Wind rages: trees leafless: bannocks and a blue pound note the only changes. Glencoe. Menaching. Leaf green hills, islands floating. A moving string of cars; no inhabitants, only tourists ... Ben Nevis with stripes of snow. The sea. Little boats: feeling of Greece and Cornwall. Yellow flags and great foxgloves: no farms, villages or cottages: a dead land over-run with insects. An old man who could not get up from his chair. Two other ladies, her legs overflowing her shoes. All dress for dinner, and sit in the drawing room. This was the good inn at Crianlarich. Lake with hanging stalactites green trees in the middle. Bowl of the hills. Hills with velvet leaf green. The Bannington of Eaton Place. She had found winter green for her father-in-law, a botanist. Sky light at 11. Bad review of Three Guineas by G. M. Young. Pain lasted ten minutes: over then. Loch Ness swallowed Mrs. Hambro. She was wearing pearls.
And then, sick of copying, I tore the rest of it up—a lesson, next journey, not to make endless pencil notes that need copying. Some too I regret. Some Boswell experiments in inns. Also the woman whose grandmother worked for the Wordsworths and remembered him as an old man in a cloak with a red lining muttering poetry. Sometimes he would pat the children on the head but never spoke to them. On the other hand, H. Coleridge was always drinking at the pub with the men.
Thursday, July 7th
Oh the appalling grind of getting back to Roger, after these violent oscillations, Three Guineas and P.H. How can I concentrate upon minute facts in letters? This morning I have forced myself back to Failand in 1888. But Jumbo * last night threw cold water on the whole idea of biography of those who have no lives. Roger had, she says, no life that can be written. I daresay this is true. And here am I sweating over minute facts. It's all too minute and tied down—documented. Is it to be done on this scale? Is he interesting to other people in that light? I think I will go on doggedly till I meet him myself—1909—and then attempt something more fictitious. But must plod on through all these letters till then. I think contrast the two all the time. My view: his—and other people's. And then his books.
Saturday, August 7th
Rather enjoy doing P.H. That's something, for it won't please anyone, if anyone should ever read it. Ann Watkins, by the way, says the Atlantic readers haven't read enough of Walpole to understand my article. Refused.
Wednesday, August 17th
No I won't go on doing Roger—abstracting with blood and sweat from the old Articles—right up to lunch. I will steal 25 minutes. In fact I've been getting absorbed in Roger. Didn't I say I wouldn't? Didn't L. say there's no hurry? Except that I'm 56; and think that Gibbon then allowed himself 12 years, and died instantly. Still why always chafe and urge and strain at the leash? What I want is a season of calm weather. Contemplation. I get this sometimes about 3 A.M. when I always wake, open my window and look at the sky over the apple trees. A tearing wind last night. Every sort of scenic effect—a prodigious toppling and clearing and massing, after the sunset that was so amazing L. made me come and look out of the bathroom window—a flurry of red clouds; hard; a water colour mass of purple and black, soft as a water ice; then hard slices of intense green stone; blue stone and a ripple of crimson light. No: that won't convey it: and then there were the trees in the garden; and the reflected light: our hot pokers burning on the edge of the steep. So, at supper, we discussed our generation: and the prospects of war. Hitler has his million men now under arms. Is it only summer manoeuvres or—? Harold broadcasting in his man of the world manner hints it may be war. That is the complete ruin not only of civilisation in Europe, but of our last lap. Quentin conscripted etc. One ceases to think about it—that's all. Goes on discussing the new room, new chair, new books. What else can a gnat on a blade of grass do? And I would like to write P.H.: and other things.
Sunday, August 28th
The character of this summer is extreme drought. Brooks dry. Not a mushroom yet. Sunday is the devil's own day at M.H.: dogs, children, bells ... there they go for evensong. I can't settle anywhere. Beaten after three hard fights at bowls. Bowls is our mania. Reading rather scamped. I'm strung into a ball with Roger: got him, very stiffly, to the verge of America. I shall take a dive into fiction: then compose the chapter that leads to the change. But is it readable—and Lord to think of the further compressing and leavening. Ding dong bell ... ding dong—why did we settle in a village? And how deliberately we are digging ourselves in! And at any moment the guns may go off and explode us. L. is very black. Hitler has his hounds only very lightly held. A single step—in Czechoslovakia—like the Austrian Archduke in 1914—and again it's 1914. Ding dong ding dong. People all strolling up and down the fields. A grey close evening.
Thursday, September 1st
A very fine clear September day. Sybil threatens to dine, but may put us off—should a Cabinet Minister crop up. Politics marking time. A violent attack on Three Guineas in Scrutiny by Q. Leavis. I don't think it gave me an entire single thrill of horror. And I didn't read it through. A symbol though of what wiggings are to come. But I read enough to see that it was all personal—about Queenie's own grievances and retorts to my snubs. Why I don't care more for praise or wigging I don't know. Yet it's true. A slight distaste for my biography of Roger this morning: too detailed and flat. But I must take it up tomorrow, and lay aside P.H. I fear. Quentin over to finish his table. We have settled to keep the roof Cornish cream colour. I found a new walk down Telscombe Valley to the river yesterday.
Oh Queenie was at once cancelled by a letter from Jane Walker—a thousand thanks... Three Guineas ought to be in the hands of every English speaking man and woman etc.
Monday, September 5th
It's odd to be sitting here, looking up little facts about Roger and the M.M. in New York, with a sparrow tapping on my roof this fine September morning when it may be 3rd August 1914 ... What would war mean? Darkness, strain: I suppose conceivably death. And all the horror of friends: and Quentin: ...All that lies over the water in the brain of that ridiculous little man. Why ridiculous? Because none of it fits: encloses no reality. Death and war and darkness representing nothing that any human being from the pork butcher to the Prime Minister cares one straw about. Not liberty, not life. Merely a housemaid's dream, and we woke from that dream and had the Cenotaph to remind us of the fruits. Well, I can't spread my mind wide enough to take it in, intelligibly. If it were real, one could make something of it. But as it is it merely grumbles, in an inarticulate way, behind reality. We may hear his mad voice vociferating tonight. Nuremberg rally begun: but it goes on for another week. And what will be happening this time 10 days? Suppose we skim across, still at any moment any accident may suddenly bring out the uproar. But this time everyone's agog. That's the difference. And as we're all equally in the dark we can't cluster and group: we are beginning to feel the herd impulse: everyone asks everyone Any news? What d'you think? The only answer is Wait and see.
Old Mr. Thompsett meanwhile after driving horses to the brooks and about the fields for 74 years had died in the hospital. And L. is to read his will on Wednesday.
Saturday, September 10th
I don't feel that the crisis is real—not so real as Roger in 1910 at Gordon Square, about which I've just been writing; and now switch off with some difficulty to use the last 20 minutes that are over before lunch. Of course we may be at war this time next week. The papers each in turn warn Hitler in the same set, grim but composed words, dictated by the Government presumably, that if he forces us we shall fight. They are all equally calm and good tempered. Nothing is to be said to provoke. Every allowance is to be made. In fact we are simply marking time as calmly as possible until Monday or Tuesday, when the oracle will speak. And we mean him to know what we think. The only doubt is whether what we say reaches his own much cumbered long ears. (I'm thinking of Roger not of Hitler—how I bless Roger and wish I could tell him so, for giving me himself to think of—what a help he remains in this welter of unreality.) All these grim men appear to me like grown ups staring incredulously at a child's sand
castle which for some inexplicable reason has become a real vast castle, needing gunpowder and dynamite to destroy it. Nobody in their senses can believe in it. Yet nobody must tell the truth. So one forgets. Meanwhile the aeroplanes are on the prowl, crossing the downs. Every preparation is made. Sirens will hoot in a particular way when there's the first hint of a raid. L. and I no longer talk about it. Much better to play bowls and pick dahlias. They're blazing in the sitting room, orange against the black last night. Our balcony is now up.
Tuesday, September 20th
Since I'm too stale to work—rather headachy—I may as well write a sketch roughly of the next chapter.* (I've been rather absorbed in P.H., hence headache. Note: fiction is far more a strain than biography—that's the excitement.)
Suppose I make a break after H.'s† death (madness). A separate paragraph quoting what R. himself said. Then a break. Then begin definitely with the first meeting. That is the first impression: a man of the world, not professor or Bohemian. Then give facts in his letters to his mother. Then back to the second meeting. Pictures: talk about art: I look out of window. His persuasiveness—a certain density—wished to persuade you to like what he liked. Eagerness, absorption, stir—a kind of vibration like a hawkmoth round him. Or shall I make a scene here—at Ott.'s? Then Cple‡ Driving out: getting things in: his deftness in combining. Then quote the letters to R.
The first 1910 show.
The ridicule. Quote W. Blunt.
Effect on R. Another close-up.
The letter to MacColl. His own personal liberation.
Excitement. Found his method (but this wasn't lasting. His letters to V. show that he was swayed too much by her.)
Love. How to say that he never was in love?
Give the pre-war atmosphere. Ott. Duncan. France.
Letter to Bridges about beauty and sensuality. His exactingness. Logic.
Thursday, September 22nd
By mistake I wrote some pages of Roger here; a proof, if proof is needed, as I'm in the habit of saying, that my books are in a muddle. Yes, at this moment, there are packets of letters to V. B. 1910-1916—packets of testimonials for the Oxford Slade—endless folders, each containing different letters, press cuttings and extracts from books. In between come my own, now numerous, semiofficial Three Guineas letters (now sold 7,017...) No sober silent weeks of work alone all day as we'd planned, when the Bells went. I suppose one enjoys it. Yet I was just getting into the old, very old, rhythm of regular reading, first this book then that: Roger all the morning; walk from 2 to 4; bowls 5 to 6:30; then Madame de'Sévigné; get dinner 7:30; read Roger; listen to music; bind Eddie's Candide; read Siegfried Sassoon; and so bed at 11:30 or so. A very good rhythm; but I can only manage it for a few days it seems. Next week all broken.
Thursday, October 6th
Another 10 minutes. I'm taking a frisk at P.H. at which I can only write for one hour. Like the Waves. I enjoy it intensely: head screwed up over Roger. A violent storm two days ago. No walking. Apples down. Electric light cut off. We used the four 6d. candlesticks bought at Woolworths. Dinner cooked, and smoked, on dining room fire. Men now staining boards. The room will be done actually this week. Politics now a mere "I told you so ... You did. I didn't." I shall cease to read the papers. Sink at last into contemplation. Peace for our lifetime: why not try to believe it? Can't make a push and go to'S. Remy. Want to: don't want to. Long for change: love reading'Sévigné even by candlelight. Long for London and lights; long for vintage; long for complete solitude. All this discussed with L. walking to Piddinghoe yesterday.
Friday, October 14th
Two things I mean to do when the long dark evenings come: to write, on the spur of the moment, as now, lots of little poems to go into P.H.: as they may come in handy: to collect, even bind together, my innumerable T.L.S. notes: to consider them as material for some kind of critical book: quotations? comments? ranging all through English literature as I've read it and noted it during the past 20 years.
Tuesday, November 1st
Max * like a Cheshire cat. Orbicular. Jowled. Blue eyed. Eyes grow vague. Something like Bruce Richmond—all curves. What he said was, I've never been in a group. No, not even as a young man. It was a serious fault. When you're a young man you ought to think There's only one right way. And I thought This is very profound, but you mayn't realise it. "It takes all sorts to make a world." I was outside all the groups. Now dear Roger Fry who liked me, was a born leader. No one so "illuminated." He looked it. Never saw anyone look it so much. I heard him lecture, on the Aesthetics of Art. I was disappointed. He kept on turning the page—turning the page ... Hampstead hasn't yet been spoilt. I stayed at Jack Straw's Castle some years ago. My wife had been having influenza. And the barmaid, looking over her shoulder, said—my wife had had influenza twice—"Quite a greedy one aren't you?" Now that's immortal. There's all the race of barmaids in that. I suppose I've been ten times into public houses. George Moore never used his eyes. He never knew what men and women think. He got it all out of books. Ah I was afraid you would remind me of Ave atque Vale. Yes; that's beautiful. Yes, it's true he used his eyes then. Otherwise it's like a lovely lake, with no fish in it. The Brook Kerith ... Coulson Kernahan? (I told how C. K. stopped me in Hastings. Are you Edith Sitwell? No, Mrs. W. And you? Coulson Kernahan.) At this Max gobbled. Instantly said he had known him in Yellow Book days. He wrote God and the Ant. Sold 12 million copies. And a book of reminiscences. How I visited Lord Roberts ... The great man rose from his chair. His eyes—were they hazel? were they blue? were they brown—no they were just soldier's eyes. And he wrote, Celebrities I have not met, Max Beerbohm.
About his own writing: dear Lytton Strachey said to me: first I write one sentence: then I write another. That's how I write. And so I go on. But I have a feeling writing ought to be like running through a field. That's your way. Now how do you go down to your room, after breakfast—what do you feel? I used to look at the clock and say oh dear me, it's time I began my article ... No, I'll read the paper first. I never wanted to write. But I used to come home from a dinner party and take my brush and draw caricature after caricature. They seemed to bubble up from here ... he pressed his stomach. That was a kind of inspiration, I suppose. What you said in your beautiful essay about me and Charles Lamb was quite true. He was crazy: he had the gift: genius. I'm too like Jack Horner. I pull out my plum. It's too rounded, too perfect ... I have a public of about 1500. Oh I'm famous, largely thanks to you, and people of importance at the top like you. I often read over my own work. And I have a habit of reading it through the eyes of people I respect. I often read it as Virginia Woolf would read it—picking out the kind of things you would like. You never do that? Oh you should try it.
Isherwood and I met on the doorstep. He is a slip of a wild boy: with quicksilver eyes: nipped: jockeylike. That young man, said W. Maugham, "holds the future of the English novel in his hands." Very enthusiastic. In spite of Max's brilliance, and idiosyncrasy, which he completely realises, and does not overstep, this was a surface evening; as I proved, because I found I could not smoke the cigar which I had brought. That was on the deeper level. All kept to the same surface level by Sybil's hostesscraft. Stories, compliments. The house: its shell like whites and silvers and greens: its panelling: its old furniture.
Wednesday, November 16th
There are very few mountain summit moments. I mean looking out at peace from a height. I made this reflection going upstairs. That is symbolical. I'm "going upstairs" now, when I write Biography. Shall I have a moment on top? Or when I've done Roger? Or tonight, in bed, between 2 and 3? They come spasmodically. Often when I was so miserable about The Years.
Viola Tree died last night, of pleurisy: two years younger than I am.
I remember the quality of her skin: like an apricot; a few amber coloured hairs. Eyes blistered with paint underneath. A huge Goddess woman, who was also an old drudge; a big boned striding figure; much got up, of late. Last time I saw her at the Gargoyle Cocktail; when s
he was in her abundant expansive mood. I never reached any other; yet always liked her. Met her perhaps once a year, about her books. She dined here the night her Castles in Spain came out. And I went to tea in Woburn Square, and the butter was wrapped in a newspaper. And there was an Italian double bed in the drawing room. She was instinctive; and had the charm of good actress manners; and their Bohemianism and sentimentality. But I think was a sterling spontaneous mother and daughter; not ambitious; a great hand at life; I suppose harassed for money; and extravagant; and very bold; and courageous—a maker of picturesque surroundings. So strong and large that she should have lived to be 80; yet no doubt undermined that castle, with late hours: I don't know. She could transmit something into words. Her daughter Virginia to be married this week. And think of Viola lying dead. How out of place—unnecessary.