19 July 1937 – 25 July 1937

Just back from M.H. but I can’t and won’t write anything—too bothered and dithered. Also, I screwed my head tight—too tight—knocking together a little obituary of Janet for The Times. And couldn’t make it take the folds well: too stiff and mannered. She died. Three notes from Emphie† this morning. She died on Thursday, shut her eyes and “looks so beautiful.” Today they are cremating her, and she had had printed a little funeral service—with the death day left blank. No words: an adagio from Beethoven and a text about gentleness and faith which I would have included had I known. But what does my writing matter? There is something fitting and complete about the memory of her, thus consummated. Dear old harum scarum Emphie will have her solitary moments to herself. To us she will always be a scatterbrain; yet to me very touching and I remember that phrase in her letter, how she ran into Janet’s room at midnight, and they had a nice little time together. She was always running in. Janet was the steadfast contemplative one, anchored in some private faith which didn’t correspond with the world’s. But she was oddly inarticulate. No hand for words. Her letters, save that the last began “My beloved Virginia,” always cool and casual. And how I loved her, at Hyde Park Gate: and how I went hot and cold going to Windmill Hill: and how great a visionary part she has played in my life, till the visionary became a part of the fictitious, not of the real life.