Je me plais infiniment dans ce pays. A walk yesterday afternoon, five miles in the rain in the forest, after a day spent in writing a feeble forcible article on Wells's "New Worlds for Old" for the New Age. A superb book this. At least I think it is, though it may be that my judgement is clouded by my relationship with Wells. Since I first came across his work, and then ventured to write to him, he has been something of a 'heroic' figure to me. But perfect objectivity is impossible in my view. The important thing is for a reviewer to make clear that he has a preconceived attitude where this is the case.Six miles this morning in the forest, in fitful sunshine. Whe I looked about me in the forest I wondered that I could have endured three months in a city. Large spaces of sky. River rapid, and in flood, isolating many trees. Excellent food; attentive, simple-minded cook. Grocer's wife had a baby. Local youths drawing their subscription numbers. News of a Freemasons' banquet, and of failure of a girls' school. Such are the events. I have time to think of writing another poem - subject in my head for just a year. I resume the piano, read newspapers more leisurely, and get excited about posts and about the sins of omission of local tradesmen.
Is this the life? Well, it is for now! But I must remember that I got tired of my former 'rural idyll' at Trinity Hall Farm in Bedfordshire. I am over forty now but still unsure about the sort of life which suits me best.
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