OUR FORTNIGHTLY BOOK REVIEW

Radio Record, Volume IV, Issue 35, 13 March 1931, Unnumbered Page

OUR FORTNIGHTLY BOOK REVIEW

DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY

(By

E. M.

Delafield

Miss DELAFIELD is one of the most brilliant of the younger English novelists, and already has half a score of stimulating novels to her credit, despite the fact that she is still in the twenties, Penetrating characterisation and mordant wit are apparent in her work, and a somewhat cruel irony occasionally is uppermost. Abhorrent of humbug and social sham, Miss Delafield dissects with sharpedged scalpel the follies and frailties of humanity, leaving it bereft of the smallest shred of smug self-satisfac-tion. The "Diary" under review made its first appedrance in the pages of that excellent and courageous publication, "Time and Tide," the series of articles now being collected in book form, and there is no doubt that it makes edifying and mirth-provoking reading. Purporting to be written by a lady of the provinces, discreet, gentle, wellbred, doing out the duty but finding it dull; her reflections and chronicle of everyday doings of her immediate circle are written with a pretty wit and an exploitation of human vagaries showing acute observation and appreciation of the irony of life, With inimitable point and pungency, the social snob is satirised, the dullard, the humorless spinster who subsists on a diet of nuts, old Mrs. Blenkinsop, Wrapped in shawls, who protests in and out of season that, though she is only a Useless O]d Woman, her motto is: Look Out and Not In; Look Up and Not Down; Lend a Hand! Various current events are touched upon with judgment and taste, and mention made en passant of modern books and plays. For instance: "Rose takes me to see St. John Pryine’s play, and am much amused. QOverhear one lady in stalls ask another: ‘Why don’t you write a play, dear? ‘Well,’ said

the friend, ‘it’s difficult, what with one thing and another, to find time." Am staggered. Could I write a play myself. Could we all write plays, if only we had the time?" Again the acute comment: "Is not a common hate one of the strongest links in human nature? Answer, most regrettably, in the affirmative." Concerning a distinguished novelist: "She says she can only ‘write between twelve at night and four in the morning, and not always then. When she cannot write, she plays the organ. Should much like to ask whether she is married-but get no opportunity of saying that or anything else. "She tells me about her sales. She tells me about her last book. She tells me about her new one. She says there are many people to whom she must speak, and pursues well-known poetwho does not, however, allow her to tree up with him. Can understand th s," The description of the Garden Fete has the true touch. Those who, in the arduous task of organising an entertainment for a good cause, have borne the burden and heat of the day, will sympathise with exasperation felt by warm and flustered committee on the arrival of the social butterfly, clad in sapphire blue and pearls, with an escort of fashionable creatures, male and female, apparently dressed for Ascot; who, after indiscriminate and patronising criticism, and the purchase of a ninepenny lavender bag, drive off again in a Rolls-Royce. Robert, that kind but discouraging man of the house, is typical, and Robin and Vicki are full of charm, as is the Provincial Lady herself. We should like to know her. The illustrations by Mr. Arthur Watts are fascinating, and in line with the author’s creations, a somewhat rare achievement. The clever presentations of Cook, Mademoiselle, the maddening Cousin Maud, the Rector and the rest, will go far toward ausmenting the suecess which inevitably awaits this witty satire on men anil manners.