13 July 1931 – 19 July 1931

It is now twelve o’clock on the morning of July 14th—and Bob* has come in to ask me to sign a paper to get Palmer a pension. Bob says . . . mostly about his new house, washing basins, can he use a candle still to go to bed with; Bessy is moving in today; he is off to Italy for a month; will I send a copy of my new book to Count Moira, all Italians are Counts, once he showed four Counts round Cambridge; Palmer . . . . . . and so on: shuffling from foot to foot, taking his hat off and putting it on again, moving to the door and returning. I had meant to say that I have just finished correcting the Hampton Court scene. (This is the final correction, please God!) But my Waves account runs, I think, as follows:— I began it, seriously, about September 10th 1929. I finished the first version on April 10th 1930. I began the second version on May 1st 1930. I finished the second version on February 7th 1931. I began to correct the second version on May 1st 1931, finished 22nd June 1931. I began to correct the typescript on 25th June 1931. Shall finish (I hope) 18th July 1931. Then remain only the proofs.

Yes, this morning I think I may say I have finished. That is to say I have once more, for the 18th time, copied out the opening sentences. L. will read it tomorrow; and I shall open this book to record his verdict. My own opinion—oh dear—it’s a difficult book. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so strained. And I’m nervous, I confess, about L. For one thing he will be honest, more than usually. And it may be a failure. And I can’t do any more. And I’m inclined to think it good but incoherent, inspissate; one jerk succeeding another. Anyhow it is laboured, compact. Anyhow I had a shot at my vision—if it’s not a catch, it’s a cast in the right direction. But I’m nervous. It may be small and finicky in general effect. Lord knows. As I say, repeating it to enforce the rather unpleasant little lift in my heart, I shall be nervous to hear what L. says when he comes out, say tomorrow night or Sunday morning, to my garden room, carrying the MS. and sits himself down and begins “Well!” Which I then lost.

“It is a masterpiece,” said L., coming out to my lodge this morning. “And the best of your books.” This note I make; adding that he also thinks the first 100 pages extremely difficult and is doubtful how far any common reader will follow. But Lord I what a relief! I stumped off in the rain to make a little round to Rat Farm in jubilation and am almost resigned to the fact that a goat farm, with a house to be built, is now in process on the slope near Northease.