22 July 1940 – 28 July 1940

Yes, there are things to write about: but I want at the moment, the eve of publication moment, to discover my emotions. They are fitful: thus not very strong—nothing like so strong as before The Years—oh dear, nothing like. Still they twinge. I wish it were this time next week. There’ll be Morgan and Desmond. And I fear Morgan will say—just enough to show he doesn’t like, but is kind. D. will certainly depress. The Times Lit. Sup. (after its ill temper about Reviewing) will find chinks. T. and T. will be enthusiastic. And—that’s all. I repeat that two strains, as usual, will develop: fascinating; dull: life-like; dead. So why do I twinge? Knowing it almost by heart. But not quite. Mrs. Lehmann enthusiastic. John silent. I shall of course be sneered at by those who sniff at Bloomsbury. I’d forgotten that. But as L. is combing Sally I can’t concentrate. No room of my own. For 11 days I’ve been contracting in the glare of different faces. It ended yesterday with the W.I.: my talk—it was talked—about the Dreadnought. A simple, on the whole natural, friendly occasion. Cups of tea: biscuits; and Mrs. Chavasse, in a tight dress, presiding: out of respect for me, it was a Book tea. Miss Gardner had Three Guineas pinned to her frock: Mrs. Thompsett Three Weeks: and someone else a silver spoon. No I can’t go on to Ray’s* death, about which I know nothing, save that that very large woman, with the shock of grey hair, and the bruised lip; that monster, whom I remember typical of young womanhood, has suddenly gone. She had a kind of representative quality, in her white coat and trousers; wall building; disappointed, courageous, without—what?—imagination? Lady Oxford said that there was no virtue in saving, more in spending. She hung over my neck in a spasm of tears. Mrs. Campbell has cancer. But in a twinkling she recovered, began to spend. A cold chicken, she said, was always under cover on the sideboard at my service. The country people used butter. She was beautifully dressed in a rayed silk, with a dark blue tie; a dark blue fluted Russian cap with a red flap. This was given her by her milliner: the fruit of spending. All the walls, the protecting and reflecting walls, wear so terribly thin in this war. There’s no standard to write for: no public to echo back; even the “tradition” has become transparent. Hence a certain energy and recklessness— part good part bad I daresay. But it’s the only line to take. And perhaps the walls, if violently beaten against, will finally contain me. I feel tonight still veiled. The veil will be lifted tomorrow when my book comes out. That’s what may be painful: may be cordial. And then I may feel once more round me the wall I’ve missed—or vacancy? or chill? I make these notes, but am tired of notes, tired of Gide, tired of de Vigny notebooks. I want something sequacious now and robust. In the first days of the war I could read notes only.

I think I have taken, say a good second, judging from the Lit. Sup. review. No Morgan. Times say it takes a very high place indeed among biographies. Times say I have a genius for the relevant. Times (art critic I gather) goes on to analyse Roger’s tones, etc. Times intelligent, but not room for more. It’s a nice quiet feeling now. With my Coleridge beneath me, and this over, as it really very nearly (how I hate that clash) is, I’m aware of something permanent and real in my existence. By the way, I’m rather proud of having done a solid work. I am content, somehow. But when I read my post it’s like putting my hand in a jar of leeches and so I’ve a mint of dull dreary letters to write. But it’s an incredibly lovely—yes lovely is the word—transient, changing, warm, capricious summer evening. Also I won two games. A large hedgehog was found drowned in the lily pool; L. tried to resuscitate it. An amusing sight. 2/6 is offered by the Government for live hedgehogs. I’m reading Ruth Benedict with pressure of suggestions—about culture patterns—which suggests rather too much. Six volumes of Aug. Hare also suggest—little articles. But I’m very peaceful, momentarily, this evening. Saturday I suppose a no-review day. Immune is again the right word. No, John hasn’t read it. When the twelve planes went over, out to sea, to fight, last evening, I had I think an individual, not communal B.B.C. dictated feeling. I almost instinctively wished them luck. I should like to be able to take scientific notes of reactions. Invasion may be tonight: or not at all—that’s Joubert’s summing up. And—I had something else to say—but what? And dinner to get ready.