27 June 1932 – 3 July 1932

Just “finished de Quincey.” Thus am I trying to keep pace with the days and deliver the second C.R. done on the last of June, which I see with dismay is Thursday. I spent last summer thus toiling over The Waves. This is less severe by a long chalk (what’s the origin of that? cricket pitch? Billiards?). Anyhow it blazes; swoons; the heat. Royal, imperial, are the words I fumble with in the Square. So hot yesterday—so hot, when Prince Mirsky came with his fluent Russian lady: I mean she was full of temperament; had the free gestures of the Slav: but Mirsky was trap mouthed: opened and bit his remark to pieces: has yellow misplaced teeth: wrinkles his forehead; despair, suffering, very marked on his face. Has been in England, in boarding houses, for 12 years; now returns to Russia “forever.” I thought as I watched his eye brighten and fade—soon there’ll be a bullet through your head. That’s one of the results of war: this trapped cabin’d man. But that didn’t lubricate our tea.

Whenever I suck my pen, my lip is covered with ink. And I have no ink with which to fill my pot; and it is 10 minutes past 12; and I have just finished Hardy; and I promise myself that the C.R. will be finally done by Wednesday next. And today is Sunday. Last night at 10 the Zeppelin came past with a string of light hanging from its navel. This consoled me for not having gone to the last night of the ballet. Now I have cleaned my table, which John inherits while I’m away. And I should now attack Ch. Rossetti. But Lord, how tired one gets of one’s own writing. Today is Wednesday and the C.R. I confess is not yet quite done. But then— well I had to re-write the last article, which I had thought so good, entirely. Not for many years shall I collect another bunch of articles.