Gale, rainy windy showers early.
I drove in driving rain to the Tate Gallery, in order to think over my novel, and saw some good English pictures. There are indeed some fine ones. The elder of the two Tate lecturers was very good on both Blake and Rossetti. He pointed out the humour in Rossetti's watercolours, and he very well explained their origin. Then I wrote some more notes for my novel - to be called, pro tem., "Accident". Also I found names for two of the characters. Interesting that I use the word 'found', because that is what it feels like. As if the names have been lying around, just waiting for me to come across them. I suppose they have in a way, somewhere in my head.
We drove, still in the rain - or had the rain just stopped? - to the Lyceum for the first night of the Russian ballet. The whole high-brow and snob world was there, with a good sprinkling of decent people. The spectacle was good. I liked "Petrouschka" as much as ever, and "The House Party" more than ever. I begin now to understand the latter. It is all Sodom and Gomorrah. "The Swan Lake" had much applause: a fine old-fashioned example of Petipa's work. Orchestra better than usual.
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