tragedy is that not all intelligent women are smart.
Thursday, 27 August
I add my name (humbly) to the list that appears at the end of the letter in the Statesman this week on Britain and the Spanish War. ‘It was almost universally held that the noblest contribution of the British to European civilisation has been our theory and practice of political liberty and parliamentary democracy … It has taken over 300 years of our history to establish and consolidate this characteristically British freedom and we have had to defend it against our own kings, aristocracy, army leaders and … Spanish, French, German monarchs, dictators, conquerors … At present in Spain a constitutional government, elected by the people, is being attacked by a junta of generals who have declared their intention of destroying parliamentary democracy in that country … We who sign this letter agree in retaining belief in the British ideals of political freedom and democracy.’
Everyone at present is afraid that Socialism and Communism means an attack on their property; the idea is fostered by a capitalistically controlled Press. But I don’t see why the confiscation of individual property must be necessary to bring about the reforms needed. Everyone is so smug: so scared for their own safety. But there is evidence of immense wealth in this country, and I am sure it is only a matter of readjustment and intelligent control of the situation. Not by Fascism or military despotism – that is death, not life to the people. The individual’s material needs are limited: after a certain point luxury becomes a vice, and possessions superfluous. The trouble is, I suppose, that the surplus millions are controlled by a small set of powerful persons who have so strangled themselves spiritually that they can only kill and corrupt life.
I am all for the Vogue way of living: elegance, grace, culture. I consider it necessary to fine living, and know it to be a difficult achievement. But my sense of justice demands that everyone is given a fair chance to achieve that social height. The finest intelligence and most artistic nature should be at the top, but not bolstered there by immoral economic support. Give every man and woman sufficient means to feed and clothe and house themselves, and let the intelligent and artistic rise as they should by the natural development of their capabilities. Let us be snobbish about ugliness and meanness and lies, and let us encourage kindness and cultivate manners and good taste.
Friday, 28 August
On the eve of this long-planned motor trip in Europe it has occurred to me that I have made no will. I have been told repeatedly I should make one, but it is such a complicated business I have shirked it. But supposing something happened, who on earth would settle my affairs?
In The Event of My Sudden Death during coming fortnight, I appoint (or request) my friends Marjorie Nockolds and Joan Bulbulian executrices.
My share of the property at Wembley and all invested and current monies I leave to my brother Leslie Vernon Pratt (c/o Pacific Cable Board, Barbados, BWI), with the exception of the War Loan Stock, which I should like transferred to my friend Marjorie Nockolds, and £100 to my friend Constance Oliver.
I should like Constance Oliver also to choose whatever furniture she cares to have from the lots stored with John Sanders of Ealing Broadway, with the exception of the grandfather clock, which I leave to my cousin Margaret Royan, and the piano, which I leave to my cousin Joyce Joliffe.
And furniture for which Constance cannot find a use I should like my stepmother Ethel Mary Pratt to have in the hope that she may buy her cottage soon.
All MSS, Notebooks, Diaries etc to be burnt please without being read.
My new fur coat (purchased this week and being stored with John Lewis of Oxford St) I leave to my friend Mrs Valerie Honour. My other clothes to my friend Zoe Randall (109 Charlotte St), and also to her my sewing machine.
My jewellery I leave to my sister in law, Ivy Pratt. My typewriter to John Rickman. My best deep-blue tea service to Gus (Geoffrey Harris). My plants and kitten to Joan Bulbulian, and my good wishes to everyone I haven’t mentioned.
Thank you all,
Jean Lucey Pratt
‘Only the brightest memories remain.’ Jean’s parents, George and Sarah.
13.
Israel Epstein
Saturday, 29 August 1936 (aged twenty-six)
Luxembourg.
For a fortnight I hope no one can send me bills, solicitors cannot disturb me, and property need not worry me. We drove to Dover last night, lost our way and Martin his temper, arrived half an hour late but allowed on board. Belgium incredibly boring, drab, beaten, until we go beyond Brussels. Picnic lunch in Soignes Forest, lovely. Scenery from Namur to Bastogne and Luxembourg boundary enchanting. Dorothy and I sleeping in car, Martin in cart at side. Soon must wash in babbling brook.
Wednesday, 2 September
We have come through Luxembourg into Germany via Trier, the Saar, Hamburg, Karlsruhe, Freiburg, Titisee, the Bodensee, Meersburg, into Austria, Bregenz, and are now camped in the valley somewhere between Bludenz and Partenen. Nothing but mountains, fir trees, river blue sky and a sun setting on the further side of the valley. Martin and Dorothy have gone in search of milk.
It took me three days to realise I was abroad again: everything seemed so like England – trains, roads, cars, trams, European clothes. The civilised countries are getting alike. Everything in Germany very clean, efficient, stolid. A nation of mechanics, without imagination, kind, but ugly, bullet-headed, fat, corpulent, cigar smokers, beer drinkers. In Bavaria flowers in the windows everywhere. We went to a Biergarten last night in Lindau, but though the people there were well fed, I thought them dull, heavy, drably dressed.
Atmosphere in Austria a little different. A more dreamy light in the eyes of the people, villages still clean, but not so tidy. As Dorothy remarked, Austria seems the same as Germany but without that solidity.
M. rather mean-minded. Haggles about halfpennies and begrudges us a postcard. Dorothy is pretty, feminine, a little stupid, but easy to know.
Sunday, 6 September
We are now at the Gasthaus in the Falkenstein. Yesterday we spent partly at the Freiburg baths, and today we walked a little way into the Black Forest. They aren’t walkers, the others. I am not a walker either, but can walk the others tired without much difficulty. Martin doesn’t drink beer or spirits or smoke; his only appetite is for tea, which he drinks at any hour of the day. Lovely country, but a little too lush, too dark. I feel hemmed in, bowed down by mountains, vision barred and escape impossible.
Monday, 7 September
No marks left for a meal. We are feeding off nuts and peaches.
Friday, 11 September
Hampstead. Arrived back soon after seven. Cheeta was sweet but thinner and larger. Plants dusty and badly watered.
Wednesday, 16 September
Do not feel I have had a holiday at all, swept as I am into the turmoil again. Find I have been elected a member of the People’s Front Propaganda Committee.
