Compton House,St. Peter's Rd.,
Bournemouth
29 Jan., 1912.
To Edward Garnett.
Dear Garnett,--
My time here is running out. They want me badly to stay till to-day week--the 5th--but I think I'd rather come on the Saturday. I shall leave here by the 2.0 p.m. train, which arrives in London--Waterloo--at 4.0. It is a non-stop. Would you mind to send me a train from Victoria or anywhere down to Edenbridge? You choose the time, an I will abide by it. Do not bother with a trap--I can walk quite well. I can do six miles by now.
The Trespasser goes quite fast. In the dirty weather of the last week I have got on with it. I am past the 300th page now. It really isn't bad, is it?--but too florid, too "charge." But it can't be anything else--it is itself. I must let it stand. At any rate, not many folk could have done it, however they may find fault. I shall finish by the time I come to Edenbridge--or at any rate before I leave you. So, when you can find time to go over the thing, we can decide about the publishing. If it is to come, I should like April or May for the month, as you suggested.
We have had three beautiful days--mostly lovely. I am very sensitive to the exquisite atmospheres of down here--I have delightful passages. In health, too, I am sure I make good strides. But at the bottom I am rather miserable. I can never decide whether my dreams are the result of my thoughts, or my thoughts the results of my dreams. It is very queer. But my dreams make conclusions for me. They decide things finally. I dream a decision. Sleep seems to hammer out for me the logical conclusions of my vague days, and offer me them as dreams. It is a horrid feeling, not to be able to escape from one's own--what?--self-daemon--fate, or something. I hate to have my own judgments clinched inside me involuntarily. But it is so. What tosh to write. I don't know what ails me.
Just tell me about the train. I will bring the rest of the Trespasser.
Yours,
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