1 October 1934 – 7 October 1934

Yes, but my head will never let me glory sweepingly; always a tumble. Yesterday morning the old rays of light set in; and then the sharp, the very sharp pain over my eyes; so that I sat and lay about till tea; had no walk, had not a single idea of triumph or relief. L. bought me a little travelling ink pot, by way of congratulation. I wish I could think of a name. Sons and Daughters? Probably used already. There’s a mass to be done to the last chapter, which I shall, I hope, d.v., as they say in some circles, I suppose, still, begin tomorrow; while the putty is still soft. So the summer is ended. Until 9th of September, when Nessa came across the terrace—how I hear that cry He’s dead—a very vigorous, happy summer. Oh the joy of walking! I’ve never felt it so strong in me. Cowper Powys, oddly enough, expresses the same thing: the trance like, swimming, flying through the air; the current of sensations and ideas; and the slow, but fresh change of down, of road, of colour; all this churned up into a fine thin sheet of perfect calm happiness. It’s true I often painted the brightest pictures on the sheet and often talked aloud. Lord how many pages of Sons and Daughters—perhaps Daughters and Sons would give a rhythm more unlike Sons and Lovers, or Wives and Daughters—I made up, chattering them in my excitement on the top of the down, in the folds. Too many buildings, alas; and gossip to the effect that Christie and the Ringmer Building Co. are buying Botten’s Farm to build on. Sunday I was worried, walking to Lewes, by the cars and the villas. But again, I’ve discovered the ghostly farm walk; and the Piddinghoe walk; and such variety and loveliness— the river lead and silver; the ship—Servic of London—going down: the bridge opened. Mushrooms and the garden at night: the moon, like a dying dolphin’s eye; or red orange, the harvest moon; or polished like a steel knife; or lambent; sometimes rushing across the sky; sometimes hanging among the branches. Now in October the thick wet mist has come, thickening and blotting. On Sunday we had Bunny and Julian. Books read or in reading. Shakespeare: Troilus Pericles Taming of the Shrew Cymbeline Maupassant, de Vigny, St. Simon, Gide} only scraps Library books: Powys Wells Lady Brooke Prose. Dobree Alice James Many MSS. none worth keeping

A violent rain storm on the pond. The pond is covered with little white thorns; springing up and down: the pond is bristling with leaping white thorns, like the thorns on a small porcupine; bristles; then black waves; cross it; black shudders; and the little water thorns are white; a helter skelter rain and the elms tossing it up and down; the pond overflowing on one side; lily leaves tugging; the red flower swimming about; one leaf flapping; then completely smooth for a moment; then prickled; thorns like glass; but leaping up and down incessantly; a rapid smirch of shadow. Now light from the sun; green and red; shiny; the pond a sage green; the grass brilliant green; red berries on the hedges; the cows very white; purple over Asheham.