Regretful

 Saturday, February 19th., Hotel Ruhl, Nice.

I read a lot of the book Robert Nichols specially recommended to me: "Neighbours" by Claude Houghton. I think there may be an idea in it but up to page 100 it is very amateurish. I have also read three acts of "Troilus and Cressida". It is great stuff as regards character and language and 'closeness' of texture; and yet it takes the fellow nearly three acts to come to the real point of the plot.

At the back of my mind has been something Scott Moncrieff said to me when we were in Pisa. He asked me if I would ever commit suicide? Said he thought about it quite often himself. Not because he feels depressed or presently inclined to do it; but he feels that at some point in the future he may want to, and wonders if he would have the means and the determination. I think he said "integrity" but he meant determination I felt. I passed the question off with a joking aside at the time, but regret it now as it was seriously meant. I hope my disinclination to discuss it didn't offend him. I htink he is a rather sensitive chap.

Leaving aside the practical issues, which could be overcome, why has suicide become a reprehensible act? It wasn't for the Greeks or the Romans; nor is it now in Japan and other parts of the world I believe. In fact the ancients saw it as something an honourable man should do in some circumstances. Marcus Aurelius acknowledges the possibility of suicide as a rational act though he clearly favours a will to endure. Seneca says that the important thing is to die nobly, having lived nobly. No problems there!

So the change can only be, it seems to me, because of the ascendancy of the Abrahamic religions. Well, fair enough, if you subscribe to one of those religions then you should not kill yourself. But if you do not, then why should you be bound by their moral constraints? It makes no sense. The situation now is a remnant, like the debris left on a beach when the tide has ebbed, as religion has ebbed. 

Suicidal thoughts have not often come into my mind, though the troubles I had with Marguerite caused me much depression and even now there are times when I feel I am like Sisyphus, constantly pushing a weight uphill, with no prospect of release. But, reflecting on what Scott Moncrieff asked, I feel it would be a comfort to know that if I did want to 'end it all' then I would need no permission beyond my own and the means would be available.

Sightseeing

Tuesday, February 16th., Hotel Nettuno, Pisa.

At 8.30 a.m. I received a note from C.K. Scott Moncrieff asking to see me and offering to show me things in the town. He came at 11.30. Lame, quick, fussy. Very talkative (smartishly) and rather nervous at first but not later when we became used to each other. He was lamed in the war, and converted to Catholicism whilst at the Front. Not married. I think he may be homosexual judging by the acquaintanceships he has had. But that is no problem for me. He tells me that he had a rather snide letter from Proust about his translation of Proust's "Swann's Way". I told him that I found Proust impossible to read, which he seemed to appreciate.

He said that Lucca was only twelve miles off. This was on our way to the cathedral here. I wanted to turn back at once and get a car for Lucca, which had always been romantical to me on account of a chapter in Heine's "Reisebilder". We couldn't get a car in the town. All had gone or were going to Viareggio for the carnival. However, after an early lunch, we did get a car and set off together.

At Lucca we got a carrozza, and went through the town at walking pace, and saw cathedrals and churches. Very fine and distinctive and Moncrieff a good guide. A rich town, prosperous, clean, self-contained, and self-sufficient. More so than Pisa. The oil business and farming must be money-making. But I asked for the Bagni di Lucca, made fascinating to me by Heine, and found they were twenty miles off. So I was baulked there. At San Frediano, Lucca, it was interesting to see the altar where Frankia's "Entombment" once was. Who pinched it and put it in the National Gallery I don't know.

The news of Septimus is no better. In fact worse. His weight apparently is under seven stone! he needs food but cannot assimilate it. Letters I have had from his doctor and from Maud convince me that there is very little hope of saving him. What a shame! In some ways I am glad not to be able to be over there to see him. Cowardly I know but it would be very upsetting for him as well as me, and what good would it do?