it was Hell Chris! It was so unlike you, to betray our friendship like that. But oh how typical of you, you dear thing. Was there anything you ever did that wasn’t a frightful rush? Of course you may count on me to help you … to the end of the world Chris. I will not fail you.
Wednesday, 4 January
I am climbing out of the dark well of my despair. Chris did write to me, even as the honourable man I believed him to be. Brief, sincere, concealing. I think I admire him more for the complete lack of an attempt at an explanation than I could have done for any number of bitter excuses. I must accept the truth of all he told me, and if it is so then his difficulty must be even greater than mine.
It must have been true when he told me marriage couldn’t come into his life, and that if he married anyone not a S. African his father had told him he need not go home again. It must have been a very desperate situation that forced him into this marriage. And I know from his letter he needs help, and time will prove whether mine will be of any value to him or not. I will give of what I have to give abundantly, whether it be kindliness, farewell, or a deep and intimate relationship. And of these three the last would be easiest for me, for I know that to be once more crushed in the strong comfort of his arms would bring to me a relief so overwhelming that I daren’t contemplate it.
Thursday, 12 January
Gus said: ‘Before you went away you were beginning to stand on your own feet, beginning to express your ideas, and they were no longer suburban. Then you fell in love and you went back, threw your whole weight on the man. You were dangling. I saw that sooner or later you must drop, and only hoped we should all be there to catch you when you fell.’
I was so impregnated with his point of view at the time he said this that I wasn’t able to contradict him. I see now he is wrong. I never dangled. Not once. But he was a little blinded I think. For a little while I withdrew myself from him and he was jealous. Perhaps it went to my head a little: oh the thrill for a woman when she realises the strange power she can have over a man!
‘You will never be happy,’ said Gus. ‘You want too much and your sympathy is too deep.’ Probably. But what do I want? What does Gus want? What is it we search for and call vaguely an ideal? I owe Gus a tremendous lot, and I think he is right when he says, ‘I feel I have taken you as far as I can, taught you as much as I know. Now it is either someone else’s turn or you are to go on your own.’
He hopes he may train me into that ideal companion for which he knows he is seeking in vain, and I am resisting it with all my strength. It is impossible because of his tragic difference. He is sexless.41 And I, if I am to live, must have sexual satisfaction. ‘Leave sex alone,’ says D.H. Lawrence. ‘Sex is a state of grace and you’ll have to wait.’ I shall surely have to experience this sex fully. I can wait.
It may be I am to write as a woman for women. Perhaps in my writing I shall find the consolation I need. If I must face the truth that no one person will ever be able completely to fill my desires, then let me be brave about it. I have no passion to paint or dance or sing – only to write.
Wednesday, 25 January
From Since Then by P. Gibbs:42
‘Problem of the young woman who wants to fulfil the natural destiny of womanhood but cannot find her mate. It is the outstanding problem of England today … These legions of girls are wistful for male companionship. They want to meet nice boys who will give them the chance of marriage. They crave to be loved … all the books they read intensify their yearnings to experience the biological purpose of their being, without which they have been robbed of the greatest adventure in life with essential meaning. One thing is certain. These women are not going back again behind the window blinds.’
Tuesday, 11 April 1933
An idea for a novel is germinating. Mainly about me (M.), but the chief characters are all to be based on real people. Briefly the theme is to be this. M. is at college, just realising that what she really thinks she wants is to get married and run a home, instead of a career as an architect. One love affair having just ended rather badly, leaving her feeling bleak and lonely. Her best companion of some years’ standing is G.; he is younger, consumptive and training to dance.
Then she meets the new curate of her home suburb. He is 30-ish, falls in love with her and finally asks her to marry him. She finds she doesn’t know how to answer him. Her complexity is acute. She is not romantically in love with the clergyman, although she likes him well enough and finds him marvellously sympathetic.
It is this character about which I am most hazy at the moment. I want to meet Mr Wildman, the locum here while the Vicar is away. Ever since I heard of his coming the thought has been developing. ‘Seems a manly man,’ Ethel wrote. ‘Doesn’t mind going to a pub for a drink and won’t wear clerical garb but goes about in flannels etc.’ Which I thought sounded dangerous, such an easy way of attracting people in these days of general scepticism. A cheap bid for popularity. Yes, I do want to meet him, just to see if he is like that, and if he could be built into this book.
I am prepared to let the affair go as far as an engagement, and then in a sudden panic she breaks it off – crashing through all her theories and deciding to go her way alone.
All the time, of course, G. has a tremendous influence over her. He is in love with her and she not a little with him, but this they don’t dare to admit to each other for marriage is quite impossible, even if his health permitted.
Friday, 14 April
In collecting material for the 3rd character of my novel I feel I am in danger of letting myself in for something I shall regret. Supposing what I am now imagining were really to happen! It seems now that I hear of nothing else but the marvels and strangeness of Mr Wildman. Here is an account of his interview with the Wembley News:
‘“Many of the Church’s practices and customs are inconsistent,” he said. “There is a vast amount of hypocrisy in our modern church life … People are too easily shocked by frank references to the facts of life. Sunday cinemas? I am strongly in favour of them, provided that people who take this recreation go to Church first.” Mr W. has led an adventurous life. He has served on a windjammer and travelled all over the world. He has been a journalist and worked in a bank.’
I don’t like the photograph of him in the paper, but when studied carefully he has interesting eyes. Nonetheless I am deeply sceptical. I know exactly what I would like to say to him if I ever get the proper opportunity.
Easter Sunday, 16 April
Have just been to the 7 a.m. service. I have been trying to find out why I bother to go at all. I think it is mainly to appease my conscience and appease Daddy. I went too to see Wildman, but he was not taking the service. He handed round the wine and stood by the porch door afterwards: a pleasant voice and a pleasant face with very alert dark eyes. He is going bald on top of his head, but on the whole the impression was favourable, except for the callow youth who stood by his side. Ethel spoke of this youth: she has seen him about with him. Perhaps I’m being unfair. My putrid mind would leap at once to homosexuality.
Later: I am working myself into a positive fever over this man. It is quite absurd. I can’t forget his eyes. I know I’m riding for a fall, but I want desperately to meet him. To talk to him and get it over. The difficulty is that it may be weeks or months before it occurs. I would like to get my teeth stuck into his theories and worry them out with him, but I will not go to church to hear him, I will not be numbered
