This is a curious book with a mixture of new and familiar material and seemingly written for both public and persaonl reasons. It left me with a feeling of melancholy engendered by the way lives, houses, possessions, and ultimately relationships, can seem trivial and arbitrary when someone tries to give them more meaning than they are able to carry. The use of a beautiful house as a narrative thread also added a tinge of sadness, especially when the author seemed to be only semi-welcome there. It reminded me how satisfying it is in 'Rebecca' when the house burns down - and how sad when Daphne du Maurier in reality had to leave her own beloved Menabilly. The image of the 'book' of messages carried around by Eve Fairfax as her life fades around her, is one that will stay with me. As someone who sat for Rodin, she seemed to typify a woman who only exists when she's looked at by others.
The book is beautifully written, which carries the reader along. I read the whole thing, even though the lengthy Vita-Violet stuff is familiar. Now no longer so scandalous, their behaviour struck me as childish and indulgent and it was puzzling that the author spent so many pages on it. It did though prompt me to find out more about Violet Trefusis as a writer.
I kept hoping to understand what is at the heart of the book but was left with a fugitive sense of a story not fully told, that there's something more and more personal behind all this that's only been hinted at.