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7.

All His Honeyed Deceit

Thursday, 23 June 1932

Nearly two months have slipped by and the exams are over. The passion that rules my life at the moment is to get to know David A., that tall, nervous intense young man with the slender hands and white sensitive face. Last year he wore spats until Joan teased him out of it. Spats! I want to understand that mixture of wistfulness and superficial conceit and I want to win his confidence. It is going to be difficult, for if I force myself on him in the least he will leap back into that shell out of which he is beginning to creep. I think I am suffering a little from the hell others have suffered – being interested in someone who cannot give you back all your passion and desires. I want him to care – terribly. No one has ever fallen in love with me to any intense and palpitating degree. Mon ami, what a lot I could give you if you would only let me.³⁵

Friday, 24 June

Perhaps I shall be able to indulge in some passionate affair while touring Russia during the summer vacc.

Tuesday, 5 July

What a fool I was to give David A. The Conquest of Happiness (Bertrand Russell). I underestimated his intelligence. It was written for the average man who cannot think very acutely for himself, and he is anything but average. I’m definitely losing ground there. He thinks I’m a half-wit.

Monday, 11 July

Ten days before the end of term and up heaves my tutor. ‘Now, Miss P., I am in a position to discuss your case. We have got all the results through. You have failed in Construction, Hygiene and Engineering, and I am afraid it will mean you will have to do the 2nd Year again.’

It was so ridiculous. Everyone was very kind and sympathetic, particularly David A., at which I felt gratified. ‘I mean, isn’t it silly,’ said David, ‘just for the sake of 6 hours to be put back a whole year …’ Perhaps after all it would be better to chuck Architecture completely and go in wholeheartedly for Interior Decoration. Gus of course was delighted when I told him this.

So I went and explained it all to Pop, who was kind as he always is but I know terribly disappointed to discover his precious little daughter was not the brilliant young undergrad he had given everyone to imagine. But it is a miracle to me how I got through my History exams, having produced a beautiful plan-section of Rheims Cathedral and firmly called it Notre Dame.

However Pop was not satisfied and came up to see my tutor. The next morning my tutor strongly advised me to continue with the course and could he give me his special course of coaching in Engineering? ‘I suppose at the time something was distracting your attention,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know what it was of course, but I might make one or two guesses. I’m no psychologist – the men students are bad enough, but the women completely baffle me. It might have been books or an interest in higher art, or theatre or men. You know it’s a very terrible thing when the students fall in love with one another. We can’t do anything about it, but it’s most distracting, most distracting …’

I could have smacked his face. I have chosen to do Decoration.

Mid-July

[Draft of letter]

Pooh darling,

Ethel has been frightening me into fits by the wildest suggestions for the reason of your rather strange silence. She firmly believes something has gone wrong and conjures up pictures of you sitting haggard-eyed before the good old gin bottle contemplating suicide because the girl has let you down. I don’t believe it.

No Pooh, if things have gone wrong for you I know that however difficult a time you are having now you will pull through. Naturally I think Pop is a bit anxious, but nevertheless he has faith in you also: your life has not been saved for you to tear to pieces within two years of its salvation.

Although we have not written we are thinking about you. We keep hoping for a letter from you first. In all your troubles Piglet prays for you.

Thursday, 28 July

I lay awake the other night in a sudden state of panic wondering why I had even contemplated joining the Student Tour to Russia on my own. I was visualising those five days at sea travelling tourist class on a Soviet ship with people I have never met nor know in the least. Accommodation may be cramped and uncomfortable, the North Sea may be very rough and I shall be ill. Conditions I am told in Russia are appalling.

We shall travel everywhere ‘hard’ class and sleep two or three to a room at the hotels of the cities we visit. Why was I then so rash to pay down my £25 I can so ill afford for three weeks that may be torture?

‘You are brave!’ people have said in awed tones. And, ‘Russia? Are you sure it’s quite safe?’ ‘Of course you will only be shown what they choose to show you.’ ‘I think you’re making a great mistake. Some women I know who were on a party that went to Moscow broke down at the sight of the squalor in which they were expected to exist while there.’

But Soviet Russia is a force that may not be ignored.

Mid-August

[Fragments of a copy of a letter to ‘Chris’³⁶]

We accomplished the journey from Kiev without mishap and were only one-and-a-half hours late. Something contrived to bite me 13 times on the left arm and I am very glad to be at sea again. The ship is at least comparatively clean, and so far the Baltic is behaving itself admirably. I sought in vain among the letters at Leningrad and was more depressed (than ever) with that decayed city when I failed to find one from you. But perhaps it will be waiting for me at home.

I’ve missed you terribly. Were you beginning to be a bit disappointed with me, to think I was a flirt and merely after all the admiration and attention I could get? I’m sorry if I seemed cheap, but please, please believe me when I tell you I am not in the habit of allowing my male acquaintances to make love to me as you did. And you do do that divinely!³⁷ Whether from experience or instinct I wouldn’t like to say, but I don’t think it matters much. The fact remains. Dear Passing Ship, please linger a little longer within my sight that I may grow to know and understand you better. You were marvellously kind to me, and that I shall never forget.

And now I will try to pull my scattered thoughts together and endeavour to tell you something about Russia. We were not there long enough to receive more than the briefest of impressions. Everyone told me before I went, we ‘were shown only what they wanted to show us,’ which nearly drives me epileptic with rage, as if they covered up their decaying buildings with dust sheets, screened off the food queues and chained off all undesirable parts of the city and prepared special places for tourists. Heavens, as if every city in the world has not backstreets and ugly buildings and bad factories they don’t wish foreigners to see.

But certainly to anyone used to the average luxuries of modern Western Europe, living in Russia is not exactly exciting at the moment. Many of the people are physically splendid to look upon, the younger generation particularly, but they are all clothed in garments that are shoddy and badly made. That no amount of propaganda even attempts to deny it is a sign of the poverty of the race. Imagine if you can, London completely overrun with the working classes, the shops and clubs and restaurants of Piccadilly and St James’s and Knightsbridge closed or converted into factories or worker’s guilds, no subtlety or graciousness or dignity left anywhere, a bland, naive young people, enormously enthusiastic, mind you. And they know where they’re going and what they’re trying to do, whereas we muddle along.³⁸ Their government is centralised, and so long as every member of the ruling party remains uncorrupt and lives up to their ideals I think they have every chance of success.

I think I see wisdom in their suppression of individualism. It tends to do away with all selfishness, individual gain, ambition and greed. I envy them their singleness of purpose, each one of them as part of their new state has a reason for living. Russia is undoubtedly one country with a future in a world where all other systems of civilisation and administration are rocky and cracking and decaying. I am not convinced that for us there are no means of discovering new ideals and new methods without going through the same ghastliness of war and revolution and suffering that Russia suffered. Revolution perhaps, but God let us hope it will be bloodless. The test of their experiment is not now, but in 10 or 20 years’ time.

I will phone you on September 1st.

Monday, 12 September

There is a strange streak of hardness in me somewhere – cruelty, and a desire to mar the perfection of things, such as trampling in new-fallen snow.

Now supposing Chris were suddenly to go away without saying goodbye or seeing me again: what should I feel? My vanity would be hurt. I am terrifically proud of possessing so popular a male as a friend. He is a divine lover. But I am yet to know him as a companion. We have extraordinarily little in common. I never know what to talk to him about when we are alone, so he fills in the silences by making love to me.³⁹

I feel I am making myself cheap, I feel as though we have both somehow reached a dead end. I should be terribly hurt if he were thinking the same thing. I should like to make more of it than this, invest it with some permanence. Kisses alone are not enough to cement a friendship.

Friday, 14 October

When Mausie goes down to the Strand for tea

She’s no thought for David and none for me

She’s lost in joyous, abstracted bliss

With her charming and lovable diplomat Chris⁴⁰

Strange how life goes on. I decided I must do the Decoration Course and refused to consider the idea of 2nd Year Architecture again. But here I am, doing it and rather enjoying myself. I think I am happier than I have ever been. My days are filled with many people and interesting work, I am independent of home influences, my room is delightful.

Friday, 25 November

As I walked down Tottenham Court Road tonight I again realised what a marvellous time I had had at college, how dear and familiar London had grown, and what memories each part brought back. Teas at the Criterion, Swan & Edgar, the Arts Club where I lunched with Gus and his mother for the first time, the delicious sensation of being well-groomed just after a visit to that hairdressers in Dover Street, Harrods where I once lunched alone off Welsh rarebit, all the theatres in Shaftesbury Ave, the nights we have queued for pit or gallery, the strange snack bar somewhere off it where Gus and I once had the most marvellous waffles, the Coventry Street Corner House at 3 o’clock in the morning, teas at Boots, Regent St by bus and on foot and in a Daimler, the gramophone shops where Gus and I have listened to many records, Charing X Rd, its books and News Theatre and Doctor’s Pills.

Mid-December

[Fragment of a copy of a letter to Chris]

At last this term is over. Quite triumphantly too, for I’ve got a 1st Mention for my Classical Ballroom. It’s been such a long time since I managed to get one of these. It’s not the mark I care about, it’s the knowledge of my power to turn out good work.

But you know if you never lift your nose from the drawing board what marvellous things one would miss. I want so to live!

… God bless you and may another letter arrive from you soon! (So far I’ve had one from Toronto which I answered).

Jean.

Monday, 2 January 1933

I have been trying to restrain myself from writing about this thing, but … how immeasurably it helps. It seems to release this terrible unending torment, and I find for a little while a great relief and a little rest.

That Chris should have lied to me I think hurts most. And yet for all my tears and pain I cannot believe it of him even yet. There seem to be two parts of me: one sits serenely and patiently on high, still full of faith and hope, while the other rages at its feet despairingly. There was something in him that was good and beautiful and strong that appealed to all that was good and beautiful and strong in me. Something lovely began to blossom between us, and in our selfishness we would not heed it but trampled it to death at our feet. Oh that I understood – that he would write to explain. I know I must wait a long time yet before that letter comes, as I think it will do, and in the meantime endure this sickness and heaviness of heart. But I shall not be cowed by this event.

All his honeyed deceit – I still believe he would not have hurt me so deliberately had he realised how much I really cared. He would never believe me when I said I loved him. And all he wanted was to make love to me. ‘It would be so marvellous,’ he whispered. ‘But you won’t let me …’ I wish I had given in to him, accepted the affair as he wanted me to, as the passion of a moment, and then let me be. If only we could have understood one another I could have kept the incident as a sacred and lovely memory. What is my virginity to me? I don’t want to keep it. It would have been so sweet to satisfy that desire. And yet of course for a woman it is different – just because he kissed me a little. Those natural desires for a home and children were roused in me until they possessed all my waking moments and he was woven into the centre of my dreams.

Thank God I have written this. It is the first time since that dreadful letter came for Mr and Mrs Pratt announcing Chris’s marriage to some poor lucky fool of a woman that I have been able to get at the core of the matter and see things as they are. I have been waiting to hurl the bitterest of accusations at him. I understood why women are driven to the streets or suicide or murder, yet I knew were he to come back to me with or without any explanation I should love him still.

When he told me marriage could never come into his life he meant perhaps marriage with me, but was afraid to say so because he knew it would bewilder me. So he lied. I want to get all those letters he wrote and trace this idea through them. Oh it is a tangled and twisted misery that must be endured – he can never be mine. I know he is capable of ineffable depths of tenderness and affection for the woman he chose to marry. I am so jealous of him and Josephine, but I hope they’ll be happy.

It is no good, the pain goes in. I love him, love him, love him and he doesn’t want me. Enough of this self-torture. Life must go on.

[Undated letter – possibly never sent]

My dear dear Chris,

What agony I’m going through this weekend! Do you know what happened? I’m at home you see for this last fortnight of the vacc, and though I left my address at Belsize Park for them to forward all letters to me, they didn’t, damn them! So you see we suddenly got the announcement of your marriage addressed to Daddy and E. without a word of explanation to me.

God it was Hell Chris! It was so unlike you, to betray our friendship like that. But oh how typical of you, you dear thing. Was there anything you ever did that wasn’t a frightful rush? Of course you may count on me to help you … to the end of the world Chris. I will not fail you.

Wednesday, 4 January

I am climbing out of the dark well of my despair. Chris did write to me, even as the honourable man I believed him to be. Brief, sincere, concealing. I think I admire him more for the complete lack of an attempt at an explanation than I could have done for any number of bitter excuses. I must accept the truth of all he told me, and if it is so then his difficulty must be even greater than mine.

It must have been true when he told me marriage couldn’t come into his life, and that if he married anyone not a S. African his father had told him he need not go home again. It must have been a very desperate situation that forced him into this marriage. And I know from his letter he needs help, and time will prove whether mine will be of any value to him or not. I will give of what I have to give abundantly, whether it be kindliness, farewell, or a deep and intimate relationship. And of these three the last would be easiest for me, for I know that to be once more crushed in the strong comfort of his arms would bring to me a relief so overwhelming that I daren’t contemplate it.

Thursday, 12 January

Gus said: ‘Before you went away you were beginning to stand on your own feet, beginning to express your ideas, and they were no longer suburban. Then you fell in love and you went back, threw your whole weight on the man. You were dangling. I saw that sooner or later you must drop, and only hoped we should all be there to catch you when you fell.’

I was so impregnated with his point of view at the time he said this that I wasn’t able to contradict him. I see now he is wrong. I never dangled. Not once. But he was a little blinded I think. For a little while I withdrew myself from him and he was jealous. Perhaps it went to my head a little: oh the thrill for a woman when she realises the strange power she can have over a man!

‘You will never be happy,’ said Gus. ‘You want too much and your sympathy is too deep.’ Probably. But what do I want? What does Gus want? What is it we search for and call vaguely an ideal? I owe Gus a tremendous lot, and I think he is right when he says, ‘I feel I have taken you as far as I can, taught you as much as I know. Now it is either someone else’s turn or you are to go on your own.’

He hopes he may train me into that ideal companion for which he knows he is seeking in vain, and I am resisting it with all my strength. It is impossible because of his tragic difference. He is sexless.⁴¹ And I, if I am to live, must have sexual satisfaction. ‘Leave sex alone,’ says D.H. Lawrence. ‘Sex is a state of grace and you’ll have to wait.’ I shall surely have to experience this sex fully. I can wait.

It may be I am to write as a woman for women. Perhaps in my writing I shall find the consolation I need. If I must face the truth that no one person will ever be able completely to fill my desires, then let me be brave about it. I have no passion to paint or dance or sing – only to write.

Wednesday, 25 January

From Since Then by P. Gibbs:⁴²

‘Problem of the young woman who wants to fulfil the natural destiny of womanhood but cannot find her mate. It is the outstanding problem of England today … These legions of girls are wistful for male companionship. They want to meet nice boys who will give them the chance of marriage. They crave to be loved … all the books they read intensify their yearnings to experience the biological purpose of their being, without which they have been robbed of the greatest adventure in life with essential meaning. One thing is certain. These women are not going back again behind the window blinds.’

Tuesday, 11 April 1933

An idea for a novel is germinating. Mainly about me (M.), but the chief characters are all to be based on real people. Briefly the theme is to be this. M. is at college, just realising that what she really thinks she wants is to get married and run a home, instead of a career as an architect. One love affair having just ended rather badly, leaving her feeling bleak and lonely. Her best companion of some years’ standing is G.; he is younger, consumptive and training to dance.

Then she meets the new curate of her home suburb. He is 30-ish, falls in love with her and finally asks her to marry him. She finds she doesn’t know how to answer him. Her complexity is acute. She is not romantically in love with the clergyman, although she likes him well enough and finds him marvellously sympathetic.

It is this character about which I am most hazy at the moment. I want to meet Mr Wildman, the locum here while the Vicar is away. Ever since I heard of his coming the thought has been developing. ‘Seems a manly man,’ Ethel wrote. ‘Doesn’t mind going to a pub for a drink and won’t wear clerical garb but goes about in flannels etc.’ Which I thought sounded dangerous, such an easy way of attracting people in these days of general scepticism. A cheap bid for popularity. Yes, I do want to meet him, just to see if he is like that, and if he could be built into this book.

I am prepared to let the affair go as far as an engagement, and then in a sudden panic she breaks it off – crashing through all her theories and deciding to go her way alone.

All the time, of course, G. has a tremendous influence over her. He is in love with her and she not a little with him, but this they don’t dare to admit to each other for marriage is quite impossible, even if his health permitted.

Friday, 14 April

In collecting material for the 3rd character of my novel I feel I am in danger of letting myself in for something I shall regret. Supposing what I am now imagining were really to happen! It seems now that I hear of nothing else but the marvels and strangeness of Mr Wildman. Here is an account of his interview with the Wembley News:

‘“Many of the Church’s practices and customs are inconsistent,” he said. “There is a vast amount of hypocrisy in our modern church life … People are too easily shocked by frank references to the facts of life. Sunday cinemas? I am strongly in favour of them, provided that people who take this recreation go to Church first.” Mr W. has led an adventurous life. He has served on a windjammer and travelled all over the world. He has been a journalist and worked in a bank.’

I don’t like the photograph of him in the paper, but when studied carefully he has interesting eyes. Nonetheless I am deeply sceptical. I know exactly what I would like to say to him if I ever get the proper opportunity.

Easter Sunday, 16 April

Have just been to the 7 a.m. service. I have been trying to find out why I bother to go at all. I think it is mainly to appease my conscience and appease Daddy. I went too to see Wildman, but he was not taking the service. He handed round the wine and stood by the porch door afterwards: a pleasant voice and a pleasant face with very alert dark eyes. He is going bald on top of his head, but on the whole the impression was favourable, except for the callow youth who stood by his side. Ethel spoke of this youth: she has seen him about with him. Perhaps I’m being unfair. My putrid mind would leap at once to homosexuality.

Later: I am working myself into a positive fever over this man. It is quite absurd. I can’t forget his eyes. I know I’m riding for a fall, but I want desperately to meet him. To talk to him and get it over. The difficulty is that it may be weeks or months before it occurs. I would like to get my teeth stuck into his theories and worry them out with him, but I will not go to church to hear him, I will not be numbered with the unmarried spinsters who swell the congregation on his account. Until I have grasped the reality, until I have felt it, knocked against and bruised myself perhaps, I cannot continue the romance in my mind.

Sunday, 14 May

Well we have met Mr Wildman. He came over the other evening and stayed till 1 a.m. drinking Daddy’s port and telling the most entertaining stories. He horrified the parents and amused me vastly. I have no fear of complications ever arising between myself and him.

He is typical of the age: coarse, sincere and dramatic, very sincerely dramatic, plays to the public from the pulpit and is not ashamed to admit it. Nor to take out his front tooth to show how it is attached to the plate, not to tell us of the woman who invited him to sleep with her because of divine inspiration she had received from God.

Cheap – yes he is cheap, and appeals thereby to the poorer classes. He much prefers to turn the mangle while Mrs Jones gets on with the dinner than be entertained in the front parlour. All good in itself, certainly. He talked an awful lot of scandal in a deliciously unmalicious way.

I am going to Jamaica. I shall see Pooh again.⁴³

Undated, probably early June

Damn, Hell and Blast. Ethel cannot see that my hair looks any better after it has been done by Mr Ed of Dover Street than when I do it myself! She is so blind stiff she cannot see that the paint is cracking off her own wooden nose. God what a mood I’m in tonight.

Monday, 5 June

I have never known Ethel to look so charming as she did this afternoon serving tea to us in the drawing room, wrapped in a thin, pale blue dressing gown; it gave her a strange air of gracious freedom. I think I am often unfair to her. I know she resents the fact that I don’t confide in her as much as I might do.

This morning I was again accused of being inconsiderate; it is always the one weapon she can most easily handle against me. And all the evidence is in her favour. I am selfish and inconsiderate and often strangely rude and unkind to her. Don’t I often come down to breakfast very late so that she is put to the most immense inconvenience of getting me a fresh one? Don’t I often come in very late at night and disturb her in her first sleep? She always does her best, and is working now without a maid for the sake of the family’s overdraft. And what do I ever do to show my appreciation? How many times have I compared her to a little wooden doll whose limbs will only move in certain set directions? I love my father – there is sun in him. And I had a great and dreadful thought the other night that she is one of those people who are sunless.

Thursday, 6 July

The more one dreams of a thing, the more it recedes from one in reality. I could have given him so much. Marriage with Gus would be hell I know, but it would have rich compensations. But he doesn’t know I have been in love with him for the past 18 months. Perhaps he never will know. Why should he?

I think the idea of marriage with any of his most intimate friends terrifies him. He is sexually so very fastidious. How may I teach him that the thing that matters is that hard rich jewel of trust, and that is what we could have. It is as if I have seen a lame man trying to hobble along without a stick and wanting to lend him my arm, but he would rather endure his difficulty alone rather than the humiliation of support.

I am free anyway to consider further advances, and if none come then at least I shall have had Chris and Gus and Roy and David, each for a few brief moments. I have considered marrying them all but have failed to run my dreams into reality. It is the bourgeois taint – that sickly desire, fostered by cheap novels and films, to hear a man say, ‘I have been waiting for you all my life … we were made for each other … it is fate.’ Miracles I suppose do happen – but they are rare, and there is no reason to believe they might happen to me.

I am afraid of loneliness as everyone else. ‘Somewhere, somewhere afar, a white tremendous daybreak’ – what is it Rupert Brooke says? That is what we aim at. I will not give Gus up. I know he is not the type to grow old. He couldn’t live quietly in a cottage. He belongs to the night and the footlights and all the glamour of the city and the circus. And I belong to the soil.