I wrote about 500 words “On Learning the Cello” for The Adelphi, which might amuse you if you ever see it, though it’s unlikely that it will appear there. In which connection my love & all manner of commiserations to Alister. Tell him I practise like the Devil. Tell him to read what I say, in the letter, & in the spirit, & he will know the truth. Tell him I’m going to stick to it, play for an hour every day, continue the weekly (might be spelt with an “a”) lessons, grow corns on four fingers & a whitlow on one thumb but I will play (if not in tune at least in spirit) the scale of C Major by Christmas, or at any rate, by New Year’s Day. Suggia be suggiared! If she only knew the bliss I experience on playing the first C on the A string she’d give me her cello & ask me for lessons. It’s like the arrival of all the saints in heaven at once. I have that indescribable “got there” feeling—like Michael Angelo didn’t when he finished the Sistine Chapel.—Bridge brought tools along last week to move my sounding board. I suppose he must have been dissatisfied with something he heard. Which seems odd. Anyway, I still make much the same sounds, & still no one comes to listen—except Bridge, & he’s paid to; & he often plays his own thing—out of envy, you’d think. He offered to buy my cello! (at the market price—-£4) the other day. I can’t think why. He’s already got one. Anyway, he’s come to the wrong shop if he thinks he can break it off between music & me by buying my cello. I offered to swap with him. Seriously, I’m getting along fine. Piers & Dorothy don’t think so, but I am. It’s like drink. I swear at it when I’ve had some, but the more you take the worse it gets. Miss Deadman [the daily help]—who’s got no ear at all—mistakes the rumbling of the trams for my practising. << less