3 January. Actually I miss Jockie more – his company and conversation, but I am still enslaved by Henry’s baser charms. I’ve not written to him – mainly because I’m not sure of his address. He goes back to Finland next Wednesday.
Now for more trivial matters. I am knitting a sock, dark blue – but ah for whom? I suppose much will depend on the size and general elegance, but it seems thick enough to withstand the rigours of a Finnish winter. My novel progresses not at all – Auntie Nellie is here and we are without a maid, so that at present I seem too busy to do much at it. Nor am I reading anything ‘worthwhile’ just now, although our greater English poets in their completeness lie in my bookshelves. Tonight we went to see Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra, which was quite entertaining and unintentionally amusing.
9 March. Oxford. I went to see Jockie at the flat and yearned for Henry, as that atmosphere always makes me. Henry had left behind his grey overcoat and I sat in it sentimentally the whole evening.
19 April. Germany. We started from Victoria at 10. This year going to Germany wasn’t quite so much to soothe an aching heart, though I had been rather bored. I hadn’t written to Henry since February 25th nor he to me. There is something satisfying about such silence.
20 April We arrived in Cologne about 6. I was very tired but sufficiently awake to notice who of last year’s German students were there to meet us. To my pleasure I noticed Hanns. It was so nice to see his familiar face again that I felt comforted although there was no sign of Friedbert. I spoke to Hanns and we had a little conversation in German. The drive to the Kameradschafthaus was rather long.
Friedbert was angelic to me. Such kindness as his one can never forget.
May. Oswestry. Why can’t I write this diary properly? But now that I’ve seen Henry again I must make myself write. Otherwise his biographers (or mine) will be disappointed at the break in the otherwise continuous account of my acquaintance with him.
After Germany I was in love with Friedbert in a way. I put it so because I realised even at the time that most of it was probably glamour. His being a foreigner – the little Americanisms in his speech like ‘terribly’ and the way he said ‘Barbara’ – it being in a foreign country with the Hohenzollern Brücke by moonlight and zwei Manhattan at the Excelsior and his Nivea Creme that I rubbed on my arm to remember the smell of him – for all these things I loved him and yet I hardly knew him as a person and didn’t at all agree with his National Socialism, although I tried to read Feuchtwanger’s book The Oppermans and a lot of German poetry just after my stay in Cologne and my interest in the language was reawakened with the result that really I learnt a good deal more. Now that I’ve seen Henry again I suppose it will be Swedish, which he seems to speak and read fluently and gets quite annoyed when I can’t do the same.
I heard from Barnicot that Henry was in Oxford when I arrived 22 May. On Friday 24 May I saw him again for the first time since 12 Dec. The meeting was quite as I could have wished. I came upon him face to face in the Broad. He was pleased to see me, genuinely I think. He made fun of my pink toenails, saying that I must hide them under a table as quickly as possible. This we did, by having coffee in Fuller’s, although it was almost lunchtime. Funnily enough we saw Alison there and it was pleasant not to feel jealous of her. Henry was extremely nice and I went back to lunch full of hope. I went to see him at 30 Banbury Road at 6 o’clock that evening and he was still nice and seemed more interested in me – which was perhaps natural. ‘There is no future, there is no more past’.… When I quoted that to Henry in a letter I was writing while with him one morning I’m sure he didn’t in the least know what it was, and naturally he wouldn’t ask. That is so unsatisfactory, not being properly understood, and not being given the chance to explain. I suppose I imagine that I must be more interesting and intelligent than the other unwanted lovers of this world. However, I had dinner at the George with him and Jock. Henry said – ‘It’s no use looking at those strawberries, because you won’t get any’. I had actually been contemplating a fine lobster. I was happy that evening. Then, although Henry and Jock argued somewhat (about Jock’s desire to leave Oxford and cut himself off from it entirely) we had pleasant conversation and things seemed better than they had been. Afterwards we went back to 30 Banbury Road and were turned out for being noisy, and perhaps the woman heard my remark about it being so sordid to be seen in one’s suspenders. I was on Henry’s knee at the time and Jock was playing ‘Holy, Holy, Holy’ on the recorder. A strange combination of circumstances.
After that I didn’t see Henry for four days which made me rather depressed. At least I only caught glimpses of him. And on Sunday night I heard from Jock that he’d gone to live at 5 Pusey Street. I spent Sunday night wandering about Oxford trying to console myself and perhaps catch a sight of him. Monday too was spent in looking for him, without success, for I didn’t like to call at his house and would have preferred a chance meeting. I went to his room and left him a note. On top of his tin of Nivea, which the mean creature refused to give me. The note I left was in my best style I think. He thought it charming and wrote me a nice letter next day, which I was surprised and delighted to get. As a result I went to see him on Wednesday morning at ten o’clock and saw him eating his breakfast. He was not particularly good tempered, but then he seldom is in the mornings. He will never talk about him and me and always gives evasive answers that are unsatisfying to me, as I want so much to know how things really are between us. Is it any use hoping even for his friendship – and is that enough? Is it not rather worse than nothing? At present I can’t decide. Barnicot thinks I have no hope at all and that his friendship would be of no use to me. But I think somehow that I’d like it. I don’t mind being part of the furniture of his background, or even hanging over him like a gloomy cloud, as he said at tea one day. He himself has admitted that I have a special place in the little world he has built for himself and of which presumably J. is the centre. And I suppose too that he feels this is so in the novel where I have brought us all together in our later years. But at the present moment it seems as if this world is falling to pieces – so what becomes of me then?
After supper we all went on the river. We landed at the Victoria Arms where Jock left us and strutted away across the ferry. When Jock had gone Henry proceeded to get rather drunk. I had a little beer but not much, though I was quite hilarious. We got mixed up with a party of tight undergraduates, one of whom was rather funny, and asked Henry to sleep with him. Henry, rather getting the worse of it in the wit combat, diverted attention to me. From then I was for it. We had been speaking foreign languages, as one naturally tends to under the influence of drink, and he pretended I was a German. None of the undergraduate party could really speak it, so we were able to deceive them. Henry (by this time rather drunk) insisted that we should punt along with them and kept trying to put me in the other punt, which he eventually succeeded in doing with the help of another man. Barnicot (who was punting) was silent. Up to now I had been quite enjoying things but when I found myself in a punt with five drunken undergraduates I didn’t feel so happy. Also I was being taken further and further away from my own people, who seemed unable to catch up. I think I am to be congratulated on the way in which I kept up the deception to the end. Anyway I’d have felt even more of a fool if I’d admitted to them that I was English and a graduate of the University, so I more or less had to and my German was adequate. There was rather a terrifying moment when turning and we were standing up and the punt began to fill with water. I suppose I should have felt very much ashamed of myself but I wasn’t really, especially as it was all H’s fault. At the time I wasn’t in the least angry with him although I should have been, for he behaved like a complete cad. We went on to Jockie’s flat where we had tea and Jock heard all the story. I think he was amused about it, though of course he pretended to be shocked. Of course when Henry told it, he made me out to be much worse than I really was. But I was feeling very loving towards him and sprawled all over him on the sofa.
30 May. I went round to Henry’s at 10. This was a very nice day for me. We spent the morning quite lazily, I was sleepy and so was he. I read aloud to him then he wanted the book to himself, so that all he could lend me was Colley Cibber’s Apology for his life which I wasn’t really feeling in the mood for. So I slept a little and thought much and rubbed Nivea and Eau de Cologne on myself and wrote a love letter to Henry and then he said I could stay to lunch. We decided to go to Basingstoke to fetch the Bentley – just me and Henry. We caught the 3 o’clock train and had a carriage to ourselves and it was upholstered in lurid shades of red and rusty brown in a large bold pattern. I’m sure I shall always remember that upholstery.
We smoked Finnish cigarettes and talked about travel in Finland and the English countryside. We also read the Telegraph and I meditated on how strange and wonderful it was to be in a train with Henry, and who would have thought it two years ago and the sort of thing I always think whenever I do anything with him. I suppose this is inevitable, as the most ordinary things done with someone one loves are full of new significance that they never have otherwise.
In Basingstoke we wandered through the streets till we found the garage, where we were told that the car would be ready in about half an hour. So we wandered in the streets once more and looked at the shut shops. We saw some cottages for the poor, aged and impotent but somehow it was difficult to imagine that either of us would ever be those things. Basingstoke is a very ordinary town with rather a hideous Jubilee (1887) tower, which doesn’t match the rest of the architecture. But I suppose I shall always remember it luridly. I think Henry and I must have looked like two characters out of a musical comedy – the comic characters. As I caught sight of our reflections in shop windows I couldn’t help smiling. I was wearing my German hat, turned up all round, so that it looked like a kind of parson’s hat, or dish, and there is always something faintly ludicrous about Henry’s blue hat with him inside it. It was rather hot, thundery weather and I expressed a desire for a drink of Eno’s which Henry thought rather shocking. We looked about at men’s clothes in the shops and then went and had tea at a place called the Golden Gate Café – all orange. We sat in the window and Henry said that if he was very rich he would buy me a cottage in the country, only I couldn’t have a wireless. Also an establishment in Oxford which I insisted on.
The ride back in the Bentley was marvellous. It was the first time I’d ever ridden in one. We ran into heavy rain and thunder when we’d gone a few miles and had to put the hood up, during which I cut my finger. Henry made a somewhat unnecessary fuss about it, but it was nice to be poor Pym-ed at intervals. When we reached Pangbourne the weather was nice again, and stayed so all the way back to Oxford. I was wearing the Barnicot waffy coat which I liked very much. It is so enormously spacious and opulent. I’m sure we must have looked very caddish. I found myself wanting to gaze all the time at Henry’s divine profile, particularly those lovely hollows in his cheeks which delight me so. But if I gazed too much I had to make conversation so I contented myself with remaining huddled in the huge coat, wishing the journey needn’t ever come to an end.
After supper went for a ride in the Bentley – Henry and Jockie in front, Barnicot and I in the back. It was very pleasant intrinsically but Henry’s good temper had worn off and though we were together in the back of the car on the latter part of the ride he said he was bored with me, and seemed in the sort of mood when he would be nasty whatever I said.
The next time I saw him properly was Saturday the 1st. I had lunch with John Barnicot and we talked a good deal about Henry as we always do. He thinks I have absolutely no hope at all, and it’s a waste of time me hanging around. Naturally this wasn’t really news to me, but I couldn’t help being a little cast down when he told me that Henry found me boring because I always agreed with him. J.B. thinks it would be better if I were a little rougher with Henry. Consequently when we met him I tried to be rude to him and he was also rude to me, which made me annoyed. However it was difficult to be really effective in public and the afternoon was rather futile and pointless. We walked down St Aldate’s and through Christ Church meadows and then went in the Botanical Gardens, where I took them into the very hot hot-houses. But there was nothing exciting there – only a few orchids. We were all rather fractious and I chased Henry with a stick and argued with him about the date when the place was founded, although I hadn’t really the faintest idea. Henry and B. and I had tea in the Union Garden – the first time I’ve had a meal in the Union. That was nice and there was a charming cat in the garden, but Henry was rude about my teeth, which always makes me unhappy. Henry and I then walked back to my digs in St Margaret’s Road somewhat drearily and I tried to talk to him and find out how I stood. I said it hadn’t been delightful seeing him but quite nice, to which he agreed saying that nothing could be delightful any more.
25 August. Oswestry. Henry, Jockie and Mr Barnicot all came to Oswestry. It was lovely. Henry was absolutely at his best. He wore his grey flannel suit, a bright blue silk shirt with a darker blue tie and blue socks. He wanted me to return to Oxford with them, but I feel it is better that I remain here, thinking lovingly of him, with more real fondness than before. He goes to Finland on the 11th of September. I don’t know when he comes back or when I shall see him again.
3 November. I take up my pen after a long interval, not as seems usual in this diary because I’ve seen Henry again or because anything particularly exciting has happened to me. There’s no point in trying to write up all past events so I shall just have to begin now.
10 November. No letter from Henry. No news of my novel. Last Monday I sent two stories to the London Mercury – Unpast Alps and They Never Write, but have so far heard nothing. On Tuesday I had a driving lesson with Price and got on well.
11 November. Armistice Day. My novel came back from being typed while I was having breakfast. They seem to have done it well and in spite of a few mistakes it looks very nice. I may call it Some Tame Gazelle. Some Sad Turtle is also another possibility but somehow it reminds me rather too much of turtle soup and the rest of the quotation isn’t quite so suitable. I spent some time going through the novel in the evening and did about 13 chapters. I am alternately cheerful and depressed about it.
For the two minutes silence we went to the Park gates where they had a nice service.
15 November. I am reading Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers and enjoying it so much. Pleasure and pain in an agreeable mixture. That’s what I feel when I think of Oxford and my days at St Hilda’s.
16 November. No letters today or indeed any other day it seems. Henry, Jockie, Barnicot, Friedbert, Sharp, London Mercury – all silent.
I packed off my novel (Some Tame Gazelle it’s to be) to be bound into 2 volumes (in limp covers!). We had lunch in Shrewsbury and did a little vague shopping. I bought a 6d. lipstick. Now I’m trying to think of a plot for a new novel. Possibly another me, in the character of an undergraduate this time!
19 November. This morning I had another driving lesson and got on very well except for a few lapses, notably when I went on the pavement at the Sun Corner. However I’m getting better at it. I had a nice Austin 2-seater to drive. Yesterday I started another novel and wrote about a thousand words or more. It promises to be quite fun. This evening Ack and I went to the pictures to see Charles Boyer and Loretta Young in Shanghai.
21 November. My novel came back from being bound – very nicely with green backs and soft yellow covers. I had a nice letter from Jockie. He says Henry has given away his kitten and wonders how he had the heart to do it. Personally I’m not so sure about Henry having so much kindness in that heart of his. He is coming back to England sometime between December 9th and 12th. I don’t feel any special emotion about it, but I certainly shan’t stay in Oxford as last year.
23 November. My novel was sent to Chatto and Windus yesterday. I didn’t feel half so emotional about it as when I sent it to be typed. Today I have spent most of my time knitting a brown peaked cap. It is now finished and quite snappy.
26 November. Had a nice note from Harold Raymond acknowledging my novel. At 11.30 my last driving lesson. We went through the town then Whittington, Queen’s Head, Wolf’s Head then through Oswestry again and the Race Course. We talked of dogs and monkeys and the Big Wheel at Blackpool. I got on quite well and gave him 10/-. He seemed quite pleased.
27 November. Refused yet another invite to Mrs Moon’s dance. Nowadays one cannot undertake such engagements lightly. Most of this day was spent in getting ready for Oxford – packing. I am pleasantly excited about going away, and hope I’ll meet somebody nice and not be brooding too much over Henry.
28 November. Oxford. Once more in Oxford and so far it seems to be very much like any other time since I left. Only I notice even more that everywhere is full of strange young faces – Elliston’s, the Bodleian, the Corn – I’ve seen Barnicot – yesterday evening in the Radcliffe Camera and had a long talk with him. They’ve altered the place and made a great round enclosure in the middle of the floor – wherein sit Barnicot and minions. We talked for a long time and he was rather depressing about my novel. About that one can only wait. I sent a postcard to Henry, a highly coloured one of Christ Church – the Light that never was on sea or land, I called it. It’s good to be here again though I can see nobody to fall in love with.
2 December. Yesterday I went out to dinner with Jock and had a long talk afterwards – he gave me a peculiar photograph of Henry. On seeing photographs of Henry in his album I was so moved that my eyes filled with tears, whether from love, memories of the past, regret of the present or anticipation of the future, I don’t know.
After tea with Hilary today at Elliston’s we went on to Martin Watkin’s sherry party at 99 Botley Road. It was very much as sherry parties usually are when one really knows none of the people there – a small low-ceilinged room full of people and cigarette smoke. Noise of talking and a radiogramophone makes all conversation impossible – one can’t be intelligent shouting remarks at a person. There was nobody I passionately wanted to know. After it we had some food at Kemp Hall Cafeteria and then I called at 30 Banbury Road to see Mr Barnicot. Fortunately I found him in and I spent a very pleasant evening talking with him and Meurig Davies who came in later. They seemed impressed by the fact that I was looking so elegant, which I was more than usual – in my turquoise frock, black fur cape and high heels. We talked of course and then they wanted me to read, so I read a chapter from The Brothers Karamazov for which they each (B. and Meurig!) gave me one penny. Mr B. also read some Italian (Ariosto I think) while Meurig recited a few speeches and bits of things. Later we turned the light out and had music from Budapest, which always makes me a little melancholy. There we were, the three of us – Mr B. in love with Honor, Meurig with Ann Sitwell and Pymska with Henry. It was a most pleasant evening.
3 December. I went in the town this morning – very poor. I tried to get back 6½d. from Elliston’s for a pair of knitting needles, but they would only change them and wouldn’t let me have the money. Then I wrote home for some books to try and sell them.
6 December. I forgot to say that yesterday my novel was rejected by Chatto, but they wrote me a very nice letter. They think it’s too long and my character drawing too detached, but I have a style which is a pleasure to read, etc. I wasn’t as depressed as I thought I’d be and even looked forward to cutting and improving it. Jockie and Barnicot were very sweet and sympathetic. ‘There is a world elsewhere’ anyway.
On Friday David Tree – Viola Tree’s son – was at a party I went to. He is a charming young man (about nineteen I think) and very good looking. He is however interested in Hot and Swing music to such an extent that he can talk of nothing else. He will sit with a profound rapt look on his face and then all he will say is – ‘wonderful, that entry after the vocal’. He made no real effort to divert.
7 December. I went into the Bodleian to say goodbye to Jockie. He said he had had a postcard from Henry, and that Henry had sent his love to me. J. was very sweet and quite at his best. I hope he doesn’t go to Cairo, because I shall miss him very much. I bought two postcards in the picture gallery – one of the outside of the library and another of the familiar ‘Pllurimi pertransibunt et multiplex erit scientia’. I wonder when I shall pass through again. I seemed to be telling myself that I shouldn’t visit Oxford for a long time, but it seems hard to imagine not going there for a termly visit, although each time it gets a little sad. A slow wrenching away indeed.
9 December. Oswestry. This morning I sent my novel to Gollancz.
12 December. Went to Brian’s dance. We kept getting lost and missing signposts but eventually arrived at Petersfield about 6. We changed hastily and had a magnificent dinner at the Red Lion. We had a good start for the dance with cocktails, champagne and port, so that I felt quite dizzy! The dance itself was great fun although having to dance and make conversation with so many different people was rather a strain.
20 December. Today I had two stories rejected by the London Mercury, so that I only need my novel back from Gollancz to complete everything. But in the bustle of Christmas shopping I seem not to care overmuch.
29 December. I must start reading our greater English poets again. The Heir of Redclyffe is rather a comfort though. At present I am depressed. I want Liebe but I would be satisfied if my novel could be published.