I murmur a very general and unobtrusive good-bye, and go away. Am not certain, but think that hall-porter eyes me compassionately, but we content ourselves with exchange of rather grave smiles--no words.
Am obliged to return to Doughty Street in a taxi, owing to very serious fear that I no longer have perfect control over my legs.
Go instantly to bed on reaching flat, and room whirls round and round in distressing fashion for some time before I go to sleep.
May 25th.--Life one round of gaiety, and feel extremely guilty on receiving a letter from Our Vicar's Wife, saying that she is certain I am working hard at a New Book, and she should so like to hear what it's all about and what its name is. If I will tell her this, she will speak to the girl at Boots', as every little helps. She herself is extremely busy, and the garden is looking nice, but everything very late this year. P.S. Have I heard that old Mrs. Blenkinsopp is going to Bournemouth?
Make up my mind to write really long and interesting reply to this, but when I sit down to do so find that I am quite unable to write anything at all, except items that would appear either indiscreet, boastful or scandalous. Decide to wait until after Emma Hay's party in Little James Street, as this will give me something to write about.
(Mem.: Self-deception almost certainly involved here, as reflection makes it perfectly evident that Our Vicar's Wife is unlikely in the extreme to be either amused or edified by the antics of any acquaintances brought to my notice via Emma.)
Go down to Mickleham by bus--which takes an hour and a half--to see Vicky, who is very lively and affectionate, and looks particularly well, but declares herself to be overworked. I ask What at? and she says Oh, Eurhythmics. It subsequently appears that these take place one afternoon in every week, for one hour. She also says that she likes all her other lessons and is doing very well at them, and this is subsequently confirmed by higher authorities. Again patronise bus route--an hour and three-quarters, this time--and return to London, feeling exactly as if I had had a night journey to Scotland, travelling third-class and sitting bolt upright all the way.
May 26th.--Emma--in green sacque that looks exactly like démodé window-curtain, sandals and varnished toe-nails--calls for me at flat, and we go across to Little James Street. I ask whom I am going to meet and Emma replies, with customary spaciousness, Everyone, absolutely Everyone, but does not commit herself to names, or even numbers.
Exterior of Little James Street makes me wonder as to its capacities for dealing with Everyone, and this lack of confidence increases as Emma conducts me into extremely small house and down narrow flight of stone stairs, the whole culminating in long, thin room with black walls and yellow ceiling, apparently no furniture whatever, and curious, but no doubt interesting, collection of people all standing screaming at one another.
Emma looks delighted and says Didn't she tell me it would be a crush, that man over there is living with a negress now, and if she gets a chance she will bring him up to me.
(Should very much like to know with what object, since it will obviously be impossible for me to ask him the only thing I shall really be thinking about.)
Abstracted-looking man with a beard catches sight of Emma, and says Darling, in an absentminded manner, and then immediately moves away, followed, with some determination, by Emma.
Am struck by presence of many pairs of horn-rimmed spectacles, and marked absence of evening dress, also by very odd fact that almost everybody in the room has either abnormally straight or abnormally frizzy hair. Conversation in my vicinity is mainly concerned with astonishing picture on the wall, which I think represents Adam and Eve at very early stage indeed, but am by no means certain, and comments overheard do not enlighten me in the least. Am moreover seriously exercised in my mind as to exact meaning of tempo, brio, appassionata and coloratura as applied to art.
Strange man enters into conversation with me, but gives it up in disgust when I mention Adam and Eve, and am left with the impression--do not exactly know why--that picture in reality represents Sappho on the Isle of Lesbos.
(Query: Who was Sappho, and what was Isle of Lesbos?)
Emma presently reappears, leading reluctant-looking lady with red hair, and informs her in my presence that I am a country mouse--which infuriates me--and adds that we ought to get on well together, as we have identical inferiority complexes. Red-haired lady and I look at one another with mutual hatred, and separate as soon as possible, having merely exchanged brief comment on Adam and Eve picture, which she seems to think has something to do with the 'nineties and the Yellow Book.
Make one or two abortive efforts to find out if we have a host or hostess, and if so what they look like, and other more vigorous efforts to discover a chair, but all to no avail, and finally decide that as I am not enjoying myself, and am also becoming exhausted, I had better leave. Emma makes attempt that we both know to be half-hearted to dissuade me, and I rightly disregard it altogether, and prepare to walk out, Emma at the last moment shattering my nerve finally by asking what I think of that wonderful satirical study on the wall, epitomising the whole of the modern attitude towards Sex?
June 1st.--Life full of contrasts, as usual, and after recent orgy of Society, spend most of the day in washing white gloves and silk stockings, and drying them in front of electric fire. Effect of this on gloves not good, and remember too late that writer of Woman's Page in illustrated daily paper has always deprecated this practice.
Pay a call on Robert's Aunt Mary, who lives near Battersea Bridge, and we talk about relations. She says How do I think William and Angela are getting on? which sounds like preliminary to a scandal and excites me pleasurably, but it turns out to refer to recent venture in Beekeeping, no reference whatever to domestic situation, and William and Angela evidently giving no grounds for agitation at present.
Aunt Mary asks about children, says that school is a great mistake for girls, and that she does so hope Robin is good at games--which he isn't--and do I find that it answers to have A Man in the house? Misunderstanding occurs here, as I take this to mean Robert, but presently realise that it is Casabianca.
Tea and seed-cake appear, we partake, and Aunt Mary hopes that my writing does not interfere with home life and its many duties, and I hope so too, but in spite of this joint aspiration, impression prevails that we are mutually dissatisfied with one another. We part, and I go away feeling that I have been a failure. Wish I could believe that Aunt Mary was similarly downcast on her own account, but have noticed that this is seldom the case with older generation. Find extraordinary little envelope waiting for me at flat, containing printed assurance that I shall certainly be interested in recent curiosities of literature acquired by total stranger living in Northern manufacturing town, all or any of which he is prepared to send me under plain sealed cover. Details follow, and range from illustrated History of Flagellation to Unexpurgated Erotica.
Toy for some time with the idea that it is my duty to communicate with Scotland Yard, but officials there probably overworked already, and would be far more grateful for being left in peace, so take no action beyond consigning envelope and contents to the dust-bin.
June 9th.--Am rung up on the telephone by Editor of Time and Tide and told that We are Giving a Party on June 16th, at newest Park Lane Hotel. (Query: Is this the Editorial We, or does she conceivably mean she and I?--because if so, must at once disabuse her, owing to present financial state of affairs.) Will I serve on the Committee? Yes, I will. Who else is on it? Oh, says the Editor, Ellen Wilkinson is on it, only she won't be able to attend any of the meetings. I make civil pretence of thinking this a businesslike and helpful arrangement, and ask Who Else? Our Miss Lewis, says the Editor, and rings off before I can make further enquiries. Get into immediate touch with Our Miss Lewis, who turns out to be young, and full of activity. I make several suggestions, mostly to the effect that she should do a great deal of hard work, she accedes delightfully, and I am left with nothing to do except persuade highly distinguished Professor to take the Chair at Debate which is to be a feature of the party.
June 11th.--Distinguished Professor