A Writer's Diary: Being Extracts From the Diary of Virginia Woolf

  Tuesday, April 11th

  Anyhow, on April 1st I think, I started Roger: and with the help of his memoirs have covered the time till Clifton. Much of it donkey work; and I suppose to be rewritten. Still there is 20 pages put down, after being so long put off. And it is an immense solace to have this sober drudgery to take to instantly and so tide over the horrid anticlimax of Three Guineas. I didn't get so much praise from L. as I hoped. He had to swallow the notes at a gulp though. And I suspect I shall find the page proofs (due tomorrow) a chill bath of disillusionment. But I wanted—how violently—how persistently, pressingly, compulsorily I can't say—to write this book: and have a quiet composed feeling: as if I had said my say: take it or leave it: I'm quit of that: free for fresh adventures—at the age of 56. Last night I began making up again: summers night: a complete whole: that's my idea. Roger surrounds me: and then to M.H. on Thursday, and that infernal bundle of proofs. Am I right though in thinking that it has some importance— Three Guineas—as a point of view: shows industry; fertility; and is, here and there, as "well written" (considering the technical problems—quotations, arguments etc.) as any of my rather skimble skamble works! I think there's more to it than to a Room: which, on rereading, seems to me a little egotistic, flaunting, sketchy: but has its brilliance—its speed. I'm suspicious of the vulgarity of the notes: of a certain insistence.

  Tuesday, April 26th

  We had our Easter at M.H.: but as for the sun, it never shone; was colder than Christmas; a grudging lead-coloured sky; razor wind; winter clothes; proofs; much acute despair; curbed however by the aid of divine philosophy; a joy in discovering Mandeville's Bees (this really a fruitful book; the very book I want). Then Q. rings up; to warn you: Have you had a letter from Pipsy? * Ottoline is dead. They told her P. might die, and the shock killed her: and he's asking you to write about her (with Mr. Wicks and Mr. Mussell exploring the attics for the new room). So I had to write; and the horrid little pellet screwed my brain; leaves it giddy. Yet in spite of that here am I sketching out a new book; only don't please impose that huge burden on me again, I implore. Let it be random and tentative: something I can blow of a morning, to relieve myself of Roger: don't, I implore, lay down a scheme; call in all the cosmic immensities; and force my tired and diffident brain to embrace another whole—all parts contributing—not yet awhile. But to amuse myself, let me note: Why not Poyntzet Hall:† a centre: all literature discussed in connection with real little incongruous living humour: and anything that comes into my head; but "I" rejected: "We" substituted: to whom at the end there shall be an invocation? "We"... the composed of many different things ... we all life, all art, all waifs and strays—a rambling capricious but somehow unified whole—the present state of my mind? And English country; and a scenic old house—and a terrace where nursemaids walk—and people passing—and a perpetual variety and change from intensity to prose, and facts—and notes; and—but eno'! I must read Roger: and go to Ott's memorial service, representing also T. S. Eliot at his absurd command. 2:30 at Martin's in the Fields.

  Ottoline's burial service. Oh dear, oh dear the lack of intensity; the wailing and mumbling; the fumbling with bags; the shuffling; the vast brown mass of respectable old South Kensington ladies. And then the hymns; and the clergyman with a bar of medals across his surplice; and the orange and blue windows; and a toy Union Jack sticking from a cranny. What all this had to do with Ottoline, or our feelings? Save that the address was to the point: a critical study, written presumably by Philip and delivered, very resonantly, by Mr. Speaight the actor: a sober, and secular speech, which made one at least think of a human being, though the reference to her beautiful voice caused one to think of that queer nasal moan: however that too was to the good in deflating immensities. P.'s secretary buttonholed me and told me to sit high up. The pew was blocked by a vast furred lady who said, "I'm afraid I can't move"—as indeed seemed the fact. So I stationed myself rather behind: near enough though to see the very well set up back of P. in his thick coat; and his red ram's head turned now and then looking along the ranks; also I pressed his hand, simulated, I fear, more emotion than I felt when he asked me, had I liked the address? and so slowly moved out on to the steps—past Jack and Mary, Sturge Moores, Molly etc.: Gertler having tears in his eyes; various household staffs: was then pounced on and pinioned by Lady Oxford: who was hard as whipcord; upright; a little vacant in the eye, in spite of make up which made it shine. She said she had expostulated with Ott. about the voice; Mere affectation. But a wonderful woman. Tell me, though, why did her friends quarrel with her? Pause. She was exigeante, Duncan volunteered at last. And so Margot refused to ask further; and modulated into stories of Symonds and Jowett, when I bantered her on her obituary. Mine, of Ott. for The Times, has not appeared, nor do I much regret....

  Walked in Dulwich yesterday and lost my brooch by way of a freshener when confronted with the final proofs just today (April 26th) done: and to be sent this afternoon: a book I shall never look at again. But I now feel entirely free. Why? Have committed myself, am afraid of nothing. Can do anything I like. No longer famous, no longer on a pedestal: no longer hawked in by societies: on my own, forever. That's my feeling: a sense of expansion, like putting on slippers. Why this should be so, why I feel myself enfranchised till death, and quit of all humbug, when I daresay it's not a good book and will excite nothing but mild sneers; and how very inconsequent and egotistical V. W. is—why, why I can't analyse: being fluttered this morning.

  The difficulty is that I get so absorbed in this fantastic Pointz Hall I can attend to Roger. So what am I to do? This however is only my first day of freedom: and I have been rendered self-conscious by a notice of Three Guineas on the front page of the new bloated T.L.S. Well it can't be helped; and I must cling to my "freedom"—that mysterious hand that was reached out to me about four years ago.

  Thursday, May 5th

  Pouring now; the drought broken; the worst spring on record; my pens diseased, even the new box; my eyes ache with Roger and I'm a little appalled at the prospect of the grind this book will be. I must somehow shorten and loosen; I can't (remember) stretch it to a long painstaking literal book: later I must generalise and let fly. But then, what about all the letters? How can one cut loose from facts, when there they are, contradicting my theories? A problem. But I'm convinced I can't, physically, strain after an R.A. portrait. What was I going to say with this defective nib?

  Tuesday, May 17th

  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.

  Friday, May 20th

  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 reliev
e 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.

  Friday, May 27th

  It's odd to be working at half cock after all those months of high pressure. The result is half an hour every day to write here. Roger I'm retyping: and shall then sketch Walpole. I have just been signing in bright green ink those circulars. But I will not expatiate on the dreariness of doing things one ought to do. A letter, grateful, from Bruce Richmond, ending my 30 years connection with him—the Lit Sup. How pleased I used to be when L. called me "You're wanted by the Major Journal!" and I ran down to the telephone to take my almost weekly orders at Hogarth House! I learnt a lot of my craft writing for him: how to compress; how to enliven; and also was made to read with a pen and notebook, seriously. I am now waiting for today week—when that's over, my swell will subside. And can't I prophesy? On the whole I shall get more pain than pleasure; I shall mind the sneers more than I shall enjoy Lady Rhondda's enthusiasm. There'll be many sneers—some very angry letters. Some silences. And then—three weeks yesterday—we shall be off. And by July 7 th when we come back—or sooner, for we dread too many hotels—it will be over, almost entirely; and then for two years I think I shall publish nothing, save American articles. And this week of waiting is the worst, and it's not very bad—nothing in the least comparable to the horror of The Years: (that deadened into indifference, so sure was I of failure).

  Tuesday, May 31st

  A letter from Pippa. She is enthusiastic. So this is the last load off my mind—which weighed it rather heavy, for I felt if I had written all that, if it was not to her liking I should have to brace myself pretty severely in my own private esteem. But she says it's the very thing for which they have panted: and the poison is now drawn. Now I can face the music, or donkeys bray or geeses cackle of the Reviews so indifferently that (truthfully) I find myself forgetting that they'll all be out this weekend. Never have I faced review day so composedly. Also I don't much mind my Cambridge friends either. Maynard may have a gibe; but what care I?

  RODMELL. Friday, June 3rd

  This is the coming out day of Three Guineas. And the Lit. Sup. has two columns and a leader; and the Referee a great black bar Woman declares sex war, or some such caption. And it makes so much less difference than any other cackle on coming out day that I've written quietly at Poyntz Hall: haven't even troubled to read R. Lynd, nor look at the Ref. nor read through The Times article. It's true I have a sense of quiet and relief. But no wish to read reviews, or hear opinions.

  I wonder why this is? Because it's a fact I want to communicate rather than a poem? I daresay something of the kind. Mercifully we have 50 miles of felt between ourselves and the din. It is sunny, warm, dry and like a June day but will rain later. Oh it pleased me that the Lit. Sup. says I'm the most brilliant pamphleteer in England. Also that this book may mark an epoch if taken seriously. Also that the Listener says I am scrupulously fair, and puritanically deny myself flights. But that's about all.

  Anyhow that's the end of six years floundering, striving, much agony, some ecstasy: lumping the Years and Three Guineas together as one book—as indeed they are. And now I can be off again, as indeed I long to be. Oh to be private, alone, submerged.

  Sunday, June 5th

  This is the mildest childbirth I have ever had. Compare it with The Years! I wake knowing the yap will begin and never bother my head. Yesterday I had Time and Tide, and various London obscurities: today Observer: Selincourt. A terrible indictment. Sunday Times, New Statesman and Spectator, reserved for next week presumably. So the temperature remains steady. I foretell a great many letters on Tuesday night: some anonymous and abusive. But I have already gained my point: I'm taken seriously, not dismissed as a charming prattler as I feared. The Times yesterday had a paragraph headed "Mrs. Woolf's call to women" a serious challenge that must be answered by all thinkers—or something like that: prefacing the Lit. Sup. advt: unknown before I think; and must be some serious intention behind it.

  BALDOCK. Thursday, June 16th

  Stop to light a pipe on the Icknield Way, a scrubby street of yellow villas. Now St. James Deeping. After Croyland, a magnificent moulded Church. Now very hot: flat; an old gent, fishing. Spread out and exposed. River above road level. On now to Gainsborough. Lunch at Peterborough: factory chimneys. Railway gate opened; off again. Gainsborough. A red Venetian palace rising among bungalows: in a square of unkempt grass. Long windows, leaning walls. A maze of little lanes. A strange forgotten town. Sunday at Housesteads. Thorn trees: sheep. The wall and white headed boys in front. Miles and miles of lavender campagna. One thread coloured frail road crossing the vast uncultivated lonely land. Today all cloud and blue and wind. The wall is a wave with a sharp crest, as of a wave drawn up to break. Then flat. Bogs under the crest. Waiting now for the rain to stop, for it blew and rained that day on the wall. Now a few miles from Corbridge waiting in the middle of the moor. Very black. Larks singing. Lunch deferred. A party of ninety lunching at the Inn at Piercebridge. A sense of local life eighteenth century inn diners to celebrate some sport. So on to a Manse in a garden: a very solid private house that takes in residents. Hot ham and fruit, but real cream, looking over an ugly range. The country early today was fen Wash country; Then the Pennines. These are shrouded in a heat mist. Larks singing. L. now looking for water for Sally * (but this should precede the wall). Sunday. Sitting by the road under the Roman wall while L. cleans sparking plugs. And I have been reading translations of Greek verse and thinking idly. When one reads the mind is like an aeroplane propeller invisibly quick and unconscious—a state seldom achieved. Not a bad Oxford introduction, trying to be in touch, up to date: scholarly but Oxford. Cows moving to the top of the hill by some simultaneous sympathy. One draws the others. Wind rocks the car. Too windy to climb up and look at the lake. Reason why the hills are still Roman—the landscape immortal ... what they saw I see. The wind, the June wind, the water, and snow. Sheep bedded in the long turf like pearls. No shade, no shelter. Romans looking over the border. Now nothing comes.

  Tuesday. Now in Midlothian. Stopping for petrol. On the way to Stirling. Scotch mist driven across the trees. Normal Scots weather. Great hills. Ugly puritanical houses. The Hydro built 90 years ago. A woman called and said she had seen Mrs. Woolf walking in Melrose on Saturday. Second sight as I was not there. Galashiels a manufacturing town. Hideous. Fragments of talk overheard at the Hydro Melrose. Soft voiced old Scotch ladies sitting in their accredited places by the fire under the window. "I was wondering why you walked about with an umbrella." One who is stitching, "I wonder if I should wash it and begin again. I'm working on a dirty ground." Here I interpose: We stopped at Dryburgh to see Scott grave. It is under the broken palanquin of a ruined chapel. Just enough roof to cover it. And there he lies—Sir Walter Scott, Baronet. In a caddy made of chocolate blancmange with these words cut large and plain on the lid. As Dame Charlotte who is buried beside him is covered with the same choco
late slab it must have been his taste. And there's something fitting in it. For the Abbey is impressive and the river running at the bottom of the field. And all the old Scots ruins standing round him. I picked a white syringa in memory but lost it. An airy place but Scott is much pressed together. The col. by his side and Lockhart his son in law at his feet. Then there's Haig's stuck about with dark red poppies. But the old ladies are discussing Dr. John Brown whose brother was a doctor in Melrose. Soon one's head would ache and one's senses fuddle. One would eat too many cakes at tea and there's a huge dinner at 7. "I think he's very nice—her husband. She's got a personality of her own. A very nice cir-r-cle. Where do they live? Retired to Perthshire.... I'm three stitches out ... Miss Peace came along to the reading room with her friend and wanted a fire. Couldn't she have rung the bell or something? Out you cornel (unpicking the knitting). There so much opened up now. Two years ago was the Centenary (of Dryburgh?). I went to the meeting. There was a service—most interesting. All the Ministers. Five on the platform. Possibly the Moderator. At any rate it was very nice and it was a beautiful day and the place was very full. The birds joined in the music. Alan Haig's birthday. There was a service at Dryburgh. I like D. I've not been to Jedburgh—awfully pretty." No, I don't think I can write it all out. The old creatures are sitting on a sofa not much older than I am I daresay. Yes, they're about 65. "Edinburgh's nice—I like it. We have to go away before we appreciate it. You have to go away from your birthplace. Then when you go back everything changed. A year does it—two years do it. I should leave it (of the work) and see the effect afterwards. What church d'you go to? Church of Scotland—not to St. Giles. It used to be the Tron. We go to St. Giles. It was St. George's parish—my husband was an elder in St. George's parish Charlotte Square. D'you like Waugh? I like him in a way I don't hear him, and it's a common complaint. He gives very hard sermons—you can't take anything away. The choir's beautiful. I can't get a sitting from which you can hear. I feel it infra dig rushing with the crowd. The crowd hasn't reached—I've just got to sit still—I'm having a service—I hear the prayers, the young men the music. It was pretty well where they come in from the Thistle chapel. They passed me bang. I rose and moved along. There are some seats the people never come to, and often the best seats. I like St. Giles, a lovely old place. The old lady whose seat I had told me the church was all renovated. Chambers did it, and when it came to the opening not a seat retained for the Chambers family. Badly arranged. Someone provided seats for them. A stupid thing. Always some higher church alteration. I like the episcopal. If it be episcopal let it be: if Church of Scotland, let it be Church of Scotland. Dr. Waugh's brother is at Dundee. He would like Roseneath. Someone said that the minister at Roseneath is delicate."