘As I always say, it takes two to make a quarrel. Besides, it’s so absurd.’ ‘That’s what I say. Why be so absurd as to quarrel, is what I say. Let bygones be bygones. The library books are over now, and that’s all about it.’ ‘It’s like the blue wool. When a thing is over, let it be over, is what I always say. I don’t want to say anything more about anything at all. The only thing I must say is that when you say I said that everybody said that about your spoiling that child, it simply isn’t what I said. That’s all. And I don’t want to say another word about it.’ ‘Well, certainly I don’t. There’s only one thing I simply can’t help saying . . .’
At the Writing-Table’Are you any good at whether a thing is EI or IE?’ ‘Not much, but I might.’ ‘Well, is it receive or recieve? I’ve written them both a hundred and forty-eight times on the blotting-paper, and they look completely wrong which ever I do.’ ‘”I after E except after C.”‘ ‘That’s muddled me worse than ever. Besides, I think you’ve got it wrong.’ ‘I dare say. Look here, the only thing to do is to leave it and not look at it and then go back with a fresh eye and you get it at once. I often do that.’ ‘Very well then, this is what I’ve said: Dear Mrs. Cartwright, I must say I was rather surprised to receive – or recieve – your letter about the sweet-stall at the Fete yesterday. As a matter of fact I was perfectly furious.’ ‘Oh, I wouldn’t put that, would you? Of course it’s quite true but isn’t it kind of undignified? Or isn’t it?’ ‘Oh, I haven’t said that. I was only saying it.’ ‘Oh, I see.’ ‘Dear Mrs. Cartwright, I must say I was rather surprised – or isn’t that strong enough?’ ‘Personally, I should put Dear Mrs. Cartwright, I was completely astonished and underline astonished. Because after all you were.’ ‘Oh, I was foaming, of course. I still am, if it comes to that.’ ‘Who wouldn’t be? And the trouble we took over those accounts!’ ‘That reminds me. What do you make six sevens come to?’ ‘Well – wait a minute. Give me a pencil and paper. I can do it if I add them.’ ‘How frightfully clever you are. I should never have thought of that.’ Seven and seven and seven and seven and seven and seven and seven.’ ‘Isn’t that one too many?’
‘I thought it was. Very well, seven and seven, and seven and seven, and seven and seven. That’s forty-two.’ ‘Good, how marvellous. I’m afraid it’s pence.’ ‘Like Alice through the Looking-Glass.’ ‘Why did she have pence? I don’t remember any.’ ‘I mean one and one and one and one and one and one and one.’ ‘Oh, the Red Queen. Yes.’ ‘I always love the kitchen picture.’ ‘I know. So do I. Well, Dear Mrs. Cartwright, I must say I was a good deal surprised, how would that do?’ ‘Isn’t that the same as before?’ ‘I said Rather before.’ ‘So you did. Personally I should put Absolutely staggered.’ ‘I easily might. What was I asking you about these sevens?’ ‘You said they were pence.’ ‘So they are, I’m afraid. How many did you say they made?’ ‘Forty-two or something.’ ‘Thirty-six would be three shillings, and six over. How very neat. Three and sixpence exactly. Isn’t it?’ ‘Wait a minute. I’ve lost the pencil. I make it three and sixpence, definitely.’ ‘I should think it’s bound to be right, if we both make it come to the same, shouldn’t you?’ ‘I should think so. Why don’t you get one of those marvellous little books that tell you how much everything comes to? People use them for wages.’ ‘I always mean to. I’ll make a note of it on the blotting-paper. There’s receive and recieve again, and they both look exactly the same as they did before. No fresh eye or anything.’ ‘How awful. I don’t suppose Mrs. Cartwright would know the difference, actually. She didn’t seem to me in the least intelligent.’ ‘Oh, she isn’t. But she just might, one never knows. I wouldn’t mind spelling it wrong, if she hadn’t behaved so badly about the sweet- stall.’ ‘I know exactly. I’ve got a frightfully good idea: what exactly have you said.’ ‘I’ve said: Dear Mrs. Cartwright, I must say I was rather surprised to receive – recieve – your letter about the sweet-stall at the Fete yesterday.’ ‘Very well, just put instead: Dear Mrs. Cartwright, I must say I was rather surprised to get your letter about the sweet-stall, and so on.’ ‘That’s marvellous! I must just re-write it, but I think it’s worth it, don’t you?’ ‘Absolutely. I do loathe writing letters.’ ‘So do I. I always think it takes such ages when one ought to be doing other things. Now, can you listen a minute? This is what I’ve put: Dear Mrs. Cartwright, I must say …’

I love the Alice illustrations so much that I’m a bit reluctant to move on from them… but I suppose they’re still there for me and anyone else to look at. And if my copy of the Alice books weren’t in Somerset, I’d have definitely re-read it by now… as it is, I have instead finished a book I’ve been dipping in and out of for quite a while now. One of those books to read at bedtime – it’s EM Delafield’s Straw Without Bricks: I Visit Soviet Russia.

The astute among you will notice that this isn’t the title in the little picture accompanying this post… blame latterday publishers. Straw Without Bricks is an account of EM Delafield’s experience after her American publishers asked her to visit Russia and ‘write a funny book about it’. She does so as herself and, though her voice is often quite similar to that of the Provincial Lady’s in other books, there is no suggestion that this is one of the Provincial Lady series… in fact, it’s not even written as a diary. The Provincial Lady tag was just added in reprints to sell more copies. Tsk.

Violet Powell’s so-so biography of EMD makes little mention of this book, except to say that it wasn’t very successful, and generally judged to have been a bad idea (and EMD may have shared this opinion). I imagine that was largely because at the time of publication, 1937, the world wasn’t quite ready for an honest appraisal of life as a tourist in Soviet Russia. For readers of 2009, it is a fascinating book – EMD does write in quite a light style, but this is certainly not the ‘funny book’ that her publisher was hoping for. Delafield’s own political leanings were to the left, though not as far as Communism, and she treats the country and its inhabitants seriously. Much of this is with a subdued horror – at the indoctrination, the lack of freedom, the systematic removal of beauty and individualism – but she never makes Communism’s adherents appear ridiculous. The humour is often directed towards her fellow tourists, or such quintessentially British anxieties as having to wait around for something to happen, or wondering how to pass someone one is keen not to engage in trivial conversation.

Her accounts of visiting factories, maternity wards, farms are all deeply interesting – a very true version (one assumes) of a little-accessed situation, without being dry or documentary-style. In the end, it is the absence of a moderate reaction to Soviet Russia which frustrates and baffles EMD:

‘My fellow travellers all have opinions of their own which they regard, rightly or wrongly, as being of more value than mine. Most of them are pessimistic, and declare that they don’t ever want to come back again, and that the Crimea was lovely but the plugs in the hotels wouldn’t pull, and Moscow was interesting but very depressing.

Some, on the other hand – like Mrs. Pansy Baker – are wholly enthusiastic. (There is no juste milieu where the Soviet is concerned.) How splendid it all is, they cry, and how fine to see everybody busy, happy and cared-for. As for the institutions – the creches, the schools, the public parks and the prisons – all, without any qualification whatsoever, are perfect. Russia has nothing left to learn.’

As I said, Straw Without Bricks isn’t written in a diary format – in fact, the format confuses me a little. I don’t know the publication history (perhaps, like the PL books, this appeared in Time and Tide?), but most the book seems to be organised in separate but linked articles – sketches or anecdotes centred around certain events or people which vaguely follow on from each other, but could be read individually. The first eighty pages, though, are all about a Soviet Commune EMD lived in – a section followed, anachronistically, by an essay about sailing out to Russia. Odd. But easy enough to cope with, so long as temporal logic isn’t sought to join these sections!

This book isn’t as good as the Provincial Lady books proper, or rather it’s different. Those are some of the warmest, funniest, truest books I’ve ever read, and I will read and re-read them for the rest of my life – Straw Without Bricks performs a wholly different task, and is in its own right an important, touching, sensible and informative book with many sparks of humour which is recognisably EMD. Occasionally I found myself wishing she’d simply written the ‘funny book’ her publisher asked for; in the end I realised how much more sensitively she’d approached the task, and the result is much more appropriate, even if somewhat less immortal.