15 February 1937 – 21 February 1937

I turn my eyes away from the Press as I go upstairs, because there are all the review copies of The Years packed and packing. They go out next week: this is my last weekend of comparative peace. What do I anticipate with such clammy coldness? I think chiefly that my friends won’t mention it; will turn the conversation rather awkwardly. I think I anticipate considerable lukewarmness among the friendly reviewers—respectful tepidity; and a whoop of Red Indian delight from the Grigs who will joyfully and loudly announce that this is the longdrawn twaddle of a prim prudish bourgeois mind, and say that now no one can take Mrs. W. seriously again. But violence I shan’t so much mind. What I think I shall mind most is the awkwardness when I go, say to Tilton or Charleston, and they don’t know what to say. And since we shan’t get away till June I must expect a very full exposure to this damp firework atmosphere. They will say it’s a tired book; a last effort . . . Well, now that I’ve written that down I feel that even so I can exist in that shadow. That is if I keep hard at work. And there’s no lack of that. I discussed a book of illustrated incidents with Nessa yesterday; we are going to produce 12 lithographs for Christmas, printed by ourselves. As we were talking, Margery Fry rang up to ask me to see Julian Fry about Roger. So that begins to press on me. Then L. wants if possible to have Three Guineas for the autumn: and I have my Gibbon, my broadcast, and a possible leader on Biography to fill in chinks. I plan to keep out of literary circles till the mild boom is over. And this, waiting, under consideration, is after all the worst. This time next month I shall feel more at ease. And it’s only now and then I mind now. I suppose what I expect is that they’ll say now Mrs. W. has written a long book all about nothing.

I’m off again, after five days lapse (writing Faces and Voices) on Three Guineas: after a most dismal hacking got a little canter and hope now to spin ahead. Odd that one sometimes does a transition quite quickly. A quiet day for a wonder—no one seen yesterday: so I went to Caledonian Market, couldn’t find spoon shop: bought yellow gloves 3/- and stockings 1/- and so home. Started reading French again: Misanthrope and Colette’s memoirs given me last summer by Janie: when I was in the dismal drowse and couldn’t fix on that or anything. Today the reviewers (oh d——n this silly thought) have their teeth fixed in me; but what care I for a goosefeather bed, etc. In fact, once I get into the canter over Three Guineas I think I shall see only the flash of the white rails and pound along to the goal.