And now it is ten years since the war ended; ten years all but
a few weeks. These years have gone much more quickly than the
years before them did. People always tell one that, that the
years go faster and faster, as one grows older. Nothing happens
now, and so much was happening before.
The children are growing up; even John is ten. He goes to school
here; there is a good school, but I suppose he will have to go
away when he is a little older. I don’t know what I shall do
when John goes away. But I suppose when the time comes it will
be like everything else. One thinks:
‘I cannot bear it, if that happens!’
And then it does happen, and one does bear it, and everything
goes on, just the same as before.
I don’t know how I should have lived all these years without
John. He is often very naughty, much naughtier than Eleanor or
Rachel have ever been. I am not clever with my children as Cousin
Delia was with hers. I often wish that he could have the childhood
that I had, at Yearsly, with her, he would understand that, he
understands a great many things. I read stories to John that
Cousin Delia used to read to me, and poetry sometimes too. I
think he will like poetry; not as Hugo did, not so much nor so
young, but he sees the point of it even now as Eleanor and Rachel
never did, and of all that kind of thing. It is a pleasure to
me to read to John, and I think sometimes, of all the books we
will read together when he is older, books that I read with Hugo
in the hay, at Yearsly, in the long summers, and then sometimes
I am afraid that I am building too much on his being what I want
him to be, and that he will not be like that at all when he is
older . . . but I shall always love John, whatever he grows into. . . .
Mollie said that I should be thankful for John, and I am, I have
been always.
Eleanor likes books that give her information. She likes facts
and statistics, and she does very well at school, much better
than John or Rachel. They say she is very clever, that she will
get a scholarship. That will please Walter. He is proud of Eleanor,
but I think he loves Rachel best. She is more alive; she is not
so good as Eleanor, nor so naughty as John, not so fair as Eleanor,
nor so dark as John. She does her lessons well, but she likes
to play at games. I don’t think life will be hard for Rachel.
I think Walter is happy. His book came out last year. It was
published by the University Press, and that was just as he wanted.
Not many people bought it, but he said that did not matter, he
had not expected that; it was praised in learned journals, very
highly praised. Several German professors wrote to Walter about
it. Two came to see him, with special dispensations from the
Home Office, because they were Enemy Aliens still. They were
very polite to Walter, and complimented me on my ‘so distinguished
man’; they said he was ‘world-famous’ for his proto-Hittite script.
I am glad Walter is happy, or at least, happy for him . . . .
I don’t think he could be happy, as Hugo or I would be. He is
less cross now, and kinder. He likes his work in college, and
he has time for work of his own as well. He has started another
book that will last about ten years, and he goes for walks with
his friends: those two friends of his both came back; one of
them teaches Ancient History, and the other Philosophy, but it
doesn’t make much difference; they like to talk to Walter, and
he likes to talk to them.
Walter is not different, really from what he was when we were
married; he is less fierce, perhaps, because he is more assured;
he knows more where he is, and other people know. But he is not
really different, though he said that he would change, and I
said people didn’t, and yet I have myself . . . I have changed
much more . . . that is funny, I think, how little people know.
Last Spring, when the blossom was out, I went down to New College,
and looked at the cherry tree that we used to see from Hugo’s
window. I suppose it is just the same now, as it always was,
but I do not feel the same about it now. There are other young
men in Hugo’s college rooms, three generations of young men have
been in those rooms since we came here, and others, of course,
before that. It is twenty years now since Hugo was there.
And now it is my birthday, and I am forty; and Hugo, if he were
alive, would be forty-two and a half. That seems impossible;
I cannot think of Hugo as not young.
And there are the leaves coming down. There are always leaves
and trees . . . and always coming down . . . naturally . . .
every year . . . why do I notice that?
And this is all that has happened. It does not seem very much.
It does not seem worth writing about. I was happy when I was
a child, and I married the wrong person, and some one I loved
dearly was killed in the war . . . that is all. And all those
things must be true of thousands of people.