Hindsight

 Monday, December 5th., Cadogan Square, London.

Gloomy. I haven't yet got over the funeral of Gladys Beaverbrook on Saturday. These funeral rites in an English winter are absolutely barbaric. And what good do they serve? None that I can see.

Yesterday and again today I went for a long walk in darkness and mist. Suited my mood.

Also, thinking about Marguerite. Perhaps she doesn't know about Gladys' death yet? Would I go to M's funeral if she died before me? Probably not. In any case I wouldn't be invited, and I wouldn't be welcome. Over the course of this last week I have been signing 500 copies of the luxury facsimile deition of "The Old Wives Tale". Of course I was writing it when we were first married and I have been debating with myself the propriety of sending Marguerite a copy of this new edition. Today I decided I would and I have inscribed it with "Best Wishes". What a thing to write to someone you have been married to for 20 years! But I thought about it for a long time, and it was the best I could do. What will her reaction be when she opens the parcel? Tears I should think, then anger, then (hopefully) a sort of resigned acceptance of the spirit intended. We will see.

I find that I increasingly blame myself for the failure of our marriage. The fact is that I am a difficult person to live with. Just ask Dorothy! Of course M. was wrong to get involved with Legros but I should have seen how things were going and done something about it. We were happy with each other for the first few years and perhaps could have been again. To be honest it was a mistake buying the country house in Essex. Marguerite wasn't cut out for that sort of life and was never content there. If I had any sense we should have stayed in France where she had her family and I had the whole Parisian cultural landscape to explore; not like stuffy London! And I could have found an amiable young "friend" quite naturally and without recrimination. Hindsight is wonderful.