children's clothes, and house generally, than could ever have been got into tub originally. Think this odd, but have noticed similar phenomenon before.
Guests depart between seven and half-past, and Helen Wills and the dog are let out by Robin, having been shut up on account of crackers, which they dislike.
Robert and I spend evening helping servants to restore order, and trying to remember where ash-trays, clock, ornaments, and ink were put for safety.
January 3rd.—Hounds meet in the village. Robert agrees to take Vicky on the pony. Robin, Mademoiselle, and I walk to the Post Office to see the start, and Robin talks about Oliver Twist, making no reference whatever to hunt from start to finish, and viewing horses, hounds, and huntsmen with equal detachment. Am impressed at his non-suggestibility, but feel that some deep Freudian significance may lie behind it all. Feel also that Robert would take very different view of it.
Meet quantities of hunting neighbours, who say to Robin, "Aren't you riding too?" which strikes one as lacking in intelligence, and ask me if we have lost many trees lately, but do not wait for answer, as what they really want to talk about is the number of trees they have lost themselves.
Mademoiselle looks at hounds and says, "Ah, ces bons chiens!" also admires horses, "quelles bêtes superbes"—but prudently keeps well away from all, in which I follow her example.
Vicky looks nice on pony, and I receive compliments about her, which I accept in an off-hand manner, tinged with incredulity, in order to show that I am a modern mother and should scorn to be foolish about my children.
Hunt moves off, Mademoiselle remarking, "Voilà bien le sport anglais!" Robin says: "Now can we go home?" and eats milk-chocolate. We return to the house and I write order to the Stores, post-card to the butcher, two letters about Women's Institutes, one about Girl Guides, note to the dentist asking for appointment next week, and make memorandum in engagement-book that I must call on Mrs. Somers at the Grange.
Am horrified and incredulous at discovery that these occupations have filled the entire morning.
Robert and Vicky return late, Vicky plastered with mud from head to foot but unharmed. Mademoiselle removes her, and says no more about le sport anglais.
January 4th.—A beautiful day, very mild, makes me feel that with any reasonable luck Mrs. Somers will be out, and I therefore call at the Grange. She is, on the contrary, in. Find her in the drawing-room, wearing printed velvet frock that I immediately think would look nice on me. No sign anywhere of Bees, but am getting ready to enquire about them intelligently when Mrs. Somers suddenly says that her Mother is here, and knows my old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, who says that I am so amusing. The Mother comes in—very elegant Marcel wave—(cannot imagine where she got it, unless she has this moment come from London)—and general air of knowing how to dress in the country. She is introduced to me—name sounds exactly like Eggchalk but do not think this possible—and says she knows my old school-friend Miss Crabbe, at Norwich, and has heard all about how very, very amusing I am. Become completely paralysed and can think of nothing whatever to say except that it has been very stormy lately. Leave as soon as possible.
January 5th.—Rose, in the kindest way, offers to take me as her guest to special dinner of famous Literary Club if I will come up to London for the night. Celebrated editor of literary weekly paper in the chair, spectacularly successful author of famous play as guest of honour. Principal authors, poets, and artists from—says Rose—all over the world, expected to be present.
Spend much of the evening talking to Robert about this. Put it to him: (a) That no expense is involved beyond 3rd class return ticket to London; (b) that in another twelve years Vicky will be coming out, and it is therefore incumbent on me to Keep in Touch with People; (c) that this is an opportunity that will never occur again; (d) that it isn't as if I were asking him to come too. Robert says nothing to (a) or (b) and only "I should hope not" to (c), but appears slightly moved by (d). Finally says he supposes I must do as I like, and very likely I shall meet some old friends of my Bohemian days when living with Rose in Hampstead.
Am touched by this, and experience passing wonder if Robert can be feeling slightly jealous. This fugitive idea dispelled by his immediately beginning to speak about failure of hot water this morning.
January 7th.—Rose takes me to Literary Club dinner. I wear my Blue. Am much struck by various young men who have defiantly put on flannel shirts and no ties, and brushed their hair up on end. They are mostly accompanied by red-headed young women who wear printed crêpe frocks and beads. Otherwise, everyone in evening dress. Am introduced to distinguished Editor, who turns out to be female and delightful. Should like to ask her once and for all why prizes in her paper's weekly competition are so often divided, but feel this would be unsuitable and put Rose to shame.
Am placed at dinner next to celebrated best-seller, who tells me in the kindest way how to evade paying super-tax. Am easily able to conceal from him the fact that I am not at present in a position to require this information. Very distinguished artist sits opposite, and becomes more and more convivial as evening advances. This encourages me to remind him that we have met before—which we have, in old Hampstead days. He declares enthusiastically that he remembers me perfectly—which we both know to be entirely untrue—and adds wildly that he has followed my work ever since. Feel it better to let this pass unchallenged. Later on, distinguished artist is found to have come out without any money, and all in his immediate neighbourhood are required to lend him amount demanded by head-waiter.
Feel distinctly thankful that Robert is not with me, and am moreover morally certain that distinguished artist will remember nothing whatever in the morning, and will therefore be unable to refund my three-and-sixpence.
Rose handsomely pays for my dinner as well as her own.
(This suggests Mem.: That English cooking, never unduly attractive, becomes positively nauseating on any public occasion, such as a banquet. Am seriously distressed at probable reactions of foreign visitors to this evening's fish, let alone other items.)
Young gentleman is introduced to me by Rose—(she saying in rapid murmur that he is part-author of a one-act play that has been acted three times by a Repertory company in Jugo-Slavia.) It turns out later that he has met Lady Boxe, who struck him, he adds immediately, as a poisonous woman. We then get on well together. (Query: Is not a common hate one of the strongest links in human nature? Answer, most regrettably, in the affirmative.)
Very, very distinguished Novelist approaches me (having evidently mistaken me for someone else), and talks amiably. She says that 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 asking 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 that there are many people here to whom she must speak, and pursues well-known Poet—who does not, however, allow her to catch up with him. Can understand this.
Speeches are made. Am struck, as so often, by the eloquence and profundity of other people, and reflect how sorry I should be to have to make a speech myself, although so often kept awake at night composing wholly admirable addresses to the servants, Lady B., Mademoiselle, and others—which, however, never get delivered.
Move about after dinner, and meet acquaintance whose name I have forgotten, but connect with literature. I ask if he has published anything lately. He says that his work is not, and never can be, for publication. Thought passes through my mind to the effect that this attitude might with advantage be adopted by many others. Do not say so, however, and we talk instead about Rebecca West, the progress of
