25 April 1938 – 1 May 1938

We had our Easter at M.H.: but as for the sun, it never shone; was colder than Christmas; a grudging lead-coloured sky; razor wind; winter clothes; proofs; much acute despair; curbed however by the aid of divine philosophy; a joy in discovering Mandeville’s Bees (this really a fruitful book; the very book I want). Then Q. rings up; to warn you: Have you had a letter from Pipsy?* Ottoline is dead. They told her P. might die, and the shock killed her: and he’s asking you to write about her (with Mr. Wicks and Mr. Mussell exploring the attics for the new room). So I had to write; and the horrid little pellet screwed my brain; leaves it giddy. Yet in spite of that here am I sketching out a new book; only don’t please impose that huge burden on me again, I implore. Let it be random and tentative: something I can blow of a morning, to relieve myself of Roger: don’t, I implore, lay down a scheme; call in all the cosmic immensities; and force my tired and diffident brain to embrace another whole—all parts contributing—not yet awhile. But to amuse myself, let me note: Why not Poyntzet Hall:† a centre: all literature discussed in connection with real little incongruous living humour: and anything that comes into my head; but “I” rejected: “We” substituted: to whom at the end there shall be an invocation? “We”. . . the composed of many different things . . . we all life, all art, all waifs and strays—a rambling capricious but somehow unified whole—the present state of my mind? And English country; and a scenic old house—and a terrace where nursemaids walk—and people passing—and a perpetual variety and change from intensity to prose, and facts— and notes; and—but eno’! I must read Roger: and go to Ott’s memorial service, representing also T. S. Eliot at his absurd command. 2:30 at Martin’s in the Fields. Ottoline’s burial service. Oh dear, oh dear the lack of intensity; the wailing and mumbling; the fumbling with bags; the shuffling; the vast brown mass of respectable old South Kensington ladies. And then the hymns; and the clergyman with a bar of medals across his surplice; and the orange and blue windows; and a toy Union Jack sticking from a cranny. What all this had to do with Ottoline, or our feelings? Save that the address was to the point: a critical study, written presumably by Philip and delivered, very resonantly, by Mr. Speaight the actor: a sober, and secular speech, which made one at least think of a human being, though the reference to her beautiful voice caused one to think of that queer nasal moan: however that too was to the good in deflating immensities. P.’s secretary buttonholed me and told me to sit high up. The pew was blocked by a vast furred lady who said, “I’m afraid I can’t move”—as indeed seemed the fact. So I stationed myself rather behind: near enough though to see the very well set up back of P. in his thick coat; and his red ram’s head turned now and then looking along the ranks; also I pressed his hand, simulated, I fear, more emotion than I felt when he asked me, had I liked the address? and so slowly moved out on to the steps—past Jack and Mary, Sturge Moores, Molly etc.: Gertler having tears in his eyes; various household staffs: was then pounced on and pinioned by Lady Oxford: who was hard as whipcord; upright; a little vacant in the eye, in spite of make up which made it shine. She said she had expostulated with Ott. about the voice; Mere affectation. But a wonderful woman. Tell me, though, why did her friends quarrel with her? Pause. She was exigeante, Duncan volunteered at last. And so Margot refused to ask further; and modulated into stories of Symonds and Jowett, when I bantered her on her obituary. Mine, of Ott. for The Times, has not appeared, nor do I much regret. . . . Walked in Dulwich yesterday and lost my brooch by way of a freshener when confronted with the final proofs just today (April 26th) done: and to be sent this afternoon: a book I shall never look at again. But I now feel entirely free. Why? Have committed myself, am afraid of nothing. Can do anything I like. No longer famous, no longer on a pedestal: no longer hawked in by societies: on my own, forever. That’s my feeling: a sense of expansion, like putting on slippers. Why this should be so, why I feel myself enfranchised till death, and quit of all humbug, when I daresay it’s not a good book and will excite nothing but mild sneers; and how very inconsequent and egotistical V. W. is—why, why I can’t analyse: being fluttered this morning. The difficulty is that I get so absorbed in this fantastic Pointz Hall I can attend to Roger. So what am I to do? This however is only my first day of freedom: and I have been rendered self-conscious by a notice of Three Guineas on the front page of the new bloated T.L.S. Well it can’t be helped; and I must cling to my “freedom”—that mysterious hand that was reached out to me about four years ago.