by Barbara Pym
25 August. Oswestry. Henry, Jockie and Mr Barnicot all came to Oswestry. It was lovely. Henry was absolutely at his best. He wore his grey flannel suit, a bright blue silk shirt with a darker blue tie and blue socks. He wanted me to return to Oxford with them, but I feel it is better that I remain here, thinking lovingly of him, with more real fondness than before. He goes to Finland on the 11th of September. I don’t know when he comes back or when I shall see him again.
3 November. I take up my pen after a long interval, not as seems usual in this diary because I’ve seen Henry again or because anything particularly exciting has happened to me. There’s no point in trying to write up all past events so I shall just have to begin now.
10 November. No letter from Henry. No news of my novel. Last Monday I sent two stories to the London Mercury – Unpast Alps and They Never Write, but have so far heard nothing. On Tuesday I had a driving lesson with Price and got on well.
11 November. Armistice Day. My novel came back from being typed while I was having breakfast. They seem to have done it well and in spite of a few mistakes it looks very nice. I may call it Some Tame Gazelle. Some Sad Turtle is also another possibility but somehow it reminds me rather too much of turtle soup and the rest of the quotation isn’t quite so suitable. I spent some time going through the novel in the evening and did about 13 chapters. I am alternately cheerful and depressed about it.
For the two minutes silence we went to the Park gates where they had a nice service.
15 November. I am reading Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers and enjoying it so much. Pleasure and pain in an agreeable mixture. That’s what I feel when I think of Oxford and my days at St Hilda’s.
16 November. No letters today or indeed any other day it seems. Henry, Jockie, Barnicot, Friedbert, Sharp, London Mercury – all silent.
I packed off my novel (Some Tame Gazelle it’s to be) to be bound into 2 volumes (in limp covers!). We had lunch in Shrewsbury and did a little vague shopping. I bought a 6d. lipstick. Now I’m trying to think of a plot for a new novel. Possibly another me, in the character of an undergraduate this time!
19 November. This morning I had another driving lesson and got on very well except for a few lapses, notably when I went on the pavement at the Sun Corner. However I’m getting better at it. I had a nice Austin 2-seater to drive. Yesterday I started another novel and wrote about a thousand words or more. It promises to be quite fun. This evening Ack and I went to the pictures to see Charles Boyer and Loretta Young in Shanghai.
21 November. My novel came back from being bound – very nicely with green backs and soft yellow covers. I had a nice letter from Jockie. He says Henry has given away his kitten and wonders how he had the heart to do it. Personally I’m not so sure about Henry having so much kindness in that heart of his. He is coming back to England sometime between December 9th and 12th. I don’t feel any special emotion about it, but I certainly shan’t stay in Oxford as last year.
23 November. My novel was sent to Chatto and Windus yesterday. I didn’t feel half so emotional about it as when I sent it to be typed. Today I have spent most of my time knitting a brown peaked cap. It is now finished and quite snappy.
26 November. Had a nice note from Harold Raymond acknowledging my novel. At 11.30 my last driving lesson. We went through the town then Whittington, Queen’s Head, Wolf’s Head then through Oswestry again and the Race Course. We talked of dogs and monkeys and the Big Wheel at Blackpool. I got on quite well and gave him 10/-. He seemed quite pleased.
27 November. Refused yet another invite to Mrs Moon’s dance. Nowadays one cannot undertake such engagements lightly. Most of this day was spent in getting ready for Oxford – packing. I am pleasantly excited about going away, and hope I’ll meet somebody nice and not be brooding too much over Henry.
28 November. Oxford. Once more in Oxford and so far it seems to be very much like any other time since I left. Only I notice even more that everywhere is full of strange young faces – Elliston’s, the Bodleian, the Corn – I’ve seen Barnicot – yesterday evening in the Radcliffe Camera and had a long talk with him. They’ve altered the place and made a great round enclosure in the middle of the floor – wherein sit Barnicot and minions. We talked for a long time and he was rather depressing about my novel. About that one can only wait. I sent a postcard to Henry, a highly coloured one of Christ Church – the Light that never was on sea or land, I called it. It’s good to be here again though I can see nobody to fall in love with.
2 December. Yesterday I went out to dinner with Jock and had a long talk afterwards – he gave me a peculiar photograph of Henry. On seeing photographs of Henry in his album I was so moved that my eyes filled with tears, whether from love, memories of the past, regret of the present or anticipation of the future, I don’t know.
After tea with Hilary today at Elliston’s we went on to Martin Watkin’s sherry party at 99 Botley Road. It was very much as sherry parties usually are when one really knows none of the people there – a small low-ceilinged room full of people and cigarette smoke. Noise of talking and a radiogramophone makes all conversation impossible – one can’t be intelligent shouting remarks at a person. There was nobody I passionately wanted to know. After it we had some food at Kemp Hall Cafeteria and then I called at 30 Banbury Road to see Mr Barnicot. Fortunately I found him in and I spent a very pleasant evening talking with him and Meurig Davies who came in later. They seemed impressed by the fact that I was looking so elegant, which I was more than usual – in my turquoise frock, black fur cape and high heels. We talked of course and then they wanted me to read, so I read a chapter from The Brothers Karamazov for which they each (B. and Meurig!) gave me one penny. Mr B. also read some Italian (Ariosto I think) while Meurig recited a few speeches and bits of things. Later we turned the light out and had music from Budapest, which always makes me a little melancholy. There we were, the three of us – Mr B. in love with Honor, Meurig with Ann Sitwell and Pymska with Henry. It was a most pleasant evening.
3 December. I went in the town this morning – very poor. I tried to get back 6½d. from Elliston’s for a pair of knitting needles, but they would only change them and wouldn’t let me have the money. Then I wrote home for some books to try and sell them.
6 December. I forgot to say that yesterday my novel was rejected by Chatto, but they wrote me a very nice letter. They think it’s too long and my character drawing too detached, but I have a style which is a pleasure to read, etc. I wasn’t as depressed as I thought I’d be and even looked forward to cutting and improving it. Jockie and Barnicot were very sweet and sympathetic. ‘There is a world elsewhere’ anyway.
On Friday David Tree – Viola Tree’s son – was at a party I went to. He is a charming young man (about nineteen I think) and very good looking. He is however interested in Hot and Swing music to such an extent that he can talk of nothing else. He will sit with a profound rapt look on his face and then all he will say is – ‘wonderful, that entry after the vocal’. He made no real effort to divert.
7 December. I went into the Bodleian to say goodbye to Jockie. He said he had had a postcard from Henry, and that Henry had sent his love to me. J. was very sweet and quite at his best. I hope he doesn’t go to Cairo, because I shall miss him very much. I bought two postcards in the picture gallery – one of the outside of the library and another of the familiar ‘Pllurimi pertransibunt et multiplex erit scientia’. I wonder when I shall pass through again. I seemed to be telling myself that I shouldn’t visit Oxford for a long time, but it seems hard to imagine not going there for a termly visit, although each time it gets a little sad. A slow wrenching away indeed.
9 December. Oswestry. This morning I sent my novel to Gollancz.
12 December. Went to Brian’s dance. We kept getting lost and missing signposts but eventually arrived at Petersfield about 6. We changed hastily and had a magnificent dinner at the Red Lion. We had a good start for the dance with cocktails, champagne and port, so that I felt quite dizzy! The dance it
self was great fun although having to dance and make conversation with so many different people was rather a strain.
20 December. Today I had two stories rejected by the London Mercury, so that I only need my novel back from Gollancz to complete everything. But in the bustle of Christmas shopping I seem not to care overmuch.
29 December. I must start reading our greater English poets again. The Heir of Redclyffe is rather a comfort though. At present I am depressed. I want Liebe but I would be satisfied if my novel could be published.
1936
2 January. My novel came back from Gollancz with a polite note. I also had a long letter from Henry, but as it was written in Latin, German, French, Swedish, Finnish and the English of James Joyce I could not well understand it. We went to Shrewsbury and saw Katherine Hepburn and Charles Boyer in Break of Hearts. Very good.
11 January. I sent Hilary a scarf, also an eyebrush and comb for her birthday. We went to Shrewsbury and saw Conrad Veidt in The Passing of the Third Floor Back.
17 January. In the evening I tried to write a story about Budapest, while Links and Ack were at the pictures.
19 January. The king was much the same all day. While washing up I began to wonder how I could get hold of a typewriter, for without one I am lost.
20 January. The king died tonight at 11.55 p.m. It was a very peaceful ending.
22 January. King Edward VIII was proclaimed. We heard it on the wireless from London.
To Henry Harvey in Oxford
Staying with her cousin
Newburn,
Hatch End,
Middlesex.
15 May 1936
Dear Henry:
I don’t know whether you intended me to answer your letter or whether it was just written in a hurry and you didn’t mean a word you said. However it was quite sensible and much that you said I agreed with (look out!) but not all. If you want the truth straight away here it is. I am fed up with the whole business. Of writing gay flippant letters to you and expecting you to see that I didn’t really feel that way. Of meeting you at regular intervals and finding that if anything we get on a little worse than the last time. Of having my peace disturbed for no purpose. And of your promises to write which never came to anything – although fair play to you – you always have plenty of excuses – and of finding that as time goes on you don’t improve or grow any older – I mean grow up in the sense that people ought to. In fact I daresay I’ve become thoroughly selfish and I feel like staying that way. Of course all this probably isn’t your fault, although some of it certainly is. As you said, we have never been real to each other. This may be because of the way Jock has treated us by refusing to take anything seriously – but it is really because you haven’t been sufficiently interested in me to make much effort about it. And of course when things are like that between two people there just isn’t anything that can be done about it. I don’t know whether you agree with me over this – or whether you’ve even thought about it, but I think I am right. But however much Jock may be responsible for the state of affairs between us, I can never forget that he saved me a great deal of unhappiness by his way of looking at things, which I adopted too, at least in our correspondence and conversation. It is an amusing game, and I don’t see why it should affect one’s real self unless one wants it to. I know that as far as I’m concerned, although I’ve learned to treat things in his way, the other side of me is still there to be brought out when necessary. I have no wish that it should be annihilated altogether because I know I couldn’t find any happiness unless I were a real person as well as a ‘flat’ one. (I use your word because it seems a good one and I can’t think of another. I’m finding it rather difficult to explain myself clearly, but I hope you’ll see what I mean).
Did I tell you I had started a new novel? I am just beginning to get into form, although at first I found it something of an effort. It is about time my first novel came back from Macmillan – it has been there over two weeks now.
My best love to Mr B. and Jock, and to you,
from Barbara
Oswestry. I’ve got to start writing again. I’ve fallen in love, and with Henry. I feel just as bad as I did three years ago – almost worse because he has been extremely nice to me and we have got on much better together than ever before. We have been together day and night for the past three weeks and yesterday he and Mr B. brought me home and now I’m wretched and missing him terribly. I have been acting as his secretary since June 17th. I’ve typed and taken dictation and copied pages out of the Dictionary of National Biography for him – worked all night for him – and received 30/ – a week.
7 June. Oxford. On this day H., J., Mr B., and I went out in the car for the day. Into the Cotswolds. But somehow I didn’t get on very well with them. It was largely my own fault as I was inclined to be rather aggressive in my ‘lowness’, talking about dance music etc. I think I did this because I felt intellectually inferior to them all, especially Henry, who always makes you feel it more than the others do. I felt that they were all against me and I made things worse by my obstinacy. But I felt resentful of being dominated by them and not being allowed to be myself at all. Also I was so conscious of being much better on paper than in speech. Anyway it was a nice day and we had a very pleasant dinner at the Old Swan at Minster Lovell, where we made up verses to celebrate the approaching nuptials of Count Weiss.
8 June. After tea Henry came round in the car to fetch me to hear a record of James Joyce at the flat. He was morose and bad tempered, hardly speaking to me and arguing with Jock. I felt miserable and left rather abruptly before seven o’clock. Just as I was going Henry came to the door and said goodbye in that lovely gentle way of his which is so surprising. I often think that Henry is never so nice as when he’s standing at the door of the flat saying goodbye.
9 June. I had a long talk with Mr B. I can remember telling him that I thought I didn’t care for Henry, in fact almost hated him at times, and wouldn’t now marry him at any price, as I once thought I would.
15 July. Oswestry. Gerard Langbaine the younger was born on this day in 1656. I was very unhappy in the morning and cried (a) because I missed Henry (b) because I loved him and could see no hope for the future (c) because I couldn’t get any of my works accepted (d) because Oswestry was so frightful after Oxford (e) because it was a dull day. Quite enough reasons for feeling wretched I think. But at lunch things improved. To begin with I had postcards from Scotland from Henry and John Barnicot. Then we had strawberries and cream. And last of all the sun came out, so that I was able to sit in the revolving summerhouse. Here I read Mr Huxley’s new book Eyeless in Gaza and went to sleep. In the evening I realised that I had served nearly half my seven years for Lorenzo – or Henry as he has now become. The service began on 13th February 1933 (as nearly as such things can be dated) – it will therefore be finished on 13 February 1940.
16 July. I remember how hard we were working this time last week. Henry, Mr B. and I in the flat. I was, I suppose, at this moment typing Chapter III (Dramatic Bibliography), all that complicated stuff about the 1680 Catalogue, which I didn’t very well understand. Certainly I know that it was dawn before Henry took me home and several birds had started to sing. The last day of all I worked all through the night – with two hours sleep in Henry’s bed. He had slept between nine and eleven. And at about six o’clock in the morning, I tucked him up in an armchair with a rug, while I went through one of the copies marking in notes. Without me he couldn’t have done the thing at all. I can say this, knowing that it is true. Between seven and nine, or thereabouts, he dictated the last pages of the chapter on the Account. I have been given a taste of how lovely things could be with Henry – and before I had often guessed and imagined it, but never known.
17 July. Henry will be back in Oxford today and I shan’t be at the flat to make tea for him. I can’t help hoping that he will realise this, but naturally he will only look upon it as a fact, it will have no sentimental significance. I am now on the
6th chapter of my second novel [Civil to Strangers, unpublished] and am intending to get on with it as fast as possible.
18 July. In the morning I wrote a little of my novel, and then I have been reading a book on Bibliography and trying to fold pages in 12mo and 4 ° etc. I got a book about it from Blackwell’s. I must work at my novel, that is the only thing there is and the only way to find any happiness at present.
19 July. I haven’t done very much today. I went to church, knitted and talked and listened to a play about Keats.
Tonight I have been looking through my early works – poetry and prose!
20 July. I compromised by sending Henry a postcard in cheerful style – but ending with a quotation from ‘Tears, idle Tears’.… ‘Oh Death in Life, the Days that are no more!’ But he will not perhaps know how seriously I meant it. Today I wrote about 8 pages in a large foolscap size notebook. I’d like if possible to get the whole thing done by November. It will be something to work for.
21 July. My Life and Times of Anthony à Wood came – it is a lovely book, although I wish I had the complete one.
I had my hair cut and got two new pairs of trollies – a peach and pale yellow. In the evening I did some typing and finished my socks.