From the journal of Lita Hopkins
July 8, 1928
My journal is so small I fill the pages rapidly, but I can write anywhere. It is inconspicuous and goes unnoticed even at my usual table at Vincent’s this morning. I am writing as jotting in my itinerary. Nobody has come to join me this morning.
July 9, 1928
Hunter and Charlotte played for us this evening. I even joined in on the piano for two pieces. I am not good, because I do not practice. They play so beautifully. Hunter is so full of musical ideas. He fills the room with music and words and has even poor tired Charles smiling and nodding. Charlotte is quiet, but plays her cello with eyes closed as if dreaming the music. I play straining and stumbling along trying to keep my place. Hunter says I have a natural feel for music and should relax. “Make more mistakes!” He laughs, “it won’t kill you!” I wonder at his ease with life. Charlotte, who is still learning English, often makes mistakes when speaking. Hunter smiles and gently corrects her. He holds her with his eyes like a delicate tropical blossom. She is out of place here in England, but never when he is present.
July 15, 1928
I have been bad about writing, only little notes to myself. So much has happened. We have been swamped with social engagements, dinners, brunches and teas, all around the starting of the new press. Authors, critics, and intellectuals of all sorts have been parading through our modest apartments, and we have been all over London. Charles has been working nonstop for the last two weeks. But, soon they will have it all sorted out and set up, and we will be able to get away for a few days.
Charles has reluctantly agreed to let Hunter teach me to drive a motorcar. He finds it amusing and wonders why with so many ways to get around London, I would want to drive. I don’t want to drive in London but out of it into the country which we do every now and then. It is the only time we use the car. Really I don’t know why we have a car most of the time.
I have often asked Charles to bicycle with me when we are vacationing by the sea or in the north when he has business and takes me with him, but he just shakes his head and says, ” Me on one of those contraptions. I would probably end in a ditch, and there you would be, my dear, left to deal with my broken head.” I laugh, of course. Charles is not a physical man. He is all words and heart. I cannot live in books and must be active and moving. Hunter loves Charles, but often chides him on his monkish nature. He is a devoted to his older brother though, and they see eye to eye on most things. Charles is also devoted to Hunter and me, and tries his best to accommodate our idiosyncrasies. I love Charles because he has a big heart and tries so hard to be good. But, I cannot shut my life into a box for him, nor does he expect me to. I must be out in the world doing things.