Betty and Thomasin came in from Chagford for the day yesterday at my invitation and I took them out to lunch and tea, and we had a rare good time together. They are very anxious for my release and complain that Fernworthy View is very dull without me. Whether that be true or no, all blessings be upon their sweet heads for saying so.
I have had letters from heaps of Radcastrians who were in camp with me, declaring that they find home very slow and boring after the ecstatic days in camp.
September 15, 1910
I passed my exam. all right at Exeter and very glad I was to shake the dust of the barracks square from my feet and once more to get back to my beloved Chagford.
Willoughby is a Wykehamist, who is trying to get into "The Shop" in November. His mathematics are sound but his English is lamentable. He seems to have read nothing except, quaintly enough, Norwegian sagas: he is always quoting "Burnt Njal." I find him excellent company: and he has ravished the hearts of most of the girls who are staying here. It is much gayer than it was when I was last here; we have had three gorgeous dances. I wish I did not feel such a fool at these shows. Radchester has unfitted me for all these society gatherings. I feel abominably out of it; it is so long since I used to dance regularly. I get in a paralytic fear lest I should tread on my partners' toes. I imagine that I am wooden, gawky and stiff, in spite of my partner's eulogies on my ease and lightness.
We play tennis, golf and cricket a good deal and even got up some amateur theatricals, in which I took the part of Myngs in a Pepys play. These people are as different as possible from the north-country manufacturers. None of them have much money, but they all possess honoured names and an intense pride of birth: Cruwys, Polwhele, Chichester, Acland, Trefusis, or Champernowne. I wish we boasted such names at Radchester. They are all exceedingly kind to me. I feel thoroughly happy and at ease when I am gossiping with the villagers or running about on the moor with Willoughby, who is very slack about walking, and always wants to hire a car; he has heaps of money and is certainly lavish with it. He flirts outrageously with all the girls he comes across, but he is healthy and altogether lovable.
We work all the mornings and sometimes at night. I don't think there is much doubt about his getting in. He is beginning to take quite an interest in his English work and constantly bewails the fact that he never discovered at school what a delightful subject it is. He is interested in all sides of life and like Illingworth is afraid of nothing. If he wants to get into conversation with any one he just does it, whereas, however much I wanted to, I should always hold back through fear, what of I don't quite know.
I have tried to set down on paper exactly how this country affects me, but I cannot do it. I envy Eden Phillpotts and Trevena more than I can say. I look for romance in the faces of the passers-by and try to weave stories about the villagers but they all fail to materialize. I cannot make any of them live in my pages; they are all dolls. I haven't really been taught to observe properly. Willoughby comes back from a garden-party and can conjure up an exact picture of all the old frumps, the parsons, the retired civilians, their lovely daughters ... every one. He knows the colour of their eyes and hair, peculiarities of their hands and bodies, the material of which their clothes are made, together with their colour and shape.
I talk to a girl for an hour, find her captivating, come home, essay to describe her and fail entirely. I can't even remember whether she is dark or fair, what sort of frock she wore, what was the colour of her eyes, or whether her features are regular or not. I suppose I don't look at people enough. I simply daren't. I can't scrutinize: I wish I could overcome this bashfulness. All the time I keep on thinking what a fool all these people must imagine me to be. But all the same there are one or two types here who interest me a good deal. The captain of the cricket team is a retired colonel of an Indian regiment, an old M.C.C. man who lives for the game and curses us roundly when we fail to come up to his expectations. When we win he praises us extravagantly, when we lose his language becomes positively Oriental. He never misses an opportunity of net-practice and requires us to be equally keen. His one aim in life is to go through a season without losing a single match. In August he always invites the most famous cricketers he knows to come and stay with him, but they do not always come off on these tricky wickets and he gets much more furious with them if they fail than he does with us.
The doctor is another good type: he is very handsome and beloved of every one. He bears his honours lightly so long as every one gives in to him, but he sulks like any two-year-old child if he is crossed in any way. He likes to keep himself surrounded by pretty girls and as there is no dearth of them he has a good time.