I thought and thought this morning but to not much avail. I can't think why, but my wit seems to be nearly deserting me when I want to get down to earth. I am all right — sky-high. And even in my brain, in my head, I can think and act and write wonders—wonders; but the moment I really try to put them down I fail miserably.

Garsington, 1916

1917

Summer "Et pourtant, il faut s'habituer à vivre, Meme seul, meme triste, indifferent et las, Car, ô ma vision troublante, n'es-tu pas Un mirage incessant trop difficile a suivre?"

Tchehov makes me feel that this longing to write stories of such uneven length is quite justified. Geneva is a long story, and Hamilton is very short, and this ought to be written to my brother really, and another about the life in New Zealand. Then there is Bavaria. "Ich liebe Dich, Ich liebe Dich," floating out on the air... and then there is Paris. God! When shall I write all these things and how?

Is that all? Can that be all? That is not what I meant at all.

Tchehov is quite right about women; yes, he is quite right. These fairies in black and silver — "and then, tearing down the road, her long brown fur blowing behind her, brushing the leaves with her trailing skirt, crying: Of course he was awfully sorry that she did not get satisfaction, just as he would have been awfully sorry if she hadn't liked strawberries and cream — Friday — Friday — he could not get the word out of his head... and before him stood the little man with his hair neatly combed, saying: 'Please take something to eat!' " But I cannot believe that at this stage of the proceedings something pretty extraordinary did not happen. I sat with my back to no one.


T.F. ; M.F. This woman I know very well — vain, eager, beautiful, desenchantee, an ' actress.' " I can put a little child's bed into the corner." " Which do you like best, Daddie, — cats or dogs?" "Well, I think I like dogs best, old chap." " I don't: I'd like to have a kitten about as big as a little tea-pot."

One character, of the man, rather beats me. I want a very quiet man, absorbed in his work, who, once he realised — really realised — that his wife had married him for her own ends, had no more to do with her, but still loved her and adored the child. It is all a bit difficult to write, but awfully fascinating, and should not be at too great length.

Does this pen write? Oh, I do hope so. For it's really beastly to have a pen that doesn't. And then a


141a Church St., Chelsea. I came home this afternoon and F. came in. I was standing in the studio, someone whistled on the path. It was he. I went out and bought some milk and honey and Veda bread. By and by we sat down and had tea and talk. This man is in many ways extraordinarily like me. I like him so much; I feel so honest with him that it's simply one of my real joys, one of the real joys of my life, to have him come and talk and be with me. I did not realise, until he was here and we ate together, how much I was really at home with him. A real understanding. We might have spoken a different language — returned from a far country. I just felt all was well, and we understood each other. Just that. And there was * ease ' between us. There is a division: people who are my people, people who are not my people. He is mine. I gave him for a pledge my little puddock.

When we walked out I saw the sky again after all the day's blindness — little cloud and big clouds. We said goodbye at Vinden's. That is all. But I wanted to make a note of it.

I. They meet and just touch. II. They come together and part.

III. They are separated and meet again.

IV. They realise their tie.


Alors, je pars

It is astonishing how violently a big branch shakes when a silly little bird has left it. I expect the bird knows it and feels immensely arrogant. The way he went on, my dear, when I said I was going to leave him. He was quite desperate. But now the branch is quiet again. Not a bud has fallen, not a twig has snapped. It stands up in the bright air, steady and firm, and thanks the Lord that it has got its evenings to itself again.

A Shilling gone Bust

A knock at the door. Two sisters of Nazareth — one, rather pretty and meek, in the background, attending ; the other very voluble and fluent, her hands in her sleeves. When she smiled, showing her pale gums and big discoloured teeth I decided that I had quite got over my sentimental feeling about nuns. She was collecting for their home for little children. All sorts of little children were admitted except those suffering from infectious diseases or subject to fits. I wondered what would happen if one developed fits after admittance and decided that I should have the most realistic fit the moment the Nazarene door shut on me. ... I remember you well from last year, said the nun. But I wasn't here last year. Ah, people change so quickly, said she. Yes, but perhaps their faces don't, said I, seriously, giving her the shilling I was just going to put into the gas meter. I wish I had put it into the gas meter five minutes before. . . .


Living Alone

Even if I should, by some awful chance, find a hair upon my bread and honey — at any rate it is my own hair.

Beware of the Rain!

Late in the evening, after you have cleared away your supper, blown the crumbs out of the book that you were reading, lighted the lamp and curled up in front of the fire, that is the moment to beware of the rain.

E. M. Forster

Putting my weakest books to the wall last night I came across a copy of "Howard's End" and had a look into it. But it's not good enough. E. M. Forster never gets any further than warming the teapot. He's a rare fine hand at that. Feel this teapot. Is it not beautifully warm? Yes, but there ain't going to be no tea.

Love and Mushrooms


If only one could tell true love from false love as one can tell mushrooms from toadstools. With mushrooms it is so simple — you salt them well, put them aside and have patience. But with love, you have no sooner lighted on anything that bears even the remotest resemblance to it than you are perfectly certain it is not only a genuine specimen, but perhaps the only genuine mushroom ungathered. It takes a dreadful number of toadstools to make you realise that life is not one long mushroom.

Babies and the dear old Queen

Whenever I see babies in arms I am struck again by their resemblance to the dear old Queen. They have just the same air of false resignation, the same mournful, regal plumpness. If only her Majesty had deigned to be photographed in a white woollen bonnet with a little frill of eiderdown round it there'd be no telling the difference. Especially if she could have been persuaded to sit on Grandpa Gladstone's knee for the occasion.


Dreams and Rhubarb

My sticks of rhubarb were wrapped up in a copy of the Star containing Lloyd George's last, more than eloquent speech. As I snipped up the rhubarb my eye fell, was fixed and fastened, on that sentence wherein he tells us that we have grasped our niblick and struck out for the open course. Pray Heaven there is some faithful soul ever present with a basket to catch these tender blossoms as they fall. Ah, God! it is a dreadful thought that these immortal words should go down into the dreamless dust uncherished. I loved to think, as I put the rhubarb into the saucepan, that years hence — P.G. many many years hence — when in the fullness of time, full of ripeness and wisdom, the Almighty sees fit to gather him into His bosom, some gentle stonecutter living his quiet life in the little village that had known great David as a child would take a piece of fair white marble and engrave upon it two niblicks crossed and underneath :


Mr. Lloyd George

In the hour of England's most imminent peril he grasped his Niblick and struck out for the Open Course.

But what does rather worry me, I thought, turning the gas down to a pinch as the rhubarb began to boil, is how these mighty words are to be translated so that our allies may taste the full flavour of them. Those crowds of patient Russians, waiting in the snow, perhaps, to have the speech read aloud to them — what dreadful weapon will it present to their imagination ? Unless The Daily News suggests to Mr. Ransome that he walk down the Nevsky Prospekt with a niblick instead of an umbrella for all the world to see. And the French — what espèce de Niblickisme will they make of it. Shall we read in the French papers next week of someone qui manque de niblick. Or that "Au milieu de ces événements si graves ce qu'il nous faut c'est du courage, de l'espoir et du niblick le plus ferme. . , ." I wondered, taking off the rhubarb.


A Victorian Idyll Yesterday Matilda Mason

In the Parlour by herself Broke a Handsome China Basin

Placed upon the Mantelshelf.

You picture Matilda in a little check dress, puce shoulder ties, muslin pantalettes, black sandals, and a pound of rich glossy curls held in place by a velvet band. She tip-toes about the parlour, among the whatnots and antimacassars and embroidery frames and

Mamma's workbox with the ivory fittings, and Papa's music stand with the pearl studded flute lying across it. . . . How did she come to be in the parlour by herself? Rash, foolish child! Why was she not sitting upon a bead hassock in the nursery conning over one of those amiable little tunes for infants from one and a half to three years (Charles: Pray, dear papa! what is the Solar System? Papa: Wipe your nose, Charles, and I will tell you) or embroidering God is Love in red upon a nightdress case for her dear Mamma ?


She had parted her Papa's Piccadilly weepers, had been strained to his flashing bosom before he dashed off to that mysterious place, the City, where ladies feared to tread ; her Mamma, having seen the doctor's gig draw up at number twelve, had put on her second best pair of jet ear-rings, wrapped herself in her second best cashmere shawl and taken a flask of eau-de-Cologne. . . .


When I am sitting above the rocks near the edge of the sea, I always fancy that I hear above the plash of the water the voice of two people talking somewhere I know not what. And the talking is always broken by something which is neither laughter nor sobbing, but a low thrilling sound which might be either and is a part of both.

But Lord ! Lord ! how I do hate the French.

Mademoiselle complains that she has the pieds glaces.

" Then why do you wear such pretty stockings and shoes, Mademoiselle? " leers Monsieur.

" Eh — o, la — c'est la mode ! "

And the fool grins, well content with the idiot answer.

How immensely easier it is to attack an insect that is running away from you rather than one that is running towards you.


Note: A muff like a hard nut. (Mouse in Je ne parle pas.)

(February.) What happens is that I come in absolutely exhausted, lie down, sit up and sit in a daze of fatigue — a horrible state — until 7 o'clock. I can barely walk — can't think, don't dare to go to sleep because if I do I know I'll lie awake through the night, and that is my horror. Oh, for a sofa or a very comfortable armchair — this is always the longing at the back of my mind ; and except for that and a feeling of despair at wasting the time I am simply a blank. The pain continues in my left shoulder and is the worst. That adds, of course, for finally it becomes intolerable and drives me to lie on the bed covered over to support it. But these are, Hard Lines.


Verses Writ in a Foreign Bed Almighty Father of All and Most Celestial Giver

Who has granted to us thy children a heart and lungs and a liver; If upon me should descend thy beautiful gift of tongues Incline not thine Omnipotent ear to my remarks on lungs.

Consumption

"Toujours fatiguee, Madame?"

"Oui, toujours fatiguee."

"Je ne me leve pas, Victorine; et le courier?"

Victorine smiles meaningly, "Pas encore passe."


I woke up early this morning and when I opened the shutters the full round sun was just risen. I began to repeat that verse of Shakespeare's: "Lo, here the gentle lark weary of rest," and bounded back into bed. The bound made me cough — I spat — it tasted strange — it was bright red blood. Since then I've gone on spitting each time I cough a little more. Oh, yes, of course I am frightened. But for two reasons only. I don't want to be ill, I mean 'seriously,' away from J. J is the first thought. 2nd, I don't want to find this is real consumption, perhaps it's going to gallop — who knows? — and I shan't have my work written. That's what matters. How unbearable it would be to die — leave 'scraps,' 'bits' . . . nothing real finished.

But I feel the first thing to do is to get back to J. Yes, my right lung hurts me badly but it always does more or less. But J. and my work — they are all I think of (mixed with curious visionary longings for gardens in full flower). L.M. has gone for the doctor.

I knew this would happen. Now I'll say why. On my way here, in the train from Paris to Marseilles I sat in a carriage with two women. They were both dressed in black. One was big, one little. The little spry one had a sweet smile and light eyes. She was extremely pale, had been ill — was come to repose herself. The Big One, as the night wore on, wrapped herself up in a black shawl — so did her friend. They shaded the lamp and started (trust 'em) talking about illnesses. I sat in the corner feeling damned ill myself.


Then the big one, rolling about in the shaking train, said what a fatal place this coast is for anyone who is even threatened with lung trouble. She reeled off the most hideous examples, especially one which froze me finally, of an American belle et forte avec un simple bronchite who came down here to be cured and in three weeks had had a severe haemorrhage and died. " Adieu mon mari, adieu mes beaux enfants."

This recital, in that dark moving train, told by that big woman swathed in black, had an effect on me that I wouldn't own and never mentioned. I knew the woman was a fool, hysterical, morbid, but I believed her; and her voice has gone on somewhere echoing in me ever since. . . .

Juliette has come in and opened the windows; the sea is so full of 'little laughs' and in the window space some tiny flies are busy with their darting, intricate dance.


Paris. I am not doing what I swore I would at Bandol. I must again write the word

DISCIPLINE

and under that

WHICH DO YOU PREFER?

And from day to day after this keep a strict account of what it is that I fail in. I have failed very badly these last few days and this evening was a comble. This to the uninitiated would appear great rubbish. They'd suspect me of God knows what. If only they knew the childish truth ! But they won't know. Now, Katherine, here goes for to-morrow — Keep it up, my girl. It's such a chance, now that L.M. is not I-spy-I.

April 3rd. A good day.

He woke, but did not move. Warm and solemn he lay, with wide open troubled eyes, pouting a little, almost frowning for one long moment. In that long moment he sprang out of bed, bathed, dressed, reached the wharf, boarded the ferry boat, crossed the harbour and was waving — waving to Isabel and Maisie who stood there, waiting for him on the pier. A tall young sailor, standing near him, threw a coil of tarred rope

and it fell in a long loop, over a landing post. . . . Beautifully done. . . . And all this moment (vision) was so clear and bright and tiny, he might with his flesh and pout and solemn eyes have been a baby watching a bubble.


"Well sit down, Mansfield, and reposezvous," said F., " and I'll get on with my dressing."

So he went into his bedroom and shut the door between, and I sat on the end of the sofa. The sun came full through the two windows, dividing the studio into four — two quarters of light and two of shadow, but all those things which the light touched seemed to float in it, to bathe and to sparkle in it as if they belonged not to land, but to water ; they even seemed, in some strange way, to be moving.

When you lean over the edge of the rock and see something lovely and brilliant flashing at the bottom of the sea it is only the clear, trembling water that dances — but — can you be quite sure ? . . . No, not quite sure, and that little Chinese group on the writing table may or may not have shaken itself awake for just one hundredth of a second out of hundreds of years of sleep.

Paris, April 1918
Repose

Very beautiful, O God ! is a blue tea-pot with two white cups attending; a red apple among oranges addeth fire to flame — in the white bookcases the books fly up and down in scales of colour, with pink and lilac notes recurring, until nothing remains but them, sounding over and over.

There are a number of frames, some painted and some plain, leaning against the wall, and the picture of a naked woman with her arms raised, languid, as though her heavy flowering beauty were almost too great to bear. There are two sticks and an umbrella in one corner, and in the fireplace, a kettle, curiously like a bird.


If I had my way I should stay in the Redcliffe Road until after the war. It suits me. Whatever faults it has it is not at all bourgeois. There is ' something a bit queer ' about all the people who live in it ; they are all more or less ' touched.' They walk about without their hats on and fetch and carry their food and even their coal. There are nearly four bells to every door — the curtains are all 'odd' and shabby. The charwomen, blown old flies, buzz down each other's basements. ... "No. 56 'ad a party last night. You never seen anything like the state of 'is room this morning." ... " 'Igh time 'e did get married, I say. 'Is fiancée spends the night with 'im already. 'E says she 'as 'is bed and 'e sleeps on the table. You don't tell me a great stick of a fellow like 'im sleeps on 'is table!"

Question: But do you like this sort of talk? This kind of thing? What about the Poets and — flowers and trees ?

Answer : As I can't have the perfect other thing, I do like this. I feel, somehow, free in it. It has no abiding place, and neither have I. And — and — Oh well, I do feel so cynical.


[Looe, Cornwall. ... I positively feel, in my hideous modern way, that I can't get into touch with my mind. I am standing gasping in one of those disgusting telephone boxes and I can't 'get through.'

"Sorry. There's no reply," tinkles out the little voice.

"Will you ring them again — Exchange? A good long ring. There must be somebody there."

"I can't get any answer."

Then I suppose there is nobody in the building — nobody at all. Not even an old fool of a watchman. No, it's dark and empty and quiet . . . above all — empty.

Looe

Note: A queer thing is that I keep seeing it — this empty building — as my father's office. I smell it as that. I see the cage of the clumsy wooden goods lift and the tarred ropes hanging.


The sea here is real sea. It rises and falls with a loud noise, has a long, silky roll on it as though it purred, seems sometimes to climb half up into the sky and you see the sail boats perched upon clouds — like flying cherubs.

Hallo! here come two lovers. She has a pinched-in waist, a hat like a saucer turned upside down — he sham panama, hat guard, cane, etc.; his arm enfolding. Walking between sea and sky. His voice floats up to me: "Of course, occasional tinned meat does not matter, but a perpetual diet of tinned meat is bound to produce . . ."

I am sure that the Lord loves them and that they and their seed will prosper and multiply for ever and ever. . . .

... to meet, on the stopping of the chariot, the august emergence.

The jewel wrapped up in a piece of old silk and negotiable one day in the market of misery.

Luxuriant complications which make the air too tropical. . . .

The sense of folded flowers ... as though the night

had laid its hand upon their hearts and they were folded and at peace like folded flowers. (K.M.)

. . . plucked her sensations by the way, detached, nervously, the small wild blossoms of her dim forest.

The high luxury of not having to explain. . . .


The ostrich burying its head in the sand does at any rate wish to convey the impression that its head is the most important part of it. (K.M. Good.)

Though she did in a way, simply offer herself to me she was so cold, so rich, so splendid, that I simply couldn't see a spoon silver enough to dare help myself with (K.M.)

If there were going to be large freedoms she was determined to enjoy them too. She wasn't going to be perched, swaying perilous in the changing jungle like a little monkey dropped from a tree on an elephant's head — and positively clinging to some large ear. (K.M.)

She was the same through and through. You could go on cutting slice after slice and you knew you would never light upon a plum or a cherry or even a piece of peel.


Looe. Feature Extraordinary: Shoes that have never squeaked before start up a squeaking.

A cold day — the cuckoo singing and the sea like liquid metal. Everything feels detached — uprooted — flying through the hurtling air or about to fly.

Mrs. Honey

There's almost a sense of having to dodge these unnatural rudderless birds. ... To use a homely image, imagine the world an immense drying ground with everything blown off the lines. ... It is very nervously exhausting.

And the day spent itself. The idle hours blew on it and it shed itself like seed. . . .

Later

Mrs. Honey explains. She has been crying. Madame spoke to her "awful crool" about a cracked tumbler. Lied. Bullied. And the poor old creature, who has had 15 rooms to do lately and three nights of stairs to scrub (age 68) "couldn't help but cry. . . ."

I wish Madame would develop a tumour during the night, have it cut out to-morrow and be "dead, buried and all," before the Sunday dinner. She is exactly like a large cow in a black silk dress — and she will never, never, NEVER die.

"If the fire turns bright, your man is in a good temper." (Mrs. Honey.)


Later

I went into J.'s room just now to put a book there
— and turned down the pink bed cover to see if he had
enough blankets. As I did so I thought of J. as a boy
of about 17. I had a sort of prophetic vision of doing
just the same thing for my son ... in years to come. The moment had no emotional value at all — especially as it was all drowned in the smell of roast mutton. There goes the gong : it sounds like a timid fire alarm. But I wait until the first course is done. I wait until the chimpanzees have lapped up their little pool before I start a-nut-cracking wiv 'em.

Later
The table was laid for two. I dined opposite a white serviette — shaped like a hand with spread fingers. Now I have dressed and am waiting for the motor. I rubbed some genet fleuri on my collar just now: I look different — as though I were meant to be played on and not just to lie in a corner, with the bow in that slot opposite which fastens with two buttons. No! Now the bow is hanging from the peg — at least.


June: Paralysis as an idea. A pleasant one. Spinal disease. A shock. Failure of the Heart's Action. Some Life. " obscure " Horror. Dead before Friday.

To be a cripple — unable to speak — My face all red and deformed. But the top and bottom of this sandwich is a paralytic stroke — the important middle — heart failure. Well I've cut it for myself and eaten it day after day — day after day — It's an endless loaf. . . . And I'd like to put on quiet record that the physical pain is just not unbearable — only just not.

At 4.30 to-day it did conquer me and I began, like

Misery

the Tchehov students, to " pace from corner to corner " — then up and down, up and down, and the pain racked me like a curse and I could hardly breathe. Then I sat down again and tried to take it quietly. But although I've an armchair and a fire and little table all drawn up comfortable I feel too ill to write. I could dictate I think p'raps — but write — no. Trop Malade.


I have been, in addition, waiting for A. all the afternoon. I thought, even in this storm, she'd "blow over." "Hillo!" And about 100 A.s with quick deliberate steps have walked up this brick path but got no further. Plus that, I have nothing to read. Hurrah!!!

One's salvation would I think be music. To have a 'cello again. That I must try. . . .

June 20th. The twentieth of June 1918.

C'est de la misère.

Non, pas ça exactement. Il y a quelque chose — une profonde malaise me suive comme un ombre.

Oh, why write bad French? Why write at all? 1,500 miles are so many — too many by 11,449 for me.


What is the matter with to-day? It is thin, white, as lace curtains are white, full of ugly noises (e.g. people opening the drawers of a cheap chest and trying to shut them again). All food seems stodgy and indigestible — no drink is hot enough. One looks hideous, hideous in the glass — bald as an egg — one feels swollen — and all one's clothes are tight. And everything is dusty, gritty — the cigarette ash crumbles and falls — the marigolds spill their petals over the dressing table. In a house nearby someone is trying to tune a cheap cheap piano.

If I had a 'home' and could pull the curtains together, lock the door — burn something sweet, fast, walk round my own perfect room, soundlessly, watching the lights and the shadows — it would be tolerable — but living as I do in a public house — it's très difficile.

A few of its enormities.

1. I decided to faire les ongles de mes pieds avant mon petit déjeuner — and did not — from idleness.

2. The coffee was not hot: the bacon salt, and the plate shewed that it had been fried in a dirty pan.

3. I could not think of any small talk for Mrs. Honey, who seemed silent and distrait — burning with a very feeble wick....

4. J.'s letter telling of all his immense difficulties — all the impossible things he must do before he could start his holiday left me lukewarm. It had somehow a flat taste — and I felt rather as tho' I'd read it curiously apart, not united.


5. A vague stomach-ache in my bath.

6. Nothing to read and too rainy to go out.

7. A. came — and did not ring. I felt she had enough of our friendship for the present....

8. Very bad lunch. A small tough rissole which was no use to the functions and some rather watery gooseberries. I despise terribly English cooking.

9. Went for a walk and was caught in the wind and rain. Terribly cold and wretched.

10. The tea was not hot. I meant not to eat the bun but I ate it. Over-smoked.

Hotels

I seem to spend half of my life arriving at strange hotels. And asking if I may go to bed immediately.

"And would you mind filling my hot water bottle? ... Thank you; that is delicious. No, I shan't require anything more."


The strange door shuts upon the stranger, and then I slip down in the sheets. Waiting for the shadows to come out of the corners and spin their slow, slow web over the Ugliest Wallpaper of All.

Pulmonary Tuberculosis
The man in the room next to mine has the same complaint as I. When I wake in the night I hear him turning. And then he coughs. And I cough. And after a silence I cough. And he coughs again. This goes on for a long time. Until I feel we are like two roosters calling to each other at false dawn. From far-away hidden farms.

Jour Maigre

On Wednesday mornings Mrs. Honey comes into my room as usual and pulls up the blinds and opens the big French windows. Letting in the dancing light
and the swish of the sea and the creak of the boats lying at anchor out in the Roads, and the sound of the lawn mower and the smell of cut grass and syringa and the cheeky whistle of that same blackbird.


Then she comes back to my bed and stands over me, one hand pressed to her side, her old face puckered up as though she had some news that she didn't know how to break gently.

"'Tis a meatless day" says she.

Picnic

When the two women in white came down to the lonely beach — She threw away her paintbox — and She threw away her notebook. Down they sat on the sand. The tide was low. Before them the weedy rocks were like some herd of shaggy beasts huddled at the pool to drink and staying there in a kind of stupor.

Then She went off and dabbled her legs in a pool thinking about the colour of flesh under water. And She crawled into a dark cave and sat there thinking about her childhood. Then they came back to the beach and flung themselves down on their bellies, hiding their heads in their arms. They looked like two


swans.

Grown-upness

Four o'clock. Is it light now at four o'clock? I jump out of bed and run over to the window. It is half-light, neither black nor blue. The wing of the coast is violet;

So Very Quiet

in the lilac sky there are dark banners and little black boats manned by black shadows put out on the purple water.

Oh ! how often I have watched this hour when I was a girl ! But then — I stayed at the window until I grew cold — until I was icy — thrilled by something — I did not know what. Now I fly back into bed, pulling up the clothes, tucking them into my neck. And suddenly my feet find the hot water bottle. Heavens ! it is still beautifully warm. That really is thrilling.

Dame Seule

She is little and grey, with a black velvet band round her hair, false teeth, and skinny little hands coming out of frills like the frills on cutlets.


As I passed her room one morning I saw her 'worked' brush-and-comb bag and her Common Prayerbook.

Also, when she goes to the 'Ladies'' for some obscure reason she wears a little shawl. . . .

At the dining table, smiling brightly : — " This is the first time I have ever travelled alone, or stayed by myself in a Strange Hotel. But my husband does not mind. As it is so Very Quiet. Of course, if it were a

Gay Place" And she draws in her chin, and the

bead chain rises and falls on her vanished bosom.

Remembrance Always, when I see foxgloves, I think of the L.'s. Again I pass in front of their cottage and in the

window, between the daffodil curtains with the green spots — there are the great, sumptuous blooms.


" And how beautiful they are against the whitewash! " cry the L.'s.

As is their custom, when they love anything, they make a sort of Festa. With foxgloves everywhere. And then they sit in the middle of them, like blissful prisoners, dining in an encampment of Indian Braves.

Strawberries and a Sailing Ship

We sat on the top of the cliff overlooking the open sea. Our backs turned to the little town. Each of us had a basket of strawberries. We had just bought them from a dark woman with quick eyes — berryfinding eyes.

" They're fresh picked," said she, " from our own garden."

The tips of her fingers were stained a bright red. But what strawberries ! Each one was the finest — the perfect berry — the strawberry Absolute — the fruit of our childhood ! The very air came fanning on strawberry wings. And down below, in the pools, little children were bathing, with strawberry faces. . . .


Over the blue, swinging water, came a three-masted sailing-ship — with nine, ten, eleven sails. Wonderfully beautiful! She came riding by as though every sail were taking its fill of the sun and the light.

And: "Oh how I'd love to be on board!" said Anne.

(The captain was below, but the crew lay about,

idle and handsome. "Have some strawberries!" we

said, slipping and sliding on the rocking decks, and shaking the baskets. They ate them in a kind of dream. . . .)

And the ship sailed on. Leaving us in a kind of dream, too. With the empty baskets. . . .


To-day, this evening, after I have come home (for I must go out and buy some fruits) commence encore une vie nouvelle. Turn over and you'll see how good I become — a different child.

Later. I have read — given way to reading — two books by Octave Mirbeau — and after them I see dreadfully and finally, (1) that the French are a filthy people, (2) that their corruption is so puante — I'll not go near 'em again. No, the English couldn't stoop to this. They aren't human; they are in the good old English parlance — monkeys.

I must start writing again. They decide me. Something must be put up against this.

Ach, Tchehov! why are you dead? Why can't I talk to you, in a big darkish room, at late evening — where the light is green from the waving trees outside. I'd like to write a series of Heavens: that would be one.

I must not forget my timidity before closed doors. My debate as to whether I shall ring too loud or not

loud enough. . . . It's deep deep deep: in fact it is the * explanation ' of the failure of K.M. as a writer up to the present, and Oh! what a good anfang zu einem Geschichte!

The Eternal Question

I pose myself, yet once more, my Eternal Question. What is it that makes the moment of delivery so difficult for me? If I were to sit down — now — and just to write out, plain, some of the stories — all written, all ready, in my mind 'twould take me days. There are so many of them. I sit and think them out and if I overcome my lassitude and do take the pen they ought (they are so word perfect) to write themselves. But it's the activity. I haven't a place to write in or on — the chair isn't comfortable — yet even as I complain this seems the place and this the chair. And don't I want to write them? Lord! Lord! it's my only desire — my one happy issue. And only yesterday I was thinking — even my present state of health is a great gain. It makes things so rich, so important, so longed for . . . changes one's focus.


. . . When one is little and ill and far away in a remote bedroom all that happens beyond is marvellous. . . . Alors, I am always in that remote bedroom. Is that why I seem to see, this time in London — nothing but what is marvellous — marvellous — and incredibly beautiful?

The tide is full in the Redcliffe Road. One by one the doors have opened, have slammed shut. Now, in

The Redcliffe Road

their blind way, the houses are fed. That poor little violin goes on, tearing up note after note — there is a strange dazzling white cloud over the houses and a pool of blue.

Evening Primrose " All my virtues — all my rich nature — gone," she said, " grown over, tangled, forgotten, deserted like a once upon a time garden." She smiled and pulled down her hat and pulled her coat together as though making ready to stumble out into it and be lost too. " A dark place" said she, wavering to her feet. And then she smiled again. " Perhaps there is just left my — my — curiosity about myself. Evening Primrose. . . ." She half shut her eyes, stooping forward, curiously as though the plant had sprung up at her feet. " I always did hate evening primroses. They sound such darlings, but when you see one they're such weedy, shabby — flower on the grave without a grave stone — sort of things — I don't mean anything symbolical by that," said she, " God forbid!" and was gone.


The Redcliffe Road

Maisie — the student — their lodgers — she risks anything.

The little leaf that blows in — her memory of the park and crocodile — then there must be her cat called Millie. That quick hook on, dear girl — and the pain so great that she almost sobs. But nothing happens —

Nay, though my heart should break, I would not bind you.

Miss Ruddick who always plays with her music propped against the towel rail, and whenever she pulls out her handkerchief out comes an end of resin gummed on a flannel as well.

On these summer evenings the sound of the steps along the street is quite different. They knock-knock-knock along, but lightly and easily, as though they belonged to people who were walking home at their ease, after a procession or a pic-nic or a day at the sea.


The sky is pale and clear: the silly piano is overcome and reels out waltzes — old waltzes, spinning, drunk with sentiment — gorged with memory.

This is the hour when the poor underfed dog appears, at a run, nosing the dry gutter. He is so thin that his body is like a cage on four wooden pegs. . . . His lean triangle of a head is down, his long straight tail is out, and up and down, up and down he goes, silent and fearfully eager. The street watches him from its creeper-covered balconies, from its open windows — but the fat lady on the ground floor who is no better than she should be comes out — down the steps to the gate, with a bone. His tail as he waits for her to give it him, bangs against the gate post, like a broomhandle — and the street says she's a fool to go feeding strange dogs. Now she'll never be rid of him.


(What I'd like to convey is that at this hour, with this half light and the pianos and the open, empty

Inconsequence

sounding houses, he is the spirit of the street — running up and down, poor dog, when he ought to have been done away with years ago.)

The Middle of the Note

Whenever I have a conversation about Art which is more or less interesting I begin to wish to God I could destroy all that I have written and start again : it all seems like so many * false starts.' Musically speaking, it is not — has not been — in the middle of the note — you know what I mean ? When, on a cold morning perhaps, youVe been playing and it has sounded all right — until suddenly, you realize you are warm — you have only just begun to play. Oh, how badly this is expressed! How confused and even ungrammatical !


Now the day was divine — warm soft sunshine lay upon her arms and breast like velvet — tiny clouds, silver ones shone upon the dazzling blue — the garden trees were full of gold light — and a strange brightness came from the houses — from the open windows with their fairy curtains and flower pots . . . the white steps and the narrow spiked railings.

Inconsequence

"Did M. wear a grey dressing gown with a dark red piping," she asked.

"No, he was dressed."

"Oh ! Then I suppose he was very dressed, he always is."

That made her think suddenly, of another friend of his — a young fattish man who wore spectacles and was extremely serious with a kind of special fatness that she had noticed went with just that kind of seriousness. She saw him standing by a washtable drying his neck — and she saw his hair right to the neck-band of his shirt. His hair was, as usual, too long.


" How awful S. must be without a collar ! "

"Without a collar? " He looked at her; he almost gasped.

" Yes, in a shirt and trousers."

" In a shirt and trousers ! " he exclaimed. " I've never seen him in one — "

"No — but — Oh, well — "

He positively fixed her at that.

"How extraordinarily inconsequential you are!"

And all in a minute she was laughing.

" Well," she said, " men are "

And she looked out of the window at the tall poplar, with its whispering leaves, with its beautiful top, gold in the last sunlight.

On the wall of the kitchen there was a shadow, shaped like a little mask with two gold slits for eyes. It danced up and down.

August 2nd. 2 Portland Villas, Hampstead. Her heart had not spoken. . . . When it does — too late — the pain of it. I ought to have felt like this — often, often. . . .


A Dark Day

September 20th. My fits of temper are really terrifying. I had one this (Sunday) morning and tore a page up of the book I was reading — and absolutely lost my head. Very significant. When it was over J. came in and stared. "What is the matter? What have you done? Why? You look all dark." He drew back the curtains and called it an effect of light but when I came into my studio to dress I saw it was not that. I was a deep earthy colour, with pinched eyes. Strangely enough these fits are L. and F. over again. I am more like L. than anybody. We are unthinkably alike, in fact.

It is a dark reluctant day. The fire makes a noise like a flag — and there is the familiar sound from below of someone filling buckets. I am very stiff, very unused to writing now, and yet, as I sit here it's as though my dear one, my only one, came and sat down opposite me and gazed at me across the table. And I think suddenly of the verses which seemed so awfully good in my girlhood.


Others leave me — all things leave me, You remain.

My room really has for me a touch of fairy. Is there anything better than my room? Anything outside? The kitten says not — but then it's such a hunting ground for the kitten ; the sun throws the shape of the window on to the carpet, and in those four little square fields the silly flies wander, ever so spied upon by the little lion under the sommier frill. . . .

Oh dear — Oh dear — where are my people? With whom have I been happiest? With nobody in particular. It has all been mush of a mushness.

Later. That kitten took sick, was taken away, lived two weeks in great torture, then for two days, it lost the will to live. It became just a cotton reel of fur with two great tearful eyes : "Why has this happened to me?" so the vet. killed it. It had gastric trouble, acute constipation with a distended belly, and canker in both ears. The two days before it went away it suffered here. I bought it a ball and it tried to play a little


I hope this pen works. Yes, it does.

The last day in September — immensely cold, a kind of solid cold outside the windows. My life has played traitor nearly all day and I have been, in the good, old-fashioned way, feeling my skin curl.

Don't read this. Do you hear that train whistle and now the leaves — the dry leaves — and now the fire

— fluttering and breaking.

Why doesn't she bring the lamps ?


L.M. is going to town. I must take some of my dear money out of the Bank and give it her. I am in bed; I feel very sick. Queer altogether — decomposing a bit.

'Russian Country'

It's a pale silent day: I would like to be walking in a wood, far away.

Health seems to me now more remote than anything— unattainable. Best to stay in bed and be horrid from there. This sky in waves of blue and cream and grey is like the sky overhanging a dead calm sea, when you hear someone rowing, far far away; and then the voices from the boat and the rattle of the chain and the barking of the ship's dog all sound loud. There is as usual a smell of onions and chop bones in the house.

What do I want her to buy for me ? When it really becomes an urgent matter — I want nothing — waste of money — I feel like Mile. Seguin, who wouldn't hang the pictures in her new flat because Life is such a breathy little Dolly.


Hampstead. I ought to write something brief for the Nation to-day and earn a bit more money, a "Little Lunch at the Club" or something of that kind. It's not difficult; in fact it is too easy for me because if I do err more on one side than t'other—I'm overfluent.

This view from the window is simply superb—the pale sky and the half bare trees. It's so beautiful it might be the country—Russian country as I see it.

I never connected until to-day—sang froid with Cold blood. This is a word which is one of New Zealand's queer 'uns, like calling the Savoy the Savoy—or talking of the aerated bread shops. Sang froid.


This is simply the most Divine Spot. So remote, so peaceful; full of colour, full of Autumn; the sunset is real and the sound of somebody splitting small wood is real, too. If only one could live up here for really a long time and not have to see anybody. . . . It might very well be France, it's much more like France than it is like England.

The place — remote — the dresses and scarves old; The year, — fruitful! their talk and laughter gay.

The Ladies Club in Wartime Ladies to the Centre: A round hall, very dim, lighted from above. A loud reluctant (swing glass) door that can't bear people trying to burst their way in and loathes people trying to burst their way out. To one side of the door the porter's cave dotted with pigeon holes, and a desk, furnished with a telephone, usually a big tea-stained china tea cup crowned with its saucer. In front of it a squeaking revolving chair with a torn imitation leather seat.

Good-night

And once again the door opened and she passed, as it were into another world — the world of night, cold, timeless, inscrutable.

Again she saw the beautiful fall of the steps, the dark garden edged with fluttering ivy — on the other side of the road the huge bare willows — and above them the sky big and bright with stars.


Again there came that silence that was a question

The Fly

— but this time she did not hesitate. She moved forward, very softly and gently — as though fearful of making a ripple in that boundless pool of quiet. She put her arm round her friend. The friend is astonished

— murmurs "It has been so nice." The other — "Good-night, dear friend." A long tender embrace. Yes, that was it — of course that was what was wanting.

The Blow

"I" — like a blow on her heart — "I have come
— for"

She leaned against the door, quite faint. "Yes?" said she.

"This — ," tightly, quickly, he caught her up into his arms.

The Fly


4.45 p.m. Oh, the times when she had walked upside down on the ceiling, run up glittering panes, floated on a lake of light, flashed through a shining beam!

And God looked upon the fly fallen into the jug of milk and saw that it was good. And the smallest Cherubim and Seraphim of all, who delight in misfortune, struck their silver harps and shrilled: "How is the fly fallen, fallen!"


January 1. J. came to bed at ten minutes to twelve. Said he: "Don't go to sleep before the New Year." I lay holding my watch. I think I did go to sleep for a moment. The window was wide open and I looked out and over a big soft hollow, with a sprinkle of lights between. Then the hour struck: the bells rang — hooter, sirens, horns, trumpets sounded. The church organ pealed out (reminding me of Hans Andersen) and an Australian called Coo — ee. (I longed to reply.) I wanted L.M. to hear and to see. I called loudly to her ever so many times, but she had 'chosen' to take a bath....


6 p.m. I wish I had some idea of how old this note book is. The writing is very faint and far away. Now it is May 1919. Six o'clock. I am sitting in my own room thinking of Mother : I want to cry. But my thoughts are beautiful and full of gaiety. I think of our house, our garden, us children — the lawn, the gate, and Mother coming in. "Children! Children!" I really only ask for time to write it all — time to write my books. Then I don't mind dying. I live to write. The lovely world (God, how lovely the external world is!) is there and I bathe in it and am refreshed. But I feel as though I had a duty, someone has set me a task which I am bound to finish. Let me finish it : let me finish it without hurrying — leaving all as fair as I can. . . .

My little Mother, my star, my courage, my own. I seem to dwell in her now. We live in the same world. Not quite this world, not quite another. I do not care for people : and the idea of fame, of being a success,— that's nothing, less than nothing. I love my family and a few others dearly, and I love, in the old — in the ancient way, through and through, my husband.

Not a soul knows where she is. She goes slowly, thinking it all over, wondering how she can express it as she wants to — asking for time and for peace.


Escape

She was sure I would be cold and as usual tried to make of my departure une petite affaire serieuse. I always try to thieve out, steal out. I should like to let myself down from a window, or just withdraw like a ray of light.

"Are you sure you won't have your cape . . . etc. etc. etc. ?"

Her attitude made me quite sure. I went out. At the corner the flying, gay, eager wind ran at me. It was too much to bear. I went on for a yard or two, shivering — then I came home. I slipped the Yale key into the lock like a thief, shut the door dead quiet. Up she came, up the stairs.

"So it was too cold, after all !"

I couldn't answer or even look at her. I had to turn my back and pull off my gloves. Said she :


" I have a blouse-pattern here I want to show you."

At that I crept upstairs, came into my room, and shut the door. It was a miracle she did not follow. . . .

What is there in all this to make me hate her so? What do you see? She has known me try to get in and out without anyone knowing it dozens of times — that is true. I have even torn my heart out and told her how it hurts my last little defences to be questioned — how it makes me feel just for the moment an independent being, to be allowed to go and come unquestioned. But that is just " Katie's funniness. She doesn't mean it, of course. . . ."

We hardly spoke at lunch. When it was over she asked me again if she might show me the pattern. I felt so ill, it seemed to me that even a hen could see at a side glance of its little leaden eye how ill I felt. I don't remember what I said. But in she came and put before me — something. Really, I hardly know what it was. " Let the little dressmaker help you," I said. But there was nothing to say.


She murmured : " Purple chiffon front neck sleeves." I don't know. Finally I asked her to take it away.

" What is it, Katie? Am I interrupting your work? "

"Yes, we'll call it that."

Being Alone

Being Alone Saturday: This joy of being alone. What is it? I feel so gay and at peace — the whole house takes the air. Lunch is ready. I have a baked egg, apricots and cream, cheese straws and black coffee. How delicious ! A baby meal ! Mother shares it with me. Athenaeum is asleep and then awake on the studio sofa. He has a silver spoon of cream — then hides under the sofa frill and puts out a paw for my finger. I gather the dried leaves from the plant in the big white bowl, and because I must play with something, I take an orange up to my room and throw it and catch it as I walk up and down. . . .


Saturday. Peaceful and gay. The whole house takes the air. Athenaeum is asleep and then awake on the studio sofa. He has a silver spoonful of my cream at lunchtime — then hides under the sofa frill and plays the game of the Darting Paw. I gather the dried leaves from the plant in the big white bowl ; they are powdered with silver. There is nobody in the house, and yet whose is this faint whispering? On the stairs there are tiny spots of gold — tiny footprints. . . .

Geraniums The red geraniums have brought the garden over my head. They are there, established, back in the old home, every leaf and flower unpacked and in its place

— and quite determined that no power on earth will ever move them again. Well, that I don't mind. But why should they make me feel a stranger? Why should they ask me every time I go near : " And what are you doing in a London garden? " They burn with arrogance and pride. And I am the little Colonial walking in the London garden patch — allowed to look, perhaps, but not to linger. If I lie on the grass they positively shout at me: " Look at her, lying on our grass, pretending she lives here, pretending this her garden, and that tall back of the house, with the windows open and the coloured curtains lifting, is her house. She is a stranger — an alien. She is nothing but a little girl sitting on the Tinakori hills and dreaming : * I went to London and married an Englishman and we lived in a tall grey house with red geraniums and white daisies in the garden at the back.' Impudence! "


The red geraniums have brought the garden over my head and taken possession. They are settled in, every leaf and flower unpacked and in its place, and never do they mean to move again! Well — that I could bear. But why because I've let them in should they throw me out? They won't even let me lie on the grass without their shouting: " Tra-pudence ! "

A Dream
Sometimes I glance up at the clock. Then I know I am expecting Chummie. The bell peals. I run out on to the landing. I hear his hat and stick thrown on to the hall-table. He runs up the stairs, three at a time. " Hullo, darling ! " But I can't move — I can't move. He puts his arm round me, holding me tightly, and we kiss — a long, firm, family kiss. And the kiss means: We are of the same blood; we have absolute confidence in each other; we love; all is well; nothing can ever come between us.


We come into my room. He goes over to the glass. " By Jove, I am hot." Yes, he is very hot. A deep childish colour shows in his cheeks, his eyes are brilliant, his lips burn, he strokes the hair back from his forehead with the palm of his hand. I pull the curtains together and the room is shadowy. He flings himself down on the sommier and lights a cigarette, and watches the smoke, rising so slowly.

"Is that better?" I ask.

"Perfect, darling — simply perfect. The light reminds me of . . ."

And then the dream is over and I begin working again.

England

The two brothers were on one side of the room, I on the other. R. sat on the floor inclined towards J. J. lay on his back, very idly.

" If you could have your wish, where would you be?"


First he thought a cafe in some foreign town . . . in Spain . . . no, in Grenoble, perhaps . . . sitting listening to music and watching the people. We are just passing

through. . . . There is a lake and a river near. . . . But then, no. A farmhouse in Sussex — some good old furniture — knocking about in the garden — rolling the lawn, perhaps — yes, rolling the lawn. An infant

— two good servants. And then, when it grew dark — to go in, have some milk, then I go to my study and you to yours and work for about an hour and a half and then trundle off to bed. I would like to earn my living, but not by writing. I feel that my talent as a writer isn't a great one — I'll have to be careful of it. . . . Yes, that's what I'd like. No new places — no new things. I don't want them. Would you like that?


I felt his brother was with him, the brother inclined towards him, understanding and sharing that life — the homestead on the Downs — his English country

— the sober quiet. . . . "Would you like that?"

No, I don't want that. No, I don't want England. England is of no use to me. What do I mean by that? I mean there never has been — never will be — any rapprochement between us, never. . . . The lack of its appeal — that is what I chiefly hate. I would not care if I never saw the English country again. Even in its flowering I feel deeply antagonistic to it, and I will never change.

A Good Beginning


First comes L.M. I give her orders. Ask her to supervise the maid till Monday. 'Be gentle with her: help her to make the beds; and just tell her how

A Good Beginning

everything must be.' Then in detail I sketch out the maid's programme. 'Send Ralph, please.' Ralph arrives. I arrange the food. Then settle all that must be done, coercing Ralph, putting her mind in order if I can, making her see the bright side of things, sending her away (I hope) feeling important and happy.

I go upstairs to see Maud, to say good-morning, to hope 'she will be happy.' "Just take things gently; I'll quite understand that you can't get into our ways at once. Ask Miss B. and the cook for what you want. But if you wish to see me, don't hesitate to come in. I was so glad you were early." She was very reassured. Her eyes shone (she's only a little girl). She said it was like the country. As she walked up from the tram the birds sang "something beautiful." This instead of the 'long drag up the hill' was cheering. I left her happy. I know I did.

Downstairs just to say Good-day to Mrs. Moody and to say there were some flowers for her to take home. The good creature was on her knees polishing and saying it was such a fine day. Bless her 60 years! We had a little joke or two and I came away.


L.M. again — just for a moment to say: "As you have a machine, don't hem dusters by hand as I see you are doing. Keep your energies for something important! "

Then I sit down to work, and there comes a steady, pleasant vibration from the ship. If only I could always control these four women like this ! I must learn to.


Work. Shall I be able to express one day my love of work — my desire to be a better writer — my longing to take greater pains. And the passion I feel. It takes the place of religion — it is my religion — of people — I create my people: of 'life' — it is Life. The temptation is to kneel before it, to adore, to prostrate myself, to stay too long in a state of ecstasy before the idea of it. I must be more busy about my master's business.

Oh, God! The sky is filled with the sun, and the sun is like music. The sky is full of music. Music comes streaming down these great beams. The wind touches the harp-like trees, shakes little jets of music — little shakes, little trills from the flowers. The shape of every flower is like a sound. My hands open like Ave petals. Praise Him! Praise Him! No, I am overcome; I am dazed; it is too much to bear.

A little fly has dropped by mistake into the huge sweet cup of a magnolia. Isaiah (or was it Elisha?) was caught up into Heaven in a chariot of fire once. But when the weather is divine and I am free to work, such a journey is positively nothing.

The Angel of Mercy May. The day the housemaid had to leave because her husband 'didn't want her to work no more' and, to consolidate his authority, had punched her so hard in the neck that she had a great red swelling under her ear, the cook became a kind of infallible being — an angel of mercy. Nothing was too much for her. Stairs were


The Cook

rays of light up which she floated. She wore her cap differently: it gave her the air of a hospital nurse. Her voice changed. She suggested puddings as though they were compresses: whiting, because they were so 'delicate and harmless.' Trust me! Lean on me! There is nothing I cannot do! was her attitude. Every time she left me, she left me for her mysterious reasons — to lay out the body again and again — to change the stiffened hand — to pull the paper frill over the ominous spot appearing.

The Cook

The cook is evil. After lunch I trembled so that I had to lie down on the sommier — thinking about her. I meant — when she came up to see me — to say so much that she'd have to go. I waited, playing with the wild kitten. When she came, I said it all, and more, and she said how sorry she was and agreed and apologised and quite understood. She stayed at the door, plucking at a d'oyley. "Well, I'll see it doesn't happen in future. I quite see what you mean."


So the serpent still slept between us. Oh! why won't she turn and speak her mind. This pretence of being fond of me! I believe she thinks she is. There is something in what L.M. says: she is not consciously evil. She is a fool, of course. I have to do all the managing and all the explaining. I have to cook everything before she cooks it. I believe she thinks she is a treasure . . . no, wants to think it. At bottom she knows her corruptness. There are moments when it comes to the surface, comes out, like a stain, in her face. Then her

eyes are like the eyes of a woman-prisoner — a creature looking up as you enter her cell and saying: 'If you'd known what a hard life I've had you wouldn't be surprised to see me here.'


Cook to See Me

As I opened the door, I saw her sitting in the middle of the room, hunched, still . . . She got up, obedient, like a prisoner when you enter a cell. And her eyes said, as a prisoner's eyes say, "Knowing the life I've had, I'm the last to be surprised at finding myself here."

The Cook's Story

Her first husband was a pawnbroker. He learned his trade from her uncle, with whom she lived, and was more like her big brother than anything else from the age of thirteen. After he had married her they prospered. He made a perfect pet of her — they used to say. His sisters put it that he made a perfect fool of himself over her. When their children were fifteen and nine he urged his employers to take a man into their firm — a great friend of his — and persuaded them; really went security for this man. When she saw the man she went all over cold. She said, Mark me, you've not done right: no good will come of this. But he laughed it off. Time passed: the man proved a villain. When they came to take stock, they found all the stock was false: he'd sold everything. This preyed on


The Cook's Story

her husband's mind, went on preying, kept him up at night, made a changed man of him, he went mad as you might say over figures, worrying. One evening, sitting in his chair, very late, he died of a clot of blood on the brain.

She was left. Her big boy was old enough to go out, but the little one was still not more than a baby : he was so nervous and delicate. The doctors had never let him go to school.

One day her brother-in-law came to see her and advised her to sell up her home and get some work. All that keeps you back, he said, is little Bert. Now, I'd advise you to place a certain sum with your solicitor for him and put him out — in the country. He said he'd take him. I did as he advised. But, funny! I never heard a word from the child after he'd gone. I used to ask why he didn't write, and they said, when he can write a decent letter you shall have it — not before. That went on for a twelvemonth, and I found afterwards he'd been writing all the time, grieving to be took away, and they'd never sent his letters. Then quite sudden his uncle wrote and said he must be taken away. He'd done the most awful things — things I couldn't find you a name for — he'd turned vicious — he was a little criminal! What his uncle said was I'd spoiled the child and he was going to make a man of him, and he'd beaten him and half starved him and when he was frightened at night and screamed, he turned him out into the New Forest and made him sleep under the branches. My big boy went


down to see him. Mother, he says, you wouldn't know little Bert. He can't speak. He won't come near anybody. He starts off if you touch him ; he's like a little beast. And, oh dear, the things he'd done ! Well, you hear of people doing those things before they're put into orphanages. But when I heard that and thought it was the same little baby his father used to carry into Regent's Park bathed and dressed of a Sunday morning — well, I felt my religion was going from me.

I had a terrible time trying to get him into an orphanage. I begged for three months before they would take him. Then he was sent to Bisley. But after I'd been to see him there, in his funny clothes and all — I could see 'is misery. I was in a nice place at the time, cook to a butcher in a large way in Kensington, but that poor child's eyes — they used to follow me — and a sort of shivering that came over him when people went near.


Well, I had a friend that kept a boarding house in Kensington. I used to visit her, and a friend of hers, a big well-set-up fellow, quite the gentleman, an engineer who worked in a garage, came there very often. She used to joke and say he wanted to walk me out. I laughed it off till one day she was very serious. She said, You're a very silly woman. He earns good money ; he'd give you a home and you could have your little boy. Well, he was to speak to me next day and I made up my mind to listen. Well, he did, and he couldn't have put it nicer. I can't give you a house to start with, he said, but you shall have three good rooms

The Cook's Story

and the kid, and I'm earning good money and shall be more.


A week after, he come to me. I can't give you any money this week, he says, there's things to pay for from when I was single. But I daresay you've got a bit put by. And I was a fool, you know, I didn't think it funny. Oh yes, I said, I'll manage. Well, so it went on for three weeks. We'd arranged not to have little Bert for a month because, he said, he wanted me to himself, and he was so fond of him. A big fellow, he used to cling to me like a child and call me mother.

After three weeks was up I hadn't a penny. I'd been taking my jewels and best clothes to put away to pay for him until he was straight. But one night I said, Where's my money? He just up and gave me such a smack in the face I thought my head would burst. And that began it. Every time I asked him for money he beat me. As I said, I was very religious at the time, used to wear a crucifix under my clothes and couldn't go to bed without kneeling by the side and saying my prayers — no, not even the first week of my marriage. Well, I went to a clergyman and told him everything and he said, My child, he said, I am very sorry for you, but with God's help, he said, it's your duty to make him a better man. You say your first husband was so good. Well, perhaps God has kept this trial for you until now. I went home — and that very night he tore my crucifix off and hit me on the head when I knelt down. He said he wouldn't have me say my prayers; it made him wild. I had a little dog at the


time I was very fond of, and he used to pick it up and shout, I'll teach it to say its prayers, and beat it before my eyes — until — well, such was the man he was.

Then one night he came the worse for drink and fouled the bed. I couldn't stand it. I began to cry. He gave me a hit on the ear and I fell down, striking my head on the fender. When I came to, he was gone. I ran out into the street just as I was — I ran as fast as I could, not knowing where I was going — just dazed — my nerves were gone. And a lady found me and took me to her home and I was there three weeks. And after that I never went back. I never even told my people. I found work, and not till months after I went to see my sister. Good gracious! she says, we all thought you was murdered! And I never see him since. . . .


Those were dreadful times. I was so ill, I could scarcely work and of course I couldn't get my little boy out. He had to grow up in it. And so I had to start all over again. I had nothing of his, nothing of mine. I lost it all except my marriage lines. Somehow I remembered them just as I was running out that night and put them in my body — sort of an instinct as you might say.

J. digs the garden as though he were exhuming a hated body or making a hole for a loved one.

The ardent creature spent more than half her time in church praying to be delivered from temptation. But God grew impatient at last and caused the door

Wingley

to be shut against her. " For Heaven's sake," said he, " give the temptation a chance ! "


It's raining, but the air is soft, smoky, warm. Big drops patter on the languid leaves, the tobacco flowers lean over. Now there is a rustle in the ivy. Wingley has appeared from the garden next door; he bounds from the wall. And delicately, lifting his paws, pointing his ears, very afraid that big wave will overtake him, he wades over the lake of green grass.

"Mr. Despondency's daughter, Muchafraid, went through the water singing."

She said: "I don't feel in the least afraid. I feel like a little rock that the rising tide is going to cover. You won't be able to see me... big waves... but they'll go down again. I shall be there — winking bright."

Oh, what sentimental toshery!


I have discovered that I cannot burn the candle at one end and write a book with the other.

Life without work — I would commit suicide. Therefore work is more important than life.


Bateson and his love of the louse for its own sake. Pedigree lice. £100 a year from the Royal Institute: a large family: desperately poor: but he never notices. The lives he saved in the Balkan war with shaving and Thymol. Cases reduced from 7000 to 700. No reward, not even an O.B.E. He dissects them,

finds their glands and so on, keeps them in tiny boxes; they feed on his arm. The louse and the bedbug.

Hydatids: the Australian who got them: handfuls of immature grapes. They attack the liver. In the human body they reproduce indefinitely. When they are passed and a sheep is attacked by them, they develop hooks and become long worms.

The Egyptian disease: a parasite which attacks the veins and arteries and causes fluxion—constant bleeding. It is another egg drunk in water. After it has been in man the only thing it can affect is a watersnail. It goes through an entirely new cycle of being until it can attack man again. Dysentery: another parasite.

Hydrophobia: the virus from the dog is taken and a rabbit is infected. That rabbit is used to infect another rabbit: the 2nd a 3rd, and so on, until you get a rabbit who is practically pure virus. The spinal cords are then taken from these rabbits and dried by a vacuum. The result is pounded up fine into an emulsion: 1st rabbit, 2nd rabbit, 3rd rabbit, etc., and the patient is injected progressively till at last he receives a dose which, if he had not been prepared to resist it, would kill him outright. The disease develops very slowly; the treatment is very expensive. Symptoms are a profuse shiny bubbling saliva, and gasping and groaning as in gas-poisoning. No barking, no going on all fours.


In lockjaw the jaw does not lock.

Pasteur was a very dreamer of dreamers. Human beings are a side-line to science.

The Larger Breath

All this I talked over with Sorapure, June 21. His point of view about medicine seems to me just completely right. I'd willingly let him take off my head, look inside, and pop it on again, if he thought it might assist future generations. Quite the right man to have at one's dying bedside. He'd get me at any rate so interested in the process — gradual loss of sensitiveness, coldness in the joints, etc. — I'd lie there thinking: this is very valuable to know ; I must make a note of this.

As he stood at the door talking : " Nothing is incurable; it's all a question of time. What seems so useless to-day may be just that link which will make all plain to a future generation. ..." I had a sense of the larger breath, of the mysterious lives within lives, and the Egyptian parasite beginning its new cycle of being in a water-snail affected me like a great work of art. No, that's not what I mean. It made me feel how perfect the world is, with its worms and hooks and ova, how incredibly perfect. There is the sky and the sea and the shape of a lily, and there is all this other as well. The balance how perfect! (Salut, Tchehov!) I would not have the one without the other.


The clocks are striking ten. Here in my room the sky looks lilac; in the bath-room it is like the skin of a peach. Girls are laughing.

I have consumption. There is still a great deal of moisture (and pain) in my bad lung. But I do not care. I do not want anything I could not have. Peace, solitude, time to write my books, beautiful external

life to watch and ponder — no more. O, I'd like a child as well — a baby boy; mais je demande trop!

As he stood at the door he said quietly, "Nothing is incurable. What seems so useless to-day may be the link that will make all plain to-morrow." We had been discussing hydatids, the Egyptian parasite that begins its cycle of existence being in a water-snail and the effects of hydrophobia. He smiled gently. There was nothing to be alarmed or shocked or surprised at. It was all a question of knowing these things as they should be known and not otherwise. But he said none of this and went off to his next case. . . .


At breakfast time a mosquito and a wasp came to the edge of the honey dish to drink. The mosquito was a lovely little high stepping gazelle, but the wasp was a fierce roaring tiger. Drink, my darlings!

When the coffee is cold L.M. says: These things have to happen sometimes. And she looks mysterious and important, as if, as a matter of fact, she had known all along that this was a cold coffee day.

What I felt was, he said, that I wasn't in the whole of myself at all. I'd got locked in, somehow, in some little . . . top room in my mind, and strangers had got in — people I'd never seen before were making free of the rest of it. There was a dreadful feeling of confusion, chiefly that, and . . . vague noises — like things being moved — changed about — in my head. I lit


Second Violin

the candle and sat up and in the mirror I saw a dark, brooding, strangely lengthened face.

" The feeling roused by the cause is more important than the cause itself. . . ." That is the kind of thing I like to say to myself as I get into the train. And then, as one settles into the corner — " For example " — or " Take — for instance . . ." It's a good game for one.

She fastens on a white veil and hardly knows herself. Is it becoming or is it not becoming? Ah, who is there to say. There is a lace butterfly on her left cheek and a spray of flowers on her right. Two dark bold eyes stare through the mesh — Surely not hers. Her lips tremble; faint, she sinks on her bed. And now she doesn't want to go. Must she? She is being driven out of the flat by those bold eyes. Out you go. Ah, how cruel! (Second Violin.)


But her hand is large and cold with big knuckles and short square nails. It is not a little velvet hand that sighs, that yields — faints dead away and has to be revived again only to faint once more. {S.V.)

What do I want? she thought. What do I really want more than anything else in the world? If I had a wishing ring or Ali Baba's lamp — no, it wasn't Ali Baba — it was — Oh, what did it matter ! Just supposing someone came. ..." I am here to grant your dearest wish." And she saw, vaguely, a fluffy little creature with a silver paper star on a wand — a school

fairy. . . . What should I say? It was cold in the kitchen, cold and dim. The tap dripped slowly, as tho' the water were half frozen. . . . (S.F.)


Miss Todd and Miss Hopper were second violins. Miss Bray was a viola.

Midday strikes on various bells — some velvety soft, some languid, some regretful, and one impatient

— a youthful bell ringing high and quick above the rest. He thought joyfully: That's the bell for me! . . .

Cinderella Oh, my sisters — my beautiful Peacock-proud sisters

— have pity on me as I sit with my little broom beside the cold ashes while you dance at the Prince's party. But why — is the Fairy Godmother, the coach, the plumes and glass slippers just — faery — and all the rest of the story deeply, deeply true? Fate I suppose

— Fate. It had to be. These things happen so. La réponse: Poor old girl — of course she is awfully sorry for her, but she does become a bore — doesn't she? There's no getting away from it.


When they got into bed together her feet rushed to greet his like little puppies that had been separated all day from their brothers. And first they chased one another and played and nudged gently. But then, they settled down, curled up, twined together under the clothes (like puppies on a warm hearth rug) and went to sleep.

Two Climates

Dark Bogey is a little inclined to jump into the milk jug to rescue the fly.

Fairylike, the fire rose in two branched flames like the golden antlers of some enchanted stag.

So he sat there, burning the letters, and each time he cast a fresh packet on the flame, his shadow, immense, huge, leapt out of the wall opposite him. It looked, sitting so stiff and straight, like some horrible old god, toasting his knees at the flames of the sacrifice.


Two Climates

I'd always rather be in a place that is too hot rather than one that's too cold. But I'd always rather be with people who loved me too little rather than with people who loved me too much.

"She has made her bed," said Belle — "she must lie on it." I reflected thankfully that in this case that would be no hardship — on the contrary, indeed. I hoped it was what they were both longing to do....

North Africa. The whole valley is smothered in little white lilies. You never saw such a sight! They make me feel so wretchedly homesick. They smell just like dear old Selfridge's.

Souvent j'ai dit à mon mari: Nous en prenons un? Et il me dit : Ah, non, non, ma pauvre femme. Notre petit moment pour jouer est passé. Je ne peux rien faire que de rester dans une chaise en faisant des grimaces, et ça fait trembler plus que ça ne fait rire un petit enfant.


When I read Dr. Johnson, I feel like a little girl sitting at the same table. My eyes grow round. I don't only listen; I take him in immensely.

"Don't you think it would be marvellous," she said, "to have just one person in one's life to whom one could tell everything?" She leant forward, put down her cup, but stayed bent forward touching the spoon against the saucer. She looked up — "Or is it just childish of me — just absurd to want such a thing?... All the same," she leaned back, smiling, "childish or not — how wonderful it would be — how wonderful! to feel — from this person, this one person — I really don't need to hide anything. It would be such heavenly happiness!" she cried, suddenly, "it would make life so..." she got up, went to the window, looked out vaguely and turned round again. She laughed. "It's a queer thing," she said, "I've always believed in the possibility — and yet — in reality... Take R. and me, for instance." And here she flung back in a chair and leant back, still she was laughing but her body leaned to the chair as though exhausted. "I tell him everything. You know we're... rather different from most people. What I mean is — don't laugh — we love each other simply tremendously — we're everything to each other! In fact he's the one person on earth for me — and yet," and she shut her eyes and bit her lip as though she wanted to stop


Indoo Weather

laughing herself: "try, try, try as I can — there's always just one secret — just one — that never can be told — that mocks me." And then for a moment she lay still. . . .

Indoo Weather: A Dream

"It's what you might call indoo weather," said the little man.

"Oh, really. . . . Why that?" said I, vaguely.

He did not answer. The two polished knobs of his behind shone as he leaned over feeding the black seams of the boat with a brown twist.

The day was dull, steaming; there was a blackness out at sea; the heavy waves came tolling. On the sea grasses the large bright dew fell not. The little man's hammer went tap-tap.

L.M. snorted, threw up her head, stamped her feet on the wet sand, scrambled to a boulder, tore at some sea-poppies, dug them in her hat, held the hat away, looked, scornful, wrenched them out again.


I looked and felt vague as a king.

"Spades and buckets is round the point with the lobster catch." The hammer tapped. He explained that all the lovers would be sent away alive in sacks if they were not given a sharp stang with one of these. It was an ordinary grey and red garden trowel. L.M. went off to save their lives, but not joyfully. She walked heavy, her head down, beating the trowel against her side.

We were alone. The watcher appeared. He stood always in profile, his felt hat turned up at the side, a patch on the eye nearest us. His curved pipe fell from his jaws.

"Hi, Missy," he shouted to me. "Why don't you give us a bit of a show out there?"

The little man remonstrated. The sea was like a mass of half-set jelly. On the horizon it seemed ages fell.


" Come on, Missy ! " bawled the watcher. I took off my clothes, stepped to the edge and was drawn in. I tried to catch the stumps of an old wharf, but slime filled my nails and I was sucked out. They watched.

Suddenly there came, winnowing landward, an enormous skinny skeleton of a Hindoo, standing upright. A tattered pink and white print coat flapped about his stiff outstretched arms. He had cloth of the same with a fringe of spangles over his head. He stood upright because of the immense sweeping broom of wood growing waist-high. " Help ! Help ! " I called.

The noise of the hammer came, and I felt the watcher's patched profile. A huge unbreakable wave lifted him, tipped him near. His shadow lay even, on the surface of the dusty water — a squat head and two giant arms. It broadened into a smile.


Strangers I saw S. as a little fair man with a walrus moustache, a bowler much too small for him and an ancient frock coat that he keeps buttoning and unbuttoning. D.B. saw him as a grave gentleman with big black whiskers. Anyhow, there he was at the end of a dark tunnel, either coming towards us or walking away. . . . That started us on a fascinating subject. There are the people in D.B.'s life I've never seen (very few) and the immense number in mine that he has only heard of. What did they look like to us? And then, before we meet anyone while they are still far too far off to be seen we begin to build an image. . . . how true is it? It's queer how well one gets to know this stranger; how often you've watched him before the other comes to take his place. ... I can even imagine someone keeping their "first impression"—in spite of the other.


July

Tedious Brief Adventure of K.M.

A Doctor who came from Jamaica

Said: "This time I'll mend her or break her.

I'll plug her with serum;

And if she can't bear 'em

I'll call in the next undertaker."

His locum tenens, Doctor Byam,

Said: "Right oh, old fellow, we'll try 'em,

For I'm an adept, O,

At pumping in strepto

Since I was a surgeon in Siam."

The patient, who hailed from New Zealand,

Said: "Pray don't consider my feeling,

Provided you're certain

'Twill not go on hurtin',

I'll lie here and smile at the ceiling."

These two very bloodthirsty men

Injected five million, then ten,

But found that the strepto

Had suddenly crept to

Her feet — and the worst happened then!

Any day you may happen to meet

Her alone in the Hampstead High Street


In a box on four wheels

With a whistle that squeals;

And her hands do the job of her feet.

Mrs. Nightingale: A Dream November. Walking up a dark hill with high iron fences at the sides of the road and immense trees over. I was looking for a midwife, Mrs. Nightingale. A little girl, barefoot, with a handkerchief over her head pattered up and put her chill hand in mine; she would lead me.

A light showed from a general shop. Inside a beautiful fair angry young woman directed me up the hill and to the right.

"You should have believed me!" said the child, and dug her nails into my palm.

There reared up a huge wall with a blank notice

Mrs. Nightingale

plastered on it. That was the house. In a low room, sitting by a table, a dirty yellow and black rug on her knees, an old hag sat. She had a grey handkerchief on her head. Beside her on the table was a jar of onions and a fork. I explained. She was to come to mother. Mother was very delicate: her eldest daughter was thirty-one and she had heart disease. "So please come at once."


"Has she any adhesions?" muttered the old hag, and she speared an onion, ate it and rubbed her nose.

"Oh, yes"— I put my hands on my breast — "many, many plural adhesions."

"Ah, that's bad, that's very bad," said the old crone, hunching up the rug so that through the fringe I saw her square slippers. "But I can't come. I've a case at four o'clock."

At that moment a healthy, bonny young woman came in with a bundle. She sat down by the midwife and explained, "Jinnie has had hers already." She unwound the bundle too quickly: a new-born baby with round eyes fell forward on her lap. I felt the pleasure of the little girl beside me — a kind of quiver. The young woman blushed and lowered her voice. "I got her to . . ." And she paused to find a very medical-private word to describe washing. . . . "To navigate with a bottle of English water," she said, "but it isn't all away yet."


Mrs. Nightingale told me to go to the friend, Madame Leger, who lived on the terrace with a pink light before her house. I went. The terrace of houses was

white and grey-blue in the moonlight with dark pines down the road. I saw the exquisite pink light. But just then there was a clanking sound behind me, and there was the little girl, bursting with breathlessness dragging in her arms a huge black bag. " Mrs. Nightingale says you forgot this."

So I was the midwife. I walked on thinking : " I'll go and have a look at the poor little soul. But it won't be for a long time yet."

Et in Arcadia Ego

To sit in front of the little wood fire, your hands crossed in your lap and your eyes closed — to fancy you see again upon your eyelids all the dancing beauty of the day, to feel the flame on your throat as you used to imagine you felt the spot of yellow when Bogey held a buttercup under your chin . . . when breathing is such delight that you are almost afraid to breathe — as though a butterfly fanned its wings upon your breast. Still to taste the warm sunlight that melted in your mouth ; still to smell the white waxy scent that lay upon the jonquil fields and the wild spicy scent of the rosemary growing in little tufts among the red rocks close to the brim of the sea. . . .


The moon is rising but the reluctant day lingers upon the sea and sky. The sea is dabbled with a pink the colour of unripe cherries, and in the sky there is a flying yellow light like the wings of canaries. Very stubborn and solid are the trunks of the palm trees. Springing from their tops the stiff green bouquets

Arcady

seem to cut into the evening air and among them, the blue gum trees, tall and slender with sickle-shaped leaves and drooping branches half blue, half violet. The moon is just over the mountain behind the village. The dogs know she is there ; already they begin to howl and bark. The fishermen are shouting and whistling to one another as they bring in their boats, some young boys are singing in half-broken voices down by the shore, and there is a noise of children crying, little children with burnt cheeks and sand between their toes being carried to bed. . . .


I am tired, blissfully tired. Do you suppose that daisies feel blissfully tired when they shut for the night and the dews descend upon them ?

Dear December 15. When I had gone to bed I realised what it was that had caused me to give way. It was the effort of being up, with a heart that won't work. Not my lungs at all. My despair simply disappeared — yes, simply. The weather was lovely. Every morning the sun came in and drew more squares of golden light on the wall, I looked round my bed on to a sky like silk. The day opened slowly, slowly like a flower, and it held the sun long, long before it slowly, slowly folded. Then my homesickness went. I not only didn't want to be in England, I began to love Italy, and the thought of it — the sun — even when it was too hot — always the sun — and a kind of wholeness which was good to bask in.


All these two years I have been obsessed by the fear of death. This grew and grew and grew gigantic, and this it was that made me cling so, I think. Ten days ago it went, I care no more. It leaves me perfectly cold. . . . Life either stays or goes.

I must put down here a dream. The first night I was in bed here, i.e. after my first day in bed, I went to sleep. And suddenly I felt my whole body breaking up. It broke up with a violent shock — an earthquake — and it broke like glass. A long terrible shiver, you understand — the spinal cord and the bones and every bit and particle quaking. It sounded in my ears a low, confused din, and there was a sense of floating greenish brilliance, like broken glass. When I woke I thought that there had been a violent earthquake. But all was still. It slowly dawned upon me — the conviction that in that dream I died. I shall go on living now — it may be for months, or for weeks or days or hours. Time is not. In that dream I died. The spirit that is the enemy of death and quakes so and is so tenacious was shaken out of me. I am (December 15, 1919) a dead woman, and I don't care. It might comfort others to know that one gives up caring; but they'd not believe any more than I did until it happened. And, oh, how strong was its hold upon me! How I adored life and dreaded death!


I'd like to write my books and spend some happy time with J. (not very much faith withal) and see L. in a sunny place and pick violets — all kinds of flowers.
Death and Truth

I'd like to do heaps of things, really. But I don't mind if I do not do them. . . . Honesty (why?) is the only thing one seems to prize beyond life, love, death, everything. It alone remaineth. O you who come after me, will you believe it? At the end truth is the only thing worth having: it's more thrilling than love, more joyful and more passionate. It simply cannot fail. All else fails. I, at any rate, give the remainder of my life to it and it alone.


I'd like to write a long, long story on this and call it "Last Words to Life." One ought to write it. And another on the subject of Hate.


It often happens to me now that when I lie down to sleep at night, instead of getting drowsy, I feel more wakeful and, lying here in bed, I begin to live over either scenes from real life or imaginary scenes. It's not too much to say they are almost hallucinations: they are marvellously vivid. I lie on my right side and put my left hand up to my forehead as though I were praying. This seems to induce the state. Then, for instance, it is 10:30 p.m. on a big liner in mid ocean. People are beginning to leave the Ladies' Cabin. Father puts his head in and asks if "one of you would care for a walk before you turn in. It's glorious up on deck." That begins it. I am there. Details: Father rubbing his gloves, the cold air — the night air, the pattern of everything, the feel of the brass stair-rail and the rubber stairs. Then the deck — the pause while

the cigar is lighted, the look of all in the moonlight, the steadying hum of the ship, the first officer on deck, so far aloft the bells, the steward going into the smoking-room with a tray, stepping over the high, brassbound step. . . . All these things are far realer, more in detail, richer than life. And I believe I could go on until . . . There's no end to it.


I can do this about everything. Only there are no personalities. Neither am I there personally. People are only part of the silence, not of the pattern — vastly different from that — part of the scheme. I could always do this to a certain extent; but it's only since I was really ill that this — shall we call it? — "consolation prize" has been given to me. My God! it's a marvellous thing.

I can call up certain persons — Doctor S. for instance. And then I remember how I used to say to J. and R. "He was looking very beautiful to-day." I did not know what I was saying. But when I so summon him and see him 'in relation,' he is marvellously beautiful. There again he comes complete, to every detail, to the shape of his thumbs, to looking over his glasses, his lips as he writes, and particularly in all connected with putting the needle into the syringe.... I relive all this at will.


"Any children? " he said, taking his stethoscope as I struggled with my nightgown. " No, no children." But what would he have said if I'd told him that
stifling
until a few days ago I had had a little child, aged five and three quarters, of indeterminate sex? Some days it was a boy. For two years now it had very often been a little girl. . . .


Surely I do know more than other people: I have suffered more, and endured more. I know how they long to be happy, and how precious is an atmosphere that is loving, a climate that is not frightening. Why do I not try to bear this in mind, and try to cultivate my garden? Now I descend to a strange place among strangers. Can I not make myself felt as a real personal force? (why should you?) Ah, but I should. I have had experiences unknown to them. I should by now have learnt C.'s obiter dictum — how true it might be. It must be.


Calm day. In garden read early poems in Oxford Book. Discussed our future library. In the evening read Dostoevsky. In the morning discussed the importance of * eternal life.' Played our famous Stone Game (Cape Sixpence and Cornwall).1

1 The Stone Game was simple. You placed a largish stone at the extreme edge of a cliff, sat down about ten yards away and shied smaller stones at it. The one who first toppled it over received sixpence from the other. Hence the name, Cape Sixpence, which we gave to the cliff near Bandol where we first played the game.


Long talk over house. Foster said I could walk. Sea sounded like an island sea. Happy. Lovely fire in my bedroom. Succes eclatant avec demon before dinner. Listened to Wingley's fiddle. The wooden bed.


January I. J. prepares to go. Drying figs on the stove, and white socks drying from the mantelpiece. A dish of oranges and rain-wet leaves — a pack of cards on the table. It rains but it is warm. The jonquil is in bud. We linger at the door. L.M. sings.


J. left for London. The house very empty and quiet. I was ill all day — exhausted. In the afternoon fell asleep over my work and missed the post. My heart won't lie down. No post. During the night the cat picture became terrifying.


A load of wood. Sent review. Cold day. Miss S. called — deadly dull. Her yawn and recovery. Storm of wind and rain. I had nightmare about J. He and I separated. Miss S. talked about tulips, but she makes all sound so fussy : the threads of her soul all ravelled.


Cold, wet, windy, terrible weather. Fought it all day. Horribly depressed. D. came to tea; but it was no good. Worked. Two wires from J. According to promise. I cannot write. The jonquils are out, weak and pale. Black clouds pull over.

Immediately the sun goes in I am overcome — again the black fit takes me. I hate the sea. There is naught to do but work. But how can I work when this awful weakness makes even the pen like a walking-stick?


Nuit blanche. Decided at 3 a.m. that D. was a homicidal maniac. Certain of this. Started my story, 'Late Spring.' A cold bitter day. Worked on Tchehov all day and then at my story till 11 p.m. Anna came. We talked about her to her face in English. No letters. Post Office strike. Anna's bow and velvet blouse.


Black day. Dark, no sky to be seen; a livid sea; a noise of boiling in the air. Dreamed the cats died of anti-pneumonia. Heart attack 8 a.m. Awful day. No relief for a moment. Couldn't work. At night changed the position of my bed. At five o'clock I thought I was at sea tossing — for ever. N.B.


On the verandah. I don't want a God to praise or to entreat, but to share my vision with. This afternoon looking at the primula after the rain. I want no one to dance and wave their arms. I only want to feel they see, too.


Black. A day spent in Hell. Unable to do anything. Took brandy. Determined not to weep — wept. Sense of isolation frightful. I shall die if I don't

The Sea

escape. Nauseated, faint, cold with misery. Oh, I must survive it somehow.


Black. Another of them. In the afternoon Foster came and agreed I must leave here. Somehow or other I wrote a column. Broke my watch glass. In the evening L.M. and I were more nearly friendly than we have been for years. I couldn't rest or sleep. The roaring of the sea was insufferable.


Spent the evening writing another column. Help me, God ! And then L. M. came in to say I was half-an-hour slow. Just did it in time. Had talk with L.M. Our friendship is returning — in the old fashion. Thought out "The Exile." Appalling night of misery.


Worked from 9.30 till a quarter after midnight only stopping to eat. Finished the story. Lay awake then until 5.30 too excited to sleep. In the sea drowned souls sang all night. I thought of everything in my life, and it all came back so vividly... These are the worst days of my whole life.


Posted the story and a telegram. Very tired. The sea howled and boomed and roared away. When will this cup pass from me? Oh, misery! I cannot sleep. I lie retracing my steps — going over all the old life before. . . .


Bad day. A curious smoky effect over the coast. I crawled and crept about the garden in the afternoon. I feel terribly weak and all the time on the verge of breaking down. Tried to work; could not work. At six o'clock went back to bed. Had a dreadful nightmare.


Foster came: says my lung is remarkably better, but must rest absolutely for two months and not attempt to walk at all. I have got a "bigger chance." Bell rang at night. My eye pains me. Cannot get a move on. Dreamed about B. She gave me her baby to mind.


Sat in my room watching the day change to evening. The fire like a golden stag. Thinking of the fast always ; dreaming it over. The cotton plant has turned yellow. To-night the sea is down. P.O. strike. No, no letters.


Wrote and sent reviews. Stayed in bed, worked. Had a bath. The day was very lovely. I had to work hard. In the evening began my new story "A Strange Mistake." 1 P.O. strike for letters and telegrams. At night I could not sleep. My life in London seems immeasurably far and all like a dream. L.M. talked of herself as a child.

1 Subsequently called The Wrong House: see "Something Childish, and other Stories," where it is wrongly dated 1919.

Leaving the Casetta

January 17. Postal strike: no letters, no wire. Tearing up and sorting the old letters. The feeling that comes — the anguish — the words that fly out into one's breast: My darling! My wife! Oh, what anguish! Oh, will it ever be the same? Lay awake at night listening to the voices. Two men seemed to sing — a tenor and a baritone: then the drowned began.


No letters : strike still on. A fine day. But what is that to me? I am an invalid. I spend my life in bed. Read Shakespeare in the morning. I feel I cannot bear this silence to-day. I am haunted by thoughts.


No letters or papers. V. came; and Mrs. V. and Miss S. in white. "The trouble I've had with you, Mrs. Murry, and the expense it's put me to — more fuss than if you'd died there." The women against the flowers were so lovely — even Miss S. I had a dreadful crying fit about "noise and cleanliness." It was horrible.


Washed my hair. L.M. out all day. Here alone — a perfect day. I wandered in the garden. . . . There was a ship, white and solid on the water. Overcoat disappeared. The fire in my room and the double light. All was exquisitely beautiful. "Good-bye." It now believes we are going and it is safe.


A day like a dream. V.'s hair, stick, jacket, teeth, tie — all to be remembered. "To use a
vulgarism, I'm fed up." The journey — the flowers — these women here. Jinnie's black satin neckcloth and pearl pin. This exquisite cleanliness turns me into a cat.


Saw the doctor: a fool. The Casetta left to itself: the little winds blowing, the shutters shut, the cotton plant turning yellow. Spent a tiring morning. My heart hurts me. The meals downstairs are a fearful strain. But the people naive.


Saw two of the doctors — an ass, and an ass. Spent the day at my window. It was very lovely and fair. But I was trying to work all day and could not get down to it. In the night had appalling nightmare.


Cousin C. brought the tiny dog to see me — a ravishing animal. The same despairing desire to work, and could not work. I suppose I started reviewing T. nine or ten times. Felt very tired as a result of this.


The meals here are a horror. I seem to be sitting hours and hours there, and the people are ugly. Nevertheless, thank God I am here, in sound of the train, in reach of the post.

Mentone


Felt ill with fatigue and cold and my lungs hurt. It is because I am not working. All is a bit of a nightmare for that reason. My temper is so bad ! I feel I am horrid and can't stop it. It's a bad feeling.


The woman who does the massage is not really any good. My life is queer here. I like my big airy room, but to work is so hard. At the back of my mind I am so wretched. But all the while I am thinking over my philosophy — the defeat of the personal.


I shall not remember what happened on this day. It is a blank. At the end of my life I may want it, may long to have it. There was a new moon : that I remember. But who came or what I did — all is lost. It's just a day missed, a day crossing the line.


I tried all day to work and feel dog-tired. Perhaps it's the massage. Jinnie came to see me and brought me a present from her little dog.


My room is horrible. Very noisy: a constant clatter and a feeling as though it were doorless. French people don't care a hang how much noise they make. I hate them for it. Stayed in bed; felt very ill, but don't mind because of the reason. The food was really appalling: nothing to eat. At night old Casetta feelings, like madness. Voices and words and half-visions.