Yesterday we went to Hardy's funeral. What did I think of? Of Max 
Beerbohm's letter . . . or a lecture . . . about women's writing. 
At intervals some emotion broke in. But I doubt the capacity of 
the human animal for being dignified in ceremony. One catches a 
bishop's frown and twitch; sees his polished shiny nose; suspects 
the rapt spectacled young priest, gazing at the cross he carries, 
of being a humbug . . . next here is the coffin, an overgrown one; 
like a stage coffin, covered with a white satin cloth; bearers 
elderly gentlemen rather red and stiff, holding to the corners; 
pigeons flying outside . . . processions to poets corner; 
dramatic "In sure and certain hope of immortality" perhaps 
melodramatic . . . Over all this broods for me some uneasy sense 
of change and mortality and how partings are deaths; and then a 
sense of my own fame . . . and a sense of the futility of it all.