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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In 'The Diary of a Provincial Lady' (Illustrated Edition), E. M. Delafield presents a witty and incisive portrayal of a middle-class English woman's life in the 1930s. Written in the format of a personal journal, the novel captures the humor and mundanity of domestic life, showcasing the protagonist's struggles with household management, social gatherings, and her sometimes chaotic family dynamics. Delafield's sharp observations and clever prose allow readers to engage deeply with the themes of women's roles, societal expectations, and the subtleties of provincial life during a time of impending change, making it a notable contribution to the interwar literary landscape. E. M. Delafield, the pen name of Edm√©e Elizabeth Monica de la Pasture, was a prolific writer whose experiences as a wife and mother greatly informed her literary work. Having grown up in both London and the English countryside, she possessed an intimate understanding of provincial life. Her own struggles with societal expectations and the demands of domesticity resonate poignantly in this diary format, bridging the gap between personal experience and broader social commentary. This illustrated edition of 'The Diary of a Provincial Lady' is highly recommended for readers seeking a blend of humor, insight, and nostalgia. Delafield's keen eye for detail and engaging narrative style not only entertain but also invite critical reflection on women's roles in society. Whether you are a longtime admirer of classic literature or discovering her work for the first time, this book will provide both laughter and a thought-provoking glimpse into early 20th-century English life. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY (Illustrated Edition)
Table of Contents
Introduction
Private life often looks most orderly on the surface precisely when it is being held together by wit, habit, and quiet endurance.
E. M. Delafield’s The Diary of a Provincial Lady, presented here in an illustrated edition, is a comic novel written in diary form, first published in the early 1930s. Set in provincial England, it belongs to a tradition of domestic social satire that uses the everyday record of appointments, letters, and errands to illuminate a wider world. Its apparent smallness of scale is deliberate, making a household’s routines an arena where class, money, and expectation are constantly negotiated with a light touch.
The premise is simple and immediately engaging: an unnamed “provincial lady” records her days as she manages family life, social obligations, and the ceaseless work of keeping a home functioning. The diary format creates an intimate reading experience, as if the reader has been admitted to the side of events that polite conversation smooths over. Delafield’s voice is brisk, observant, and dryly amused, turning minor crises and interruptions into scenes of comedy without denying their cumulative weight.
What distinguishes the book is how much it achieves through understatement. The diarist’s sentences often move quickly from one duty to the next, letting the juxtaposition of concerns supply the humour: the very act of listing becomes a kind of portrait. Beneath the levity, there is a sharp awareness of how roles are performed and how tiring performance can be. The narrator does not announce her feelings at length; instead, they appear in the rhythm of her day and the small, telling turns of phrasing.
A central theme is the tension between inner life and public presentation. The provincial lady is intelligent and self-aware, yet she is expected to be agreeable, efficient, and uncomplaining, and she frequently finds herself mediating between competing demands. Domestic labour, often treated as invisible, becomes visible through repetition, and the diary shows how emotional labour travels alongside it. The book also attends to social hierarchies and the pressures of respectability, revealing how power can be exercised through manners and expectations.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady continues to matter because its comedy is rooted in recognisable experience rather than in dated topicality. Contemporary readers may hear in the diarist’s brisk self-management an early portrait of the modern juggling act: work that is never quite finished, obligations that multiply, and the wish to preserve a private self within constant responsiveness to others. Delafield’s satire offers relief without cruelty, inviting readers to laugh at the structures that confine and to notice the artistry involved in coping.
An illustrated edition is an apt home for a narrative so attentive to the textures of daily life, where impressions accumulate through repeated encounters, social calls, and household scenes. The book rewards both continuous reading and dipping in, because its pleasures are cumulative but each entry stands with its own small turn of observation. What lingers is the steadiness of the voice: a companionable intelligence meeting ordinary days with unsentimental humour, and finding, in the record of them, a form of quiet resilience.
Synopsis
E. M. Delafield’s The Diary of a Provincial Lady (Illustrated Edition) presents itself as the private journal of an Englishwoman managing domestic and social life in the early twentieth century. Writing with brisk, observant wit, the narrator records ordinary days shaped by household routines, local obligations, and frequent interruptions. The diary form keeps the focus on immediate impressions rather than retrospective explanations, so small incidents carry narrative weight. Through these entries, the book establishes its central preoccupation: the tension between personal sensibility and the demands of family, class expectations, and the ceaseless minutiae of “provincial” respectability.
The Provincial Lady’s home life drives much of the action as she tries to balance caretaking, budgeting, and the running of a household with a desire for privacy and intellectual space. Family members, servants, tradespeople, and other dependents create a steady stream of practical problems that must be managed tactfully. The narrator’s tone stays outwardly composed even when she is inwardly exasperated, and the comedy often arises from the gap between what politeness requires and what she actually thinks. The diary entries show how domestic labor becomes a constant negotiation rather than a settled routine.
Social life in the village and surrounding circles expands the diary’s scope beyond the home. The Provincial Lady attends visits, teas, meetings, and charitable or community activities that appear minor but carry real social stakes. She must navigate acquaintances whose expectations are fixed and sometimes intrusive, and she measures her responses against the unwritten rules of her milieu. Delafield uses these encounters to explore how performance and sincerity coexist in everyday interaction. The narrator’s sharp eye for conversational rhythms and small hypocrisies turns social duty into an ongoing, lightly tense contest of manners.
As the diary continues, practical and emotional pressures intersect with aspirations toward culture, reading, and the wider world. The Provincial Lady’s impulses toward self-improvement and independent judgment are repeatedly tested by interruptions, obligations, and the need to appear appropriately unselfish. Visits and correspondence draw her into shifting relationships, where affection, obligation, and irritation mingle. Without relying on melodrama, the narrative builds momentum through accumulation: successive engagements, minor crises, and moments of relief that reveal what the narrator values. The diary format makes these shifts feel lived-in, immediate, and sometimes contradictory.
Money and status remain persistent undercurrents, shaping decisions about household management, social reciprocity, and what can be afforded in time and attention. The Provincial Lady is neither detached from her class position nor fully at ease within its constraints, and she frequently registers the practical consequences of propriety. The book’s humor keeps these concerns from becoming heavy, yet the diary makes clear that comfort is maintained through effort and constant calibration. Delafield’s portrayal emphasizes how social expectations can be both stabilizing and stifling, producing a life defined by perpetual adjustment.
The supporting cast of relatives, friends, and local figures provides a changing set of pressures and consolations. The Provincial Lady’s relationships are marked by affection and impatience in equal measure, and she often finds herself mediating between other people’s needs and her own limited reserves. The narrative traces the ebb and flow of companionship, duty, and solitude across seasons of activity and fatigue. Rather than aiming for a single dramatic turning point, the diary builds a composite portrait of a woman’s interior life as it is shaped—sometimes distorted—by repeated demands that rarely seem urgent on their own.
By the end, The Diary of a Provincial Lady has used the modest scale of daily record to examine larger questions about autonomy, gendered labor, and the social rituals that structure ordinary existence. Delafield’s understated satire and close observation reveal how comedy can coexist with weariness and how selfhood can persist amid constant interruption. The illustrated edition underscores the book’s appeal as a vivid period piece while preserving its accessibility for later readers. Its enduring resonance lies in its recognition that the pressures of schedules, expectations, and identity are often felt most sharply in the smallest events.
Historical Context
E. M. Delafield’s The Diary of a Provincial Lady appeared first as a series in Time and Tide (a British weekly founded in 1920) and was published in book form in 1930. Its voice is shaped by the late 1920s and early 1930s in England, when the First World War’s social dislocations were still evident and the country was entering the economic strains of the Great Depression. The “provincial” setting signals life outside London, in villages and small towns governed by local custom, voluntary associations, and the rhythms of domestic management rather than metropolitan spectacle.
The period saw long-term changes in women’s public roles. After the Representation of the People Act 1918, many women over 30 gained the vote, and the Equal Franchise Act 1928 extended suffrage to women on the same terms as men. These reforms coincided with expanding female participation in journalism, literature, and salaried work, while marriage and motherhood remained dominant expectations for middle-class women. Delafield wrote professionally within this environment, and her diarist’s concerns—household organization, social duties, and personal autonomy—reflect the tension between formal political equality and persistent gendered divisions in daily life.
English provincial society in the interwar years remained structured by class and property, even as older hierarchies were under pressure. Domestic service was still common in middle-class homes, but the supply of live-in servants was declining and wages and conditions were changing, contributing to household friction and improvisation. The landed gentry and professional classes continued to lead local committees, church activities, and charitable efforts, which offered status and influence beyond formal government. The diary’s frequent attention to servants, shops, and local notables belongs to this transitional moment, when traditional markers of respectability were maintained through labor, etiquette, and community visibility.
Local institutions strongly shaped everyday life. The Church of England retained cultural authority in many communities, and parish events, bazaars, and committees remained major sites of sociability. Schools, libraries, and voluntary groups also provided arenas where middle-class women exercised organizational power, especially through fundraising and “good works.” Municipal government and county councils handled practical matters such as roads, public health, and education, yet much social coordination operated through informal networks. The diary form allows Delafield to record these overlapping institutions—family, parish, and committee—as the practical framework within which personal relationships and reputations were negotiated.
The literary context is that of interwar British “middlebrow” culture and a flourishing periodical press. Publishers and magazines cultivated an audience for domestic realism, social comedy, and accessible commentary on contemporary manners. Diary and letter forms, used earlier in English fiction, were well suited to satirizing routine life while maintaining intimacy and plausibility. Delafield’s work appeared alongside popular novels that examined class, marriage, and modernity without adopting avant‑garde experimentalism. Its humor depends on recognizable social scripts—calling cards, visits, correspondence, and propriety—thus preserving documentary value about how ordinary conversation and obligation were staged in respectable circles.
The interwar economy and politics provide a crucial backdrop. Britain experienced high unemployment in the 1920s, industrial unrest, and the General Strike of 1926; the worldwide Depression after 1929 intensified financial uncertainty. While the diary does not function as political reportage, its attention to costs, household economies, and the anxiety of making ends meet corresponds to widely felt pressures, especially among families whose income depended on professional work, investments, or small properties. The period’s public debate about welfare, employment, and taxation informs the texture of domestic budgeting and the social meaning of “economy” versus “stinginess.”
International tensions and memories of the First World War also shaped the era’s mood. War losses had affected households across Britain, and the 1920s and 1930s were marked by commemorations, veterans’ presence, and a pervasive awareness of geopolitical fragility. Although Delafield’s narrative centers on local life, it belongs to a generation for whom wartime disruption had altered expectations about authority, service, and sacrifice. Meanwhile, mass media—newspapers, radio broadcasting (the BBC was established in 1922), and popular print culture—linked provincial communities to national conversations. The diary’s blend of private preoccupations and public references mirrors this widened informational horizon.
As a document of its time, The Diary of a Provincial Lady reflects interwar England by treating domestic labor, social obligation, and class performance as serious historical subjects. Its comedy derives from the gap between prescribed ideals of feminine composure and the logistical realities of running a household, managing servants, and fulfilling community duties. By recording errands, visits, and committee work with careful attention to tone, it exposes how power and anxiety circulated through everyday interactions rather than formal institutions alone. The work thus critiques the era’s social expectations—especially for married middle-class women—while preserving a precise sense of provincial routines in a changing Britain.
THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY (Illustrated Edition)
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[1]? 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[2]?"
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[3].
(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[2q]. 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[1q].
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[3q]. 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[4q]. 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[7]. 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[8] 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[9] about which was perfectly able to talk most intelligently until I read it, and found myself unfortunately unable to understand any of it.
Robert comes up very late and says he must have dropped asleep over the Times[10]. (Query: Why come to Bournemouth to do this?)
Postcard by the last post from Lady B. to ask if I have remembered that there is a Committee Meeting of the Women's Institute[5] on the 14th. Should not dream of answering this.
November 12th.—Home yesterday and am struck, as so often before, by immense accumulation of domestic disasters that always await one after any absence. Trouble with kitchen range has resulted in no hot water, also Cook says the mutton has gone, and will I speak to the butcher, there being no excuse weather like this. Vicky's cold, unlike the mutton, hasn't gone. Mademoiselle says, "Ah, cette petite! Elle ne sera peut-être pas longtemps pour ce bas monde, madame." Hope that this is only her Latin way of dramatising the situation.
Robert reads the Times after dinner, and goes to sleep[5q].
November 13th.—Interesting, but disconcerting, train of thought started by prolonged discussion with Vicky as to the existence or otherwise of a locality which she refers to throughout as H.E.L. Am determined to be a modern parent, and assure her that there is not, never has been, and never could be, such a place. Vicky maintains that there is, and refers me to the Bible[6q]. I become more modern than ever, and tell her that theories of eternal punishment were invented to frighten people. Vicky replies indignantly that they don't frighten her in the least, she likes to think about H.E.L. Feel that deadlock has been reached, and can only leave her to her singular method of enjoying herself.
(Query: Are modern children going to revolt against being modern, and if so, what form will reaction of modern parents take?)
Much worried by letter from the Bank to say that my account is overdrawn to the extent of Eight Pounds, four shillings, and fourpence. Cannot understand this, as was convinced that I still had credit balance of Two Pounds, seven shillings, and sixpence. Annoyed to find that my accounts, contents of cash-box, and counterfoils in cheque-book, do not tally. (Mem.: Find envelope on which I jotted down Bournemouth expenses, also little piece of paper (probably last leaf of grocer's book) with note about cash payment to sweep. This may clear things up.)
Take a look at bulb-bowls on returning suit-case to attic, and am inclined to think it looks as though the cat had been up here. If so, this will be the last straw. Shall tell Lady Boxe that I sent all my bulbs to a sick friend in a nursing-home.
November 14th.—Arrival of Book of the Month[4] choice, and am disappointed. History of a place I am not interested in, by an author I do not like. Put it back into its wrapper again and make fresh choice from Recommended List. Find, on reading small literary bulletin enclosed with book, that exactly this course of procedure has been anticipated, and that it is described as being "the mistake of a lifetime". Am much annoyed, although not so much at having made (possibly) mistake of a lifetime, as at depressing thought of our all being so much alike that intelligent writers can apparently predict our behaviour with perfect accuracy.
Decide not to mention any of this to Lady B., always so tiresomely superior about Book of the Month as it is, taking up attitude that she does not require to be told what to read. (Should like to think of good repartee to this.)
Letter by second post from my dear old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, asking if she may come here for two nights or so on her way to Norwich. (Query: Why Norwich? Am surprised to realise that anybody ever goes to, lives at, or comes from, Norwich, but quite see that this is unreasonable of me. Remind myself how very little one knows of the England one lives in, which vaguely suggests a quotation. This, however, does not materialise.)
Many years since we last met, writes Cissie, and she expects we have both changed a good deal. P.S. Do I remember the dear old pond, and the day of the Spanish Arrowroot. Can recall, after some thought, dear old pond, at bottom of Cissie's father's garden, but am completely baffled by Spanish Arrowroot. (Query: Could this be one of the Sherlock Holmes stories? Sounds like it.)
Reply that we shall be delighted to see her, and what a lot we shall have to talk about, after all these years! (This, I find on reflection, is not true, but cannot re-write letter on that account.) Ignore Spanish Arrowroot altogether.
Robert, when I tell him about dear old school-friend's impending arrival, does not seem pleased. Asks what we are expected to do with her. I suggest showing her the garden, and remember too late that this is hardly the right time of the year. At any rate, I say, it will be nice to talk over old times—(which reminds me of the Spanish Arrowroot reference still unfathomed).
Speak to Ethel about the spare room, and am much annoyed to find that one blue candlestick has been broken, and the bedside rug has gone to the cleaners, and cannot be retrieved in time. Take away bedside rug from Robert's dressing-room, and put it in spare room instead, hoping he will not notice its absence.
November 15th.—Robert does notice absence of rug, and says he must have it back again. Return it to dressing-room and take small and inferior dyed mat from the night-nursery to put in spare room. Mademoiselle is hurt about this and says to Vicky, who repeats it to me, that in this country she finds herself treated like a worm.
November 17th.—Dear old school-friend Cissie Crabbe due by the three o'clock train. On telling Robert this, he says it is most inconvenient to meet her, owing to Vestry Meeting[6], but eventually agrees to abandon Vestry Meeting. Am touched. Unfortunately, just after he has started, telegram arrives to say that dear old school-friend has missed the connection and will not arrive until seven o'clock. This means putting off dinner till eight, which Cook won't like. Cannot send message to kitchen by Ethel, as it is her afternoon out, so am obliged to tell Cook myself. She is not pleased. Robert returns from station, not pleased either. Mademoiselle, quite inexplicably, says, "Il ne manquait que ca!" (This comment wholly unjustifiable, as non-appearance of Cissie Crabbe cannot concern her in any way. Have often thought that the French are tactless.)
Ethel returns, ten minutes late, and says Shall she light fire in spare room? I say No, it is not cold enough—but really mean that Cissie is no longer, in my opinion, deserving of luxuries. Subsequently feel this to be unworthy attitude, and light fire myself. It smokes.
Robert calls up to know What is that Smoke? I call down that It is Nothing. Robert comes up and opens the window and shuts the door and says It will Go all right Now. Do not like to point out that the open window will make the room cold.
