A Writer's Diary (46 page)

Friday, September 13th

A strong feeling of invasion in the air. Roads crowded with army wagons, soldiers. Just back from hard day in London. Raid, unheard by us, started outside Wimbledon. A sudden stagnation. People vanished. Yet some cars went on. We decided to visit lavatory on the hill: shut. So L. made use of tree. Pouring. Guns in the distance. Saw a pink brick shelter. That was the only interest of our journey—our talk with the man, woman and child who were living there. They had been bombed at Clapham. Their house unsafe; so they hiked to Wimbledon. Preferred this unfinished gun emplacement to a refugee overcrowded house. They had a roadman's lamp; a saucepan and could boil tea. The nightwatchman wouldn't accept their tea; had his own; someone gave them a bath. In one of the Wimbledon houses there was only a caretaker. Of course they couldn't house us. But she was very nice—gave them a sit down. We all talked. Middleclass smartish lady on her way to Epsom regretted she couldn't have the child. But we wouldn't part with her, they said—the man a voluble emotional Kelt, the woman placid Saxon. As long as she's all right we don't mind. They sleep on some shavings. Bombs had dropped on the Common. He a housepainter. Very friendly and hospitable. They liked having people in to talk. What will they do? The man thought Hitler would soon be over. The lady in the cocks hat said Never. Twice we left: more guns: came back. At last started, keeping an eye on shelters and people's behaviour. Reached Russell Hotel. No
John. Loud gunfire. We sheltered. Started for Mecklenburgh Square; met John, who said the Square still closed; so lunched in the hotel: decided the Press emergency—to employ Garden City Press—in 20 minutes. Raid still on. Walked to Mecklenburgh Square.

He laid rather a thin rug on the step for me to sit on. An officer looked in. "Making ready for the invasion," said the man, as if it were going off in about ten minutes.

Saturday, September 14th

A sense of invasion—that is lorries of soldiers and machines—like cranes—walloping along to Newhaven. An air raid is on. A little pop rattle which I take to be machine gun, just gone off. Planes roaring and roaring. Percy and L. say some are English. Mabel comes out and looks: asks if we want fish fried or boiled.

The great advantage of this page is that it gives me a fidget ground. Fidgets: caused by losing at bawls and invasion: caused by another howling banshee, by having no book I must read: and so on. I am reading'S^vigni: how recuperative last week; gone stale a little with that mannered and sterile Burney now: even through the centuries his acid dandified somehow supercilious well what?—can't find the word—this manner of his, this character penetrates; and moreover reminds me of someone I dislike. Is it Logan? There's a ceremony in him that reminds me of Tom. There's a parched artificial cruelty and—oh the word! the word! Am I oversensitive to character in writing? I think we moderns lack love. Our torture makes us writhe. But I can't go into that—a phrase that brings in Old Rose, to whom I mean to write. One always thinks there's a landing place coming. But there aint. A stage, a branch, an end. I dislike writing letters of thanks about
Roger.
I've said it so many times. I think I will begin my new book by reading Ifor Evans, 6d. Penguin.

I suggest supercilious.

Monday, September 16th

Well, we're alone in our ship. A very wet stormy day. Mabel
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stumped off, with her bunions, carrying her bags at 10. Thank you for all your kindness; she said the same to us both. Also
would I give her a reference? "I hope we shall meet again," I said. She said "Oh no doubt" thinking I referred to death. So that 5 years' uneasy mute but very passive and calm relation is over: a heavy unsunned pear dropped from a twig. And we're freer, alone. No responsibility: for her. The house solution is to have no residents. But I'm stupid; have been dallying with Mr. Williamson's confessions appalled by his egocentricity. Are all writers as magnified in their own eyes? He can't move an inch from the glare of his own personality—his fame. And I've never read one of those immortal works. To Charleston this afternoon, after provisioning for our siege in Lewes. Last night we saw tinsel sparks here and there in the sky over the flat. L. thought they were shells bursting from the London barrage. Great air traffic all night. Some loud explosions. I listened for church bells, thinking largely, I admit, of finding ourselves prisoned here with Mabel. She thought the same. Said that if one is to be killed one will be killed. Prefers death in a Holloway shelter playing cards—naturally—to death here.

Tuesday, September 17th

No invasion. High wind. Yesterday in the Public Library I took down a book of X.'s criticism. This turned me against writing my book. London Library atmosphere effused. Turned me against all literary criticism: these so clever, so airless, so fleshless ingenuities and attempts to prove—that T. S. Eliot for example is a worse critic than X. Is all literary criticism that kind of exhausted air?—book dust, London Library, air. Or is it only that X. is a second hand, frozen fingered, university specialist, don trying to be creative, don all stuffed with books, writer? Would one say the same of the
Common Reader?
I dipped for five minutes and put the book back depressed. The man asked "What do you want, Mrs. Woolf?" I said a history of English literature. But was so sickened I couldn't look. There were so many. Nor could I remember the name of Stopford Brooke.

I continue, after winning two games of bowls. Our island is a desert island. No letters from Meek. No coffee. Papers between 3 and 4. Can't get on to Meek, when we ring up. Some letters
take 5 days coming. Trains uncertain. One must get out at Croydon. Angelica goes to Hilton via Oxford. So we, L. and I, are almost cut off. We found a young soldier in the garden last night, coming back. "Can I speak to Mr. Woolf?" I thought it meant billeting for certain. No. Could we lend a typewriter? Officer on hill had gone and taken his. So we produced my portable. Then he said: "Pardon sir. Do you play chess?" He plays chess with passion. So we asked him to tea on Saturday to play. He is with the anti-aircraft searchlight on the hill. Finds it dull. Can't get a bath. A straight good natured young man. Professional soldier? I think the son, say of an estate agent, or small shopkeeper. Not public school. Not lower class. But I shall investigate. "Sorry to break into your private life" he said. Also that on Saturday he went to the pictures in Lewes.

Wednesday, September 18th

"We have need of all our courage" are the words that come to the surface this morning: on hearing that all our windows are broken, ceilings down, and most of our china smashed at Mecklenburgh Square. The bomb exploded. Why did we ever leave Tavistock? What's the good of thinking that? We were about to start for London, when we got on to Miss Perkins who told us. The Press—what remains—is to be moved to Letchworth. A grim morning. How can one settle into Michelet and Coleridge? As I say, we have need of courage. A very bad raid last night on London—waiting for the wireless. But I did forge ahead with
P.H.
all the same.

Thursday, September 19th

Less need of courage today. I suppose the impression of Miss P.'s voice describing the damage wears off.

Wednesday, September 25th

All day—Monday—in London; in the flat; dark; carpets nailed to windows; ceilings down in patches; heaps of grey dust and china under kitchen table; back rooms untouched. A lovely September day—tender—three days of tender weather—John
came. We are moved to Letchworth. The Garden City was moving us that day.
Roger
surprisingly sells. The bomb in Brunswick Square exploded. I was in the baker's. Comforted the agitated worn women.

Sunday, September 29th

A bomb dropped so close I cursed L. for slamming the window. I was writing to Hugh, and the pen jumped from my finger. Raid still on. It's like a sheep dog, chasing a fox out of the fold. You see them yapping and biting and then the marauder, dropping a bone, a bomb towards Newhaven, flies. All clear. Bowls. Villagers at their doors. Cold. All now become familiar. I was thinking (among other things) that this is a lazy life. Breakfast in bed. Read in bed. Bath. Order dinner. Out to Lodge. After rearranging my room (turning table to get the sun: church on right; window left: a new very lovely view) tune up, with cigarette: write till 12: stop: visit L.: look at papers; return; type till 1. Listen in: Lunch. Sore jaw: can't bite. Read papers. Walk to Southease. Back 3. Gather and arrange apples. Tea. Write a letter. Bowls. Type again. Read Michelet or write here. Cook dinner. Music. Embroidery. 9:30 read (or sleep) till 11:30. Bed. Compare with the old London day. Three afternoons someone coming. One night, dinner party. Saturday a walk. Thursday shopping. Tuesday going to tea with Nessa. One City walk. Telephone ringing. L. to meetings. K. M. or Robson bothering. That was an average week: with Friday to Monday here. I think, now we're marooned, I ought to cram in a little more reading. Yet why? A happy, a very free, and disengaged—a life that rings from one simple melody to another. Yes: why not enjoy this after all those years of the other? Yet I compare with Miss Perkins day.

Wednesday, October 2nd

Ought I not to look at the sunset rather than write this? A flush of red in the blue; the haystack on the marsh catches the glow; behind me, the apples are red in the trees. L. is gathering them. Now a plume of smoke goes from the train under Caburn.
And all the air a solemn stillness holds. Till 8:30 when the cadaverous twanging in the sky begins; the planes going to London. Well it's an hour still to that. Cows feeding. The elm tree sprinkling its little leaves against the sky. Our pear tree swagged with pears; and the weathercock above the triangular church tower above it. Why try again to make the familiar catalogue, from which something escapes. Should I think of death? Last night a great heavy plunge of bomb under the window. So near we both started. A plane had passed dropping this fruit. We went on to the terrace. Trinkets of stars sprinkled and glittering. All quiet. The bombs dropped on Itford Hill. There are two by the river, marked with white wooden crosses, still unburst. I said to L.: I don't want to die yet. The chances are against it. But they're aiming at the railway and the power works. They get closer every time. Caburn was crowned with what looked like a settled moth, wings extended—a Messei-schmitt it was, shot down on Sunday. I had a nice gallop this morning with Coleridge—Sara. I'm to make £20 with two articles. Books still held up. And Spiras free, and Margot
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writes to say "I did it" and adds "a long letter all about yourself and what you believe." What do I? Can't at the moment remember. Oh I try to imagine how one's killed by a bomb. I've got it fairly vivid—the sensation: but; can't see anything but suffocating nonentity following after. I shall think—oh I wanted another 10 years—not this—and shan't, for once, be able to describe it. It—I mean death; no, the scrunching and scrambling, the crushing of my bone shade in on my very active eye and brain: the process of putting out the light—painful? Yes. Terrifying. I suppose so. Then a swoon; a drain; two or three gulps attempting consciousness—and then dot dot dot.

Sunday, October 6th

I snatch this page with Anreps and Ruth Beresford imminent to say—what? Will it ever seem strange that L. and I walking on the marsh first look at a bomb crater: then listen
to the German drone above: then I take two paces nearer L., prudently deciding that two birds had better be killed with one stone? They got Lewes at last yesterday.

Saturday, October 12th

I would like to pack my day rather fuller: most reading must be munching. If it were not treasonable to say so, a day like this is almost too—I won't say happy: but amenable. The tune varies, from one nice melody to another. All is played (today) in such a theatre. Hills and fields; I can't stop looking; October blooms; brown plough; and the fading and freshening of the marsh. Now the mist comes up. And one thing's "pleasant" after another: breakfast, writing, walking, tea, bowls, reading, sweets, bed. A letter from Rose about her day. I let it almost break mine. Mine recovers. The globe rounds again. Behind it—oh yes. But I was thinking I must intensify. Partly Rose. Partly I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity. In London, now, or two years ago, I'd be owling through the streets. More pack and thrill than here. So I must supply that—how? I think book inventing. And there's always the chance of a rough wave: no, I won't once more turn my magnifying glass on that. Scraps of memoirs come so coolingly to my mind. Wound up by those three little articles (one sent today) I unwound a page about Thoby. Fish forgotten. I must invent a dinner. But it's all so heavenly free and easy—L. and I alone. I've my rug on hand too. Another pleasure. And all the clothes drudgery, Sybil drudgery, society drudgery obliterated. But I want to look back on these war years as years of positive something or other. L. gathering apples. Sally barks. I imagine a village invasion. Queer the contraction of life to the village radius. Wood bought enough to stock many winters. All our friends are isolated over winter fires. Chance of interruption small now. No cars. No petrol. Trains uncertain. And we on our lovely free autumn island. But I will read Dante, and for my trip through English literature book. I was glad to see the
C.R.
all spotted with readers at the Free Library to which I think of belonging.

Thursday, October 17th

Our private luck has turned. John says Tavistock Square is no more.
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If that's so, I need no longer wake in the night thinking the Wolves luck has taken a downward turn. For the first time they were rash and foolish. Second, an urgent request from Harpers Bazaar for an article or story. So that tree, far from being barren, as I thought, is fruit bearing. And I've spent I don't know how much brain nerve earning 30 gns. with three little articles. But I say, the effort has its reward; for I'm worth, owing to that insect like conscience and diligence, £120 to the U.S.A. A perfect day—a red admiral feasting on an apple day. A red rotten apple lying on the grass; butterfly on it, beyond a soft blue warm coloured down and field. Everything dropping through soft air to rest on the earth. The light is now fading. Soon the siren: then the twang of plucked strings ... But it's almost forgettable still; the nightly operation on the tortured London. Mabel wants to leave it. L. sawing wood. The funny little cross on the church shows against the downs. We go up tomorrow. A mist is rising; a long fleece of white on the marshes. I must black out. I had so much to say. I am filling my mind slowly with Elizabethans: that is to say letting my mind feed like the Red Admiral—the siren, just as I had drawn the curtains. Now the unpleasant part begins. Who'll be killed tonight? Not us, I suppose. One doesn't think of that—save as a quickener. Indeed I often think our Indian summer was deserved: after all those London years. I mean, this quickens it. Every day seen against a very faint shade of bodily risk. And I returned to
P.H.
today; and am to transfer my habitual note taking I think—what I do on odd days—to random reading. The idea is, accumulate notes. Oh and I've mastered the iron curtain for my brain. Down I shut when I'm tied tight. No reading, no writing. No claims, no "must" I walk—yesterday in the rain over the Piddinghoe down—a new line.