Thursday, April 9th
Now will come the season of depression, after congestion, suffocation. The last batch was posted to Clark at Brighton yesterday. L. is in process of reading. I daresay I'm pessimistic, but I fancy a certain tepidity in his verdict so far: but then it's provisional. At any rate these are disgusting, racking at the same time enervated days, and must be thrown on the bonfire. The horror is that tomorrow, after this one windy day of respite—oh the cold north wind that has blown ravaging daily since we came, but I've had no ears, eyes, or nose: only making my quick transits from house to room, often in despair—after this one day's despite, I say, I must begin at the beginning and go through 600 pages of cold proof. Why, oh why? Never again, never again. No sooner have I written that, than I make up the first pages of Two Guineas, and begin a congenial ramble about Roger. But seriously I think this shall be my last "novel." But then I want to tackle criticism too.
Thursday, June 11th
I can only, after two months, make this brief note, to say at last after two months dismal and worse, almost catastrophic illness—never been so near the precipice to my own feeling since 1913—I'm again on top. I have to re-write, I mean interpolate, and rub out most of The Years in proof. But I can't go into that. Can only do an hour or so. Oh but the divine joy of being mistress of my mind again! Back from M.H.* yesterday. Now I am going to live like a cat stepping on eggs till my 600 pages are done. I think I can—I think I can—but must have immense courage and buoyancy to compass it. This, as I say, my first voluntary writing since April 9th, after which I pitched into bed: then to Cornwall—no note of that: then back: saw Elly: then to M.H.: home yesterday for a fortnight's trial. And the blood has mounted to my head. Wrote 1880 this morning.
Sunday, June 21st
After a week of intense suffering—indeed mornings of torture—and I'm not exaggerating—pain in my head—a feeling of complete despair and failure—a head inside like the nostrils after hay fever—here is a cool quiet morning again, a feeling of relief, respite, hope. Just done the Robson: think it good. I am living so constrainedly: so repressedly: I can't make notes of life. Everything is planned, battened down. I do half an hour down here: go up, often in despair: lie down: walk round the Square: come back and do another ten lines. Then to Lords yesterday. Always with a feeling of having to repress, control. I see people lying on sofa between tea and dinner. Rose M., Elizabeth Bowen, Nessa. Sat in the Square last night. Saw the dripping green leaves. Thunder and lightning. Purple sky. N. and A. discussing 4/8 time. Cats stealing round. L. dining with Tom and Bella. A very strange, most remarkable summer. New emotions: humility: impersonal joy: literary despair. I am learning my craft in the most fierce conditions. Really reading Flaubert's letters I hear my own voice cry out Oh artl Patience: find him consoling, admonishing. I must get this book quietly, strongly, daringly into shape. But it won't be out till next year. Yet I think it has possibilities, could I seize them. I am trying to cut the characters deep in a phrase: to pare off and compact scenes: to envelop the whole in a medium.
Tuesday, June 23rd
A good day—a bad day—so it goes on. Few people can be so tortured by writing as I am. Only Flaubert I think. Yet I see it now, as a whole. I think I can bring it off, if I only have courage and patience: take each scene quietly: compose: I think it may be a good book. And then—oh when it's finished!
Not so clear today, because I went to dentist and then shopped. My brain is like a scale: one grain pulls it down. Yesterday it balanced: today dips.
Friday, October 30th
I do not wish for the moment to write out the story of the months since I made the last mark here. I do not wish, for reasons I cannot now develop, to analyse that extraordinary summer. It will be more helpful and healthy for me to write scenes; to take up my pen and describe actual events: good practice too for my stumbling and doubting pen. Can I still "write"? That is the question, you see. And now I will try to prove if the gift is dead, or dormant.
Tuesday, November 3rd
Miracles will never cease—L. actually liked The Years! He thinks it so far—as far as the wind chapter—as good as any of my books. I will put down the actual facts. On Sunday I started to read the proofs. When I had read to the end of the first section I was in despair: stony but convinced despair. I made myself yesterday read on to Present Time. When I reached that landmark I said, "This is happily so bad that there can be no question about it. I must carry the proofs, like a dead cat, to L. and tell him to burn them unread." This I did. And a weight fell off my shoulders. That is true. I felt relieved of some great pack. It was cold and dry and very grey and I went out and walked through the graveyard with Cromwell's daughter's tomb down through Grays Inn along Holborn and so back. Now I was no longer Virginia, the genius, but only a perfectly magnificent yet content—shall I call it spirit? a body? And very tired. Very old. But at the same time content to join these 100 years with Leonard. So we lunched in a constraint: a grey acceptance: and I said to L. I will write to Richmond and ask for books to review. The proofs will cost I suppose between £200 and £300 which I will pay out of my hoard. As I have £700 this will leave £400. I was not unhappy. And L. said he thought I might be wrong about the book. Then ever so many strange men arrived: Mr. Mumford, mahogany coloured, lean, with a very hard bowler and a cane; whom I put in the drawing room with a cigarette: Mr.——very heavy and large, who said Pardon me and knocked at the door. And Lord and Lady Cecil rang up to ask us to lunch to meet the Spanish Ambassador. (I am making up Three Guineas.) Then, after tea, we went to the Sunday Times book show. How stuffy it was! How dead I felt—Oh how infinitely tired! And Miss White came up, a hard little woman with a cheery wooden face, and talked about her book and reviews. And then Ursula Strachey came across from Duckworths and said You don't know who I am? And I remembered the moonlit river. And then Roger Senhouse tapped me on the shoulder. We went home and L. read and read and said nothing: I began to feel actively depressed; yet could make up The Years differently—I've thought of a scheme for another book—it should be told in the first person. Would that do as a form for Roger?—and I fell into one of my horrid heats and deep slumbers, as if the blood in my head were cut off. Suddenly L. put down his proof and said he thought it extraordinarily good—as good as any of them. And now he is reading on, and tired out with the exertion of writing these pages I'm going up to read the Italian book.
Wednesday, November 4th
L. who has now read to the end of 1914, still thinks it extraordinarily good: very strange: very interesting: very sad. We discussed my sadness. But my difficulty is this: I cannot bring myself to believe that he is right. It may be simply that I exaggerated its badness, and therefore he now, finding it not so bad, exaggerates its goodness. If it is to be published, I must at once sit down and correct: how can I? Every other sentence seemed to me bad. But I am shelving the question till he has done, which should be tonight.
Thursday, November 5th
The miracle is accomplished. L. put down the last sheet about 12 last night; and could not speak. He was in tears. He says it is "a most remarkable book"—he likes it better than The Waves—and has not a spark of doubt that it must be published. I, as a witness, not only to his emotion but to his absorption, for he read on and on, can't doubt his opinion. What about my own? Anyhow the moment of relief was divine. I hardly know yet if I'm on my heels or head, so amazing is the reversal since Tuesday morning. I have never had such an experience before.
Monday, November 9th
I must make some resolutions about this book. I find it extremely difficult. I get into despair. It seems so bad. I can only cling to L.'s verdict. Then I get distracted: I tried, as an anodyne, to take up an article; a memoir; to review a book for The Listener. They make my mind race. I must fix it upon The Years. I must do my proofs—send them off. I must fix my mind on it all the morning. I think the only way is to do that, and then let myself do something else between tea and dinner. But immerse in The Years
all the morning—nothing else. If the chapter is difficult, concentrate for a short time. Then write here. But don't dash off into other writing till after tea. When it is done, we can always ask Morgan.
Tuesday, November 10th
On the whole it has gone better this morning. It's true my brain is so tired of this job it aches after an hour or less. So I must dandle it, and gently immerse it. Yes, I think it's good; in its very difficult way.
I wonder if anyone has ever suffered so much from a book as I have from The Years. Once out I will never look at it again. It's like a long childbirth. Think of that summer, every morning a headache, and forcing myself into that room in my nightgown; and lying down after a page: and always with the certainty of failure. Now that certainty is mercifully removed to some extent. But now I feel I don't care what anyone says so long as I'm rid of it. And for some reason I feel I'm respected and liked. But this is only the haze dance of illusion, always changing. Never write a long book again. Yet I feel I shall write more fiction—scenes will form. But I am tired this morning: too much strain and racing yesterday.
Monday, November 30th
There is no need whatever in my opinion to be unhappy about The Years. It seems to me to come off at the end. Anyhow, to be a taut, real, strenuous book. Just finished it; and feel a little exalted. It's different from the others of course: has I think more "real" life in it; more blood and bone. But anyhow, even if there are appalling watery patches, and a grinding at the beginning, I don't think I need lie quaking at nights. I think I can feel assured. This I say sincerely to myself; to hold to myself during the weeks of dull anticipation. Nor need I care much what people say. In fact I hand my compliment to that terribly depressed woman, myself, whose head ached so often; who was so entirely convinced a failure; for in spite of everything I think she brought it off and is to be congratulated. How she did it, with her head like an old cloth, I don't know. But now for rest: and Gibbon.
Thursday, December 31st
There in front of me lie the proofs—the galleys—to go off today, a sort of stinging nettle that I cover over. Nor do I wish even to write about it here.
A divine relief has possessed me these last days—at being quit of it—good or bad. And, for the first time since February I should say my mind has sprung up like a tree shaking off a load. And I've plunged into Gibbon and read and read, for the first time since February, I think. Now for action and pleasure again and going about. I could make some interesting and perhaps valuable notes on the absolute necessity for me of my work. Always to be after something. I'm not sure that the intensiveness and exclusiveness of writing a long book is a possible state: I mean, if ever in future I do such a thing—and I doubt it—I will force myself to vary it with little articles. Anyhow, now I am not going to think Can I write? I am going to rush into unselfconsciousness and work: at Gibbon first; then a few little articles for America; then Roger and Three Guineas. Which of the two comes first, how to dovetail, I don't know. Anyhow even if The Years is a failure, I've thought considerably and collected a little hoard of ideas. Perhaps I'm now again on one of those peaks where I shall write two or three little books quickly; and then have another break. At least I feel myself possessed of skill enough to go on with. No emptiness. And in proof of this will go in, get my Gibbon notes and begin a careful sketch of the article.
1937
Thursday, January 28th
Sunk once more in the happy tumultuous dream: that is to say began Three Guineas this morning and can't stop thinking it. My plan is to write out now, without more palaver, and think perhaps it might be roughed in by Easter; but I shall allow myself, make myself, scribble a little article or two between whiles. Then I hope to float over the horrid March 15th: wire today to say Years haven't reached America. I must plate myself against that sinking and mud. And so far as I can tell, this method is almost too effective.
and ended it it 12 Oct. 1937 (provisionally that is).
Thursday, February 18th
I have now written for three weeks at Three Guineas and have done 38 pages. Now I've used up that vein momently and want a few days change. At what? Can't at the moment think.
Saturday, February 20th
I turn my eyes away from the Press as I go upstairs, because there are all the review copies of The Years packed and packing. They go out next week: this is my last weekend of comparative peace. What do I anticipate with such clammy coldness? I think chiefly that my friends won't mention it; will turn the conversation rather awkwardly. I think I anticipate considerable lukewarmness among the friendly reviewers—respectful tepidity; and a whoop of Red Indian delight from the Grigs who will joyfully and loudly announce that this is the longdrawn twaddle of a prim prudish bourgeois mind, and say that now no one can take Mrs. W. seriously again. But violence I shan't so much mind. What I think I shall mind most is the awkwardness when I go, say to Tilton or Charleston, and they don't know what to say. And since we shan't get away till June I must expect a very full exposure to this damp firework atmosphere. They will say it's a tired book; a last effort ... Well, now that I've written that down I feel that even so I can exist in that shadow. That is if I keep hard at work. And there's no lack of that. I discussed a book of illustrated incidents with Nessa yesterday; we are going to produce 12 lithographs for Christmas, printed by ourselves. As we were talking, Margery Fry rang up to ask me to see Julian Fry about Roger. So that begins to press on me. Then L. wants if possible to have Three Guineas for the autumn: and I have my Gibbon, my broadcast, and a possible leader on Biography to fill in chinks. I plan to keep out of literary circles till the mild boom is over. And this, waiting, under consideration, is after all the worst. This time next month I shall feel more at ease. And it's only now and then I mind now.
I suppose what I expect is that they'll say now Mrs. W. has written a long book all about nothing.
Sunday, February 21st
I'm off again, after five days lapse (writing Faces and Voices) on Three Guineas: after a most dismal hacking got a little canter and hope now to spin ahead. Odd that one sometimes does a transition quite quickly. A quiet day for a wonder—no one seen yesterday: so I went to Caledonian Market, couldn't find spoon shop: bought yellow gloves 3/- and stockings 1/- and so home. Started reading French again: Misanthrope and Colette's memoirs given me last summer by Janie: when I was in the dismal drowse and couldn't fix on that or anything. Today the reviewers (oh d——n this silly thought) have their teeth fixed in me; but what care I for a goosefeather bed, etc. In fact, once I get into the canter over Three Guineas I think I shall see only the flash of the white rails and pound along to the goal.
Sunday, February 28th
I'm so entirely imbued with Three Guineas that I can hardly jerk myself away to write here. (Here in fact I again dropped my pen to think about my next paragraph—universities)—how will that lead to professions and so on. It's a bad habit.
Sunday, March 7th
As will be seen on the last page my spiritual temperature went up with a rush; why I don't know, save that I've been having a good gallop at Three Guineas. Now I have broached the fatal week and must expect a sudden drop. It's going to be pretty bad, I'm certain; but at the same time I am convinced that the drop needn't be fatal: that is, the book may be damned, with faint praise; but the point is that I myself know why it's a failure, and that its failure is deliberate. I also know that I have reached my point of view, as writer, as being. As writer I am fitted out for another two books—Three Guineas and Roger (let alone articles): as being the interest and safety of my present life are unthrowable. This I have, honestly, proved this winter. It's not a gesture. And honestly the diminution of fame, that people aren't any longer enthusiastic, gives me the chance to observe quietly. Also I am in a position to hold myself aloof. I need never seek out anyone. In short either way I'm safe, and look forward, after the unavoidable tosses and tumbles of the next ten days, to a slow, dark, fruitful spring, summer and autumn. This is set down I hope once and for
all. And please to remember it on Friday when the reviews come in.
We have sold 5,300 before publication.
Friday, March 12th
Oh the relief! L. brought the Lit. Sup. to me in bed and said It's quite good. And so it is; and Time and Tide says I'm a first rate novelist and a great lyrical poet. And I can already hardly read through the reviews: but feel a little dazed, to think then it's not nonsense; it does make an effect. Yet of course not in the least the effect I meant. But now, my dear, after all that agony, I'm free, whole; round: can go full ahead. And so stop this cry of content and sober joy. Off to M.H. Julian back today. I use my last five minutes before lunch to note that though I have slipped the gall and fret and despair even of the past few weeks wholly today, and shan't I think renew them; I have once more loaded myself with the strain of Three Guineas, at which I have been writing hard and laboriously. So now I'm straining to draw that cart across the rough ground. It seems therefore that there is no rest; no sense of It's finished. One always harnesses oneself by instinct; and can't live without the strain. Now The Years will completely die out from my mind.
Car mended. But rain pouring.
Sunday, March 14th