16 May 1938 – 22 May 1938

I’m pleased this morning because Lady Rhondda writes that she is profoundly excited and moved by Three Guineas. Theo Bosanquet who has a review copy read her extracts. And she thinks it may have a great effect, and signs herself my grateful outsider. A good omen; because this shows that certain people will be stirred; will think; will discuss; it won’t altogether be frittered away. Of course Lady R. is already partly on my side; but again as she’s highly patriotic and citizenlike she might have been roused to object. It’s on the cards that it will make more splash among the inkpots than I thought—feeling very dim and cold these last weeks, and indifferent too; and oblivious of the great excitement and intensity with which (certainly) I wrote. But as the whole of Europe may be in flames—it’s on the cards. One more shot at a policeman and the Germans, Czechs, French will begin the old horror. The 4th of August may come next week. At the moment there is a lull. L. says K. Martin says we say (The P.M.) that we will fight this time. Hitler therefore is chewing his little bristling moustache. But the whole thing trembles: and my book may be like a moth dancing over a bonfire—consumed in less than one second.

Time and again I have meant to write down my expectations, dreads and so on, waiting the publication on—I think June 2nd—of Three Guineas: but haven’t, because what with living in the solid world of Roger and then (again this morning) in the airy world of Poyntz Hall I feel extremely little. And don’t want to rouse feeling. What I’m afraid of is the taunt charm and emptiness. The book I wrote with such violent feeling to relieve that immense pressure will not dimple the surface. That is my fear. Also I’m uneasy at taking this role in the public eye—afraid of autobiography in public. But the fears are entirely outbalanced (this is honest) by the immense relief and peace I have gained and enjoy this moment. Now I am quit of that poison and excitement. Nor is that all. For having spat it out, my mind is made up. I need never recur or repeat. I am an outsider. I can take my way: experiment with my own imagination in my own way. The pack may howl, but it shall never catch me. And even if the pack— reviewers, friends, enemies—pays me no attention or sneers, still I’m free. This is the actual result of that spiritual conversion (I can’t bother to get the right words) in the autumn of 1933 or 4—when I rushed through London buying, I remember, a great magnifying glass, from sheer ecstasy, near Blackfriars: when I gave the man who played the harp half a crown for talking to me about his life in the tube station. The omens are mixed: L. is less excited than I hoped: Nessa highly ambiguous: Miss Hepworth and Mrs. Nicholls say, “Women owe a great deal to Mrs. Woolf” and I have promised Pippa to supply books. Now for R.’s letters. Monk’s House at the moment windy and cold.