Pure self-indulgence

Friday, February 9th., London Yacht Club.

I wrote 1200 words of my London novel yesterday. I am pretty sure that it will be found offensive by some people who perhaps do not want to be reminded that physical relations sometimes occur between consenting adults outside of marriage. We don't seem to have advanced terribly far since Hardy was pilloried for oblique references to the way humans actually behave.

Walter Sickert

Today George Moore and Walter Sickert came to lunch. Sickert had swum in the morning and skated. In fact he had his skates with him and no overcoat though it seems cold to me out there. They talked. I said little. Moore clearly was the man of letters. He is rather detached from the normal world it seems; even the war seems to be of no interest to him. He said that he didn't read the papers now, as they only made him feel depressed and did him no good. Well, he has a point of course but surely an artist ought to have some contact with the real world? He said several very foolish things such as that he could not understand how anyone could read a war book. To read about new war devices he could understand, but not how anyone could read a war book.  

Sickert was much more reserved - he is much more normal. He told us that he cooked his own food, and cooked it very well. I admire him for that. Formerly he used to read between spells of painting during the day, but now he cooked. He goes over to the stove and say: "Ca mijotte". They both used a lot of French and spoke it very well. Moore recited a French ballad which he had written about a maquereau which I thought rather good. The he recited Villon. He is naively and harmlessly vain, and very agreeable. I enjoyed the company of both men very much.

Home to Essex for the weekend. I can admit to myself that I am not looking forward to it. How agreeable it would be to stay here, read, write, walk a little, simply please myself. Conjugal pleasures are well enough, but my balance is tipping in favour of the bachelor lifestyle. I find that I am thinking more and more frequently of separation from Marguerite. I often imagine being informed that she has been killed in an accident or an air raid. I know that my first emotion, were I so informed, would be one of relief. Then I think, would I really be happier on my own or is it just another case of the grass being greener? There would have to be something decisive and dramatic to precipitate the break because I can't imagine myself proposing it. I wonder if she is thinking something similar? How preposterous that people are so unable to communicate effectively. I don't hanker for new relationships, but would just like to do what I like, when I like, without recourse to the needs of someone else; pure self-indulgence.