George Sturt

 Tuesday, February 8th., Hotel Savoy, Cortina.

Today I read in the Continental Daily Mail that my old friend George Sturt had died. This death produced no effect of sadness on me at all. George had been ill and half-paralysed for many years, and I don't think I had seen him at all for about sixteen years. When I did see him I drove down to Farnham, and he asked me to keep my car and chauffeur out of the way lest it should constrain or frighten or embarrass, or something, his household. And I had to eat at the local inn. I understood all this perfectly well however, and I had about a couple of hours fine time with him, chiefly in his garden. His later books, so far as I read them, were not as good as his earlier.

I remember that when I started to keep a journal, which is more than thirty years ago, I made up and bound (in cardboard) the volumes myself. I later had them bound in calf. I showed the first volume, scarcely written in, to George. He said: "If you'll bind me a volume like that I'll keep a journal too." So I did. Afterwards he kept on keeping a journal, but in large volumes. I think that he had made notes before, but he had never kept a journal. Of course all these notes and journals were the material for his books in a quite exceptional degree. He was an exceptional man in my opinion but not the sort to make what the world regards as a 'success'.

Funny how we change in the course of a lifetime. I suppose that in most respects George didn't change at all, whilst I did, and so we drifted apart. That happens a lot I think, especially in marriages. Still I have often thought of him, and wondered how he was getting on. Now I have made myself feel quite sad by writing this. I could have made more of an effort, but there were always other priorities and, truth be told, I was afraid of giving or taking offence. At least there will not be the decision to take whether or not to go to the funeral. 

Time for a walk to clear my head.