The point of real interest however, is that Galway's outburst is indicative of the way my former friends - from the Brigade of Guards, and from cosy aristocratic weekend parties, where Old Etonians usually outnumber those from other public schools - now seem to regard me as having evolved beyond the pale. Things like my longish hair enfuriate them, as symptomatic of the fact that I seem to be moving in a different direction to themselves. For I suppose they are right in observing that I am constantly setting myself up in opposition to the stances which they regard as acceptable - like pretending that I'm a Communist. But the behaviour of someone like Galway does bring it home to me, quite forcefully, how there is a side to the British aristocracy which is abominably arrogant. It makes me wish to break all ties with them, and to discover myself a new identity - which might just conceivably be as a Communist!

I had been invited to dine with the Waugh family before Alice Jolliffe's dance, and was considerably curious to meet the great man himself. I only have a vague memory of when he once came for a weekend visit to Sturford, but I enjoy his novels greatly, and I've been told (by Rosie Cotterell) that the batty flapper in `Vile Bodies' - Agatha Runcibell by name - was drawn quite largely from Mum's personality. I've also been told that he was romantically smitten by Mum, over the period just before she married; and he never did regard Dad as a suitable marital partner for her. So I was indeed curious to see what he was like.

He was probably curious himself to see if the son had turned out to be the more like his mother or his father, so he beckoned me to come and sit next to him when the ladies left the table and we were drinking port. This was quite alarming in one way, in that I had been warned how he found all the young men in today's London to be intolerable - especially those with long hair. So I made conversation with him nervously, but daring to disagree with him about Robert Blake, whom he detests. Afterwards I was astounded to hear (from four different sources in fact - including the Jolliffes) that I had made an enormously good impression on him. He now tells people that there are only two young men in London of whom he approves - myself and Mark Girouard!

Darling Daphne,

How are you? Where are you? Well I send this to Cornwall with fourpence in stamps in the hopes that someone sends it on. Several things to say. First, I met your boy Weymouth, he came to a sad little dinner at Captain Bennett's hotel before a ball and I think he is the most enchanting creature of either sex that I have met for twenty years. I didn't know who he was but a lot of dreadful young men with long hair were saying how do you do to me and there I saw his mother's lovely mad eyes and I said what cocktail and he said gin & tonic. That really was all I saw of him but goodness I fell in love. Then two or three nights later I met him in Hill Street and he told me a story I could not follow about having his overcoat stolen. Goodness he is a beauty.

I say, talking of mad, I am full in the middle of writing an account of my going off my rocker. It seems funny to me. Would you think it awful cheek if I dedicated it to you?....

All love Evelyn.

At the Crawley weekend, I managed to enjoy myself because they were all making such an effort to keep me from straying from their social ranks. I think they do perceive how I am showing inclinations to abandon their straight and narrow path, but they excuse me on the grounds that this is mere evidence of my eccentricity. They want me to remain in their fold, even if I see their eyebrows rising at some of my more deliberate thrusts at the social order they worship. I noted how Patrick Beresford and Thomas Dunne looked quite upset at my pronouncement that I was starting to sympathise with the Communist position in politics. But they refrained from taking me up on the subject.

Or that was until Princess Alexandra arrived in a party which came over for lunch on Sunday. I was seated next to her at the table, and in response to her sounding (just for a fleeting second) as if she might have liberal views, I enquired if she'd ever considered becoming a Communist - which reduced her to silence for a moment. Then she declared: "Now is it likely that I'd be a Communist?" - which reduced me to silence in my turn.

The odd thing is she quite evidently regarded my query to be absurd - as if princesses could never convert to Communism. But I found her rejection of such a prospect, out of hand, to be equally absurd. I mean, her station in life is hardly relevant to the question of what political order will be of the greatest value to the world. In theory at least, she is as capable as myself of perceiving where an interest contrary to our own might serve society the best. But if she can't perceive that this is a point which each of us needs to resolve, then there cannot be much useful communication between the two of us upon any subject of this kind.

Or was she pulling rank on me by indicating that it might be all right for me to be a Communist, but not a Princess like herself? As I see it, there isn't that much of a distinction to be drawn. But from her end of the equation, I suppose the situation might look very different!

Princess Alexandra was soon taking the line that I ought to let her cut my hair. It's odd how they all see this as the mark of my rebellion against their social order - unless she was being flirtatious of course. I mean, the Delilah complex might indicate that she is beginning to regard me as her Sampson!

I also noted how Patrick B was ribbing me on having seen my photograph in the company of some dubious characters, within a Swiss magazine when he'd been out there skiing. (It must have been that occasion when I was photographed with Guinness, Loewenstein and Moseley wearing fancy waistcoats and with long cigarette-holders - at that party of Jimmy Skinner's during my first term at Oxford.) He wasn't actually supposing that I might be queer, or I don't think so, but it seems to have been a thought which had crossed his mind. They really don't know quite what they should make of me, just at present.

Anyway this exchange left us both feeling slightly nettled on either side. And I suppose she was on the look out for a chance to be unpleasant to me, which came just a little while later. I was sitting watching Marie-Claire playing tennis with some of the others, and I was in fact regarding her as someone who was quite attractive. So I turned to the others and enquired, as I supposed quite innocently: "By the way, who is she?" The query hadn't been to Jeryl, but she took it upon herself to retort fiercely for my benefit, with a falsehood that must have been intended to imply that I'm a snob. She said: "She's the daughter of the 4th Earl of Suffolk!" I ignored the remark, but I found myself resenting it deeply. Moreover it put me in a position where I had to drop all interest in this Marie-Claire Hare, for fear that it might look as if I had swallowed the falsehood and had been impressed by her aristocracy. It put me in such an ill mood in fact, that I found myself avoiding this whole group of newcomers, until the hour of their departure.

While I was at the Sudley Castle dance, I received a slight from another quarter - on going over to congratulate Mark Jeffreys on his engagement to Sarah Garnett. The two of them were standing there together, but Mark in particular looked put out by my words. It must be admitted that I was making an absurd mess of it, stammering and gesticulating, as indeed I am apt to do when feeling awkward about what I'm saying. But Jeffreys told me to come down, and stop behaving as if I were in a permanent flap. I found this quite unnecessarily offensive of him. In fact there's an aggressiveness about his demeanour which I find totally unacceptable - and so typical of him. I was feeling a hearty dislike for him, which quite sickened me. I didn't make any manner of retort. I just walked away from them. And to think that he was once my best friend at Ludgrove!

There was another episode with Ronnie Ferguson making some disdainful remark when I approached him on the edge of the dance floor. Here again I just turned my back on him, and walked away. And it's good that I find myself being able to do this nowadays. I think I am learning to overcome my embarrassment when people might formerly have embarrassed me. If they offend me, then I just distance myself from them. I no longer feel as if it's me that's in the wrong - which is a measure of progress I think. It might even be a sign that I'm approaching maturity, at long last. It simply doesn't matter any longer, if I'm to conclude that I'm leaving a few enemies in my wake. It is more important that I should retain my dignity and self-composure.

What is less healthy perhaps, is that a schism does seem to be opening up between myself and my previous set of friends - particularly the ones who were in the Brigade of Guards with me. They seem to sense how I am travelling a different line of personal evolution to themselves, and they resent it. They jab at me with disdainful fingers - or tell me to get my hair cut. They suppose they have the options of pressuring me into conformity, or driving me out beyond the pale. Well the more I see of life, the more I'm beginning to feel that life `beyond the pale' might do me the world of good, provided that it has a finite perspective. I have been far too much cradled and cosseted by life to have any real chance of expressing in a novel what it's about - the purpose of life, or anything of that sort. I may have tasted in Paris how it's possible for me to cut myself away from my roots, but I need to evolve a great deal further in that direction before I'll really have something to say.

The notion that I am perhaps on the verge of breaking my sense of identity with my former friends is strengthened perhaps, when I come to think of the way I was at odds with the Bullingdon Club. I was finding it increasingly difficult to establish my compatability with their general attitude to life. I suppose it's some inner feeling that we don't deserve our privileges until we've earned them, which renders me at odds with them. But they often behave as if they have earned them already, whereas (at least in my own case) I feel that I am a long way from proving my own worth in life. In fact the whole lot of us are still a long way short of that. But this isn't a question that seems to trouble the others.

I spent Sunday evening and Monday morning sorting out all my belongings, which have been brought back from Oxford. Everything is now in order, and I feel quite at home - except for the lack of squalor, to which I had become quite habituated at Folly Bridge. I really do perceive how a whole chapter in my life has now come to an end.

Remeeting the Duke of Kent at the d'Erlanger dance was an interesting experience for me. I barely knew him when we were at Ludgrove together, since he was so much younger than me, and I was right up at the top of the school, while he was at the very bottom. But now the roles are reversed of course, with regard to our ranking in society. And I must admit to finding the deference that is required of me, in the presence of royalty, to be difficult to handle. There is something explosively rebellious inside me, resisting the display of ritualized submission that is expected of me. After all, there is no evidence as yet that Kent has chalked up any greater achievements than myself. So I don't like it when I find the entire table waiting for him to take the first nibble from his plate, before we might feel entitled to take a nibble from our own. Besides, within the Longleat tradition, you should start eating as soon as you have been served. Or I have never actually been told how I ought to wait upon such initiative from the Royal who is present. So it was with a touch of bravado that I urged Penny to follow my own example in taking up her knife and fork, before her most honoured guest had taken his first bite. And I think I may have embarrassed her by doing so.

I do see how I am motivated by a sense of rebelliousness in behaving thus, and I see this trait as being much in contrast to the way Ian Rankin behaves. Ian is equally rebellious as myself, in terms of his personality. But he somehow draws the line at any possible disrespect towards royalty. His mother is a courtier, of course, so this manner of deference may have been stressed abnormally within his upbringing. But I find it odd to see him kowtowing to royalty, in whatever form they might appear before him - foreign or otherwise. There is some manner of distinction to be drawn between our different brands of rebelliousness, but I remain uncertain how it might best be expressed.

The truth of the matter is that the Duke of Kent's presence at our table made me feel rather uncomfortable. I have nothing against him personally, in that he is shy and unassuming. But I detest the stiffness and formality which arose just because he was in our midst. It augmented the feeling in my heart that I do have to make a break with society, and discover who I really am - in terms of my own values and in terms of my own ambitions. Attached to this society as I am, and with all the expectations it has for me, arising from that association, I have so little room for manoeuvre. I have got to break free, discovering an environment where I can observe myself as the human being that I am - as opposed to being this established figurehead within a society which I disparage.

It is the triteness of all conversation in society which really gets me down. There is a vast absence of important serious concern - about the way the world is progressing, the purpose of life, the justification for the way things are, or the goals which might get us moving out and away from such estates. There is much negative thinking on why we don't want to move in this, that or the other direction. But on the whole, the established state of affairs goes largely unchallenged, without troubling our social consciences. I no longer want to be a part of all this. I need to withdraw myself to a distance where I can reflect upon these matters in my own time and in my own way.

When I sit talking with people, what I hear is snob-talk, theatre-talk, or anecdotes drawn from their experiences in the army or upon the ski slopes - plus a lot of spicey scandal of course. And I find myself making my own contributions in that vein. But it's not sufficient to be focussed upon such trivia. And it's the absence of any unifying concern for subjects of importance which is so debilitating. People find it faintly odd that I am worried by such matters, and maybe there is something wrong with me that I do. I mean it's not as if the troubles of this world really impinge upon my personal sense of security. But it isn't sufficient to feel happy that one's own lot is relatively secure. We are all part and parcel of this world order, with all the imperfections and injustices that it contains. So the task of putting it into better shape should be shouldered by all of us, regardless of our personal good fortune.

My personal angle on the subject might perhaps be stated thus. Man involves himself (and perhaps even invents for himself) a problem-solving quest. We identify the problems, and then seek to find our solutions to them. But these solutions create their own distinct set of problems, which opens up a continuous path for the evolution of progress. As mortals, we can only identify ourselves with a limited fragment of the total problem-solving quest - the larger the better, of course. But we are performing this task as well as possible if we manage to reduce the world's anxiety emerging from these problems, (the ones on our plate, that is to say,) while managing to avoid any overall augmentation of the world's anxiety from problems yet to be identified. And it's largely as a result of any success in this endeavour that we ourselves begin to feel peace of mind - which should be regarded as a universal goal.

It follows that I'm inclined to identify good (i.e. right) behaviour as that with such a tendency to diminish these anxieties - with all the problem (as with the Utilitarian criterion) of there being no specific way to count units of happiness, or even of anxiety - if it comes to this. Or in my ultimate optimism about the way our civilization is actually managing to cope, if gradually, with the problems on its plate, then I can afford to identify right behaviour as that which takes due cognizance of the way society is evolving, so that the good action is one that assists such evolution to occur. My task then is to seek a broader sense of identity with our human race, (or even with the universal horde of living creatures,) so that I might start to feel my way, both rationally and intuitively, towards an understanding of the dynamic forces which keep us ticking. I need to obtain a clear vision inside my head of where we are all going, and in what measure I can make any personal contribution. Only then perhaps will peace of mind transpire.

Tomorrow I intend to make a serious start on my novel, `The Lost Ideal'. The main problem in my life is that I do have this exorbitantly high opinion of myself, without yet being able to justify it. So it's essential that I should be able to chalk up some real achievements in my life without any further delay. Of course it would have helped greatly if I thought I might be awarded a First for my endeavours in Schools, but I can no longer anticipate that this is liable to happen. So it has got to be something else, and I can think of nothing better than literary acclaim for my first novel. Hence the urgency in the task that I am setting myself.

I am hounded in my thoughts by the fear of failure. I don't see how I could possibly acclimatize myself to the thought that everyone might now write me off as a failure. During this time at Oxford, I have been savouring what my friends probably perceive as a mounting prestige. I think that some of them might choose to bet on me as someone who will go far in life - with success in the literary or artistic fields as their line of speculation. But I cannot feast upon that regard indefinitely. The time has come when they will expect me actually to produce something, as a sample of my potential. And I have a mounting fear in my heart that I am not going to match up to their expectations.

I have got to emerge as an instant success. I can see no other solution to my current problems. It might be that I am not yet sufficiently mature as a human being, to enable me to handle success without it effecting me badly - becoming an objectionable personality. But the success itself might be the required maturing agent - the status in life that I need, to enable the various facets of me to cohere into a whole. So it all depends upon what I can achieve in the writing of this novel. I am certainly not shrinking from the task. I shall write brilliantly and, as I write, hopefully I'll be shedding some of the more objectionable aspects of my personality along the track. I regard this endeavour as a therapeutic process, and I am ever so eager to get started.

Over the past week I have been working incessantly on my novel `The Lost Ideal'. But I find it difficult to assess just how well it is going. There is one chapter which is virtually completed, and it might be described as half way between philosophy and fiction - which might be stated as a criticism, of course. For it is neither weighty enough (intellectually) to rank as philosophy, nor strong enough in its story line to pass as fiction. And with regard to its style, I might be accused of some atrocious verbal embroidery (over-written and full of mixed metaphors), to the loss of any real form. On the other hand I sometimes feel that I am infusing it with a pulse of fiery excitement, and there are passages which do strike me as displaying a wistful beauty. Indeed, they almost rank as poetry. But the fact is that I can't afford to allow myself to doubt its worth, or I would never get round to completing it. My stamina would disintegrate. Allowing myself to believe in the quality of what I'm writing keeps me pepped up, and eagerly persistent in the task. I reckon that it should take me two months of solid work before I have a completed novel in my hands.

But the time will come when I shall need to show it to someone, to have them assess its worth - just to ascertain if there's any possibility at all of getting it published. I don't really feel like asking Xan to read it, as I did with my previous novel. I'm not sure that I feel in tune with his values, nowadays; and besides that, I'd prefer not to call upon any member of my family to assist me in this task of emerging as a author. It might be preferable for me to show it to someone like Oscar Wood, John Lucas or [W] - although they might frown upon my endeavour to tackle philosophical problems within a mere novel. Or an even better idea might be for me to send it to someone like David Graham-Campbell. He gave me much encouragement in what I wrote, when I was at Eton. I really don't know, but I'll have to think about these matters.

They have been making a huge fuss in the papers over this past week about some 24 year old author called Colin Wilson. The Daily Mail quite unashamedly declares him to be a genius, when reviewing his book which is called `The Outsider'. It is said to be written in a philosophical style - as if that is what the world has been waiting for. (The first edition was sold out within a week!) I must admit to feeling envious of his success. At the same time it is encouraging. I mean it shows that a 24 year old can indeed succeed, against all the competition from our `elders and betters' in this day and age. If he, then why not myself? - provided that he hasn't given voice to precisely the same theme which I have been intending to expound.

There really ought to be room for the two of us. Just because we may view the world from a philosophical angle, (and I daresay that society is ready for this,) there must still be a wide margin of difference between the messages that each of us might desire to impart. But his achievement does reinforce the idea that I have no time to lose. I am old enough to come to grips with the statement about life, by which I should be ready to stand. I have got to attain that level of success, without experiencing the humiliation of failure.

The awful part is that, if I were to die tomorrow, (run over by the proverbial tram,) the fact is that I would be judged a tragic failure - someone who never lived up to his early promise. Dad would no doubt browse through the pages of this journal, and see in them the proof of all that he has ever said about me - that I had far too high an opinion of myself, in relation to the abilities which I could muster. He would tell people that I was a poor misguided fool, who never lived quite long enough to experience the disillusionment in his own inflated ideas of self-importance. Then the journal will be stacked away somewhere (probably up in the Old Library), and Christopher's descendants will laugh at the pretensions of the 11th Viscount, who never really amounted to anything in life - someone who actually proclaimed that he thought he had genius, when he was in fact a nobody.

That would be the official verdict upon me if I were to die right now, and it's a potential which makes me feel very small indeed. So I cannot afford to get myself killed - not for a long time yet. I have got to acquire the time span to prove that the way I esteem myself is justified. The fact of the matter is that I discount all other possibilities. I feel sure that I am ready to disprove all my critics - if only I manage not to disgrace myself in my Schools results. If that were to happen, I would indeed be greatly embarrassed. For I could hardly expect them to retain much faith in my literary potential, if I couldn't even attain second class honours in my final exams. I squirm with unease when I allow myself to think about the possibility for such self-disillusionment. But I don't want to linger on that here.

On Thursday (19th) I drove up to London for Dawyk Haig's wedding, and also to attend the Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. I found both of these functions excessively boring - the latter included a thunderstorm where everyone got soaked to the skin. I do ask myself why I permit myself to be roped in for these gatherings. But the truth of the matter is that, once I started to belong to these circles, it's quite difficult (indeed impolite, or even disobedient) for me to extricate myself. I don't even know the correct procedure to get them to stop sending me these invitations, which I am supposedly not permitted to decline, since they are issued as royal commands. I was indeed a youthful member of that circle while I was in the Brigade of Guards. But I don't really see myself that way nowadays. So what should I do about it?

I shall be driving up to Oxford today Monday, in time for my Viva tomorrow morning. The awful part is that I am beginning to lose interest in this whole subject of Schools. My Oxford days are already behind me, and I can't feel as if I am still required to compete with all those undergraduates for an Honours degree, that won't make the slightest difference to my life. I mean, not as far as my actual career is concerned. But of course it will make one hell of a difference to my self-confidence about life.

I'm going to be tremendously disillusioned with myself if I only obtain a Third. But when I really come to think about it, I can hardly declare that I deserve anything better. The trouble is that those doubts concerning my performance, which assailed me during the days just following my exams, are now so distant in time as to feel unrealistic. I have spent a far longer period of time feeling confident that I'm going to obtain a Second. So it is this confidence which still predominates. The moment of truth has arrived however. By the time I write my next entry, I shall know the grading that they have set upon the quality of my thoughts - which amounts to much the same thing as saying the quality of my mind!

I drove up to Oxford on Monday evening.... Then on Tuesday morning I went along to the building where all PPE students had been told to present themselves. After being marched in before the examiners, my heart sank, for my name was on the list they read out of those who were to be given a proper Viva - indicating that there was an element of uncertainty concerning the class of the degree that I was to be awarded.

But there was one point that greatly augmented my confusion in that, whereas the others had been allotted a mere twenty minutes for their Viva, in my own case there was a forty minute gap before the next person. Now I'd always been told that the long Vivas were reserved for those who might be put up from a Second to a First. So although I'd previously been supposing that the chief likelihood would be to receiving one to lift a Third to a Second, the forty minute gap did seem to indicate that they would be looking to see if they could lift a Second to a First. And incredible though I found this thought to be, it augmented my anxiety, since I hadn't been putting in nearly enough work for my Viva to cover this possibility of being required to expound more fully upon my best subjects, rather than having to clear up some imprecision within my worst subjects.

When the appointed time of 10.40 hrs for my Viva actually arrived, it did immediately become clear that they were probing to see if I understood what I was talking about, in the subject where my performance had been worst - namely in the two Economics papers. I was sent right down to the far end of the table, to talk with the economists, while the rest of the dons continued to chat quite happily amongst themselves around the rest of the table. This unnerved me. I also felt that they were being inconsiderate, in that an examinee is under considerable pressure when facing up to this manner of ordeal, so they owed it to us to remain silent. There were a couple just up the table and opposite me who were being especially noisy. So I turned an indignant stare upon them just before answering one of the questions, until they fell silent - which I think amused my particular examiners, and may have been a point which went down in my favour. But I was unable to congratulate myself upon anything which followed, in that what I had to say upon the subjects concerned was all of a dubious quality.

The particular paper they were discussing with me was the one upon Economic Principles. They began off by probing to see if I really knew the difference between profit and rent, and I was unable to produce a distinction that might satisfy them. They asked questions such as: "From a certain standpoint, is it not correct to say that profit is a necessary payment?" And: "How do you account for the difference between profit and rent?".... "What then is the distinction between interest and profit?" And I really was becoming most confused in my replies. I knew that I was woffling, without furnishing them with a straight answer. But I began to fare better when they went on to a second question - because it was one on which I had been anticipating they might demand clarification, when I had been putting in some work for my Viva. So in that case, I knew that I was saying the right things to improve upon what I had already written. Then they told me that I could go - with the entire grilling having endured for no more than twenty minutes.

There followed all the misery of waiting, and I made the mistake of dropping in to see Karl Leyzer in Magdalen. He managed to say all the wrong things to bring comfort to me in the anxiety of the moment. To start with he was just brushing my fears aside, saying that it was totally impossible for someone as bright as myself to be awarded anything less than a Second. But in that case, then why the Viva? So he picked up on the point that I'd been allotted forty minutes, instead of twenty, and began enquiring whether I might not be mistaken on the question of thinking they were merely trying to lift a Third to a Second. And I regret now that I did not take a firm enough line in telling him that I knew it could be nothing higher than that.

Then he told me that he'd make some discreet enquiries from friends to see what he could find out, suggesting that I call back later - which I did. The news now was far worse. He pointed out that the forty minute gap could be explained from the fact that the examiners took a coffee break at 11.00 hrs. So that put an end to all talk about a First. Moreover he had just heard from someone that the PPE candidates from Christ Church had managed to disgrace themselves. According to his source of information, only two of them had obtained Seconds, whilst there was a whole batch of Thirds and Fourths - with four from the House who were going to be ploughed.

Well of course this did set me well and truly into a panic - with some reason too. I mean the very possibility of getting ploughed had never really entered into my calculations in any way at all. The thought of having to face my friends and family after that manner of disgrace was difficult even to contemplate. I just don't know what attitude I could have adopted, if that were to be the result of all my efforts to emerge from Oxford with intellectual distinction. I felt both sick at heart and weak at the knees, realizing how I was now teetering at the edge of a grim abyss. For what manner of solution could I then possibly find? Suicide? I'd been through all that manner of thought previously. So I knew how such ideas can seem attractive at times.

Karl is a bit of an old woman in his fussing concern for the well-being of his pupils. Moreover he relishes that role, which means that he takes delight in any emotional distress in others that might invite such cosseting activity on his side. He was all over me with supposedly comforting remarks, which really had the effect of spiralling my anxiety even higher.

He was asking me if it were conceivable that I could be one of those who had really disgraced themselves, and of course I couldn't be quite certain that this were not the case. I began to have some real doubts upon the subject. And in that Karl appeared to be offering to put his services fully at my service, to discover in advance what degree I might have obtained, I displayed even greater anxiety in the hopes that he might make that additional effort. So he said that he'd telephone Warnock, and see what he could discover - even though this was strictly against the rules.

I realized how I was beginning to lose dignity within all this bleating. But I let him go forward with that design, and kept phoning him to hear the result - only to find that he was now stone-walling me, declaring that Warnock was out, or otherwise unobtainable. Well I knew that I was really being told that I shouldn't be asking to hear my results before any of the others, and that I had lost face in the asking. But the damage was now done. Indeed, I dread to think how he will describe the scene next term to all my undergraduate friends who will still be at Oxford, for Karl delights in making it sound as if he is at the hub of all crises.

When I called in to see him one final time, during the evening that is to say, I realized how I was becoming a pest. And the stupid part is that I wasn't really in as much of a panic as I was pretending. He was describing me to others (over the phone) as being "in a terrible state". But he had been fuelling my anxieties, so that I was in part putting on such an act for his benefit, in the hopes that he could find out what I needed to know. But in the end I had to appreciate that there were to be no short cuts, and he finally gave me a sleeping pill, advising me to go home to bed....

Well the moment of truth came on Wednesday morning, when I read from the notice board that I had obtained a Third.... My heart sank and it has not since risen. The awful part is that I have really worked quite hard during my years at Oxford. I can hardly take the line that I fooled around, which might be offered as an explanation for such an inadequate degree. My (just faintly) intellectual prestige has all gone up in smoke. I feel for the moment that I cannot look anyone in the eye - as if I've been conning people into supposing that I'm intelligent, when it's now blatantly obvious that I'm not.

What am I, if this is all the intellectual honour that I am capable of achieving? My whole conception of myself has been such an inflated pretension that it deserved to be punctured. I am left with nothing that is worth defending - nothing upon which I might wish to construct my future identity. I feel as if I had staked my whole life upon this inner conviction that there is some inner brilliance in me - even genius. Now that I have rolled the dice however, I see that I have lost. I am futile. I am absurd.

I can imagine people stepping forward with the advice that I should put the matter out of my mind - that I should start a job, or even a family. And I do see how this would be good advice. But there's no woman that I might really want to marry, and I certainly don't want to discard my ambitions to write and paint in favour of some steady job. There seems to be no way out, although I cannot bring myself to admit defeat.

I wish most sincerely at this given point in time that I could just crawl into my bed, and die quietly in my sleep. I can see nothing worth living for, and I just want to escape from it all. But if I did find myself with sufficient determination to commit suicide, I realize how I would be doing a most terrible thing to the rest of my family - what with so much of the family fortune having been transferred into my name. Yet why should I feel any compunction about my family, I might well ask. (Dad never displays any concern for my own feelings.) But I wouldn't want to terminate my existence in such a spirit. So I'm not really contemplating that solution. Unless things begin to look brighter within a month or so however, I may return to that theme.

It is at times like this that I can see how I'd be less troubled by life if I managed to take it less seriously. And I'm aware how others might identify my human failing as a deficiency in humour - or that it doesn't function frequently enough. I should be able to laugh at myself in this absurd position of supposing that my lot is hopeless - because things never do work out as being quite so bad as they might seem at the moment. But the mirth doesn't rise inside me. Perhaps it will do so later, but I'll have to wait for that....

I returned to Longleat on Wednesday and, since then, I have thrown myself back into this task of completing my novel. I regard it now as my one lifeline to sanity. But what I see in it now is the pretentiousness of writing in such a philosophical vein, as if I were competent to communicate with other people upon subjects as profound as that. On the other hand I have no choice but to continue writing it until the final page has been completed. To neglect even to finish it would be the final act of cowardice, in capitulation to my fate. I continue with it as an act of despair, because there is nothing else for me to be doing. And it does at least keep me busy until such a time as I may be feeling calmer on the subject of my failure in life.

If I continue to feel as depressed as this over the coming weeks, I shall probably cease to keep a record of it in this journal. Who wants to read about such abject sorrow? I know that I won't, in time to come. I'd prefer to sweep all this misery under the carpet, and to await a new start in life.

I was feeling utterly low throughout the entire day that had been given over to Richard's wedding celebrations - not that too many people were actually mentioning the subject of my performance in Schools. But I could see in their eyes how many of them were avoiding the subject out of tact. I can perceive how I have lost status in their eyes - how they were waiting for the true state of my intellect to be assessed, and how they now know that it has been found wanting. Much that they were prepared to take seriously about my former pretensions is now being treated with their kindly derision - in conversations which probably won't get repeated to me, although I am well aware how such things are being said.

It may be difficult enough now to perceive why, but I did believe, somewhere quite secretly within my heart, that I might be of sufficiently high intelligence to obtain a First, if all the right questions just happened to be set. A big `if' of course, but I was supposing that it might be within my reach. Nor can I go back on that opinion, although I can see how others must now be dismissing such an idea in retrospect as my utter conceit. And I'm quite close to seeing things that way myself, of course.

On the other hand I wasn't the only person who had fallen into this error of overestimating my potential. There had been hints from various friends that I might get a First. I may have disillusioned them, but for the sake of my own sanity, I have got to check myself from losing all faith in myself. That is somehow more important than allowing myself (as Dad might wish) to face up to reality. These next few weeks are going to be very difficult for me, although the situation is easier perhaps, now that I am back here at Longleat on my own again.

Well - not that easy! I have been in quite a state of anxiety over the past few days, on the thought that I may be unfitted in life for anything better than developing into a country squire - presiding over the acres that I own, and concerning myself with the welfare of those who live on my estate. Should my ambitions have been limited to just that?

I've been such a fool to suppose that I might aim any higher. I love Longleat very much, and am certainly aware of my duties in that field. But I imagined how I would take such duties in my stride, while accomplishing greater feats. Unless I am capable of those greater feats, I'm unworthy of this stupendously beautiful environment. Nor could I wish to continue living here with such a notion of self-reproach hanging over me.

I am aware how I have let myself down, and I feel so ashamed when meeting people who are in a position to know that I was expecting to do better. I have a pressing desire to escape from

them all - to disappear from this environment for a number of years, until I have come to terms with the person that I might really be. To hell with the little socialite who might revel in the pomp of dwelling in such a place. I have got to feel that I merit it, before I can be happy living here. I have got to earn it before permitting myself to enjoy it. But how long will it take me to do just that?

History since 1832...........................................................b g

Moral Philosophy.................................................... g +++

General Philosophy................................................. .g ++

Political Theory........................................................ g ++

Political Institutions................................................ g +

Logic.......................................................................... g -

Economic Principles................................................ g - - -

Economic Organization.......................................... gd

What these marks reveal, on analysis, is that I was being interviewed at my Viva, to clear up that d mark and thus save myself from being awarded a Fourth. I should therefore regard myself as lucky in obtaining my Third. And I dread to think what all my friends would conclude if they were to hear about these marks. Fortunately, these matters are relatively private. So I'd best adopt a policy of the less said, the better. But I'm sinking into the depths of gloom, because my self-confidence has been completely shattered. I cannot bear to reflect upon the matter any longer, in that I'm such a complete and utter fool. I find that I cannot look people straight in the eye. I am hating myself - despising myself.

Only last night I finished reading a book upon the life of Lord Byron. While there were some frightening similarities to be noted between his personality and mine, the point which most troubles me is the contrast in the level of achievement at an early age between the two of us. I may have gone through a similar mill for the formation of my character - including a bullying parent, (a mother in his case,) and all the aristocratic trappings - but whereas he soared off as a high flyer, I have remained so firmly grounded to this earth. It demands an explanation in terms of my somehow inferior personality, and I find that so painful to digest. By my age Byron was world-famous, although he still felt the need to turn his back upon this country where he had been brought up and educated. I too shall be fleeing it within the next few weeks, but with no manner of success behind me. His overbearing conceit may have been an asset in his case, but where I myself am concerned it is nothing more than the standard of my own folly.

Once I'd read the letter which [V] had left upon my desk, I was filled with a great disgust for the novel I'd been writing. In fact I told her that I was going to burn it, although she urged me not to do this - telling me that some of the passages had been quite powerful. But I had lost all faith in it, and wanted nothing more to do with it - or not for the time being. `The Lost Ideal' was such an absurdly pretentious title in any case. As things stand, the whole endeavour reminds me too poignantly of the way my relationship with [V] collapsed. And after I'd had time to reflect upon the matter, I saw how it was far too subjective, trying to give voice to my own personal whimpering on the subject of young girls sometimes having a wider sexual experience than their boyfriends. (It is quite natural in a way, in that they pair with men slightly older than themselves, and have got off to a head start before they mingle with the boys of their own age.)

But I came to the conclusion, on reflection, that I might yet be able to use a lot of this material within something else - a longer novel which may go by the title of `The Hollow Tunnel' (of immaturity, that is to say.) In fact I've already set myself to work in that vein, introducing a lot more characters than there were in the first effort. I'm now trying to express my feelings of general dissatisfaction with our society of today.

It's almost laughable how quickly I abandoned my original idea of casting the novel on to the scrap heap. This is because it didn't take me long to realize that I do need to keep on writing - whatever, because it's a therapy in itself. And besides that, it remains my one hope for salvation. I've got to succeed while I'm still comparatively young in life, or I can only predict great miseries for myself.

The gossip columnists are pestering me once again, endeavouring to present me to their public within an image of their own creation. I find it difficult to understand why they should be bothering with me - as if I already represent something in life which might be of interest to the public at large, when I'm painfully aware how there are no such achievements to my credit. So what is it that they desire to see in me?

I suppose it amounts to a slightly new slant on how the public should envisage the British aristocracy - an aristocracy which has been in central focus, socially, over an extensive period of our history. Against that backdrop, I suppose they regard me as an individual who might be striving to go his own way, not precisely in revolt against the established order, but in any case endeavouring to perceive an identity for himself in his own right. So they are making the most of my decision to go and study art in Paris - as if I was really turning my back upon everything that Longleat stands for. It's all quite ridiculous, but I'm not really in control of the image that they might wish to foist upon me.

It all started when someone calling himself William Rowland phoned me to request a brief interview for the Evening Standard - telling me how he was already in the area. So I invited him to my apartments. And he seemed pleasantly friendly when he arrived. He talked in terms of having a son at Oxford, and I did promptly recall how it was an undergraduate called Rowland (from Worcester College) who had been sent to glean details concerning my lifestyle at Oxford during my first year at the university. But I felt it unwise to let him perceive that I had made this connection.

The piece he wrote about me was quite harmless enough, but it was promptly picked up by the Sunday Dispatch who put some woman on to me. And in trying to get her own angle on me, she was trying to make it sound as if I was going abroad because I'd fallen out with Dad, which was all a trifle embarrassing in the tone it set. And it sounds so pretentious when they quote me as saying that I'm an artist. I know only too well that I still have a long way to go before I can regard myself in such a light. I fear that many people who read these items will start to think of me as an absurd young man.

Lord Weymouth, 24-year-old heir of the Marquess of Bath, is going to Paris next month "to study and paint a little."

He is looking for a small flat on the Left Bank. "I shall be on my own," he tells me, "and will be in France for an indefinite stay. But I shall be back for the family reunion at Christmas."

Lord Weymouth occupies four lofty rooms at his family's Stately Home, Longleat, in Wiltshire. The walls are hung with his paintings. He uses vivid vivid colours; he is a great admirer of Van Gogh.

"I shall always live at Longleat," says Lord Weymouth. "If I ever marry I shall bring my wife here to live."

Lord Weymouth, 24-year-old son and heir to the wealthy Marquess of Bath, (family motto: I have good reason), has decided to leave England, his father, and the family seat of Longleat, to live by himself on the Left Bank in Paris. But he hasn't told his father.

Weymouth, who came down from Oxford in July with a degree in philosophy and economics, is going to be a painter, and believes the only place to learn to paint in earnest is Paris.

He can speak little French, but thinks he will pick it up quickly.

It is only two years ago that he delighted his father by moving into Longleat. No one had lived there for ten years. His father's home was at nearby Sturford Mead, and Longleat was only a 2s.6d.-a time showpiece.

Weymouth had a man looking after him at Longleat. But now he intends to fend for himself.

I asked him what his family thinks of all this. "I don't know. You'd better ask them," he told me, so I rang his father.

"What?" said the marquess. "Going to live in Paris? First I've heard of it...."

These final weeks at Longleat have been devoid of much excitement. I am keeping my nose to the grindstone, in terms of getting the literary shape for `The Hollow Tunnel' fully planned - also writing the occasional passage, where I might see the right slot for it. And I have thrust myself into the task of reading the modern classics, in an attempt to improve upon my utterly inadequate grasp of great literature - largely the works of Huxley, Lawrence and Dostoyevski. I'm digesting as much and as fast as I can. There are times when their competence just makes me feel hopelessly depressed, in that I'm still so far from finding my own style and my own literary format. There are moments when I almost persuade myself that I should give up, and focus my attention upon easier subjects. But I find it impossible to accept that I have merely a second-rate brain. Or the only way that I could stop this `second-rate brain' from endeavouring (but failing) to churn out first-rate thoughts would be by destroying it - by committing suicide. And I'm still a long way from adopting that solution.

My recent big row with Dad does serve perhaps, to augment the suicidal thoughts. But I think there is a safety valve in that, before I might ever reach the intention of ultimate extinction, I feel sure that I'd prefer to uproot myself and start a totally new life for myself elsewhere. I'd probably abandon England altogether, emigrating to some part of the world where I might work down a coal mine, or something in that vein. But I'm still a long way short of seeking that manner of escape from the society that I know. I expect to make a point of distancing myself from this environment over the next few years, by discovering what life might be like in other parts of Europe. But I shall keep returning to Longleat, as I imagine, provided that I can keep Dad at a distance from me.

So I shall be going up to London tomorrow, and then on to Paris. I am aware how a whole period in my life has sadly come to an end, and that another is about to start. My three years at Oxford can hardly be said to have established my self-confidence in life - rather to the contrary. But (despite the degree that I obtained) I don't feel that my time has been in any way wasted. Maybe I didn't master the art of answering examination questions, but I do know that my whole attitude to life has been transformed by the knowledge that I have assimilated since I came up. Or perhaps it's just that I have learnt how to think with clarity, and that I'll always be able to apply these techniques to whatever knowledge I may in future acquire.

My problem at the moment however, is that I am insufficiently integrated as a human being. I have yet to mature - to work out my mind on all matters of importance. There is too much vacillation in me - too much instability - perhaps because I'm still in the process of shifting my ground. I realize how the values which I accepted within my upbringing - values which were imparted to me from one, or other of my parents - are impractical for my own usage. (In Dad's case, I have often found the way he thinks to be quite horrifying, to the point when he seems almost inhuman - unless it can be excused on the basis of his inadequate intelligence.) But I do think that I'm beginning to perceive the nature of the ground upon which my own attitude should be constructed.

To achieve this, it is vital that I get right away from my home environment - in fact right away from the London environment too. I need to distance myself from all the friends that once I knew, so that I may contemplate the more clearly where I truly stand, at this point in my life when I've got to make up my mind what I should do with myself. It's the isolation that I need - perhaps even a measure of reclusion. Or maybe it won't turn out to be like that at all. I'll probably be a lot happier if it turns out that I have a roaring social life, whilst I am striving to become an artist. But I've got to find a basis for feeling confident in myself as a human being. And I don't expect to discover such confidence until I succeed in my ambitions.