Square was saying that he had recently been to a Jewish Wedding in the St John’s Wood Reform Synagogue and that it had saddened him to see a Jewish Ceremony stripped of all its traditional character. He said, darling, that he believed the great strength of the Jews lay in their traditional and historic bonds & that it would be weakened by breaking those bonds. Of course, I disagree with him, very strongly, my darling. I see no sense whatever in upholding a way of life or a religion simply because it is old. Religious conservatism is never as dangerous as political conservatism because every religion, even such a disconcertingly un-spiritual religion as Judaism has some ethical basis, whereas the political or social traditions which conservatives in all countries strive to preserve are based, not on ethics at all, but on the Greatest Good of the people who had the power when the tradition was started – but still it is not a Good thing.
Monday 19 July Mrs Heath, one of the Bush House Cleaners who Does for Pamela Malyon’s Young Man in her spare time, came up to me this morning, Sighed Lusciously & said with the Gloomy Satisfaction of one who has had 20 years of it: ‘Well, Miss, Miss Malyon’s Hour is Drawing Near, ain’t it?’ I admitted that it was whereat she Waggled a Roguish Finger at me and said: ‘Don’t you wish it was yours, Miss?’ (She is the one who Nurses an Illicit Passion for your photograph, darling) As I didn’t Mean What She Meant, my darling, I gave some non-committal reply & fled. She’s a nice old soul, my love, but she isn’t ’arf Licking her Chops over the Imminent Loss of Pamela’s Maidenhead & I’ve no doubt that, in the Goodness of her Heart, she will do as much for me when the Occasion Arises.
Tuesday 20 July You know, my darling, however rich we might be I should not want to put our children in the charge of governesses or even nurses after the age of four. The relationship between teachers & children in boarding-school is quite another matter because considerations of space & time & number make the intimacy which may arise between a child & its governess impossible. My childhood was made bitterly unhappy, darling, by my governesses. Either they slobbered all over me – which I hated – or they bullied me – which I hated almost as much – or they made me the recipient of their beastly confidences, which I hated worst of all. None of them ever stayed very long, my dear love, because I never wanted to learn the things they wanted to teach me (and I’m very glad I didn’t, darling. None of it would ever have Got Me Anywhere) & also they thought I was ‘Queer’. I spent most of my time before I went to school, my love, wondering whether I was mad because no-one, most particularly my governesses and my mother’s family, ever seemed to understand what I was saying or thinking.
Wednesday 21 July My darling, I have spoken to Mr Murray & he is writing to Lionel Thompson at the Treasury today. Oh! my love, if this bears fruit I shall be a step nearer to you. Mr Murray says, my darling, that he hasn’t mentioned my lack of work to S1 because he didn’t want to Throw Me Upon their Mercy (bless him) but that he can’t in all conscience keep me indefinitely with nothing at all to do.
Mum said she ought to start buying our sheets while there were still linen sheets on the market & while they were still Off the Ration – and – er – would I prefer double or single sheets? ‘Double’, I said Firmly, my darling, and without a split-second’s hesitation & the Look of Relief in her Eye was Unmistakable. So now the Die is Cast, my dearest love. You won’t be able to Go Back on your preference for a double-bed.
Thursday 22 July My darling, one of the first things I loved about you was that you were the only person in the world with whom I could be silent without any sense of strain and one of the soul-destroying things about our separation is that I can only communicate with you with words. Oh! darling, it’s driving me mad. There is a church bell tolling dismally outside my window, my dear love. It is saying ‘Alone! Alone! Alone! Alone! Alone!’ and it makes me want to put my head down on my desk and cry most piteously. You will have to teach me all over again, right from the very beginning, how to be happy, my darling. I have forgotten.
Friday 23 July I am lunching with Ismay & my Godchild today. I do not enjoy being with Ismay, my darling, she has a mind like a plank & it bores me.
Darling, my Godchild has Changed. I won’t say improved because I’m not sure that it is an improvement. What I mean, my love, is that, whereas before she was in the Caliban Class she is now rather like one of those smug creatures in the illustrations to that little book of Improving Verses that you gave me long ago. She ought to be wearing long Pantaloons & a Sun-bonnet, darling – they are Definitely Her Idiom. What is an improvement, my love, is that Ismay no longer produces a Diminutive Malcolm from a Shopping Bag at the end of lunch. Isobel now wobbles off to Duncan on piano-legs. She wears thick glasses, darling, & her Squint is considerably less horrifying than it was but her Stolidity appalls me. Nothing short of a shower of Sun Maid Raisins can bring so much as a Twinkle to her rather vacuous eye. I asked Ismay rather sadly whether she was always as Well-Bred as this. ‘Certainly,’ said Ismay with Hauteur, leaving no more to be said. Darling, we’ll be able to Produce something a bit better than Isobel, shan’t we? Our talk at lunch was Rigorously Domestic, darling. Is there anything in the world as unutterably dreary as Household Chat? Never mind, my love, it’s over now and it won’t Happen Again until next Quarter.
I am not looking forward to Pamela’s wedding, my dear love, with its reception at Claridge’s. It will be all too, too correct. Pamela herself is not like Ismay, darling – she’s too vague & willy-nilly for that & she has got a sense of humour – but her parents are and their lives are Organized up to the Hilt. Punctually three days before her wedding, darling, Papa presented Pamela with a will to sign leaving everything to her Issue via Mr Mackenzie and cutting him off without a shilling in the Event of his Remarriage! The idea was, darling, that Pamela would by that time be so Overcome with Wedding Preparations that she wouldn’t have time to think about it – but she Fixed her father by ringing up her Solicitor & making him cut out the new marriage clause.
Sunday 25 July This hasn’t been a Good day, my darling. I was with Mr & Mrs Lipschitz & their guests until nearly 6 & I consumed vast quantities of Energy on vague talk about Economic systems & kindred topics about which I know nothing. A man called Michael Foot12 was there, my love – I gather he’s Something Impressive on the Evening Standard, but I wasn’t impressed. Among other things, darling, he said he didn’t like Eliot because he Disapproved of poets who didn’t rhyme & use recognized metres. It would be no less Senseless, darling, to dislike Voltaire because he didn’t write in English! Is it surprising, my dear love, that I never read the papers when you consider the sort of people who make a living by writing for them? Later Mrs Lipschitz showed me a pamphlet by Simone called ‘La Femme Juive’. That shook me more than somewhat, darling. In the first place, Simone is such a hopelessly muddled thinker – (what I mean by that, darling, is that she swallows ideas from various sources in undigested gobbets then brings them up in such a way as to remind me irresistibly of the American tourist’s enquiry about porridge: ‘Has this been eaten or is it about to be eaten?’) that she’s incapable of writing anything coherent, & in the second, what the Hell does she know about La Femme Juive? Even less than I do, darling, because she has led a far more restricted & sheltered life than I have. La Femme Juive is not Simone & her friends who flirt with Zionism when they are not flirting with Fascism or some other fashionable-ism. It is not your little Solace & her friends who are proud to belong to a people with such a superb cultural heritage but who do no more about it than that. La Femme Juive, darling, is your mother and her friends – women whose whole life is bound up with the ritual and sociology of Judaism. To write about La Femme Juive, my darling, it is necessary to have lived among & studied most seriously & carefully the way of life of women like your mother – to have seen how much of their life is based on conviction – how much on environment & habit – how much on a desire not to shock parents & husbands & neighbours. Of all this, my darling, Simone knows nothing. She know
s nothing either of that other kind of femme Juive – the woman who believes that the Jews are God’s Chosen people – that Zion is that land which God gave them – the woman who throws up home ties, money, everything to build a new Zion in Palestine’s green & pleasant land. She is no more competent to write about the Jewish Woman, darling, than I am to write about Land drainage. She is as much a Jewess, in the full sense of the word, darling, as I am a farmer. She had Jewish parents – I own a farm. Fantastic!
Monday 26 July Darling, contrary to all Precedents, I have a lot of work to do – and that is a Good Thing – & even better is the news of Mussolini’s resignation. Apart from the little personal comedy touch of hearing Mum say: ‘We often used to play Bridge with Marshal Badoglia13 during the Abyssinian Campaign & he always looked so sad that I used to wonder whether he really approved of it!’ My dear love, it does look as though Fascism is crumbling in Italy.
Joyce was looking very pale & weary at lunch today, darling. She hasn’t heard from Gordon since the beginning of May (God! How awful that must be for her, my darling) & she has hardly any work to do. If she isn’t given any more soon she’s going to ask for a transfer. Darling, she says that Michael Foot is the Editor of the Evening Standard. Well, well, well.
Tuesday 27 July Darling, I got out of bed in the night to see Duncan, having been awakened by a Siren and I stood by the window watching the searchlights threaded like ribbons through the clouds. At one point. Darling, they criss-crossed like the spokes of a wheel and caught a tiny silver plane – no bigger than a fly – in the hub of light at their intersection point. Searchlights are fascinating things, my darling. They are the only Instruments of War, except Barrage Balloons, which give me any pleasure at all.
Wednesday 28 July I am going to one of Lord Nathan’s Parties this evening, my dear love. Oh! Woe & alas – how I hate the atmosphere of the Baronial Hall. His Lordship Ballooning and Booming about the Place – and not quite enough to eat so that every time you have a sandwich you are Assailed with Pangs of Guilt.
Darling, there’s the most Beautiful Intrigue going on on our Floor. There’s a little Higher Clerical Officer, a married man of about 50 with married sons in the Forces and Kitty & I see him lunching about every day at Aldwych Corner with a Girl. As she can’t be more than 21 and as she wears a wedding ring, darling, Kitty and I have always assumed that she’s his Daughter-in-Law – but not at all! Recently he asked to be given a room to himself with an Assistant – (Mrs So-and-so would meet the Case Admirably, he added Casually). His Wish was Granted, my love, and Lo! His Assistant is the young woman with whom he so assiduously lunches on every day of the year – but this is Far From All, my darling. Yesterday, I had occasion to consult AMCO’s and as our Branch copy was locked away in Mr Murray’s cupboard I decided to borrow a set from this Little Man. It is not customary to knock on people’s office doors, darling, so I just walked in – to interrupt a Mollock which would have done Us credit, my dear love! When I got back to our room with the AMCO’s, darling, I remarked casually to Kitty that I had interrupted a Tender Scene next door. I don’t know quite what I expected her to say, darling, but I think I was rather waiting on a Testy ‘Nonsense!’ but not a bit of it. She just said: ‘Yes, I know – that’s always happening to me – I never go in there if I can help it.’ I was Shaken to the Core, my dear love.
My darling, Lord Nathan’s party Had Its Points. Joan rang me up at about 6 to say that Robert, at the last minute had offered so pathetically to go home & cook the supper instead of going to the party that she had Let Him Off – so we went together, my love. We went into the library, darling, & Lady N met us at the buffet with: ‘Would you like some sherry? I think it’s rather hot for Sherry myself. We also have fresh redcurrant juice. Perhaps you would like some of that.’ I had the currant juice, darling, but Joan had the sherry – She won’t be asked again. Then Joyce introduced me to Arthur Greenwood14 who surprised me by being a very tall and stately man instead of the wizened little creature I had always, for some reason, imagined him to be. We talked about war pensions, darling, & he Encouraged me immensely by saying: ‘What everybody must realize is that after this war money will no longer have any meaning. We will no longer need to scale down our plans to fit our resources, we shall have to create enough resources to fit our plans.’ I nearly Broke into Loud Applause at that, my darling, but I confined myself mostly to a series of Vigorous Nods. This must have convinced him that I was No End of a One, darling (he hadn’t anything else to go on, my love, because I was so impressed by his personality & his eloquence that I didn’t say a word) because afterwards, when we were getting our things from the cloakroom he came up & said: ‘Goodbye, Miss Alexander, I’m so glad to have met you.’ I Glowed, darling, because I’ve been an admirer of his ever since his speech on the day before the outbreak of war. What’s more, my love, he’s the only distinguished Politician I have ever met who wasn’t the most Awful disappointment.
My darling, Mr Murray came into me to show me his letter to Lionel Thompson. Oh! I wish I deserved such praise. We had a long talk about Hardy.
Friday 30 July Last night, my dear love, I think I sank deeper into the quagmire of despair than ever before. My sense of loss at being away from you, my darling, was so terrible that I felt as though my body & my spirit were gradually being crushed to powder and my mind was being pulped to an amorphous mass.
I came home to find a pair of gleaming white linen sheets folded in a box on my bed – a present from Mum to Us & a horrible & morbid thought involuntarily crossed my mind though I drove it away as violently & as hard as I could. It was: ‘Not for my marriage bed but for my shroud.’ It’s characteristic of this kind of mood, my darling, that I am obsessed with the idea that I shall die before I see you again.
After dinner tonight, my darling, I remarked on a small paragraph in the Evening Standard where it said that the Italians had been chalking up demands for the return of Toscanini on the walls of the Scala Opera House. Pa said; ‘I wonder why they don’t invite him to be the first Prime Minister of Free Italy as Paderewski was the first Prime Minister of Free Poland.’ I implored him to write to the Times drawing the parallel, my love, but by that time he was thinking about something else, so I rang up Mr Murray at his home & he agreed to write for us.
My darling. I can see you shaking your head & saying: ‘There’s my impractical little cluck’ but truly, my love, I’m not so wildly fanciful. It seems to me to be such a wise & beautiful idea. I remember how long ago in the Albert Hall, at a meeting held to consider the Jewish problem, Einstein made a suggestion at which the whole world laughed indulgently as the impractical fancy of a dreamer. He said, darling, that the world as it was then (and even more so as it is today) was no place for thinkers, for artists, philosophers & scientists & he begged that the derelict lighthouses of the world should be placed at the disposal of such men as himself to enable them to pursue knowledge in peace. God! How right he was, my darling. The world today is not fit for artists, philosophers & scientists because it is run by politicians who do not understand ethical & aesthetic values which are the life-blood of the thinkers.
Saturday 31 July Darling, I was thinking in the ’bus on my way to work of my intense antagonism to the feminine graces when I was a child and I suddenly realized that I most passionately did not want to be attractive to men and was fighting a fight for Women’s Rights. You will have seen enough by now, my darling, of the women of Egypt to realize that they live according to a barbaric and crazy social system in which marriage & child-bearing are the only Respectable careers & in which Discreet Adultery is more readily tolerated than a profession for a woman. Of course, it was never like that in my own home, darling, but then, in that respect, Mum & Pa were regarded by their neighbours as Freaks. You see, darling, in spite of coming to England every year, Cairo society was the only society in which I had continuously lived until I grew old & wise enough to Know Better. I took it as the norm and fought against it with a vast
& needless expenditure of energy & venom.
Joan came to lunch today, my dear love, & we had the most terrific argument with Pan about First Principles. I was shocked at finding Joan was 100% on my side, because I was expressing views which a year ago she would have attacked most rabidly & I know she was simply voicing Robert’s views parrot-fashion. She has ceased to have any ideas of her own whatsoever, my darling, about anything at all from sex to housekeeping. I know I love you more single-mindedly and deeply than Joan loves Robert, my darling, but I wouldn’t insult your intelligence by turning myself into a Porous Mat beneath your feet.
Oh! my love! Pan is in here reading Plato’s Republic and smoking a pipe. I must turn him out or I shall be Asphyxiated – & my only excuse is – Sleep.
Tuesday 3 August My darling, Mr Murray has had a reply from Lionel Thompson. He says: ‘In the event of there being no opening in the M of I would Miss Alexander be willing to be considered for an ordinary straightforward Administrative post in Egypt, say in the Minister of States Office or the Middle East Supply Centre?’ Oh! my darling, Miss Alexander would be not only willing but desperately eager to be so considered – what Miss Alexander’s parents will say is quite another matter, my dear love. Lionel Thompson’s suggestion is the least vague & academic that has been made so far. Lay it to thy heart, my darling, & I will Lay it to my Parents in the hope that they will not Fling it Back in my Teeth.
Love in the Blitz Page 46
