June 3
What a bitter disappointment it is to realise that people the most intimately in love with one another are really separated by such a distance. A woman is calmly knitting socks or playing Patience while her husband or sweetheart lies dead in Flanders. However strong the tie that binds them together yet they are insufficiently en rapport for her to sense even a catastrophe—and she must wait till the War Office forsooth sends her word. How humiliating that the War Office must do what Love cannot. Human love seems then such a superficial thing. Every person is a distinct egocentric being. Each for himself and the Devil take the hindmost. “Ah! but she didn’t know.” “Yes, but she ought to have known.” Mental telepathy and clairvoyance should be common at least to all lovers.
This morning in bed I heard a man with a milkcart say in the road to a villager at about 6:30 a.m., “… battle … and we lost six cruisers.” This was the first I knew of the Battle of Jutland. At 8 a.m. I read in the Daily News that the British Navy had been defeated, and thought it was the end of all things. The news took away our appetites. At the railway station, the Morning Post was more cheerful, even reassuring, and now at 6:30 p.m. the Battle has turned into a merely regrettable indecisive action. We breathe once more.