A Writer's Diary: Being Extracts From the Diary of Virginia Woolf Read online

  Saturday, August 13th

  "Coleridge was as little fitted for action as Lamb, but on a different account. His person was of a good height, but as sluggish and solid as the other's was light and fragile. He had, perhaps, suffered it to look old before its time, for want of exercise. His hair was white at 50; and as he generally dressed in black and had a very tranquil demeanour, his appearance was gentlemanly, and for several years before his death was reverend. Nevertheless, there was something invincibly young in the look of his face. It was round and fresh-coloured, with agreeable features, and an open, indolent, goodnatured mouth. This boy-like expression was very becoming in one who dreamed and speculated as he did when he was really a boy, and who passed his life apart from the rest of the world, with a book and his flowers. His forehead was prodigious,—a great piece of placid marble;—and his fine eyes, in which all the activity of his mind seemed to concentrate, moved under it with a sprightly ease, as if it was a pastime to them to carry all that thought.

  "And it was pastime. Hazlitt said that Coleridge's genius appeared to him like a spirit, all head and wings, eternally floating about in etherialities. He gave me a different impression. I fancied him a goodnatured wizard, very fond of earth, and conscious of reposing with weight enough in his easy chair, but able to conjure his etherialities about him in the twinkling of an eye. He could also change them by thousands and dismiss them as easily when his dinner came. It was a mighty intellect put upon a sensual body; and the reason he did little more with it than talk and dream was that it is agreeable to such a body to do little else. I do not mean that C. was a sensualist in an ill sense..." which is all that I can take the trouble to quote from Leigh Hunt's memoirs volume II page 223, supposing I should want to cook this up again somewhere. L. H. was our spiritual grandfather, a free man. One could have spoken to him as to Desmond. A light man, I daresay, but civilised, much more so than my grandfather in the flesh. These free, vigorous spirits advance the world, and when one lights on them in the strange waste of the past one says "Ah, you're my sort"—a great compliment. Most people who died 100 years ago are like strangers. One is polite and uneasy with them. Shelley died with H.'s copy of Lamia in his hand. H. would receive it back from no other, and so burnt it on the pyre. Going home from the funeral? H. and Byron laughed till they split. This is human nature and H. doesn't mind owning to it. Then I like his inquisitive human sympathies: history so dull because of its battles and laws; and sea voyages in books so dull because the traveller will describe beauties instead of going into the cabins and saying what the sailors looked like, wore, eat, said; how they behaved.

  Lady Carlisle is dead. One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph. Such a stock of hope and gifts she set out with, and lost everything (so they say) and died of sleepy sickness, her 5 sons dead before her and the war crushing her hope for humanity.

  Wednesday, August 17th

  To while away the time till L. comes in from London, Fergusson, office etc., I may as well scribble. Really I think my scribbling is coming back. Here I have spent the whole day, off and on, making up an article—for Squire perhaps, because he wants a story, and because Mrs. Hawkesford has told Mrs. Thomsett that I am one of the, if not the, cleverest women in England. It's not nerve power so much as praise that has lacked, perhaps. Yesterday I was seized with the flux, as the Bible has it. Dr. Vallence was fetched, came after dinner, and paid a call. I wish I could write down his conversation. A mild, heavy lidded, little elderly man, son of a Lewes doctor, has always lived here, existing on a few broad medical truths learnt years ago, which he applies conscientiously. He can speak French, as it were, in words of one syllable. As both L. and I knew a good deal more than he did we got upon general topics—old Verrall and how he starved himself purposely to death. "I could have had him sent away," said Dr. V. meditatively. "He had been away once. His sister's away to this day—quite crazy, I believe—a bad family, very bad. I sat with him in your sitting room. We had to sit right into the chimney to get warm. I tried to interest him in chess. No. He didn't seem able to take an interest in anything. But he was too old—too weak. I couldn't send him away." So he starved himself to death, pottering about his garden.

  Crossing his knees and touching his little moustache meditatively now and then, V. then asked me if I did anything? (He thought me a chronic invalid, a fine lady.) I said I wrote. "What, novels? Light things?" Yes, novels. "I have another lady novelist among my patients—Mrs. Dudeny. I've had to buck her up—to fulfil a contract, a contract for a new novel. She finds Lewes very noisy. And then we have Marion Crawford.... But Mr. Dudeny is the puzzle king. Give him any puzzle—he'll tell you the answer. He makes up the sort of puzzles shops print on their menus. He writes columns in the papers about puzzles."

  "Did he help to answer puzzles in the war?" I asked.

  "Well, I don't know about that. But a great many soldiers wrote to him—the puzzle king." Here he crossed his legs the opposite way. Finally he went and invited L. to join the Lewes Chess Club, which I should very much like to attend myself, these glimpses into different groups always fascinating me intolerably, for I shall never join the party of Dr. Vallence and the puzzle king.

  Thursday, August 18th

  Nothing to record; only an intolerable fit of the fidgets to write away. Here I am chained to my rock; forced to do nothing; doomed to let every worry, spite, irritation and obsession scratch and claw and come again. This is a day that I may not walk and must not work. Whatever book I read bubbles up in my mind as part of an article I want to write. No one in the whole of Sussex is so miserable as I am; or so conscious of an infinite capacity of enjoyment hoarded in me, could I use it. The sun streams (no, never streams; floods rather) down upon all the yellow fields and the long low barns; and what wouldn't I give to be coming through Firle woods, dirty and hot, with my nose turned home, every muscle tired and the brain laid up in sweet lavender, so sane and cool, and ripe for the morrow's task. How I should notice everything—the phrase for it coming the moment after and fitting like a glove; and then on the dusty road, as I ground my pedals, so my story would begin telling itself; and then the sun would be down; and home, and some bout of poetry after dinner, half read, half lived, as if the flesh were dissolved and through it the flowers burst red and white. There! I've written out half my irritation. I hear poor L. driving the lawn mower up and down, for a wife like I am should have a latch to her cage. She bites! And he spent all yesterday running round London for me. Still if one is Prometheus, if the rock is hard and the gadflies pungent, gratitude, affection, none of the nobler feelings have sway. And so this August is wasted.

  Only the thought of people suffering more than I do at all consoles; and that is an aberration of egotism, I suppose. I will now make out a time table if I can to get through these odious days.

  Poor Mdlle. Lenglen, finding herself beaten by Mrs. Mallory, flung down her racquet and burst into tears. Her vanity I suppose is colossal. I daresay she thought that to be Mdlle. Lenglen was the greatest thing in the world; invincible, like Napoleon. Armstrong, playing in the test match, took up his position against the gates and would not move, let the bowlers appoint themselves, the whole game became farcical because there was not time to play it out. But Ajax in the Greek play was of the same temper—which we all agree to call heroic in him. But then everything is forgiven to the Greeks. And I've not read a line of Greek since last year, this time, too. But I shall come back, if it's only in snobbery; I shall be reading Greek when I'm old; old as the woman at the cottage door, whose hair might be a wig in a play, it's so white, so thick. Seldom penetrated by love for mankind as I am, I sometimes feel sorry for the poor who don't read Shakespeare, and indeed have felt some generous democratic humbug at the Old Vic, when they played Othello and all the poor men and women and children had him there for themselves. Such splendour and such poverty. I am writing down the fidgets, so no matter if I write nonsense. Indeed, an
y interference with the normal proportions of things makes me uneasy. I know this room too well—this view too well—I am getting it all out of focus, because I can't walk through it.

  Monday, September 12th

  I have finished The Wings of the Dove, and make this comment. His manipulation becomes so elaborate towards the end that instead of feeling the artist you merely feel the man who is posing the subject. And then I think he loses the power to feel the crisis. He becomes merely excessively ingenious. This, you seem to hear him saying, is the way to do it. Now just when you expect a crisis, the true artist evades it. Never do the thing, and it will be all the more impressive. Finally, after all this juggling and arranging of silk pocket handkerchiefs, one ceases to have any feeling for the figure behind. Milly thus manipulated disappears. He overreaches himself. And then one can never read it again. The mental grasp and stretch are magnificent. Not a flabby or slack sentence, but much emasculated by this timidity or consciousness or whatever it is. Very highly American, I conjecture, in the determination to be highly bred, and the slight obtuseness as to what high breeding is.

  Tuesday, November 15th

  Really, really—this is disgraceful—15 days of November spent and my diary none the wiser. But when nothing is written one may safely suppose that I have been stitching books; or we have had tea at 4 and I have taken my walk afterwards; or I have had to read something for next day's writing, or I have been out late, come home with stencilling materials and sat down in excitement to try one. We went to Rodmell, and the gale blew at us all day; off arctic fields; so we spent our time attending to the fire. The day before this I wrote the last words of Jacob—on Friday November 4th to be precise, having begun it on April 16, 1920: allowing for 6 months interval due to Monday or Tuesday and illness, this makes about a year. I have not yet looked at it. I am struggling with Henry James's ghost stories for The Times; have I not just laid them down in a mood of satiety? Then I must do Hardy; then I want to write a life of Newnes; then I shall have to furbish up Jacob; and one of these days, if only I could find energy to tackle the Paston letters, I must start Reading: directly I've started Reading I shall think of another novel, I daresay. So that the only question appears to be—will my fingers stand so much scribbling?

  Monday, December 19th

  I will add a postscript, as I wait for my parcels to be wrapped up, on the nature of reviewing.

  "Mrs. Woolf? I want to ask you one or two questions about your Henry James article.

  "First (only about the right name of one of the stories).

  "And now you use the word 'lewd.' Of course, I don't wish you to change it, but surely that is rather a strong expression to apply to anything by Henry James. I haven't read the story lately of course—but still, my impression is—"

  "Well, I thought that when I read it: one has to go by one's impressions at the time."

  "But you know the usual meaning of the word? It is—ah— dirty. Now poor dear old Henry James—At any rate, think it over and ring me up in 20 minutes." So I thought it over and came to the required conclusion in twelve minutes and a half. But what is one to do about it? He made it sufficiently clear not only that he wouldn't stand "lewd" but that he didn't much like anything else. I feel that this becomes more often the case, and I wonder whether to break off, with an explanation, or to pander, or to go on writing against the current. This last is probably right, but somehow the consciousness of doing that cramps one. One writes stiffly, without spontaneity. Anyhow, for the present I shall let it be, and meet my castigation with resignation. People will complain I'm sure, and poor Bruce fondling his paper like an only child dreads public criticism, is stern with me, not so much for disrespect to poor old Henry, but for bringing blame on the Supplement. And how much time I have wasted!

  1922

  Wednesday, February 15th

  Of my reading I will now try to make some note. First Peacock: Nightmare Abbey, and Crotchet Castle. Both are so much better than I remember. Doubtless, Peacock is a taste acquired in maturity. When I was young, reading him in a railway carriage in Greece, sitting opposite Thoby,* I remember, who pleased me immensely by approving my remark that Meredith had got his women from Peacock, and that they were very charming women, then, I say, I rather had to prod my enthusiasm. Thoby liked it straight off. I wanted mystery, romance, psychology, I suppose. And now more than anything I want beautiful prose. I relish it more and more exquisitely. And I enjoy satire more. I like the scepticism of his mind more. I enjoy intellectuality. Moreover, fantasticality does a good deal better than sham psychology. One touch of red in the cheek is all he gives, but I can do the rest. And then they're so short; and I read them in little yellowish perfectly appropriate first editions.

  The masterly Scott has me by the hair once more. Old Mortality. I'm in the middle; and have to put up with some dull sermons; but I doubt that he can be dull, because everything is so much in keeping—even his odd monochromatic landscape painting, done in smooth washes of sepia and burnt sienna. Edith and Henry too might be typical figures by an old master, put in exactly in the right place. And Cuddie and Mause are as usual marching straight away for all time, as lusty as life. But I daresay the lighting and the story telling business prevent him from going quite ahead with his fun as in the Antiquary.

  Thursday, February 16th

  To continue—certainly the later chapters are bare and grey, ground out too palpably; authorities, I daresay, interfering with the original flow. And Morton is a prig; and Edith a stick; and Evandale a brick; and the preacher's dulness I could take for granted. Still—still—I want to know what the next chapter brings, and these gallant old fellows can be excused practically anything.

  How far can our historical portrait painters be trusted, seeing the difficulty I have in putting down the face of Violet Dickinson, whom I saw, for two hours, yesterday afternoon? One hears her talking in a swinging random way to Lottie in the hall, as she comes in. "Where's my marmalade? How's Mrs. Woolf? Better eh? Where is she?" meanwhile putting down coat and umbrella and not listening to a word. Then she seemed to me as she came in gigantically tall; tailor made; with a pearl dolphin with red tongue swinging from a black ribbon; rather stouter; with her white face, prominent blue eyes; nose with a chip off the end; and small beautifully aristocratic hands. Very well; but her talk? Since nature herself could give no account of it—since nature has wilfully left out some screw, what chance is there for me? Such nonsense putting old Rib-blesdale and Horner on Boards—Ly. R. was an Astor—refused to let a penny of hers be invested. Your friend Miss Schreiner has gone to Bankok. Don't you remember all her boots and shoes in Eaton Square? To tell the truth I remembered neither Schreiner, her boots, or Eaton Square. Then Herman Norman is back and says things are in an awful mess at Teheran.

  "He's my cousin," I said.

  "How's that?" Off we went on to Normans. Leonard and Ralph were having tea meanwhile and sometimes intercepted a whiff of grapeshot. Now all this, properly strung together, would make a very amusing sketch in the style of Jane Austen. But old Jane, if she had been in the mood, would have given all the other things—no, I don't think she would; for Jane was not given to general reflections; one can't put in the shadows that appear curving round her, and giving her a sort of beauty. She quiets down—though believing the old doctrine that talk must be incessant—and becomes humane, generous; shows that humorous sympathy which brings everything into her scope—naturally; with a touch of salt and reality; she has the range of a good novelist, bathing things in their own atmosphere too, only all so fragmentary and jerky. She told me she had no wish to live. "I'm very happy," she said. "Oh yes, very happy—But why should I want to go on living? What is there to live for?" "Your friends?" "My friends are all dead." "Ozzie?" "Oh, he'd do just as well without me. I should like to tidy things up and disappear." "But you believe in immortality?" "No. I don't know that I do. Dust, ashes, I say." She laughed of course; and yet, as I say, has somehow the all round imaginative view which make
s one believe her. Certainty I like—is love the word for these strange deep ancient affections, which began in youth and have got mixed up with so many important things? I kept looking at her large pleasant blue eyes, so candid and generous and hearty and going back to Fritham and Hyde Park Gate. But this doesn't make a picture, all the same. I feel her somehow to be the sketch for a woman of genius. All the fluid gifts have gone in; but not the bony ones.

  Friday, February 17th

  I've just had my dose of phenacetin—that is to say a mildly unfavourable review of Monday or Tuesday reported by Leonard from the Dial, the more depressing as I had vaguely hoped for approval in that august quarter. It seems as if I succeed nowhere. Yet, I'm glad to find, I have acquired a little philosophy. It amounts to a sense of freedom. I write what I like writing and there's an end on it. Moreover, heaven knows I get consideration enough.

  Saturday, February 18th

  Once more my mind is distracted from the thought of death. There was something about fame I had it in mind to say yesterday. Oh, I think it was that I have made up my mind that I'm not going to be popular, and so genuinely that I look upon disregard or abuse as part of my bargain. I'm to write what I like; and they're to say what they like. My only interest as a writer lies, I begin to see, in some queer individuality; not in strength, or passion, or anything startling, but then I say to myself, is not "some queer individuality" precisely the quality I respect? Peacock for example: Barrow; Donne; Douglas, in A lone, has a touch of it. Who else comes to mind immediately? Fitzgerald's Letters. People with this gift go on sounding long after the melodious vigorous music is banal. In proof of this, I read that a small boy, given a book by Marie Corelli for a Sunday school prize, at once killed himself; and the coroner remarked that one of her books was not what he himself would call "at all a nice book." So perhaps the Mighty Atom is dwindling away and Night and Day arising; though The Voyage Out seems at the moment most in esteem. That encourages me. After 7 years next April the Dial speaks of its superb artistry. If they say the same of N. and D. in 7 years I shall be content; but I must wait 14 for anyone to take Monday or Tuesday to heart. I want to read Byron's Letters, but I must go on with La Princesse de Clèves. This masterpiece has long been on my conscience. Me to talk of fiction and not to have read this classic! But reading classics is generally hard going. Especially classics like this one, which are classics because of their perfect taste, shapeliness, composure, artistry. Not a hair of its head is dishevelled. I think the beauty very great, but hard to appreciate. All the characters are noble. The movement is stately. The machinery a little cumbrous. Stories have to be told. Letters dropped. It is the action of the human heart and not of muscle or fate that we watch. But stories of noble human hearts have their movements unapproachable in other circumstances. There is a queer understated profundity in the relations between Madame de Clèves and her mother, for example. If I were reviewing it, I think I should take for my text beauty in character. Thank God though I am not reviewing it. Within the last few minutes I have skimmed the reviews in the New Statesman; between coffee and cigarette I read the Nation; now the best brains in England (metaphorically speaking) sweated themselves for I don't know how many hours to give me this brief condescending sort of amusement. When I read reviews I crush the column together to get at one or two sentences; is it a good book or a bad? And then I discount those two sentences according to what I know of the book and of the reviewer. But when I write a review I write every sentence as if it were going to be tried before three Chief Justices. I can't believe that I am crushed together and discounted. Reviews seem to me more and more frivolous. Criticism on the other hand absorbs me more and more. But after 6 weeks influenza my mind throws up no matutinal fountains. My note book lies by my bed unopened. At first I could hardly read for the swarm of ideas that rose involuntarily. I had to write them out at once. And this is great fun. A little air, seeing the buses go by, lounging by the river, will, please God, send the sparks flying again. I am suspended between life and death in an unfamiliar way. Where is my paper knife? I must cut Lord Byron.