12 August 1940 – 18 August 1940

Third edition ordered. L. said, at 37 on Wednesday “It’s booming.” The boom is dulled by our distance. And why does a word of tepidity depress more than a word of praise exalts? I don’t know. I refer to Waley: I don’t refer to Pamela— great work of art etc. Well, it’s taking its way. It’s settling. It’s done. And I’m writing P.H., which leaves a spare hour. Many air raids. One as I walked. A haystack was handy. But walked on, and so home. All clear. Then sirens again. Then Judith and Leslie. Bowls. Then Mrs. Ebbs etc. to borrow table. All clear. I must make a stopgap for the last hour, or I shall dwindle, as I’m doing here. But P.H. is a concentration—a screw. So I will go in; and read Hare and write to Ethel. Very hot, even out here. They came very close. We lay down under the tree. The sound was like someone sawing in the air just above us. We lay flat on our faces, hands behind head. Don’t close your teeth, said L. They seemed to be sawing at something stationary. Bombs shook the windows of my lodge. Will it drop I asked? If so, we shall be broken together. I thought, I think, of nothingness—flatness, my mood being flat. Some fear I suppose. Should we take Mabel to garage. Too risky to cross the garden, L. said. Then another came from Newhaven. Hum and saw and buzz all round us. A horse neighed in the marsh. Very sultry. Is it thunder? I said. No, guns, said L., from Ringmer, from Charleston way. Then slowly the sound lessened. Mabel in kitchen said the windows shook. Air raid still on: distant planes; Leslie playing bowls. I well beaten. My books only gave me pain, Charlotte Brontë said. Today I agree. Very heavy, dull and damp. This must at once be cured. The all clear. 5 to 7. 144 down last night.