Presents for Vicky, Mademoiselle, and our Vicar's wife all meet with acclamation, and am gratified. Blue flowered chintz frock, however, bought at Ste. Agathe for sixty-three francs, no longer becoming to me, as sunburn fades and original sallowness returns to view. Even Mademoiselle, usually so sympathetic in regard to clothes, eyes chintz frock doubtfully, and says, "Tiens! On dirait un bal masqué." As she knows, and I know, that the neighbourhood never has, and never will, run to bals masqués, this equals unqualified condemnation of blue chintz, and I remove it in silence to furthest corner of the wardrobe.
Helen Wills, says Cook, about to produce more kittens. Cannot say if Robert does, or does not, know this.
Spend much time in writing to, and hearing from, unknown mothers whose sons have been invited here by Robin, and one grandmother, with whose descendant Robin is to spend a week. Curious impossibility of combining dates and trains convenient to us all, renders this whole question harassing in the extreme. Grandmother, especially, sends unlimited letters and telegrams, to all of which I feel bound to reply—mostly with civil assurances of gratitude for her kindness in having Robin to stay. Very, very difficult to think of new ways of wording this—moreover, must reserve something for letter I shall have to write when visit is safely over.
August 1st:—Return of Robin, who has grown, and looks pale. He has also purchased large bottle of brilliantine, and applied it to his hair, which smells like inferior chemist's shop. Do not like to be unsympathetic about this, so merely remain silent while Vicky exclaims rapturously that it is lovely—which is also Robin's own opinion. They get excited and scream, and I suggest the garden. Robin says that he is hungry, having had no lunch. Practically—he adds conscientiously. "Practically" turns out to be packet of sandwiches, two bottles of atrocious liquid called Cherry Ciderette, slab of milk chocolate, two bananas purchased on journey, and small sample tin of cheese biscuits, swopped by boy called Sherlock, for Robin's last year's copy of Pop's Annual.
Customary rather touching display of affection between Robin and Vicky much to the fore, and am sorry to feel that repeated experience of holidays has taught me not to count for one moment upon its lasting more than twenty-four hours—if that.
(Query: Does motherhood lead to cynicism? This contrary to every convention of art, literature, or morality, but cannot altogether escape conviction that answer may be in the affirmative.)
In spite of this, however, cannot remain quite unmoved on hearing Vicky inform Cook that when she marries, her husband will be exactly like Robin. Cook replies indulgently, That's right, but come out of that sauce-boat, there's a good girl, and what about Master Robin's wife? To which Robin rejoins, he doesn't suppose he'll be able to get a wife exactly like Vicky, as she's so good, there couldn't be another one.
August 2nd.—Noteworthy what astonishing difference made in entire household by presence of one additional child. Robert finds one marble—which he unfortunately steps upon—mysterious little empty box with hole in bottom, and half of torn sponge on the stairs, and says, This house is a perfect Shambles—which I think excessive. Mademoiselle refers to sounds emitted by Robin, Vicky, the dog, and Helen Wills—all, apparently, gone mad together in the hay-loft—as "tohu-bohu". Very expressive word.
Meal-times, especially lunch, very, very far from peaceful. From time to time remember, with pained astonishment, theories subscribed to in pre-motherhood days, as to inadvisability of continually saying Don't, incessant fault-finding, and so on. Should now be sorry indeed to count number of times that I find myself forced to administer these and similar checks to the dear children. Am often reminded of enthusiastic accounts given me by Angela of other families, and admirable discipline obtaining there without effort on either side. Should like—or far more probably should not like—to hear what dear Angela says about our house, when visiting mutual friends or relations.
Rose writes cheerfully, still in South of France—sky still blue, rocks red, and bathing as perfect as ever. Experience curious illusion of receiving communication from another world, visited many aeons ago, and dimly remembered. Weather abominable, and customary difficulty experienced of finding indoor occupation for children that shall be varied, engrossing, and reasonably quiet. Cannot imagine what will happen if these conditions still prevail when visiting school-fellow—Henry by name—arrives. I ask Robin what his friend's tastes are, and he says, Oh, anything. I enquire if he likes cricket, and Robin replies, Yes, he expects so. Does he care for reading? Robin says that he does not know. I give it up, and write to Army and Navy Stores for large tin of Picnic Biscuits.
Messrs. R. Sydenham, and two unknown firms from places in Holland, send me little books relating to indoor bulbs. R. Sydenham particularly optimistic, and, though admitting that failures have been known, pointing out that all, without exception, have been owing to neglect of directions on page twenty-two. Immerse myself in page twenty-two, and see that there is nothing for it but to get R. Sydenham's Special Mixture for growing R. Sydenham's Special Bulbs.
Mention this to Robert, who does not encourage scheme in any way, and refers to last November. Cannot at the moment think of really good answer, but shall probably do so in church on Sunday, or in other surroundings equally inappropriate for delivering it.
August 3rd.—Difference of opinion arises between Robin and his father as to the nature and venue of former's evening meal, Robin making sweeping assertions to the effect that All Boys of his Age have Proper Late Dinner downstairs, and Robert replying curtly More Fools their Parents, which I privately think unsuitable language for use before children. Final and unsatisfactory compromise results in Robin's coming nightly to the dining-room and partaking of soup, followed by interval, and ending with dessert, during the whole of which Robert maintains disapproving silence and I talk to both at once on entirely different subjects.
(Life of a wife and mother sometimes very wearing.)
Moreover, Vicky offended at not being included in what she evidently looks upon as nightly banquet of Lucullan magnificence, and covertly supported in this rebellious attitude by Mademoiselle. Am quite struck by extraordinary persistence with which Vicky, day after day, enquires Why she can't stay up to dinner too? and equally phenomenal number of times that I reply with unvarying formula that Six years old is too young, darling.
Weather cold and disagreeable, and I complain. Robert asserts that it is really quite warm, only I don't take enough exercise. Have often noticed curious and prevalent masculine delusion, to the effect that sympathy should never, on any account, be offered when minor ills of life are in question.
Days punctuated by recurrent question as to whether grass is, or is not, too wet to be sat upon by children, and whether they shall, or shall not, wear their woollen pullovers. To all enquiries as to whether they are cold, they invariably reply, with aggrieved expressions, that they are Boiling. Should like scientific or psychological explanation of this singular state of affairs, and mentally reserve the question for bringing forward on next occasion of finding myself in intellectual society. This, however, seems at the moment remote in the extreme.
Cook says that unless help is provided in the kitchen they cannot possibly manage all the work. I think this unreasonable, and quite unnecessary expense. Am also aware that there is no help to be obtained at this time of the year. Am disgusted at hearing myself reply in hypocritically pleasant tone of voice that, Very well, I will see what can be done. Servants, in truth, make cowards of us all.
August 7th.—Local Flower Show takes place. We walk about in Burberrys, on wet grass, and say that it might have been much worse, and look at the day they had last week at West Warmington! Am forcibly reminded of what I have heard of Ruth Draper's admirable sketch of country Bazaar, but try hard not to think about this. Our Vicar's wife takes me to look at the school-children's needlework, laid out in tent amidst onions, begonias, and other vegetable products. Just as I am admiring pink cotton camisole embroidered with mauve pansies, strange boy approaches me and says, If I please, the little girl isn't very well, and can't be got out of the swing-boat,