have been feeling spasmodically very foolishly subjective and sentimental about the departure of the Pooh family. Having the Brat about the place has made me want one of my own desperately. I get very melodramatic to myself over the sensation that I am never to have any. It is expected of me as a natural sequence. The next event in the family, Jean’s wedding, how very gratifying. ‘In three years’ time,’ said Ethel to the baby yesterday, ‘I expect you’ll come back to find Auntie Jean pulling on the pants of her own little baby …’
Saturday, 14 December
I do hope this awful feeling of loneliness will pass. I hope it is only subjective, due to stifling influences at home. What is there to keep me at home? Except that I love my father. I love him. But then no one could help loving my father. As Nockie says, it is no credit to Ethel that she is devoted to him. And because of that (and partly too of fear) I have kept quiet within his house. I have climbed down, have tried to meet them on their own level, and what is the result. I am ignored. I lose touch with my friends in town, and here no one cares a damn what I do. I climb down, I climb down. I discuss the weather and menus and listen to family scandal without controversial comment. I have no rows with my family. I am not turned out of the house, but when I am here everybody seems to be wondering why I’m here and why I don’t go. It hurts. I am like a plant trying to find some suitable corner in which to grow and having to uproot myself perpetually.
Friday, 17 January 1936
I had my hand read the other day by a Europeanised Indian at the Caledonian Market. Usually palmists leave me sceptical or despondent and I try to forget what they have told me immediately. But this man seemed to be reading my mind rather than my hand.
‘You might seem to have a bright and happy disposition,’ he said, ‘but actually you are easily and often depressed because you are of an impulsive and highly sensitive nature. You feel that no one understands you. By the end of this month things will be much better for you. At the moment you are in an indecisive state of mind.
‘Early matrimony is indicated. Possibly this year. It will be a good thing for you. You will be happy, so long as you have courage. You are not financially embarrassed, and although money is not your ambition, you will prosper. You will always be surrounded by the elegances and graces. The next three years will be especially prosperous – 1939 will be an excellent year.’
12.
Like a Knife, He Said
Sunday, 19 January 1936 (aged twenty-six)
I have a small room in Howland Street and am moving in on Monday with folding chair and table, books and pen etc. Next week I hope to begin work in earnest.
Ethel took us to see On Wings of Song this evening. Daddy touches the heartstrings: ‘I once was ambitious to sing,’ he said, ‘but I found I wasn’t good enough.’ Shall I be saying that in 50 years’ time? ‘I once wanted to write …’
Monday, 27 January
I have an odd conviction that these journals will have a value, perhaps scientifically. Every time I go through them, they pull at me. I cannot throw them away. They seem to be demanding recognition, acknowledgement in their own right, as they stand, so I will let them have their way.
I am in more danger of being submerged by Gus than I have admitted. It is a difficult fight: every day something happens to draw me deeper into service for him. Day by day my affection grows. I stay up late at night, I linger over meals, I help him entertain his friends.
Marriage with him looms in my mind significantly. But I cannot imagine him in love with me. And I do not honestly want to marry him – socially I doubt if I could rise to the demands of such a position. But vanity urges me to bring about desire in him if it is possible.
Monday, 3 February
Gus blinds with gold-dust. He feeds the vanity of others in order that they may feed his. And I am blinded with the rest. ‘Your view of the young man,’ said Nockie, ‘seems at the bottom to be proprietary. He gives you excitement which you do not get at home.’ I want to believe I can give him what no other woman can.
I am thinking of Gus’s room. It is essentially theatrical – too theatrical. One piece of furniture out of place, or a cushion crumpled, spoils the effect. There is no place in it for anyone but Gus, a room of mirrors.
Tuesday, 11 February
Gus and Zoe may be going to join a repertory company at Amersham next week. They have tried for so many other jobs at various places that I can’t believe this one will materialise.
Friday, 21 February
I am 26, still feel myself neglected, still wanting to be in demand, surrounded by admiration and attention, I want the homage of men and the respect of women – but peace, peace – I don’t really want these things. They are but abstract symbols. It is time I stopped chasing these shadows. What I want is quality – quality in everything I do and possess. I want to be elegant, graceful and elegant without being snobbish; I want to be sophisticated and accomplished without being metallic; I want to be smart without being cheap or theatrical, dignified without being cold or stiff, honest without being dull. Kind without being stupid, be generous without being complacent, steady and reliable without being obstinate and narrow. I want wit without rottenness or meanness, excitement without lust. I am sick of mediocrity, the kindness of cows, the beaming kindness of uncultured women.
Gus and Zoe are playing at Amersham. I went to see their first night performance – a cruel journey, a dreadful little theatre, and an odd, under-rehearsed, barely organised company. The man who is running it seems quite inexperienced and has no money. Consequently Gus and Zoe are given huge parts they cannot manage. It is strange that whenever I see Gus on the stage I can get no grip of the character he is playing at all. I still believe he has great ability, but he is years of hard work away from its full development.
Sunday, 23 February
I have been troubled by the effort involved in living. Why, if I like being lazy, staying in bed, reading easy literature, going to a film or play, drifting around from friend to friend and adventure to adventure – why should I not live like that? I have the economic means, I do not have to support anyone but myself. Why should I bother to write a book? Why must I always be making the effort to improve, to progress?
It would be easy to quieten my conscience by finding a job – in the provinces as a journalist, as a freelance architectural correspondent, or teaching English to a French family. I could even go back to Daddy’s office. It is the continual nagging inside me somewhere that will not let me rest, will not let me laze or relax. One must grow and develop. One must exercise one’s faculties, or without exercise everything atrophies, physical or mental. So I must get my book written. My reading I shall reduce to the New Statesman, the Sunday Times, a few good fiction books, some poetry, and a book or two on style, construction and criticism. But I will do it. I will do it.
Monday, 24 February
Mrs Harris (mother of Gus) came in just now. She sat down on the arm of Zoe’s chair and asked me what I was doing now. ‘Writing a book? A novel? But how interesting.’ And she has promised to give me some introductions for placing it when it is down. And then Pansy Leigh Smith phoned: ‘I know a man in Cassell’s and a publisher in New York.’ And Vahan knows a
