Waiting for L. to come back from chess with Roger: 11.25. I think
nothing need be said of the Strike. As tends to happen, one's mind slips
after the crisis, & what the settlement is, or will be, I know not.
We must now fan the books up again. Viola & Phil Baker were both
struck on the wing. Viola comes, very tactfully, as a friend, she says, to
consult after dinner. She is a flamboyant creature—much of an actress—
much abused by the Waleys & Marjories; but rather taking to me. She
has the great egotism, the magnification of self, which any bodily display,
I think, produces. She values women by their hips & ankles, like horses.
Easily reverts to the topic of her own charms: how she shd. have married
the D. of Rutland. "Lord — (his uncle) told me I was the woman
John really loved. The duchess said to me 'Do make love to John &
get him away from —. At any rate you're tall & beautiful—' And I
sometimes think if I'd married him—but he never asked me—Daddy
wouldn't have died. I'd have prevented that operation: Then how he'd
have loved a duke for a son in law! All his life was dressing up—that
sort of thing you know." So she runs on, in the best of clothes, easy &
familiar, but reserved too; with the wiles & warinesses of a woman of
the world, half sordid half splendid, not quite at her ease with us, yet
glad of a room where she can tell her stories, of listeners to whom she
is new & strange. She will run on by the hour—yet is very watchful not
to bore; a good business woman, & floating over considerable acuteness
on her charm. All this however, is not making her book move, as they say.
Eddy came in to tea. I like him—his flattery? his nobility? I dont
know—I find him easy & eager. And Vita comes to lunch tomorrow
which will be a great amusement & pleasure. I am amused at my relations
with her: left so ardent in January—& now what? Also I like her presence
& her beauty. Am I in love with her? But what is love? Her being 'in
love' (it must be comma'd thus) with me, excites & flatters; & interests.
What is this 'love'? Oh & then she gratifies my eternal curiosity: who's
she seen, whats she done—for I have no enormous opinion of her poetry.
How could I—I who have such delight in mitigating the works even of
my greatest friends. I should have been reading her poem tonight:
instead finished Sharon Turner—a prosy, simple, old man; the very spit
& image of Saxon. a boundless bore, I daresay, with the most intense zeal
for "improving myself", & the holiest affections, & 13 children, & no
character or impetus—a love of long walks, of music; modest, yet
conceited in an ant like way. I mean he has the industry & persistency in
recounting compliments of an ant, but so little character that one hardly
calls him vain!
nothing need be said of the Strike. As tends to happen, one's mind slips
after the crisis, & what the settlement is, or will be, I know not.
We must now fan the books up again. Viola & Phil Baker were both
struck on the wing. Viola comes, very tactfully, as a friend, she says, to
consult after dinner. She is a flamboyant creature—much of an actress—
much abused by the Waleys & Marjories; but rather taking to me. She
has the great egotism, the magnification of self, which any bodily display,
I think, produces. She values women by their hips & ankles, like horses.
Easily reverts to the topic of her own charms: how she shd. have married
the D. of Rutland. "Lord — (his uncle) told me I was the woman
John really loved. The duchess said to me 'Do make love to John &
get him away from —. At any rate you're tall & beautiful—' And I
sometimes think if I'd married him—but he never asked me—Daddy
wouldn't have died. I'd have prevented that operation: Then how he'd
have loved a duke for a son in law! All his life was dressing up—that
sort of thing you know." So she runs on, in the best of clothes, easy &
familiar, but reserved too; with the wiles & warinesses of a woman of
the world, half sordid half splendid, not quite at her ease with us, yet
glad of a room where she can tell her stories, of listeners to whom she
is new & strange. She will run on by the hour—yet is very watchful not
to bore; a good business woman, & floating over considerable acuteness
on her charm. All this however, is not making her book move, as they say.
Eddy came in to tea. I like him—his flattery? his nobility? I dont
know—I find him easy & eager. And Vita comes to lunch tomorrow
which will be a great amusement & pleasure. I am amused at my relations
with her: left so ardent in January—& now what? Also I like her presence
& her beauty. Am I in love with her? But what is love? Her being 'in
love' (it must be comma'd thus) with me, excites & flatters; & interests.
What is this 'love'? Oh & then she gratifies my eternal curiosity: who's
she seen, whats she done—for I have no enormous opinion of her poetry.
How could I—I who have such delight in mitigating the works even of
my greatest friends. I should have been reading her poem tonight:
instead finished Sharon Turner—a prosy, simple, old man; the very spit
& image of Saxon. a boundless bore, I daresay, with the most intense zeal
for "improving myself", & the holiest affections, & 13 children, & no
character or impetus—a love of long walks, of music; modest, yet
conceited in an ant like way. I mean he has the industry & persistency in
recounting compliments of an ant, but so little character that one hardly
calls him vain!