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The days seem to whisk away here so fast that I don't think the farmer's wife would be in time to chop off their tails. I spend a large part of them tapping out my new long story or short novel on my little Corona. But I have been thinking of you so much, dearest, and hoping that your climatic and physical conditions are both more settled. I heard from C. that you had been to see my good Doctor. I hope he satisfied you and that you did not think I had overpraised him. It would be very nice to know from you what you thought of him.

Since I last wrote we have had every variety of weather from Winter to Spring. To-day, for instance, began with a cold downpour, gradually changed until it was a damp, tropical morning, and now it's a sharp Autumn evening. It's very difficult to adjust one's attire to these lightning changes. The only safe recipe is to start with flannel next to the skin, and build up or cast off from that. What a frightful bother! But judging from the reports in the Times, England has turned over a summer leaf again. Long may it remain fair!

There is a remarkable old talker here at present—an American, aged eighty-eight—with his wife and daughter. The daughter looks about sixty-five. According to the ancient gentleman, they have been on the wing ever since he retired at the age of seventy-five, and they intend remaining on the wing for another fifteen years or so! He is full of fire still, dresses every night for dinner, plays bridge, and loves to start a gossip with, “In the year 1865.” It's very interesting listening to his memories of early Noo York and of American life generally 'way back. I think he mistook me for a young person home for the holidays. For he introduced himself with the words, ‘Boys seem skeerce here. May be you wouldn't mind if I tried to entertain you a li'll.” When he said boys, I thought at first he must be alluding to farm labourers, but then memories of American novels “put me right,” as they say.

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J. is still in his lofty perch among the mountains. At the week-ends, whenever the weather is wet, we play billiards. There is a splendid table here and we are both very keen. It's a fascinating game. I remember learning to hold a cue at Sir Joseph Ward's, and I can see now R's super-refinement as if she expected each ball to be stamped with a coronet before she would deign to hit it.

To Edmund Blunden

July 1922

It is awfully kind of you to have sent me a copy of your lovely poem, Old Homes. Many, many thanks. I like especially the verse beginning:

Thence, too, when high wind through the black clouds pouring—

One walks straight into your chill, pale, wet world as one reads… I love the sound of water in poetry.

How are you, I wonder, and where are you spending the summer? It's the moment here when all the dahlias are out, every little child is eating a green apple, the vines have been cut down for the last time and the grapes are as big as marbles. In fact, this whole valley is one great ripening orchard. Heavens! how beautiful apple trees are! But you know these things a great deal better than I do.

If H. M. T. is near by—give him my love, will you?

To J. M. Murry

August 1922

Early Edition.

I think Amos Barton is awful and there's nothing to say for it.

In the first place poor George Eliot's Hymn to the Cream Jug makes me feel quite queasy (no wonder she harps on biliousness and begins her description of a feast: “Should one not be bilious there is no pleasanter sight, etc.”) in the second place, the idea of lovely, gentle, page 233 fastidious, Madonna-like Mrs. Barton having 8 children in 9 years by that pock-marked poor ‘mongrel’ (her own words) with the blackened stumps for teeth is simply disgusting! If I thought the poor little pamphlet was designed to put in a word in favour of Birth Control I could bear it. But far from it. Each chubby chubby with a red little fist and Ten black nails (how is that for charm?) rouses a kind of female cannibalism in G. E. She gloats over the fat of babies.

I have always heard Amos Barton was one of her best stories. You know, it's very very bad that we haven't sincerer critics. Having spread my peacock tail to that extent I had better depart. Not before saying what a truly frightful need England hath of thee.

Later edition.

I have just got your L. review and note… About your review. I think you are absolutely right in every word of it—every word. I think you occasionally use more words of praise than are necessary; it sounds too effusive and will raise suspicion. Shall I tone it down a bit on my typewriter, or send it as it is? I'll phone you and ask. Oh, I long for a paper this morning!! I have been “making up” a paper ever since I read your review. I shall start one, too, jolly soon. For three years only. But what years!

Don't you think it might be a good idea if this week you came on Sunday instead of Saturday? Give us a longer week. That is if you are at all pressé or inclined to the notion. Otherwise you won't mind, will you, if I do a bit of work on Saturday while you are in the garden?

H'm yes. After my Spartan suggestion has been written, I take it back. I say instead what I have said about working … and hope I'll be able to look out of window and see your summer feltie below. Yes, indeed, come Saturday unless you don't want to, or think that the female will is determined to drag you here…

Once The Doves' Nest is finished I shall leave here. But page 234 it will take a fortnight, not a week. It's too expensive. I must draw in my horns for the next six months, somehow. Blow!

My watch is still a li'll golden angel. And what a big brown angel that chest is! With two little windows at the sides and a chimney at the top we could almost live in it—open the lid softly for the milkman and the wild strawberry man…