Sunday 10 January I forgot to tell you, darling, that I had a discussion on the ’bus with Mr Goodman about the Art of letter-writing. He said that the test of a good letter was that it should be interesting to a reader who knew neither the writer nor the recipient. I don’t think that’s altogether true, do you, my love? A letter (I exclude love-letters, darling, which are in quite a separate category) is essentially a personal thing. I should say a test of good letter is that you should be able to hear the writer speaking as you read – you should be able to relate the words on the page to the individual stresses and mannerisms which are part of the writer’s personality. Then, ipso facto, the letter will be interesting even to someone who doesn’t know the writer, provided that the personality of the writer is in itself interesting. Ismay’s letters, for instance, darling, are characteristic enough. She speaks in clichés – she thinks in clichés and therefore she writes in clichés – but they’re dull letters because she’s a dull person.
Thursday 14 January I was talking to Kitty Thorpe about my Morbid Childhood yesterday, darling, and telling her about the time when I thought my mother was trying to poison me. The Moral I was attempting to Extract from the story, darling, was that my Cloistered and Isolated up-bringing was All Wrong not to say dangerous. I said that as soon as I went to school I became quite normal, except perhaps a little more hard-working & solemn than other children – but she said she didn’t agree – that even now I wasn’t the typical, normal girl of 25. She said that there was nothing abnormal about me in the sense of my not being sane, of course, but that I was definitely a little different from the normal or average and that therefore I couldn’t generalize about the effects of a particular kind of up-bringing from my own experience. Do you see what she means, darling? I was surprised but perhaps that’s because I have rather a tendency to believe that everyone is out of step except me.
Incidentally, darling, I met Pierrette Wack (Girton – Modern Languages – Joyce’s year) at Joyce’s party. She is at the Board of Trade & I asked her if she knew Susan Wyatt. She said oh! yes, she did – that was the girl who was Living in Sin with her Principal – who asked to be transferred to another Branch because she thought it Unwise to work all day with the man you slept with at night? I said regretfully that it was. Oh! my dear love, I do wish my friends wouldn’t Live in Sin except with their husbands or the men whom they love and are going to marry. I know it’s none of my business but it’s a most terrific sorrow to me all the same.
Friday 15 January Darling, Gerta didn’t put up with Aunt Teddy for long. She told her in no uncertain terms that she must go, after she’d been there a week, & now Auntie has moved in to Mrs Seidler’s. I don’t know how Gerta could do it, darling. Of course, Aunt Teddy is a parasite – it’s true that she has no interests (except Bridge & Rummy) and no Guts that you’d notice – but she is deaf & lonely & if anyone is to be responsible for her I think it should be Gerta. Mum is so upset about it, darling, that she’s beginning to regret that she ever asked her to go – she only did it, my love, because she & Pa had no privacy at all while Aunt Teddy was with us. Aunt Teddy is not what you’d describe as a Little Ray of Sunshine about the House, darling.
Saturday 16 January Darling, you know Pa is going to make Pan hate him as I hated him at the same age. Looking at the situation from outside for the first time, my love, I can see that Pa’s attitude is the result of stupidity rather than brutality. He is stupid about human problems of any sort and when he comes up against anything he doesn’t understand he turns truculent. When I didn’t get a First in my Mays, darling, he bullied me in just the same way as he’s now bullying Pan because he didn’t get a scholarship. I didn’t get a First because I was unbalanced & did nothing but work. Pan didn’t get a Scholarship because he is unbalanced & does nothing but play. Dark and Ugly Hints that Pan must be Up To No Good at school. As much as possible, darling, I’m trying to act as a Buffer State between the two of them but it’s difficult. Pa just sits there with that familiar Cruel set of the mouth waiting for someone to ask him what’s the matter so that he can answer: ‘I’m not saying anything’, & then Let Fly. You know, darling, in a way it will be the saving of Pan to go into the RAF and break away from Pa’s intellectual tyranny. I should never have been free of it if it hadn’t been for you, my darling. Let us take our children’s achievements as a Blessing and not as a Right, my love.
Of course, darling, the really bitter & unjust thing is that Dicky, who has never achieved anything, isn’t subjected to the same intellectual flogging. Because, not being a Scholar, he went into a low form at Harrow, he got the Latin prize in his first term, & so he sits among the Olympians (in Pa’s estimation) whilst Pan is Relegated to a Back Bench. Pan is going through a bad patch, darling. He does undoubtedly accept a lot of the Harrow Huntin’, Shootin’ and Fishin’ nonsense – and half-believes that the Humanities are démodé and that Science is the Only Thing. He sees himself as a Victim of the classical tyranny – You know the sort of thing, darling – What is the use of Scholarship – It’s the Doers not the Thinkers who Get There – look at Churchill etc. It often surprises me, but I suppose it’s not unusual for a boy of that age to half-accept the conventions of his environment. Did you accept yours at 17½, darling? I’m sure he’ll outgrow it as soon as he leaves school, but I can understand his reaction very well. On the one hand he has the typical adolescent urge to Go On With the Job of Winning the War and anyway, apart from any political sentiments, he hankers after the Thrill of the Air, and on the other he’s absolutely sick of being driven by Pa. I hope he gets his Latin Essay prize, darling, because that will Placate Pa – but I’m bound to confess that he won’t deserve it because of the extreme desultoriness of his approach.
Sunday 17 January Darling, your little Solace has been on Manoeuvres. Clad in a mud-dappled Boiler Suit with a fine array of last war ribbons adorning my Bosom and tripping over the trousers which were designed, at a modest estimate, for a 6 foot Tough, I did Stirrup Pump and Bucket Exercises on the foundations of a Bombed House. But the climax of it all, darling, was the Fire. It was a huge fire of damp logs in a Zinc Hut and I had to Crawl Through Six Inches of Mud to get to it and even then I had to be very careful not to Let It Know It Was Being Followed. You should have seen me, darling, with grime in every crease of my palms & smudges on my face & neck and my ring caked with mud (but I soaked it all off in Ammonia) & tears streaming down my face from the smoke. I’m sorry to have to tell you, my love, that my parents seem to have some sort of Hold Over the Postwarden because they didn’t have to wriggle on their Bellies through Fire & Brimstone but were told that their mock fire practice was good enough. (They did this some weeks ago & left the Post without a Stain on their Garments.)
Wednesday 20 January Darling, I had a letter from Miss Bradbrook this morning asking me to meet her for lunch on Thursday. What a Solace, my love. She says her brother Leslie (the Don Juan one, darling) is in Nineveh and that his views seemed to coincide with the prophet Jonah’s. What were his views, darling?2
Who do you think has just telephoned? Joan Friedman – she’s in London for two days from … Shhh! I asked her to dinner – That ought to provide a bit of Copy, my dear love! She said coyly: ‘Is that Eileen? Can you guess who this is?’ Well, darling, what a question. Could there be two Voices like that in the world? I sincerely hope not.
Friday 22 January Darling, I’m Exhausted. Joan Friedman is even Mucher than she was at Cambridge. Two years of Teaching have Consolidated or Emphasized the Didactic Streak that was always strong in her (‘What I feel is that in This War it’s our Dewty to be Uncomfortable’) and three months of Hush-Hushing at You-Know-Where has added a sort of Subterranean Rumble to her general manner, which is quite intolerable. (‘There are Secrets Locked Within Me which I Shall Carry to the Grave!’) I told her Bluntly, darling, that at the AM their stuff wasn’t even labelled ‘Most Secret’. (It was a Lie, my love, but I had to do it in self-defence – but she was No End Deflated to
discover that I Knew All.) She’s almost bald! She’s got a few Sparse Straggles on Top and that’s all – and she’s gone the most peculiar shape – just as though she had been Stuffed.
Darling, the more I think about Joan Friedman, the more irritable I get. She was saying how wise I had been not to have gone into her Racket – and I said: ‘Well! I don’t know, I might have been in Cairo by now.’ To which she replied Sententiously: ‘You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are to be Living at Home & Having your Parents to Look after you.’ I nearly snapped: ‘Well, I’d have been a good deal luckier if I’d had Gershon to look after me’, but I didn’t. I was particularly angry at her having said that in front of my parents, darling – because Mum’s favourite Argumentative Gambit is that I Couldn’t Get On Without her – as a matter of fact, darling, it would do me a lot of good not to have her to do everything for me. Then Joan Kept having Digs at my Lack of Domesticity & my parents took the Look-even-your-Cambridge-friends-have-noticed-it line. Peggy Ungar always used to be irritated by Joan’s Smug Feminine-Artsism, my dear love, particularly as she (Joan) is such an incredible Muddler & even knits sloppily.
Darling, I’ve just skimmed through what I’ve written and I’m rather shocked at my childish Querulousness. I’ve even forgotten to give you Joan’s Regards which she Entrusted to me for you with what I thought was Unduly Exaggerated Solicitude.
Monday 25 January Letter 62 arrived before breakfast this morning, darling. It’s months, my dear love, since my breakfast tasted so good. I’m not surprised to hear that Babette is a ‘bit of a manhunter’, my darling. All the Franco-Jewish girls in Egypt are. They make me Feel Ill. Their parents Keep them on a String until they’re safely Married, my love & what happens afterwards is Nobody’s Business. Charming Philosophy, isn’t it, darling? Darling, apropos of being sick in the mornings as soon as you’ve started to have a baby, don’t you know the little jingle about the Queen of Spain?
It’s a Hell of a Life, said the Queen of Spain,
Three minutes of pleasure & 9 months of pain,
And as soon as it’s over, we’re at it again.
But it won’t be like that for us, my darling, if you Watch Me Closely to see that I don’t get Lazy about Precautions.
Adele is nearer 90 than 60. Mum says that when she first came to us 28 years ago she looked exactly as she does now & she’s got Photographs to Prove It. When Prof. Picard Slit Her Open 6 years ago (No doubt she has told you, darling, that she had a tumour the size of a Human Head & that they made a film of her Operation. For years afterwards, darling, Professor Picard had to Run It Off on his private screen for her at least once a week) he said that she was well over 80. He remarked that the reason that she was so Well-Preserved was that she was so incredibly Desiccated & Stringy. Mummified in fact, darling. Of course, she is completely crazy and absolutely unaccountable, my love.
Darling, I was talking to Mr Needham this afternoon about the Blessing of Silence & thinking that you were the only person in the world with whom I could be completely & satisfyingly silent. Do you remember, darling, you used to get cross with me for my silences & ask why it was that I could chatter away to every Tom, Dick & Harry & yet seem to have nothing to say to you? It was the greatest compliment I could possibly have paid you.
Tuesday 26 January Darling, Comb the Sphinx round about the 11th February – you may see my name among the List of Guests at the Egyptian Embassy for King Farouk’s birthday Do. It will be Ineffably Dreary, my darling, but it will give me an opportunity of wearing my new black dress & my beautiful stockings.
Darling, I wish I could make you see why it is that I love you and no-one else in the world. On the level of pure reason, my dear love, I should say it was you combined a first-rate intellect with real modesty, ingenuousness with a depth of intuition, far beyond your years, emotional sensitiveness with a complete lack of false sentimentality, a strong sense of fun with a powerful sense of responsibility, independence of mind with unselfishness, a very quick temper with a very real tolerance. These would be reasons enough, my darling, but in fact I have hardly scribbled on the surface of the subject. Darling, as I’ve had occasion to say before, you don’t know your own strength. The more I know of you the greater the list of qualities that I have to love & respect. Besides, my dear love, you have more charm in your little finger than most men have in their whole bodies – and it’s not facile charm either. (I distrust that kind of charm, darling. Dicky has a lot of it.) It’s very quiet & unobtrusive & indefinable. Mum remarked on it one day, my love, and you know that she’s an unusually discerning woman. Oh! my darling, I do love you. Come home and give me the rest I so desperately need or else order me to go to you, my dear love. But in spite of everything, darling, I am, because of letter 65, happier than I have been for weeks & weeks.
Darling, Mum & I are just Back from Manoeuvres. We became the Late Lamented Early on in the evening but as nobody bothered to mention this to us until much later, when volunteers were called to fight a fire in St John’s Church, we Dashed Off there, nothing daunted & I will say, my love, that we did very creditably for a Couple of Corpses – except that for the first quarter of an hour I was pumping away feverishly & Mum kept shouting: ‘There isn’t any water coming out of the nozzle, No. 2.’ (That’s me, darling.) We Cast About for a Warden to examine our hose when I suddenly noticed the entire coil of hose neatly done up at my feet – Mum had been training the disconnected extension on the fire for 15 minutes! I can’t help Seeing What the Borough Warden meant, darling, when he said that the Harley Road fire parties were Enthusiastic but Inexperienced. Nevertheless, we came home flushed with triumph – soaked to the skin and covered from head to foot with Honourable Mud. I’ve never participated in anything so Exquisitely Absurd, my darling, in all my not uneventful life.
Wednesday 27 January Darling, I’ve always been fascinated by complete stillness. As a child I used to go away by myself on to the moors at the back of our house in Drumnadrochit & sit uncomfortably on a nobbly grey stone – staring at the scrub and heather and the chequered patterns of the farm-land on the hillside opposite. The only sound there ever was was the sound of the burn trickling over the pebbles and that is a sound which is almost more hushed than silence – and I used to be so terribly detached from the stillness of the hills & the moors, darling, so terribly untouched by their stillness. I was so restless that it was almost physically painful. The first time I can ever remember being completely at rest, my darling, was that last evening when you came to see me in Maidenhead hospital & you sat beside my bed & held my hand against your face. That, I think, was the moment when it became impossible for me not to love you – because all my life I had been terribly & nervously craving for something – and then I knew what it was, darling. It was complete rest of mind & body & spirit – and I suddenly realized that you were the only person in the world who could give it to me. (I did love you before that, darling, but not quite irrevocably, I think.)
Thursday 28 January Darling, I’m bubbling over with All. Miss Bradbrook typed a minute for Coupon Control to the Chief Accountant of the Board of Trade & an article on ‘Little Gidding’3 for ‘Theology’ on the same afternoon – and, as they were both about the same size & shape, sent the minute to the editor of ‘Theology’ and the article to the Chief Accountant. (It was a Very Cross minute, Miss Bradbrook said, darling.) The Chief Accountant returned the article with a chit saying ‘What is All This?’ but the Editor of ‘Theology’ said that he would publish the article with pleasure but couldn’t do anything about the minute as he didn’t understand one word of it & he really didn’t think his readers would either.
Then, my dear, there is the perfectly Beautiful story of Mrs Crews (You remember her, of course, my love. Mr Birkowitz thought she had the Best Legs in Girton & she went to Ankara so as to be able to Keep in Touch with her Young Man who is a French Army Doctor.) Recently, darling, she decided that Ankara wasn’t Much of a Place so she came home but was torpedoed o
n the way. When the torpedo struck the Ship she couldn’t decide whether to Take her Divorce papers with her & Jettison her hand-bag or vice versa but she soon discovered that she needn’t hurry unduly, collected all her valuables, Organized Herself Generally & came up on Deck in a Leisurely way & got into the nearest life-boat. Later on the U-boat came to the surface, drew up alongside her boat & the commander said: ‘Vot is the name of this ship or boat?’ Mrs Crews wasn’t going to Have That so she said briskly: ‘Don’t be silly, my man, ship & boat are the same thing,’ whereupon he Trained a Gun on her & repeated his question rather more fiercely than before. She was not one whit put out by this, darling, & said crossly: ‘We’re not going to tell you. If you want to know you’d better ask the Captain, he’s over there somewhere …’ Pointing vaguely at a clump of boats in the distance. She says with Pride, darling, that after that the U-boat Slunk Off with its tail between its legs and the last she saw of the Truculent Commander was a Beautiful Picture of him Solemnly Turning over the pages of Lloyd’s Register to make sure that the Captain hadn’t given him a Dud name! After 36 hours, darling, they were picked up by a destroyer who hailed them through a Microphone with the words: ‘Come along aboard & have a cup of tea, dearies.’ As far as I can see, darling, her adventures more than compensate for the fact that communication with her Frenchman is considerably more difficult than it was in Ankara, but I gather that even in Ankara she was so irritated by the Barrage of Censorship between her & her Solace that she almost Created a Diplomatic Incident. What a wonderful woman she is, darling! – and she gets more & more like herself every day.
Love in the Blitz Page 38
