Saturday, 9.30.

1937

Dear Jim - quiet thought has led me to the conclusion that the
only feasible solution is to let me write whenever I feel like
it. That is so much more sensible than anything else; and then
if we meet once a fortnight or so it will be delightful and not
a bore for you. I do not mean subjective letters, for those
are a baddish thing aren't they, but descriptive ones. If I'm
just allowed to pop a note into the pillar-box when I want to,
it would make such a difference. You know the way Evelyn
used to write to that angelic woman who married Sydney
Godolphin, in order to "improve his style", although he saw her
every Tuesday afternoon for years. And as you have said (and
you so rarely complimentary) that you are sometimes amused
by my letters, I feel less guilty than I shd otherwise. Anyway
you can tear them up unopened when you get to them.
absorption point. I have now so much got the habit of noticing
things to tell you, that if I retail them in writing it
might even be useful ; as if you had two sets of eyes instead
of one you know.

Yesterday I spent a fascinating hour in the vaults
of St Mary-le-Bow, with a Dickensian cockney verger, a little
old man with a growth on his head, who knows more about the
city than anyone I've ever met. He says that in three years
of diligent walking about and asking questions I might learn
about it too. His crypt, of which he is possessively and
rightly proud, is one of those pleasantly dank, dark places,
with Roman brick, and Saxon roof, and Norman pillars with Wren
bases - a sort of pantechnicon of English architecture. You
must see it - if you don't dislike that sort of thing.
I am always naively delighted with any architectural odds and
I have a passion for vaults, haven't you. I must fly
to catch my train for Essex; I want to-go to-morrow to see
Long Melford Hall - do you know it ? A most lovely late
Tudor brick house, with the cupolas still on the Towers, as
they are now at Hampton Court. Did you know anything about a
house built in 1615 by the Arcadia Countess of Pembroke, near
Amphill ? "Houghton Conquest" its called, and built of yellow
stone in the shape of a star by Italian architects. The Jacobean
sWEBE so deliciously unexpected in their ways and buildings
and clothes, weren't they ? Tell me if I may write; it will
absolve you from ever having to "make time" like Harold, to
see me. I think bitterly of Harold's "good turn" - and
how it was to "make such a difference" to your life !! Silly
old man to produce a wolf in sheep's clothing

Ever yrs,

22.iv.38.

Dear Jim,

I think I thanked you for your letter, but not for the poem (which may I keep or shall it be returned or burnt? It isn't signed); it does not strike me as in the least shaming, and enigmatically above any of my efforts: I shall have said Hopkins rather than Donne, tho' there are Donnish bits certainly; but "whenceunder" etc. is pure Hopkins in a way. The coneygree and the conifer comfort are frightfully good, it seems to me, and the whole thing, except for one or two words (like 'tender') which I personally dislike anyway, is surprisingly lovely & efficient (surprisingly simply because I had not much thought of you as a poet); I like it immensely, and it exactly gets across what you feel I fancy. Thank you so much for letting me see it, and please let me keep it (with my copies of Jack Sparrow's poems!); why don't you write more if you can write like that, I shall certainly --- tho' obviously inspiration doesn't come every day; it must a satisfying outlet for one's feelings, I have nothing but letters, long, entangled letters of the kind you know only too well. I am so sorry (how futile and slight that sounds, but words of sympathy are oddly hackneyed seeing how little people sympathise, people in the bulk I mean) about you, I wish there was something constructive to say, or a little comfort not too icily cold to offer. Actually I think there may well be, for the situation, tho' evidently brittle in some respects, is not nearly so bad as your imagination assumes. (I'm sorry the typing gone so wrong). I think the only danger is in the "Protestant" fear (as you so rightly call it) of the poor thing itself, and in the fact that not having known you before this tempest it can only believe what you tell it about yourself and yr views & previous adventures (as Harold would call them); and that seems an additional reason for not twisting facts such as Robert etc. too much, for if one untruth were detected the whole edifice might possibly collapse -- but that's presuming the very worst. As it is, the course I suppose is to go on juggling, as it were, in the hope of finding some sort of quietus yourself, and also (it sounds and perhaps is selfish) convincing it that you and the continuation of this thing is what it most wants in the world. You see that state of fear in which you say it seems to be, is dangerous exactly because a false move might make it take flight altogether, out of alarm and conscience & convention; but I would imagine that once it feels safer, more settled and so on, there's very little left to worry about; the one thing to avoid is frightening it off the course, and that you shall be able to do; apart from that there's nothing to fear. The alternative of discussing it all might be a good thing, but anyway you know the creature and I do not, and how attached it is (it sounds pretty

firmly so I must say) and that, so nothing I say can do much either
way. Caution and care and that's all; as for its being in the
melting pot that is purely for yr own conscience; I well recollect
yr eloquence on the subject last summer, how one must always try
to escape from that way of life, how essential the wish to change
is (at my age) etc. etc. I wd think 25 a fairly decided age without
much promise of alteration myself, but then one doesn't know in
individual cases; personally I see nothing even remotely wrong in
trying to keep it up to the mark and perpetuate yr relationship
which I fancy might well get gradually less intense & more of the
mind -- at the moment of course that sounds drab and impossible,
but providence & time together do work marvels -- or so I'm told.
This is a horribly depressing & platitudinous letter I'm afraid,
and actually I feel much, much less pessimistic about it all than
it might seem; so far as I can make it exists mainly in your own
doubts and fears, and that unhealthy capacity one has for jumping
ahead several stages and meeting catastrophe before it starts out.
Can't you talk to it again about the problem, soothingly as it were,
and slowly persuade it tho' not too evidently that its not wrong;
unless you can root out that bogey it seems to me you must be
riding for disaster in a few years -- tho' what's the point of
peering dismally into futurity. The only thing that cd blot out
and cancel scruples of that kind wd be a real & permanent fondness,
and that I think is already given you -- so why not let time do
its work without too much fuss and hope for acolimitisation. I'm
sure, Jim dear, that you are making Etna out of a few mole-hills
in one way, and all that's required is care & occasional discussion;
if you let it see that you assume that's its going on and on and on
for ever it will have neither the heart nor the inclination to
break any part of it off.
I suppose I ought to be more jolly
& optimistic, but that wd in one way be an insult to yr intelligence;
its not a tragedy yet and has only as much the makings of one as
any other human relationship where excessive affection is concerned.
At least, to drag in my own dreary and (as it must seem to you)
drably in-comparable situation, you haven't this cold grey vista
of certainty and jealousy and total deadlock.
That thing
about Ursula missing her train you know, yr interpretation or fears
of it, is an excellent example of the baselessness of jealousy so
often; it seems merely chivalrous and unselfish, to give up seeing
someone one wants to see passionately in order to drive a woman
to the country; but you can't be expected to see it so, nor have
I in similar circumstances -- you know that As You Like It speech
about the minutes & hours in love.

This perhaps is too explicit, but I have yet to learn
the art of penetrating a discreet letter with rays of ambiguous
meaning; Harold can do it perfectly. It is also platitudinous
and a bit priggish and an analysis. Anyway things are not so bad
as you think, tho' your thinking them so makes them for you quite
hellish; do just hope & pray and be sensible. Gosh talk of
the blind leading the blind: I feel an absolute ass to proffer any
consolation or advice......

Monday 25 April.

Dear Jim,

Thank you so much for your letter; I would have thought your
claims to be a Mme de Sevigne at least equal to mine; I specially
like the description of the Herberts. Well, it all sounds most
encouraging if slightly tiresome; the idea of you being put through
yr traces seems so ridiculous & impert., but still; and the fears
and prejudices seem to me to be as middle-class as they are Protest-
ant: as for Ursula I would eradicate her as soon as possible, or
rather by a slow process of absorption; I have never had any use
for the Dark Lady myself. But I am glad the thing is going so well
as it evidently is, and that the creature realises the importance
of permanency; you have little to worry about if you behave yourself
I imagine, but do not give in over length of hair etc. too suddenly
--- I now believe one shd never try to please, it just gives a free
rein to the power-psyche (vide Adler or is it Jung ?); be deft
about it all anyhow. I would to see the nine-months poem; how
nice that its conception shd take that length of time; perhaps a
symptom of yr innate femininity ???? How right you are about
prayer, it only seems possible as an ebullience of thanksgiving
at moments of great happiness; to pray in l'ombre et le silence is
hard indeed. Do not by the way think me too unselfish, for
other people's troubles are a blessed relief from one's own, which
have become so heavy and insoluble this last week that even I have
ceased to dare to speak or write or think about them -- tho' the
latter one must do ceaselessly; it is having built up what seemed
the most delicate & subtle & lasting intimacy, and then to find
that its gone west, or never even existed on any latitude outside
one's own imagination that's the rub. What you say about my age
is perfectly sweet and terribly true I know; you are a perfect
angel.

I spent a cold & misty week-end on the
cliffs between Lulworth & Weymouth; a clean, white house looking
flat out over the sea, with Portland Bill in the background, and
a dazzling, fluttering series of lights and shades all over the
waves; walking with Clarissa (who is indefatigable, I trundled
breathlessly behind her grasping a large stick), discussing books
with her father, and answering Lady Goonie's vague, whimsical
remarks & questions. They are a nice family, and the greatest fun;
Lady Goonie was superb, with her head wrapped in a stiff veil, and
those wide direct blue eyes, which look right through one and
perhaps see nothing at all, pretending she was what she called a
"haus-drau" (can't spell German) and asking whether one would like
pork on Sunday or sardines and then smiling wistfully, with that
fascinating espiegle manner she has. We went to church on Sunday
at Lulworth, in a gaudy little Georgian bas relief under the castle
walls almost bitter cold and very dank; we then went to the
sacristy to see a frightfully dirty Italian shell-picture
which Lady Goonie thought I ought to see; then Lady Goonie and I
ran round the terrace to get warm and leapt into the car; it was
all so Through the Looking Glass by that time that nothing surprised

one. Lady G. & Clarissa have little scraps, and then rush and kiss catch
other, and Lady G. used to turn to me and say "snap-snap, whatever will
James think of us; listen James I keep on foggetting youre a stranger".
I have completely fallen for her; she seems to me incredibly original
and individual and sublime!

I rang you up this morning, but an alien voice told me you
were in yr bath, so I left it; it was to ask if you'd be to the Merchant
of Venice, which Clarissa & I have chosen for our party of the third
before the dance; Gay Margesson is the other girl. So many, many
thanks for yr charming letter; I had felt a bit ashamed of mine; it
seemed so like the Daily Mirrow advice bureau ("Dear Dorothy Dix, tell
me how to keep my boy in love with me" you know what I mean).

Much love,

Gerry has just rung me up, such a bore in a way, but I never have
the guts to refuse anything somehow.

74 Avenue Road

N.W.6

September 21st 1955.

My dear Jim,

I send you herewith one of the first copies to hand of the book, which comes out Friday week MM-- please read it in the warehouse and tell me exactly and frankly what you think; the cover is pretty isn't it, and the illustrations are fun, but the text is wotfully patchy and thin to my thinking. I feel frightfully, nightmarishly guilty at not having answered your letter or told you how much I think of you, or how distressed (an inadequate word) I am about the schizophrenia. Is R. better now or not? Of so may I ask him to dine with part of my royalties ... do genuinely want to see him, and because he appreciates you properly I am anxious to appreciate him; rather a last century sentiment but still. This is a different typewriter to the one I'm used to, I'm sorry. I insist on seeing you as soon as possible, in spite of the blackout; I'll ring up. You speak of Harold: I must wait till we meet to tell you what I think of him, it is unprintable. You were witness, I think, if the tag-end of that conversation with Paul? _Believe it or not_ that unspeakable old man has written it up, with suitable distortions, in the current number of the Spectator, as an example of German 'disloyalty and lack of moral courage'. . . . The whole thing is so fifth rate that it is better not to think of it at all;

the more so that there is no word of truth in any of his accusations. You were not yet there when he was being peculiarly offensive to Paul about internment, and infuriated him in effect to such a degree that on coming away P. told me that he would neither ever see Harold again nor do anything he asked him. I know I was exasperating, but I set out to be in retaliation; also, you know, I do feel fairly strongly about the war and cannot be told to 'take it quietly' without exploding. That Harold shd accuse Paul, who is the soul of loyalty (though not as you know) of a very spectacular conversationlist or thinker) revolts me; that lecherous and sophisticated old journalist, whose whole moral code and specious humanitarianism hides the most utter want of civilised standards and the greatest self-indulgence. . . . As you know he has done this sort of thing before (some people etc.), but one had always thought it would, so to speak, occur again and I ignored all those stories of his past behaviour. But to use a private conversation, with a lonely German, as newspaper propaganda is filthy; when one adds that the whole conversation has been perverted and misrepresented it is impossible. I have told him in no unmeasured nor ill-contrived terms exactly what I think of him. If I am making every effort to give the story the widest publicity possible, and from now on I am determined to do everything one can to destroy that odious family. I shd like to stamp the MacNichols right out, you know; if only, if only I wasn't still fond of the old thing. I forgot to tell you it was Nigel who read me the article, which I shdnt otherwise have seen, over the telephone. My love, dear Jim,

Wednesday.

Darling Jim,

If we can still dine to-morrow
I will be at Manor Street at 7.00; if you
dont ring up and leave a counter-message
expect me then. I am just off to Paignton,
which is terribly exciting really. Last night
I saw Harold (who was academic and kind and
rather tiresome; I think his ant-Germanism
is pathological) and then dined with Ralph
Dutton who had to go early to the Foreign
Office, and I nearly came to see you but
hadnt any money for a cab and it was so foggy.
In some strange but very pleasant way I
dont want to see anybody but you; why ? I
have thought a lot about schizophrenia and
medical examinations and as I see he cant
get through without his previous record being
turned up; unless he lies, but even so I
suspect it wont work. As for schizophrenia
I now clearly remember that it is not a
form of idiocy nor permanent nor incurable,
but merely an exaggerated mental strain; I
mean its not lunatic or more than a breakdown.
I feel sure of this (for what its worth).
How spiteful and sterile Eddie S-W. is in
the flesh; he said such vile things about
Doreen, who is devoted to him, that I had
to contradict. Midi is almost the nicest pers-
on in the world isn't she, but then she has
to my thinking some peculiar similarity to
you, you are both somehow like each other
without being obviously so. Cd we drive
to somewhere -- Richmond or Htn Court on
Sunday ? I cannot exaggerate how much I want
to see you : or we cd look at St Bartholomews
and city churches. I find that the seeds of
suspicion sown by H.'s Spectator thing arent
purged or whatever the word wd be, and I
shall never feel exactly the same about him

LONG BARN,
WEALD,
SEVENOAKS.

Thursday 29th February.

Dearest Timothy - I feel I was very wrong to be so brutal
and unsympathetic on the telephone just now; it comes of its
being leap-day I expect. It is, really though, that I am
so frightened of your hooking yourself up in some awful
way to something as unsuitable as the Scots Guards or what-
ever Guards it was. It is so easy now to get involved for
any number of years in an army organisation almost by accid-
ent. The lorry or ambulance driving would obviously be much
more your thing, and if you must (and because of conscription
and finance I suppose you must) do something do that. I do
feel disinterested in saying that, for the idea of youre
going away for six months is repellent ; but Mr Sumner Welles
may yet save us all. Dearest Him, it is a backhanded compl-
iment that I am so brusque with you over this; I do mind
about you as about few others and I do get genuinely worried.

Forgive me.

Love,

Troop 496,

83rd.Light A.A.Battery, R.A.,

H.M.DOCKYARDS,

26.May. CHATHAM.

Dearest Jim,

I cant possibly tell you how pleased I was to get
your letter ; and to hear that you are not inevitably involved
in the new call-up. That was nice of Harold, wasnt it; I had
a letter from him yesterday. Here I have bn suffering from an
awful indolence -- and so far as writing to you is concerned a
guilt complex. You see Jim dear I have only had two lots of
48 hrs. leave since yr exhibition opened, and they have both
been so crammed (mostly with meals, its such a relief to get
food again) that I couldnt make my way to Chelsea. I was so
v. anxious to see the Exhibition, but there it is and now its
over. But you mustnt feel hurt, bedint or not. I do want to
see you so, and I suggest you shd drive down here one afternoon
or evening and we cd have tea dinner or lunch at an Italian
restaurant in Chatham and walk by the river. Leave, local leave
that is, has this minute been restored and I have 3 hrs. a day
off. If you havent the car you cd get an electric train at
Charing X, arriving at Chatham at 2.42. Dinner would be more fun
though. Mummy is coming down to-morrow afternoon and its really
v. simple and costs 2/4d or something like that. I have been
here (the most bombable place in England) for about ten weeks;

first in a most charming little George III farmhouse in a large
orchard, with the whole expanse of the Medway, (a panorama of
smooth water and round forts, and trees and church-spires over
the way) at the bottom of the garden. I read and worked at my
writing very placidly. Once we had shrapnel on the roof, which
was foretaste of what will come I suppose. Now this last week I
have been moved into the heart of the dockyard (and thus into the
heart of a certain bombardment; but the shelters are deep, new,
safe and comforting), as Medical Orderly at Headquarters. I
sleep in a corrugated shed with eight militia lorry-drivers; in
the shed too is a dart board and a barrel of beer, and the night
workers in the dockyard come and play darts & swill beer over
ones bed till 12.15; it is set, the shed I mean, on the very
edge of one of the old quays, with another equally splendid
panorama, including Rochester Castle (very bony and white, with
jagged window holes in the keep) and the Cathedral, gasometers
and cranes (both of which I have realised are constructive parts
one of the in& most lovely views I have ever seen in all my life). It
is superb, the view; I cannot tell you the pleasure I get from
it, night and morning, always changing, with the flat water
reflecting barges & battleships and destroyers and submarines as
they pass up and down. The dockyard is exactly your & my sort
of thing; this end or corner has the admirals house, dated 1703,
a magnificent big red-brick rectangle, with wide-sashed windows
and steps and iron lamps and gates; the other buildings are

variously dated 1730, '34, 1808, 1837 etc.; rows of Georgian houses, flights of steps everywhere, corners and archways, linden trees and chestnut trees and lilac, cobble-stones and paving-stones; a sort of dream, to me; with no traffic but an occasional lorry and the little railway train that runs to and fro with trucks; and all surrounded by a wall like the Great Wall of China. It is simply like living in 18th century

London. I read a great deal, mostly French now; Montherlant whom I have come to worship especially; and do reviews for the Tablet. Also in the office is a nice typical English Catholic, who is an important trained librarian and writing a thesis on the influence of St John of the Cross & St Theresa of Avila on Crashaw. I am reviewing a book on Buckingham; now do you know I am convinced that James I was more like Harold than its possible to imagine ? But identical. I blushed rather when I read that the fact of B's physical relations with James "naturally precludes" the possibility of his having had any with Prince Charles. I guess I'm amoral.

Dear Jim, dont think from all this that I am anything but agonised by the situation; and somehow more important than whether they get the channel ports the fact of Abbeville (a walled city I wanted to see) is razed, Ghent probably destroyed, the Hague (one of the most lovely cities in the world?) bombed and so on; and the grinding to powder of so much youth and intelligence and vitality The world will surely not be worth living in, whoever wins; the

outside world I mean; which is why I welcome my discovery that
life can be reduced to books -- even comfort isn't necessary --
books, a view, and five people of whom you are one. And to think
that it cd all, every single bit of it, have been avoided by firmness
or intelligence or energy after the last war; even up to 1932
or later it cd have been stopped; Ld Baldwin seems to me a far
guiltier and filthier figure than Hitler. Why cant we stop
whimpering at the German cruelties? It makes me so angry -- one
does not scream out because a nigger is black (not a direct
analogy, maybe) we have got used to it; why cant we merely accept
the fact that Germans are barbaric in some of their aspects, and
cease surprise? In a war of this importance I do not see that
invading Holland & Belgium was wrong, only the way it was done. If
we cd but sweep away the last remnants of the rules of war how
many lives cd still be saved. If we had invaded Germany through
a neutral country it seems to me the war might have stopped & the
future of Europe ensured. It seems to me that to abrogate inter-
national morality for four weeks might have been worth saving
civilisation for four centuries? However that is now fruitless
argument; but through my despair & disgust runs a thread of fury
that any of this shd have been permitted. Appeasement, indeed.

I still feel no <u>shock</u> about the Germans; they seem to me to be acti-
ng on inevitable lines, and to have reached a crescendo of brutal-
ity that was always implicit in their character and for which they
are less responsible than we who have fed & permitted its growth.

You will not, I daresay, agree. Here there is all the paraphenalia of anti-parachute defences; flimsy, panicky, even correct
futile, but I admit that is not the point of view. I foresee
Ely & Cambridge destroyed; and Lavenham and all the East Coast;
is it worth existing free in a demolished country? I wonder very
much. The national confusion between democracy, freedom and
civilisation seems to have reached its height; and when you
think that everything that you and I admire, and that makes
Europe what it is, was produced under authoritarian governments
& aristocratic rule. The destruction of Rotterdam, so swift and
so total, a quarter of the city in 1½ days, terrifies me in terms
of London. I think one's future life, if one has one, will have
to be spent in the west of Ireland in a Tudor tower; or Spain
which may be renovated and restored by then. And yet the destruct-
ion will be no worse, only more spectacular than that carried out
by Sir Robert McAlpine and other contractors; and certainly the
bombs may purge the country of the ribbon suburbs of democracy.
The more I think about democracy the more it seems to me vulgary
spongy and destructive; has any other city in Europe the approach-
that London has I wondered the other day driving up through
Chatham, Rochester, and Greenwich, etc. They seem to
expect the invasion this week; that is to say we have had a
letter from the Division saying so and that it is our proud
privilege to defend the most dangerous portion of our island, and
that we must stand to the last bullet and the last man, and then
attack invaders with rakes and spades (verbatim). I was at one

moment armed with a rifle which has now, wisely, been taken away. Do you think Sissinghurst will be surrounded? I can see Vita with a rake or spade, cant you. Mummy is quite optimistic, but miserable at the loss of life; 2 wars is too much; I wish you would see her -- or come down here with her?

I find detachment what one most needs here, and indeed I am placidly happy when I abstract myself from the news. Even with England almost invaded I feel no solidarity with any human beings but my own friends. I was very sorry about Midi's brother; I met him that night you & the Kinross pair & Eddie were at her sister-in-law's house. How can the world have come to this as you say? Even after Norway I did not believe the last war massacres could ever be repeated. I am sure we shall win, because we must. The Prime Minister has a command of adjectives that I profoundly admire-- "imperative, inescapable, imperious". In immorality a consolation? I dont know. I'm not sure God's not a wash-out, what do you think? Frogive the inverted Oxford Group flavour of that. I am so upset about Rick, but if his scar wont heal so much the better from one point of view? He isn't in a really dangerous place anyway is he. Or is everywhere dangerous? I take a placid morbid pride in the danger here!

Dear Jim I send you all my love,

74, AVENUE ROAD, N.W.8.

PRIMROSE 6380.

July 1940

83rd.Lt.A.A.Battery,
H.M.DOCKS,
CHATHAM.

Wednesday.

Dearest Jim,

Thank you so much for your letter; I have asked my father to act upon it and write to the Regimental Colonel. Reports of his regiment, the Oxford & Bucks make it seem improbable that I could get in there. Without Caterham the prospect of the guards is far more appealing : but it is you and the uniform, nothing more, that persuades me. How little I want to be an officer or to try to be one : and what hopes has one in an Octu against the keen, the anxious and the zealous ? Your collapse from pacifism into the class convention of the Guards worries me, but then everyone who

began the war with one viewpoint has now
got some other -- Harold defending Chamber-
lain, is the best example. My own detest-
ation of the war, which I do not much att-
empt to rationalise, has on the other hand
increased; I had a few months of thinking
it was a just war, but now I see it as
the destruction of everything that could
even now be saved, a destruction planned by
the Germans but made possible by us, and
to which there is no alternative; we have
become a purely Daily Mirror nation, and
our vulgarity seems to me little better
than Nazi injustice. And I have always
preferred evil to stupidity -- havent you ?

My patriotism wanes; it is anyway largely
a literary & architectural one, and I have
to think very hard of the Brontes and Castle
Howard when I want to remember that we
represent something I like. How I envy

74, AVENUE ROAD, N.W.8.

PRIMROSE 6380.

you your age -- at least you have enjoyed
the '20s, and I was beginning to so much.
I wish I felt inspired by something to do
with the war -- but to be living at the
greatest moment of modern history bores me
merely, and I feel no interest in a future
generation or a better world, because I
believe in neither. Christianity is of
course still there, but it seems a clear
and tranquil stream running parallel to
but utterly detached from the turgid river
of the war, and as I said the other day
too unapropos for words. There is a comp-
lacency about Christ that begins to irrit-
ate me; nailed on to that cross through
all the churches of the world, and making
the sort of no-effort Heywood Hill does at
Doreen's lunch-parties. And as for that
Pope on a board bed... I do

not enjoy feeling so sour about everything
now, but the war seems to me to have
made idealism impossible and sterile;
only Edwardian liberals like Harold, or
New Statesman fanatics can believe in any
future for mankind or in perpetual peace
or in democracy. Personally I foresee
a general fascism in which ones moral
duty will be limited to hacking out a
niche for oneself and trying to keep in
touch with the few people one does feel
attached to -- dont you agree ? It annoys
me to have seen so little of the old Europe
and to realise that I must now rely on
reading in lieu of direct experience. I
wonder if a commission is not a mistake,
guns & bayonets do genuinely revolt me so,
and I do not share your equanimity. Your
point of view about the war amuses me, it
is exactly between mine and Mummy's ; but
I have before noticed this about yr points
of view -- they form a bridge from the pre-
1914 to the pre-1940... Which is natural. Do
write. Love,

235th S/L Training Regiment, R.A.,
Auchengate Camp,
Troon,
Ayrshire.

(All Saints Day.)
Dearest Jim,

For weeks now I have been meaning to write, and
answer and thank you for your letter from the caves at Dover;
or are they not properly caves? I loved hearing from you
again more than I can ever say; and do you think we could
organise once more a regular correspondence? We always
have written, haven't we (in those early hot summer days, when
you were in Gloucester Place, I wrote more than you though ??)
and now letters are ones only means of keeping alive. I
begin to feel strongly that it is not worth keeping alive
any more, although about every second or third day I feel this
and then a 48 hour period of comparative equanimity succeeds.
Oh how I envy you even with the shelling (I agree about bombs;
only once I think, at Detling aerodrome, was I really frightened to death). You are with people you can talk to; I am not.
But how snobbish that sounds; and indeed everyone here is
most agreeable and kind; and I read a great deal and walk and
think; but basically it is no sort of a life at all. I was
sent here about 3 weeks ago; it is a big hutted camp on the
sea coast, between Ayr & Irvine (but has one ever heard of
either?), not far from Eglinton Castle: nothing but tarmac
and camouflaged tin, a huge parade ground and barbed wire.
I am still struggling feebly about a commission; but getting

page 4.

and nobody I want to see more than you. Do you seriously suppose it will ever be over, and we shall sit in Cheyne Walk and giggle about the monicols again ? I dined with Mr McNicol last month, and he seemed (a good sign) saddened, and didn't oppose my depression and arguments very enthusiastically; what an angelic man he is, really, but rather misguided ? I do adore him though. He is bored to tears by his ministry, and having to go to the basement every night; bomb proof, of course, the last word in safety and protection; which makes me so cross ! Not really cross though for I shd loathe him to be hurt. Did you/ Mrs Woolf on Coleridge in the New Statesman last week: "The Man in the Gate"; not as good as it might have been; I am a/ little tired of Mrs Woolf. Oh God, when I think of what our life used to be and what it is now I almost burst into tears; this is the nadir of existence, as you may imagine, a big dirty barrack room of east enders, a bakelite mug, knife, spoon and fork; but you see what your own privates' live like & you will know. Often I feel quite gay and calm, but at other times I think I shall go insane or drown myself in the river Ayr (the sea being too full of mines, tho' closer). I wish I was less affected by surroundings; but tin and tarmac do make me feel suicidal. Do write, Jim dear.

thought excellent and true; it matters more than anything else
in the country, and I suspect is badly damaged, the Henry VII
chapel, from the bits of it one sees in news reels of the House
of Lords' bomb. Anyway its sure to be destroyed sooner or
later. I was in London for 7 days in September, and took the
opportunity of going to evensong in St Pauls; I am glad I did
so now. Bishop Heber, and Donne, both near the high ALTAR,
must be smashed I suppose. Nelsons tomb in the crypt was
chipped. When I was there, the actual damage was not spectacular;
at night the house swayed and quivered, but otherwise it was
not very worrying. Mummy will not leave London, because John
has to be there and my father too; you can imagine what that
is like for one up here. St James' Piccadilly has gone
and some houses in St J's square; but you are probably more
up in it all than I am now. Nowhere is there any hope, or
any prospect; if we win it will be to impose a regime of
slobbery little democracies all over Europe, supported by
America and every form of vulgarity; and London will be rebuilt
under the auspices of Sir R. MacAlpine. Never again shall we
be able to wander in the city, or at Hampton Court as we used
to do; there will be nothing left in England or in Europe that
one can enjoy. Will there? Assuming that is that one is left
oneself. This is a gloomy dull letter but I feel both. I was
reading some Madame de Sevigne last night in bed; what a
supreme vitality and sprakling mind. One can keep going by
contact with people like her; or de Quincey indeed. Do take
care to keep underground when the shells burst... and do write,
dearest Jim, please, there is no-one I want to hear from more.