Tuesday 6 January
The disgraceful truth is that I shall run year into year, for I cant waste so many blank pages.
What a flourish I began 1924 with! And today, for the 165th time, Nelly has given notice— Won't be
dictated to: must do as other girls do. This is the fruit of Bloomsbury. On the whole, I'm inclined to take her at
her word. The nuisance of arranging life to suit her fads, & the pressure of 'other girls' is too much, good cook
though she is, & honest, crusty old maid too, dependable, in the main, affectionate, kindly, but incurably fussy,
nervy, unsubstantial. Anyhow, the servant question no longer much worries me.
Last night we dined at 3 Albert Road Mary's new villa. I like the new year to begin with warm friendly
feelings—& it was a superb dinner. There were the children too, a nice girl & boy; a girl with lovely womans
eyes, sympathetic, startled; & wild like a girl. (I want to begin to describe my own sex.) What do I mean about
the expression? Extreme youth, & yet, one felt, this feeling has been existing forever; very feminine. Here I
conceive my story—but I'm always conceiving stories now. Short ones—scenes—for instance The Old Man (a
character of L.S.) The Professor on Milton—(an attempt at literary criticism) & now The Interruption, women
talking alone. However, back to life. Where are we?
I spent this morning writing a note on an E[lizabe]than play—for which I have been reading plays all
this year. Then I found the minute hand of my watch had come off (this was talking to Lytton about [Samuel]
Richardson last night—I found it off then): so I went into the printing room to see the time—found Angus &
Leonard doing Simkin's bill. Stayed & laughed. L. went off to the office, when we had dog-walked round the
Square. I came in & set a page of Nancy. Then out to Ingersoll to get my watch mended. Then dog walked. Then
here. It being a black grained winter day; lengths of the pavement ink black where not lighted. Never shall I
describe all the days I have noticed. I cannot hit it off, quite, & yet perhaps if I read this again I shall see what I
meant then.
Rodmell was all gale & flood; these words are exact. The river overflowed. We had 7 days rain out of
10. Often I could not face a walk. L. pruned, which needed heroic courage. My heroism was purely literary. I
revised Mrs D[alloway]: the dullest part of the whole business of writing; the most depressing & exacting. The
worst part is at the beginning (as usual) where the aeroplane has it all to itself for some pages, & it wears thin. L.
read it; thinks it my best—but then has he not got to think so? Still I agree. He thinks it has more continuity than
J[acob]s R[oom]. but is difficult owing to the lack of connection, visible, between the two themes.
Anyhow it is sent off to Clarks, & proofs will come next week. This is for Harcourt Brace, who has
accepted without seeing & raised me to 15 p.c.
I did not see very much at Rodmell, having to keep my eyes on the typewriter.
Angus was with us for Christmas, a very quiet, very considerate, unselfish deliberate young man, with a
charming sense of humour—colourless, Lytton says: passive. But I think well of him, all the same.