19 September 1938 – 25 September 1938

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.

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.