<|entry|><|pepys|>
24 October 1667.
Up, and to the office, where all the morning very busy, and at noon took Mr. Hater home with me to dinner, and instantly back again to write what letters I had to write, that I might go abroad with my wife, who was not well, only to jumble her, and so to the Duke of York’s playhouse; but there Betterton not being yet well, we would not stay, though since I hear that Smith do act his part in “The Villaine,” which was then acted, as well or better than he, which I do not believe; but to Charing Cross, there to see Polichinelli. But, it being begun, we in to see a Frenchman, at the house, where my wife’s father last lodged, one Monsieur Prin, play on the trump-marine,

which he do beyond belief; and, the truth is, it do so far outdo a trumpet as nothing more, and he do play anything very true, and it is most admirable and at first was a mystery to me that I should hear a whole concert of chords together at the end of a pause, but he showed me that it was only when the last notes were 5ths or 3rds, one to another, and then their sounds like an Echo did last so as they seemed to sound all together. The instrument is open at the end, I discovered; but he would not let me look into it, but I was mightily pleased with it, and he did take great pains to shew me all he could do on it, which was very much, and would make an excellent concert, two or three of them, better than trumpets can ever do, because of their want of compass. Here we also saw again the two fat children come out of Ireland, and a brother and sister of theirs now come, which are of little ordinary growth, like other people. But, Lord! how strange it is to observe the difference between the same children, come out of the same little woman’s belly! Thence to Mile-End Greene, and there drank, and so home bringing home night with us, and so to the office a little, and then to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
26 April 1669.
Up, having lain long, and then by coach with W. Hewer to the Excise Office, and so to Lilly’s, the Varnishes; who is lately dead, and his wife and brother keep up the trade, and there I left my French prints to be put on boards:, and, while I was there, a fire burst out in a chimney of a house over against his house, but it was with a gun quickly put out. So to White Hall, and did a little business there at the Treasury chamber, and so homeward, calling at the laceman’s for some lace for my new suit, and at my tailor’s, and so home, where to dinner, and Mr. Sheres dined, with us, who come hither to-day to teach my wife the rules of perspective; but I think, upon trial, he thinks it too hard to teach her, being ignorant of the principles of lines. After dinner comes one Colonel Macnachan, one that I see often at Court, a Scotchman, but know him not; only he brings me a letter from my Lord Middleton, who, he says, is in great distress for L500 to relieve my Lord Morton with, but upon, what account I know not; and he would have me advance it without order upon his pay for Tangier, which I was astonished at, but had the grace to deny him with an excuse. And so he went away, leaving me a little troubled that I was thus driven, on a sudden, to do any thing herein; but Creed, coming just now to see me, he approves of what I have done. And then to talk of general matters, and, by and by, Sheres being gone, my wife, and he, and I out, and I set him down at Temple Bar, and myself and wife went down the Temple upon seeming business, only to put him off, and just at the Temple gate I spied Deb. with another gentlewoman, and Deb. winked on me and smiled, but undiscovered, and I was glad to see her. So my wife and I to the ‘Change, about things for her; and here, at Mrs. Burnett’s shop, I am told by Betty, who was all undressed, of a great fire happened in Durham-Yard last night, burning the house of one Lady Hungerford, who was to come to town to it this night; and so the house is burned, new furnished, by carelessness of the girl sent to take off a candle from a bunch of candles, which she did by burning it off, and left the rest, as is supposed, on fire. The King and Court were here, it seems, and stopped the fire by blowing up of the next house. The King and Court went out of town to Newmarket this morning betimes, for a week. So home, and there to my chamber, and got my wife to read to me a little, and so to supper and to bed. Coming home this night I did call at the coachmaker’s, and do resolve upon having the standards of my coach gilt with this new sort of varnish, which will come but to 40s.; and, contrary to my expectation, the doing of the biggest coach all over comes not to above L6, which is very much.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|vangogh|>
14 November 1888.
One ought not to attach most importance to those studies which give one a great deal of trouble, and which nevertheless are not so pleasing as the pictures which are the result and fruit of those studies, and which one paints as if in a dream, without nearly so much trouble. Inclosed I send you a letter which I wrote a day or two ago on G.’s portrait. I have not the time to write it again; but I lay the most stress on the following points: I do not like all this ugliness in our work, save in so far as it shows us the way. Our duty is, however, neither to tolerate it on our own account, nor to make others tolerate it; on the contrary. I also send you herewith a letter from G.; fortunately he is getting well again. I should be extremely glad if R. were to do something for him; still--R. has a wife, children, and a studio, and he is building a house; so I can well understand that even a rich man cannot always spend money on pictures, even if it were only a hundred francs. I believe it would be a great change for me, if G. were here, for day after day goes by now without my ever exchanging a word with a soul. In any case his letter was a great joy to me. If one live too long in the country, one gets quite besotted, and even if this has not happened to me yet, it might make me unproductive in the winter. This danger would vanish if he came, for we should never be at a loss for ideas. If work progresses favourably and courage does not fail us, we may reckon on a number of interesting years in the future.

At the present moment I am holding an exhibition, for I have taken all my studies off their stretchers, and nailed them on the wall to dry. You will see that once I am in possession of a whole number of them, and a selection is made from them, it will come to the same thing as if I had lavished more work and study upon them; for whether one paint the same subject again and again on the same canvas or on several canvases does not make any difference to the seriousness of the work.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
23 August 1665.
Up, and whereas I had appointed Mr. Hater and Will to come betimes to the office to meet me about business there, I was called upon as soon as ready by Mr. Andrews to my great content, and he and I to our Tangier accounts, where I settled, to my great joy, all my accounts with him, and, which is more, cleared for my service to the contractors since the last sum I received of them, L222 13s. profit to myself, and received the money actually in the afternoon. After he was gone comes by a pretence of mine yesterday old Delks the waterman, with his daughter Robins, and several times to and again, he leaving her with me, about the getting of his son Robins off, who was pressed yesterday again.... All the afternoon at my office mighty busy writing letters, and received a very kind and good one from my Lord Sandwich of his arrival with the fleete at Solebay, and the joy he has at my last newes he met with, of the marriage of my Lady Jemimah; and he tells me more, the good newes that all our ships, which were in such danger that nobody would insure upon them, from the Eastland,

were all safe arrived, which I am sure is a great piece of good luck, being in much more danger than those of Hambrough which were lost, and their value much greater at this time to us. At night home, much contented with this day’s work, and being at home alone looking over my papers, comes a neighbour of ours hard by to speak with me about business of the office, one Mr. Fuller, a great merchant, but not my acquaintance, but he come drunk, and would have had me gone and drunk with him at home, or have let him send for wine hither, but I would do neither, nor offered him any, but after some sorry discourse parted, and I up to chamber and to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
24 March 1914.
Mother's birthday. I wrote at 2 o'clock and got up and sat on the box of the window thinking of her. I would love to see her again and the little frown between her brows, and to hear her voice. But I don't think I will. My memory of her is so complete that I don't think it will be disturbed.

The P.'s dined with us last night. It was dull. They are worthy and pleasant, but Mrs. P. is a weight, and P. makes me feel old. He only likes me because of what I used to be like, and he thinks the 'normal' me abnormally quiet and a bit lifeless. I don't want to see them again. Thank God! there's a sprinkle of sun to-day.

The river to-night was low and the little walls and towers and chimneys on the opposite bank black against the night. I keep thinking of Paris and money. I am getting all my spring out of the sunsets.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
7 February 1920.
House in a perfect uproar. Dreadfully nervous. Dressmaker came and her little apprentice who gave me the flowers. Had a bath — but all was in a tearing hurry and clatter. Had a strange dream. "She is one with the moonlight." George Sand — ma sœur.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|maclane|>
9 January 1917.
A familiar sharp twist
I have--a Broken Heart--

It is nearly a year now.

It feels strange to be writing it. What is one’s Heart? But it is a plain fact of me.

I have not had a Broken Heart in the years before. I have had silly fancies--I have wasted the outer tissues of my Heart, and it has been bruised and battered. But nothing pierced deep enough to break it till this.

My Broken Heart is the outstanding inner item of my life: and it still is a very small thing even in my own reckoning. It tortures me minutely all the minutes and moments and hours. And yet my all-round life moves on beside it and often passes it on the road.

My Broken Heart contributes nothing, no cause and no urge, to the writing of this song of my Soul and bones. It rather is a handicap. It makes me sit and brood. It makes my eyelids heavy and my head droop. It makes my shoulders ache. It makes me sit longish half-hours with my head on my lonely hands. It fills me with foolish wasting despair.

Its foolishness is the foremost thing about my Broken Heart. It is not a foolishness of worldly reasons nor of outer causes but of all the surprising folly of myself crowded into my Heart and into that which Broke it. The foolishness would not be so noticeable if the Brokenness were not so hideous and genuine and actual and matter-of-course. It was foolish to lay myself open, who am humanly starved, to the possible Breaking of my Heart: and doubly foolish to let it be Broken. And being left in possession of a Broken Heart I feel it to be a triply insanely foolish thing: but complete and absolute and natural.

I am so oddly a fool.

The proper price for such or such a thing in the Market might be one-and-twenty drops of red human blood. But I headlongly pay for it one-and-ninety drops: each one touched with fire, shot with purple, tinctured with hottest spirit-essence. The proper payment for Love is to pay back value received--which is enough. But I in addition dip my white bare foot into red world-and-hell flames by way of quixotic bonus. When other persons emerge from Love with the old-fashioned accustomed wounds and scars I emerge with besides an immensely useless futilely ruined foot.

It is wildest foolishness. Not merely folly. Folly is something picturesque--a bit romantic.

I am oddly a fool. It is that consciousness that rushes over me with each sad black thought of my Broken Heart.

My Broken Heart--it feels half-false to myself as I write it. And the written words look half-false to my eyes. But it is realer than my fingernails: than my palms: than my aching left foot.

My Broken Heart, besides being a triviality is a mistake, and will pass in time doubtless, but is long about it.

It is one thing I do not dwell upon in this book of me. A Broken Heart is sharply immediate like a newly-bitten tongue. It may bleed at a touch. To dwell on it connects me strainedly with the world around, and the world is really gone from me. This book is I as I breathe alone. I cannot write in it the silly shadowy Breaking of my Broken Heart. This writing is I Just Beneath My Skin. My Broken Heart is beneath bones and flesh. And though my M.-MacLane heart intact is wildly individual, my Broken Heart is merely human: made not alone by me and not alone by God. Its place in this I write is just outside the margins.

At times my Broken Heart feels far off while I’m feeling it hideous and wan inside my breast. Myself is Me, and much of Me had nothing to do with my Heart when it Broke: though I loved with all of Me. I loved with all of Me one who lives in New York--and I lost and lost, all the way. There was mere human ordinariness about which I built up a strangely sincere temple-of-grace which I looked to see shed light on my life like the new eternal beauty of a Day-break. I gave the best I knew to it, from the distance, and I lost. The day was a little day and broke at last only like my Heart. All was broken without so much as clasp-of-hands.

I am realest, strongest, passionately-sincerest in my essential known falseness--

It was all foolish and petty and someway false but I felt foolishly and shudderingly that I could live no more. But I am singularly brave from life-long custom. I have no pleas and surrenderings in me. I shudder but live on.

One Thursday I felt suddenly oppressed and beset and something in my throat cried out to the absent God to help me and guard me.

It was something in my throat which shrieked it dumbly in the deafening silence in my room. It was not I myself: for I am unsuppliant toward everyone human and divine though there often come such Thursdays.

Harder than Thursdays are Fridays and some other days when comes a familiar sharp twist beneath my chest-bones without the cognizance of my remembering thoughts: and when though I strive against it my Broken Heart makes me sit longish half-hours with my head on my hands.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
2 November 1667.
Up, and to the office, where busy all the morning; at noon home, and after dinner my wife and Willett and I to the King’s playhouse, and there saw “Henry the Fourth:” and contrary to expectation, was pleased in nothing more than in Cartwright’s speaking of Falstaffe’s speech about “What is Honour?” The house full of Parliament-men, it being holyday with them: and it was observable how a gentleman of good habit, sitting just before us, eating of some fruit in the midst of the play, did drop down as dead, being choked; but with much ado Orange Moll did thrust her finger down his throat, and brought him to life again. After the play, we home, and I busy at the office late, and then home to supper and to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
15 July 1889.
I have just dispatched the large drawings: the upright of the small peasant garden seems to me the best. The garden with the sunflowers belongs to a bathing establishment. As to the third garden, which is landscape shape,[35] I have also made oil sketches of it. The orange-coloured, yellow patches of flowers grow exceedingly brilliant under the blue sky, and everything is bathed in a happier and more loving atmosphere than in the north: it vibrates, like your bunch of flowers by Monticelli. Although I have done about 150 drawings and oil-sketches I feel as if I had done absolutely nothing. I would readily content myself with being a precursor of the painters of the future who will paint here in the south.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
18 July 1889.
There are a number of fine lithographs to be seen: Daumiers, reproductions of Delacroix, Decamps, Diaz, Rousseau, Dupré, etc. Soon, however, this will cease, and what a pity it is that this art is about to disappear!
<|/entry|><|entry|>
26 February 1889.
Why do we not stick to what we have once discovered in our art, as the doctors and the engineers do? With them, when anything is discovered, the knowledge of it is carefully preserved. But in the wretched fine arts everything is forgotten; we hold fast to nothing. Millet created the synthesis of the peasant, and now? Oh, of course, there are Lhermitte and perhaps one or two others as well--Meunier, for instance. But have painters really learnt to see a peasant in the proper way? Not at all! Scarcely one of them is capable of such a thing. And does not the fault lie a little with the Parisians, who are changeable and deceptive as the sea? You are quite right in saying that we must go our own way, quite unconcerned, and work for ourselves. Do you know that even if Impressionism were sacrosanct, at times I should, nevertheless, like to be able to paint things which the former generation, Delacroix, Millet, Rousseau, Diaz, Monticelli, Isabey, Decamps, Dupré, Ziem, Jonkind, Israels, Mauve, and a host of others, Corot, and Jacques ... would be able to understand.

Manet and Courbet got very near to treating colour and form together as equal in importance. I should like to prepare myself for ten years by means of studies for the task of painting one or two figure pictures. The old and eternal plan--so very often recommended and so seldom carried out!
<|/entry|><|entry|>
2 May 1889.
The small upright of the peasant garden, as I saw it in nature, is glorious in colour. The dahlias are a deep and severe purple, and on one side there is a double row of flowers which is a mass of pink and green, and on the other there is a mass of orange with scarcely any green. In the centre there is a low white dahlia and a small pomegranate tree with greenish yellow fruit, and blossom of an ardent orange red colour. The ground is grey, the tall reeds are blue green, the trees viridian, the sky blue, the houses white with green window frames and red roofs. That is how it looks in the morning in full sunlight; at evening it is all immersed in the deep shadows cast by the fig trees and the tall reeds. That is the whole thing. To seize all these beauties, a whole school of artists would be necessary, who would work together and complete one another in the same country, like the old Dutchmen: portrait painters, painters of genre pictures, landscapists, animal painters, painters of still-life, etc.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
[Prompt: Make an account of yourself.]
19 March 1667.
Up, and to the office, where we sat all the morning. At noon dined at home very pleasantly with my wife, and after dinner with a great deal of pleasure had her sing, which she begins to do with some pleasure to me, more than I expected. Then to the office again, where all the afternoon close, and at night home to supper and to bed. It comes in my mind this night to set down how a house was the other day in Bishopsgate Street blowed up with powder; a house that was untenanted, and between a flax shop and a-----------, both bad for fire; but, thanks be to God, it did no more hurt; and all do conclude it a plot. I would also remember to my shame how I was pleased yesterday, to find the righteous maid of Magister Griffin sweeping of ‘nostra’ office, ‘elle con the Roman nariz and bonne’ body which I did heretofore like, and do still refresh me to think ‘que elle’ is come to us, that I may ‘voir her aliquando’. This afternoon I am told again that the town do talk of my Lord Arlington’s being to be Lord Treasurer, and Sir W. Coventry to be Secretary of State; and that for certain the match is concluded between the Duke of Richmond and Mrs. Stewart, which I am well enough pleased with; and it is pretty to consider how his quality will allay people’s talk; whereas, had a meaner person married her, he would for certain have been reckoned a cuckold at first-dash.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
12 March 1665.
(Lord’s day). Up, and borrowing Sir J. Minnes’s coach, to my Lord Sandwich’s, but he was gone abroad. I sent the coach back for my wife, my Lord a second time dining at home on purpose to meet me, he having not dined once at home but those times since his coming from sea. I sat down and read over the Bishop of Chichester’s’ sermon upon the anniversary of the King’s death, much cried up, but, methinks, but a mean sermon. By and by comes in my Lord, and he and I to talke of many things in the Navy, one from another, in general, to see how the greatest things are committed to very ordinary men, as to parts and experience, to do; among others, my Lord Barkeley. We talked also of getting W. Howe to be put into the Muster-Mastershipp in the roome of Creed, if Creed will give way, but my Lord do it without any great gusto, calling Howe a proud coxcomb in passion. Down to dinner, where my wife in her new lace whiske, which, indeed, is very noble, and I much pleased with it, and so my Lady also. Here very pleasant my Lord was at dinner, and after dinner did look over his plate, which Burston hath brought him to-day, and is the last of the three that he will have made. After satisfied with that, he abroad, and I after much discourse with my Lady about Sir G. Carteret’s son, of whom she hath some thoughts for a husband for my Lady Jemimah, we away home by coach again, and there sang a good while very pleasantly with Mr. Andrews and Hill. They gone; we to supper, and betimes to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
[Prompt: Set down the truth of this day.]
16 May 1665.
Up betimes, and to the Duke of Albemarle with an account of my yesterday’s actions in writing. So back to the office, where all the morning very busy. After dinner by coach to see and speak with Mr. Povy, and after little discourse back again home, where busy upon letters till past 12 at night, and so home to supper and to bed, weary.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|mansfield|>
9 August 1920.
I should like to have a secret code to put on record what I feel to-day. If I forget it, may my right hand forget its cunning . . . the lifted curtain . . . the hand at the fire with the ring and stretched fingers . . . no, it's snowing . . . the telegram to say he's not . . . just the words arrive 8.31. But if I say more I'll give myself away.

I wrote this because there is a real danger of forgetting that kind of intensity, and it won't do.

Coughing

December 8, 1920. No, there is no danger of forgetting.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
4 January 1667.
Up, and seeing things put in order for a dinner at my house to-day, I to the office awhile, and about noon home, and there saw all things in good order. Anon comes our company; my Lord Bruncker, Sir W. Pen, his lady, and Pegg, and her servant, Mr. Lowther, my Lady Batten (Sir W. Batten being forced to dine at Sir K. Ford’s, being invited), Mr. Turner and his wife. Here I had good room for ten, and no more would my table have held well, had Sir J. Minnes, who was fallen lame, and his sister, and niece, and Sir W. Batten come, which was a great content to me to be without them. I did make them all gaze to see themselves served so nobly in plate, and a neat dinner, indeed, though but of seven dishes. Mighty merry I was and made them all, and they mightily pleased. My Lord Bruncker went away after dinner to the ticket-office, the rest staid, only my Lady Batten home, her ague-fit coming on her at table. The rest merry, and to cards, and then to sing and talk, and at night to sup, and then to cards; and, last of all, to have a flaggon of ale and apples, drunk out of a wood cupp,

as a Christmas draught, made all merry; and they full of admiration at my plate, particularly my flaggons (which, indeed, are noble), and so late home, all with great mirth and satisfaction to them, as I thought, and to myself to see all I have and do so much outdo for neatness and plenty anything done by any of them. They gone, I to bed, much pleased, and do observe Mr. Lowther to be a pretty gentleman, and, I think, too good for Peg; and, by the way, Peg Pen seems mightily to be kind to me, and I believe by her father’s advice, who is also himself so; but I believe not a little troubled to see my plenty, and was much troubled to hear the song I sung, “The New Droll”--it touching him home. So to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
[Prompt: Describe where you are.]
18 September 1666.
Strange with what freedom and quantity I pissed this night, which I know not what to impute to but my oysters, unless the coldness of the night should cause it, for it was a sad rainy and tempestuous night. Soon as up I begun to have some pain in my bladder and belly, as usual, which made me go to dinner betimes, to fill my belly, and that did ease me, so as I did my business in the afternoon, in forwarding the settling of my house, very well. Betimes to bed, my wife also being all this day ill in the same manner. Troubled at my wife’s haire coming off so much. This day the Parliament met, and adjourned till Friday, when the King will be with them.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
2 April 1922.
(When the dog is tied up, it cries pitifully, sobs. The sound, so unrestrained, pleases them.)

The wife is small, untidy, with large gold rings in her hair. She wears white canvas shoes and a jacket trimmed with artificial fur. She is the woman who is spending the day at the sea-side. She looks dissatisfied, unhappy. I am sure she is a terrible muddler.

(The dog is really very hysterical.)

They have a little servant maid of about sixteen,

The Servant Maid

with a loose plait of dark streaky hair and silver-rimmed spectacles. She walks in a terribly meek but self-satisfied way, pushing out her stomach. She is meekness itself. How she bows her head and walks after her master! It is terrible to see. She wishes to be invisible, to pass unseen. "Don't look at me!" And she effaces herself. (This must be written very directly.) She it is who holds the baby. When the others have gone, she rather lords it over the baby, turns up his clothes and exclaims with quite an air.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
28 May 1922.
The baby is at that age when it droops over a shoulder. It is still a boneless baby, blowing bubbles, in a little blue muslin frock. When it cries, it cries as though it were being squeezed. Its feet, in white boots, are like little cakes of dough.

(The dog's enthusiasm is enough to make you want to kick it. When they come out, cold, damp, depressed, there he is leaping, asking when the fun's going to begin. It is sickening.)

A queer bit of psychology: I had to disappear behind the bushes to-day in a hollow. That act made me feel nearer to normal health than I have felt for years. Nobody there; nobody wondered if I was all right, i.e. there was nothing to distinguish me, at that moment, from an ordinary human being.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
19 October 1922.
Each little movement of this bird is made so ostentatiously— as if it were trying to show itself off as much as possible. Why?

But to continue with this alone-ness — to gather it

up a little? Could I. . . ? It seems to me to depend entirely on health in my case. If I were well and could spend the evenings sitting up writing till about eleven. . . .

To look up through the trees to the far-away heavenly blue.

Now it's getting late afternoon and all sounds are softer, deeper. The sough of the wind in the branches is more thoughtful.

This — this is as great happiness as I shall ever know. It is greater happiness than I had ever thought

possible. But why is it incompatible with only

because of your weakness. There is nothing to prevent you being like this. In fact, don't you yet know that the more active and apart you make your own life, the more content the other is ? What he finds intolerable is the lack of privacy. But so do you. It makes him feel as though he were living under a vacuum jar. So it does you. You hang on thinking to please him until he longs for you to be gone.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
August 1920.
I cough and cough, and at each breath a dragging, boiling, bubbling sound is heard. I feel that my whole chest is boiling. I sip water, spit, sip, spit. I feel I must break my heart. And I can't expand my chest; it's as though the chest had collapsed. . . . Life is — getting a new breath. Nothing else counts.

" Can't you help me ? Can't you ? " But even while she asked him she smiled as if it didn't matter so much whether he could or couldn't.

My nature . . . my nerves . . . the question is whether I shall change or not. Per-sonally. . . . You see him ? And he has a friend, a confidant, an old schoolfellow, small, shabby, with a wooden leg, whom he has re-dis-

= iS5 =

covered. He's married. The friend enters the new menage. Little by little he gets to know the wife. No tragedy. He feels like a one-legged sparrow. Talking together in the house before she comes in. " Is that you, Beaty? Can we have some tea? "

Let the sparrow — let the sparrow — suffer the sparrow to. . . .

Charades. Roger of course commits suicide, cuts his throat with a paper knife and gurgles his life away.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
September 1920.
The daughter of the watch-smith. Her piano-playing. Her weak heart, queer face, queer voice, awful clothes. The violets in their garden. Her little mother and father. The scene at the Baths : the coldness, the blueness of the children, her size in the red twill bathing-dress, trimmed with white braid. The steps down to the water — the rope across.

Edie has a brother Siegfried. 17. You never know whether he has begun to shave or not. He and Edie walk in arm in arm. . . . Her Sunday hat is trimmed beyond words.

Oh, that tree at the corner of May Street ! I forgot it until this moment. It was dark and hung over the street like a great shadow. The father was fair and youthful to look at. He was a clock-maker.

Avignon

Feminine Psychology

"It is said that the turtledove never drinks clear water, but always muddies it first with its foot so that it may the better suit its pensive mind."

Isola Bella: How shall I buy it?

Southward Bound

Lying facing the window I woke early. The blind was half pulled down. A deep pink light flew in the sky, and the shapes of the trees, ancient barns, towers, walls were all black. The pools and rivers were quicksilver. Nearing Avignon, the orchard in the first rays of sunlight shone with gold fruit : apples flashed like stars.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
27 May 1920.
L.M.'s legs dangled. She dropped down, slowly waving her big grey legs, as though something pulled her, dragged her — the tangle of rich blue weeds on the red carpet.

"A-vig . . . Avig . . . Avig-non." she said.

"One of the loveliest names in the world done to death," said I. "A name that spans the ancient town like a bridge."

She was very impressed. But then George Moore could impress her.

Woman and Woman What I feel is: She is never for one fraction of a second unconscious. If I sigh, I know that her head lifts. I know that those grave large eyes solemnly fix on me: Why did she sigh? If I turn she suggests a cushion or another rug. If I turn again, then it is my back. Might she try to rub it for me ? There is no escape. All night : a faint rustle, the smallest cough, and her soft voice asks: "Did you speak? Can I do anything?" If I do absolutely nothing then she discovers my fatigue under my eyes. There is something profound and terrible in this eternal desire to establish contact.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
8 December 1916.
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.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|mansfield|>
5 September 1914.
I seem to have just escaped the prison cell, J. dearest,— because I find this place is in the zone of the armies and therefore forbidden to women. However, my Aunt's illness pulled me through. I had some really awful moments. Outside the station he was waiting. He merely sang (so typical) "Follow me, but not as though you were doing so" until we came to a tiny toll-house by the river, against which leant a faded cab. But once fed with my suit-case and our two selves, it dashed off like the wind, the door opening and shutting, to his horror, as he is not allowed in cabs. We drove to a village near by, to a large white house where they had taken a room for me — a most extraordinary room furnished with a bed, a wax apple and an immense flowery clock. It's very hot. The sun streams through the blind. The garden outside is full of wallflowers and blue enamel saucepans. It would make you laugh, too. ...
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|maclane|>
12 February 1901.
I am in no small degree, I find, a sham--a player to the gallery. Possibly this may be felt as you read these analyses.

While all of these emotions are written in the utmost seriousness and sincerity, and are exactly as I feel them, day after day--so far as I have the power to express what I feel--still I aim to convey through them all the idea that I am lacking in the grand element of Truth--that there is in the warp and woof of my life a thread that is false--false.

I don’t know how to say this without the fear of being misunderstood. When I say I am in a way a sham, I have no reference to the truths as I have given them in this Portrayal, but to a very light and subtle thing that runs through them.

Oh, do not think for an instant that this analysis of my emotions is not perfectly sincere and real, and that I have not felt all of them more than I can put into words. They are my tears--my life-blood!

But in my life, in my personality, there is an essence of falseness and insincerity. A thin, fine vapor of fraud hangs always over me and dampens and injures some things in me that I value.

I have not succeeded thoroughly in analyzing this--it is so thin, so elusive, so faint--and yet not little. It is a natural thing enough viewed in the light of my other traits.

I have lived my nineteen years buried in an environment at utter variance with my natural instincts, where my inner life is never touched, and my sympathies very rarely, if ever, appealed to. I never disclose my real desires or the texture of my soul. Never, that is to say, to any one except my one friend, the anemone lady.--And so every day of my life I am playing a part; I am keeping an immense bundle of things hidden under my cloak. When one has played a part--a false part--all one’s life, for I was a sly, artful little liar even in the days of five and six; then one is marked. One may never rid oneself of the mantle of falseness, charlatanry--particularly if one is innately a liar.

A year ago when the friendship of my anemone lady was given me, and she would sometimes hear sympathetically some long-silent bit of pain, I felt a snapping of tense-drawn cords, a breaking away of flood-gates--and a strange, new pain. I felt as if I must clasp her gentle hand tightly and give way to the pent-up, surging tears of eighteen years. I had wanted this tender thing more than anything else all my life, and it was given me suddenly.

I felt a convulsion and a melting, within.

But I could not tell my one friend exactly what I felt. There was no doubt in my own mind as to my own perfect sincerity of feeling, but there was with it and around it this vapor of fraud, a spirit of falseness that rose and confronted me and said, “hypocrite,” “fool.”

It may be that the spirit of falseness is itself a false thing--yet true or false, it is with me always. I have tried, in writing out my emotions, to convey an idea of this sham element while still telling everything faithfully true. Sometimes I think I have succeeded, and at other times I seem to have signally failed. This element of falseness is absolutely the very thinnest, the very finest, the rarest of all the things in my many-sided character.

It is not the most unimportant.

I have seen visions of myself walking in various pathways. I have seen myself trying one pathway and another. And always it is the same: I see before me in the path, darkening the way and filling me with dread and discouragement, a great black shadow--the shadow of my own element of falseness.

I can not rid myself of it.

I am an innate liar.

This is a hard thing to write about. Of all things it is the most liable to be misunderstood. You will probably misunderstand it, for I have not succeeded in giving the right idea of it. I aimed at it and missed it. It eluded me completely.

You must take the idea as I have just now presented it for what it may be worth. This is as near as I can come to it. But it is something infinitely finer and rarer.

It is a difficult task to show to others a thing which, though I feel and recognize it thoroughly, I have not yet analyzed for myself.

But this is a complete Portrayal of me--as I await the Devil’s coming--and I must tell everything--everything.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
6 January 1922.
The first quarter of the Moon. Jour de fete. The Christmas Tree is dismantled.

I had a very bad night and did not fall deeply asleep enough to dream.

In the morning, all white, all dim and cold, and snow still falling. While waiting in my room I watched the terrific efforts of a little bird to peck through the

ice and get at the sweet food of the nut. He succeeded. But why must he so strive?

My heart is always bad to-day. It is the cold. It feels congested, and I am uneasy, or rather my body is — vile feeling. I cough.

Read Shakespeare, read Cosmic Anatomy, read The Oxford Dictionary. Wrote. But nothing like enough.

In the afternoon W came to tea. I suspect he

is timid, fearful and deeply kind. Deep within that vast substance lurks the seed. That is not sentimental. He wished me sun as he left. I felt his wish had power and was a blessing. One can't be mistaken in such things. He is in his stockings — pea-green and red! J. came up after ski-ing, excessively handsome — a glorious object, no less. I never saw a more splendid figure.

I am wearing my ring on my middle finger as a reminder not to be so base. We shall see. . . .
<|/entry|><|entry|>
7 January 1922.
It ceased snowing, and a deep, almost gentian blue sky showed. The snow lay heaped on the trees, big blobs of snow, like whipped cream. It was very cold, but, I suppose, beautiful. I cannot see this snow as anything but hateful. So it is.

My birds have made a number of little attacks on the cocoanut, but it is still frozen. I read Cosmic Anatomy, Shakespeare and the Bible. Jonah. Very nice about the gourd, and also on his journey, "paying the fare thereof."

Dreams

I wrote at my story, but did not finish the lunch party as I ought to have done. How very bad this is! Had a long talk with L.M. and suddenly saw her again as a figure in a story. She resolves into so many. I could write books about her alone!

I dreamed a long dream. Chummie was young again, so was Jeanne. Mother was alive. We were going through many strange rooms — up in lifts, alighting in lounges. It was all vaguely foreign.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
8 January 1922.
All night dreamed of visiting houses, bare rooms, No. 39, going up and down in lifts, etc.

Heavily, more heavily than ever, falls the snow. It is hypnotising. One looks, wonders vaguely how much has fallen and how much will fall and — looks again. Bandaged J.'s fingers. The Mercury came with At the Bay. I am very unsatisfied.

In the afternoon J. and I played cribbage, with nuts for counters. I recalled the fact that I used to play so often with such intense — Heavens with what feelings ! — in the drawing-room at Carlton Hill while T played the piano. But it meant absolutely nothing. J. giving me a bad nut and me paying him the bad nut again was all that really mattered.

After tea we knitted and talked and then read. We were idle — snow-bound. One feels there is nothing to be done while this goes on.

Had a letter from The Sketch asking for work. I must obey. J. and I talked Paris yesterday and he quite understood. This is a proof that one must be calm and explain and be true. Remember that !
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
26 July 1668.
(Lord’s day). Up, and all the morning and after dinner, the afternoon also, with W. Hewer in my closet, setting right my Tangier Accounts, which I have let alone these six months and more, but find them very right, and is my great comfort. So in the evening to walk with my wife, and to supper and to bed.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|pepys|>
5 August 1668.
So to bed about two o’clock, and then up about seven and to White Hall, where read over my report to Lord Arlington and Berkeley, and then afterward at the Council Board with great good liking, but, Lord! how it troubled my eyes, though I did not think I could have done it, but did do it, and was not very bad afterward. So home to dinner, and thence out to the Duke of York’s playhouse, and there saw “The Guardian;” formerly the same, I find, that was called “Cutter of Coleman Street;” a silly play. And thence to Westminster Hall, where I met Fitzgerald; and with him to a tavern, to consider of the instructions for Sir Thomas Allen, against his going to Algiers; he and I being designed to go down to Portsmouth by the Council’s order, and by and by he and I went to the Duke of York, who orders me to go down to-morrow morning. So I away home, and there bespeak a coach; and so home and to bed, my wife being abroad with the Mercers walking in the fields, and upon the water.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|pepys|>
2 September 1668.
Fast-day for the burning of London, strictly observed. I at home at the office all day, forenoon and afternoon, about the Victualler’s contract and other things, and at night home to supper, having had but a cold dinner, Mr. Gibson with me; and this evening comes Mr. Hill to discourse with me about Yeabsly and Lanyon’s business, wherein they are troubled, and I fear they have played the knave too far for me to help or think fit to appear for them. So he gone, and after supper, to bed, being troubled with a summons, though a kind one, from Mr. Jessop, to attend the Commissioners of Accounts tomorrow.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|mansfield|>
9 March 1915.
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.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|mansfield|>
17 September 1915.
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.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|mansfield|>
27 August 1915.
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."
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
11 March 1665.
Up and to the office, at noon home to dinner, and to the office again, where very late, and then home to supper and to bed. This day returned Sir W. Batten and Sir J. Minnes from Lee Roade, where they have been to see the wrecke of “The London,” out of which, they say, the guns may be got, but the hull of her will be wholly lost, as not being capable of being weighed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
24 January 1660.
In the morning to my office, where, after I had drank my morning draft at Will’s with Ethell and Mr. Stevens, I went and told part of the excise money till twelve o’clock, and then called on my wife and took her to Mr. Pierces, she in the way being exceedingly troubled with a pair of new pattens, and I vexed to go so slow, it being late. There when we came we found Mrs. Carrick very fine, and one Mr. Lucy, who called one another husband and wife, and after dinner a great deal of mad stir. There was pulling off Mrs. bride’s and Mr. bridegroom’s ribbons;

with a great deal of fooling among them that I and my wife did not like. Mr. Lucy and several other gentlemen coming in after dinner, swearing and singing as if they were mad, only he singing very handsomely. There came in afterwards Mr. Southerne, clerk to Mr. Blackburne, and with him Lambert, lieutenant of my Lord’s ship, and brought with them the declaration that came out to-day from the Parliament, wherein they declare for law and gospel, and for tythes; but I do not find people apt to believe them. After this taking leave I went to my father’s, and my wife staying there, he and I went to speak with Mr. Crumlum (in the meantime, while it was five o’clock, he being in the school, we went to my cozen Tom Pepys’ shop, the turner in Paul’s Churchyard, and drank with him a pot of ale); he gave my father directions what to do about getting my brother an exhibition, and spoke very well of my brother. Thence back with my father home, where he and I spoke privately in the little room to my sister Pall about stealing of things as my wife’s scissars and my maid’s book, at which my father was much troubled. Hence home with my wife and so to Whitehall, where I met with Mr. Hunt and Luellin, and drank with them at Marsh’s, and afterwards went up and wrote to my Lord by the post. This day the Parliament gave order that the late Committee of Safety should come before them this day se’nnight, and all their papers, and their model of Government that they had made, to be brought in with them. So home and talked with my wife about our dinner on Thursday.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
10 April 1668.
(Friday) All the morning at Office. At noon with W. Pen to Duke of York, and attended Council. So to piper and Duck Lane, and there kissed bookseller’s wife, and bought Legend. So home, coach. Sailor. Mrs. Hannam dead. News of Peace. Conning my gamut.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
20 May 1661.
At home all the morning; paid L50 to one Mr. Grant for Mr. Barlow, for the last half year, and was visited by Mr. Anderson, my former chamber fellow at Cambridge, with whom I parted at the Hague, but I did not go forthwith him, only gave him a morning draft at home. At noon Mr. Creed came to me, and he and I to the Exchange, and so to an ordinary to dinner, and after dinner to the Mitre, and there sat drinking while it rained very much. Then to the office, where I found Sir Williams both, choosing of masters for the new fleet of ships that is ordered to be set forth, and Pen seeming to be in an ugly humour, not willing to gratify one that I mentioned to be put in, did vex me. We sat late, and so home. Mr. Moore came to me when I was going to bed, and sat with me a good while talking about my Lord’s business and our own and so good night.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|pepys|>
23 May 1661.
This day I went to my Lord, and about many other things at Whitehall, and there made even my accounts with Mr. Shepley at my Lord’s, and then with him and Mr. Moore and John Bowles to the Rhenish wine house, and there came Jonas Moore, the mathematician, to us, and there he did by discourse make us fully believe that England and France were once the same continent, by very good arguments, and spoke very many things, not so much to prove the Scripture false as that the time therein is not well computed nor understood. From thence home by water, and there shifted myself into my black silk suit (the first day I have put it on this year), and so to my Lord Mayor’s by coach, with a great deal of honourable company, and great entertainment. At table I had very good discourse with Mr. Ashmole, wherein he did assure me that frogs and many insects do often fall from the sky, ready formed. Dr. Bates’s singularity in not rising up nor drinking the King’s nor other healths at the table was very much observed.

From thence we all took coach, and to our office, and there sat till it was late; and so I home and to bed by day-light. This day was kept a holy-day through the town; and it pleased me to see the little boys walk up and down in procession with their broom-staffs in their hands, as I had myself long ago gone.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|pepys|>
30 May 1661.
To the Wardrobe and there, with my Lord, went into his new barge to try her, and found her a good boat, and like my Lord’s contrivance of the door to come out round and not square as they used to do. Back to the Wardrobe with my Lord, and then with Mr. Moore to the Temple, and thence to. Greatorex, who took me to Arundell-House, and there showed me some fine flowers in his garden, and all the fine statues in the gallery, which I formerly had seen, and is a brave sight, and thence to a blind dark cellar, where we had two bottles of good ale, and so after giving him direction for my silver side-table, I took boat at Arundell stairs, and put in at Milford.... So home and found Sir Williams both and my Lady going to Deptford to christen Captain Rooth’s child, and would have had me with them, but I could not go. To the office, where Sir R. Slingsby was, and he and I into his and my lodgings to take a view of them, out of a desire he has to have mine of me to join to his, and give me Mr. Turner’s. To the office again, where Sir G. Carteret came and sat a while, he being angry for Sir Williams making of the maisters of this fleet upon their own heads without a full table. Then the Comptroller and I to the Coffee House, and there sat a great while talking of many things. So home and to bed. This day, I hear, the Parliament have ordered a bill to be brought in for the restoring the Bishops to the House of Lords; which they had not done so soon but to spite Mr. Prin, who is every day so bitter against them in his discourse in the House.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|vangogh|>
27 March 1890.
NOTES

NOTE {A}: page 39. The translation of the original French would be: “without having recourse to the old dodges and delusions of intriguers” (_aux vieux trucs et trompe-l’œil d’intrigants_).

NOTE {B}: p. 44. The French is _boutons d’or_ (buttercups). The German translation has _Löwenzahn_.

NOTE {C}: p. 45. The German is, _Leute die auf Technik sehen_; but my rendering is more faithful to the French original.

NOTE {D}: p. 51. According to the French this should be: “After many eccentricities you have succeeded in producing,” etc. The German, however, is, _wirst Du dahin gelangen Sachen von ägyptischer Ruhe_, etc.

NOTE {E}: p. 55. The French word is _bestiales_, which the German translator rendered by _grausame_.

NOTE {F}: p. 55. The French is _crâne_ (swaggering); the German translation has _elegant_.

NOTE {G}: p. 60. The French has, _your_ grandmother.

NOTE {H}: p. 61. The French is, _amours faciles_.

NOTE {I}: p. 62. The French is, _senti dans son animalité_.

NOTE {J}: p. 62. From this point the original French continues, “is like the consummation of sexual love--a moment of infinity.”

NOTE {K}: p. 63. In his original publication of these letters in _Le Mercure de France_, E. Bernard inserts a note here to the effect that Van Gogh meant that Rembrandt used religious subjects only as a means of expressing philosophical ideas.

NOTE {L}: p. 64. The French is, _peint un ange surnaturel au sourire à la Vinci_.

NOTE {M}: p. 65. The French is, _folie contagieuse_.

NOTE {N}: p. 66. The French is, _sincérité et dévotion_.

NOTE {O}: p. 68. The German translator took what I believe to be a justifiable liberty here; for the original French reads: _et il sagit de souffler de son souffle tant qu’on a le souffle_.

NOTE {P}: p. 73. The French word is _renaissance_.

NOTE {Q}: p. 74. The German translation (_beim Fechten_) misses the point here; for the French original is not _l’escrime_, but _l’escrime à l’assaut_.

NOTE {R}: p. 77. In the German translation there are no dots here to show that a passage has been omitted; as however, this passage seems to me important, I thought it advisable to give the translation of it in these notes. After the word “nature,” the French original proceeds: “in order to convert a study into a picture by arranging the colour, adding here, and simplifying there;...”

NOTE {S}: p. 81. E. Bernard says that this refers to a caricature by Gauguin of Van Gogh sitting on a ledge of rock drawing the sun.

NOTE {T}: p. 83. The French word is not _talent_ but _supériorité_.

NOTE {U}: p. 89. I confess that I did not understand the proper meaning of this passage, either in the French or in the German, so here it is, as it stands in the French original: _Mais justement à cause de ce que c’est dans le cœur des gens qu’est aussi le cœur des affaires, il faut conquérir des amitiés ou plutôt les ranimer_.

NOTE {V}: p. 90. It may be of interest to painters to know that the other colours mentioned in the French original are: _rose de garance_, and _mine orange_.

NOTE {W}: p. 96. I may be wrong here. The German word is _Axiomen_, the French original is, _axiomes_.

NOTE {X}: p. 98. The French original contains simply the word _sérénité_, which the German translator paraphrased as “the joy of living, and peace.”

NOTE {Y}: p. 101. The French original has, _on ne s’en repent pas_, in the place of “one can never cast it out.”

NOTE {Z}: p. 102. It is not clear whether Van Gogh meant that he opposed the firm B. and V. or that he quelled the feeling in his heart. The French original is simply: _Seulement je m’y oppose_.

NOTE {AA}: p. 104. The French original is, _des établissements pour Zouaves_. On this point see also p. 23, vol. 12, of the “Mercure de France.”

NOTE {BB}: p. 108. The original reads: _Si je me laissais embêter par le premier venu ici, tu comprends que je ne saurais bientôt plus où donner la tête_. The German rendering was therefore a little too free.

NOTE {CC}: p. 116. A passage is omitted here in the German translation, which I think is of sufficient interest to be quoted. In the French original the passage reads: _Je crois que Gauguin lui-même souffre beaucoup et ne peut pas se developper comme pourtant c’est en dedans de lui de pouvoir le faire_.

NOTE {DD}: p. 116. On both occasions when in the German text I found the word _Schwefelgelb_, I translated it by “cadmium.” The word in the French original is simply _soufre_. (See also page 73.)

NOTE {EE}: p. 122. The German word is _Quadratnets_, and the French original has _cadre perspectif_. I am not sure that my rendering gives an adequate idea of the instrument.

NOTE {FF}: p. 124. The French is, _rhinocéros dangereux_.

NOTE {GG}: p. 145, “and give a helping hand,” is a somewhat free rendering, through the German, of _et comme nous le ferons_.

NOTE {HH}: p. 146. The number “28” seems to be a misprint in the German.

NOTE {II}: p. 147. E. Bernard, himself, leaves one to guess at what this means; for in the original French we read: _Car je n’ai même pas, depuis un mois trois semaines, de quoi aller ... pour 3 fr._

NOTE {JJ}: p. 154. In the French original there is no mention of “the south.”

CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
28 April 1669.
Up, and was called upon by Sir H. Cholmly to discourse about some accounts of his, of Tangier: and then other talk; and I find by him that it is brought almost effect ( the late endeavours of the Duke of York Duchess, the Queen-Mother, and my Lord St. Albans, together with some of the contrary faction, my Lord Arlington), that for a sum of money we shall enter into a league with the King of France, wherein, he says, my Lord Chancellor----is also concerned; and that he believes that, in the doing hereof, it is meant that he shall come again, and that this sum of money will so help the King that he will not need the Parliament; and that, in that regard it will be forwarded by the Duke of Buckingham and his faction, who dread the Parliament. But hereby we must leave the Dutch, and that I doubt will undo us; and Sir H. Cholmly says he finds W. Coventry do think the like. Lady Castlemayne is instrumental in this matter, and, he say never more great with the King than she is now. But this a thing that will make the Parliament and kingdom mad, and will turn to our ruine: for with this money the King shall wanton away his time in pleasures, and think nothing of the main till it be too late. He gone, I to the office, where busy till noon, and then home to dinner, where W. Batelier dined with us, and pretty merry, and so I to the office again. This morning Mr. Sheres sent me, in two volumes, Mariana his History of Spaine, in Spanish, an excellent book; and I am much obliged for it to him.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
[Prompt: What small thing mattered today?]
29 March 1901.
I am making the world my confessor in this Portrayal. My mind is fairly bursting with egotism and pain, and in writing this I find a merciful outlet. I have become fond of my Portrayal. Often I lay my forehead and my lips caressingly upon the pages.

And I wish to let you know that there is in existence a genius--an unhappy genius, a genius starving in Montana in the barrenness--but still a genius. I am a creature the like of which you have never before happened upon. You have never suspected that there is such a person. I know that there is not such another. As I said in the beginning, the world contains not my parallel.

I am a fantasy--an absurdity--a genius!

Had I been one of the beasts that perish I had been likewise a fantasy. I think I should have been a small animal composite of a pig, a leopard, and a skunk: an animal that I fancy would be uncanny to look upon but admirable for a pet.

However, I am not one of the beasts that perish.

I am human.

That is another remarkable point.

I have heard persons say they can hardly believe I am quite human.

I am the most human creature that ever was placed on the earth. The geniuses are always more human than the herd. Almost a perfection of humanness is reached in me. This by itself makes me extraordinary. The rarest thing in the world, I find, is the quality of humanness.

Humanity and humaneness are much less rare.

“It is a brave thing to understand something of what we see.” Indeed it is. An exceeding brave thing. The one who said that had surely gone out on the highways and byways and found how little he could understand.

To understand oneself is not so brave a thing. To go in among the hidden gray shadows of the deep things is a fool’s errand. It is not from choice that I do it. No one carries a mill-stone around her neck from choice. When I see what is among the hidden gray shadows--when I see a vision of Myself--I am seized with a strange, sick terror.

A fool’s errand--but one that I must need go--and for that matter I myself am a fool.

Yet to know oneself well is a rare fine art.

I analyze myself now. I analyzed myself when I was three years old.

The only difference is that at the age of three I was not aware that I analyzed. It is true, that is a great difference. Now I know that I am analyzing at nineteen, and now I know that I analyzed at three.

And at the age of nineteen I know that I am a genius.

A genius who does not know that he is a genius is no genius. A drunken man might stagger up to a piano and accidentally play music that vibrates to the soul--that touches upon the mysteries. But he does not know his power, and he is no genius, though men awaken and go mad therefrom.

I know that I am a genius more than any genius that has lived.

I have a feeling that the world will never know this.

And as I think of it I wonder if angels are not weeping somewhere because of it.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
11 January 1662.
My brother Tom came to me, and he and I to Mr. Turner the Draper’s, and paid L15 to him for cloth owing to him by my father for his mourning for my uncle, and so to his house, and there invited all the Honiwood’s to dinner on Monday next. So to the Exchange, and there all the news is of the French and Dutch joyning against us; but I do not think it yet true. So home to dinner, and in the afternoon to the office, and so to Sir W. Batten’s, where in discourse I heard the custom of the election of the Dukes of Genoa, who for two years are every day attended in the greatest state; and four or five hundred men always waiting upon him as a king; and when the two years are out, and another is chose, a messenger is, sent to him, who stands at the bottom of the stairs, and he at the top, and says, “Va. Illustrissima Serenita sta finita, et puede andar en casa.”--“Your serenity is now ended; and now you may be going home,” and so claps on his hat. And the old Duke (having by custom sent his goods home before), walks away, it may be but with one man at his heels; and the new one brought immediately in his room, in the greatest state in the world. Another account was told us, how in the Dukedom of Ragusa, in the Adriatique (a State that is little, but more ancient, they say, than Venice, and is called the mother of Venice, and the Turks lie round about it), that they change all the officers of their guard, for fear of conspiracy, every twenty-four hours, so that nobody knows who shall be captain of the guard to-night; but two men come to a man, and lay hold of him as a prisoner, and carry him to the place; and there he hath the keys of the garrison given him, and he presently issues his orders for that night’s watch: and so always from night to night. Sir Win. Rider told the first of his own knowledge; and both he and Sir W. Batten confirm the last. Hence home and to read, and so to bed, but very late again.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
14 July 1668.
Up, and to my office, where sat all the morning. At noon home to dinner, and thence all the afternoon hard at the office, we meeting about the Victualler’s new contract; and so into the garden, my Lady Pen, Mrs. Turner and her daughter, my wife and I, and there supped in the dark and were merry, and so to bed. This day Bossc finished his copy of my picture, which I confess I do not admire, though my wife prefers him to Browne; nor do I think it like. He do it for W. Hewer, who hath my wife’s also, which I like less. This afternoon my Lady Pickering come to see us: I busy, saw her not. But how natural it is for us to slight people out of power, and for people out of power to stoop to see those that while in power they contemned!
<|/entry|><|entry|>
15 July 1668.
Up, and all the morning busy at the office to my great content, attending to the settling of papers there that I may have the more rest in winter for my eyes by how much I do the more in the settling of all things in the summer by daylight. At noon home to dinner, where is brought home the espinette I bought the other day of Haward; costs me L5. So to St. James’s, where did our ordinary business with the Duke of York. So to Unthanke’s to my wife, and with her and Deb. to visit Mrs. Pierce, whom I do not now so much affect, since she paints. But stayed here a while, and understood from her how my Lady Duchesse of Monmouth is still lame, and likely always to be so, which is a sad chance for a young to get, only by trying of tricks in dancing. So home, and there Captain Deane come and spent the evening with me, to draw some finishing lines on his fine draught of “The Resolution,” the best ship, by all report, in the world, and so to bed. Wonderful hot all day and night, and this the first night that I remember in my life that ever I could lie with only a sheet and one rug. So much I am now stronger than ever I remember myself, at least since before I had the stone.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
20 March 1920.
Squeech! Squeech! Tehee! Quee! Little boys with plastered hair, clean collars and brand new boots squeak from the nursery to the lobby to the cupboard under the stairs where the school kits are hung. Furious young voices cry: "Who's stolen my ink eraser that was in the well of my pencil box?"

They hiss through their teeth at the stolid servant girls carrying the porridge pots: "You've been at this! Thief! Spy!!"

The Stranger

"You merely find yourself in the old position of trying to change me. And I refuse to be changed. I won't change. If I don't feel these things — I don't feel them and there's an end of it."

For a moment he stood there, cold, frigid, grasping the door-handle, staring not at her but over her head. He looked like a stranger who had opened her door by accident, and felt it necessary, for some reason or other to explain the accident before he closed it again and went out of her life for ever.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
13 February 1920.
Weak Tea ..." I have just partaken of that saddest of things — a cup of weak tea. Oh, why must it be weak! How much more than pathetic it is to hear someone say as she puts it down before you : "I am afraid it is rather weak." One feels such a brute to take advantage of it until it is a little stronger. I grasp the cup ; it seems to quiver — to breathe — "coward!" I confess, I can never hear a person at a tea party say (in that timid whisper you know, as though they were shamefully conscious) : "Very weak for me, please," without wanting to burst into tears. Not that I like desperately strong tea — No, let it be a moderate strength — tea

The Change

that rings the bell. Very strong tea does seem to give you your penny back — in the teapot from the taste of it.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
[Prompt: Write about your day.]
30 June 1668.
Up, and at the Office all the morning: then home to dinner, where a stinking leg of mutton, the weather being very wet and hot to keep meat in. Then to the Office again, all the afternoon: we met about the Victualler’s new contract. And so up, and to walk all the evening with my wife and Mrs. Turner in the garden, till supper, about eleven at night; and so, after supper, parted, and to bed, my eyes bad, but not worse, only weary with working. But, however, I very melancholy under the fear of my eyes being spoiled, and not to be recovered; for I am come that I am not able to readout a small letter, and yet my sight good for the little while I can read, as ever they were, I think.

July 1st. Up; and all the morning we met at the office about the Victualler’s contract. At noon home to dinner, my Cozen Roger, come newly to town, dined with us, and mighty importunate for our coming down to Impington, which I think to do, this Sturbridge fair. Thence I set him down at the Temple, and Commissioner Middleton dining the first time with me, he and I to White Hall, and so to St. James’s, where we met; and much business with the Duke of York. And I find the Duke of York very hot for regulations in the Navy; and, I believe, is put on it by W. Coventry; and I am glad of it; and particularly, he falls heavy on Chatham-yard,, and is vexed that Lord Anglesey did, the other day, complain at the Council-table of disorders in the Navy, and not to him. So I to White Hall to a Committee of Tangier; and there vexed, with the importunity and clamours of Alderman Backewell, for my acquittance for money supplied by him to the garrison, before I have any order for paying it: so home, calling at several places-among others, the ‘Change, and on Cooper, to know when my wife shall come to sit for her picture, which will be next week, and so home and to walk with my wife, and then to supper and to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
3 June 1665.
Up and to White Hall, where Sir G. Carteret did go with me to Secretary Morris, and prevailed with him to let Mr. Hater be released upon bail for his appearance. So I at a loss how to get another besides myself, and got Mr. Hunt, who did patiently stay with me all the morning at Secretary Morris’s chamber, Mr. Hater being sent for with his keeper, and at noon comes in the Secretary, and upon entering recognizances, he for L200, and Mr. Hunt and I for L100 each for his appearance upon demand, he was released, it costing him, I think, above L3. I thence home, vexed to be kept from the office all the morning, which I had not been in many months before, if not some years. At home to dinner, and all the afternoon at the office, where late at night, and much business done, then home to supper and to bed. All this day by all people upon the River, and almost every where else hereabout were heard the guns, our two fleets for certain being engaged; which was confirmed by letters from Harwich, but nothing particular: and all our hearts full of concernment for the Duke, and I particularly for my Lord Sandwich and Mr. Coventry after his Royall Highnesse.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|pepys|>
16 June 1665.
Up and to the office, where I set hard to business, but was informed that the Duke of Yorke is come, and hath appointed us to attend him this afternoon. So after dinner, and doing some business at the office, I to White Hall, where the Court is full of the Duke and his courtiers returned from sea. All fat and lusty, and ruddy by being in the sun. I kissed his hands, and we waited all the afternoon. By and by saw Mr. Coventry, which rejoiced my very heart. Anon he and I, from all the rest of the company, walked into the Matted Gallery; where after many expressions of love, we fell to talk of business. Among other things, how my Lord Sandwich, both in his counsells and personal service, hath done most honourably and serviceably. Sir J. Lawson is come to Greenwich; but his wound in his knee yet very bad. Jonas Poole, in the Vantguard, did basely, so as to be, or will be, turned out of his ship. Captain Holmes

expecting upon Sansum’s death to be made Rear-admirall to the Prince (but Harman is

put in) hath delivered up to the Duke his commission, which the Duke took and tore. He, it seems, had bid the Prince, who first told him of Holmes’s intention, that he should dissuade him from it; for that he was resolved to take it if he offered it. Yet Holmes would do it, like a rash, proud coxcombe. But he is rich, and hath, it seems, sought an occasion of leaving the service. Several of our captains have done ill. The great ships are the ships do the business, they quite deadening the enemy. They run away upon sight of “The Prince.”

It is strange to see how people do already slight Sir William Barkeley,

my Lord FitzHarding’s brother, who, three months since, was the delight of the Court. Captain Smith of “The Mary” the Duke talks mightily of; and some great thing will be done for him. Strange to hear how the Dutch do relate, as the Duke says, that they are the conquerors; and bonefires are made in Dunkirke in their behalf; though a clearer victory can never be expected. Mr. Coventry thinks they cannot have lost less than 6000 men, and we not dead above 200, and wounded about 400; in all about 600. Thence home and to my office till past twelve, and then home to supper and to bed, my wife and mother not being yet come home from W. Hewer’s chamber, who treats my mother tonight. Captain Grovel the Duke told us this day, hath done the basest thing at Lowestoffe, in hearing of the guns, and could not (as others) be got out, but staid there; for which he will be tried; and is reckoned a prating coxcombe, and of no courage.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
26 August 1915.
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.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
22 May 1915.
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.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
15 July 1915.
(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 !
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|maclane|>
14 March 1901.
I have been placed in this world with eyes to see and ears to hear, and I ask for Life. Is it to be wondered at? Is it so strange? Should I be content merely to see and to hear? There are other things for other people. Is it atrocious that I should ask for some other things also?

Is thy servant a dog?
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
30 December 1668.
Up, and vexed a little to be forced to pay 40s. for a glass of my coach, which was broke the other day, nobody knows how, within the door, while it was down; but I do doubt that I did break it myself with my knees. After dinner, my wife and I to the Duke’s playhouse, and there did see King Harry the Eighth; and was mightily pleased, better than I ever expected, with the history and shows of it. We happened to sit by Mr. Andrews, our neighbour, and his wife, who talked so fondly to his little boy. Thence my wife and I to the ‘Change; but, in going, our neere horse did fling himself, kicking of the coachbox over the pole; and a great deal of trouble it was to get him right again, and we forced to ‘light, and in great fear of spoiling the horse, but there was no hurt. So to the ‘Change, and then home, and there spent the evening talking, and so to supper and to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
7 September 1922.
But I know it is not all. How does one know that? Let me take the case of K.M. She has led, ever since she can remember, a very typically false life. Yet, through it all, there have been moments, instants, gleams, when she has felt the possibility of something quite other.

Love-birds at 472: Male and female. Male, green underbody, wings mole, tipped with yellow, broad at base, gradually growing smaller until the head feathers, as close as can be. Yellow faces : a touch of pale-blue on the chops and on the top of the beak. On the male exquisite black spots, points of jet under the beak. Tail of male bird blue.

Female yellow with overbody of pale green in delicate pencil lines. The bird is yellow, but a green-yellow. Male bird burrows in its back, finds. . . .
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
24 October 1915.
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.
<|/entry|><|entry|>
22 October 1915.
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
<|/entry|><|entry|>
31 December 1915.
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!"
<|/entry|><|entry|>
26 January 1919.
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....
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
21 December 1920.
Throttling, strangling by the throat, a helpless, exhausted little black silk bag.

But one says not a word and to the best of one's belief gives no sign. I went out into the gentle rain and saw the rainbow. It deepened; it shone down into the sea and it faded: it was gone. The small gentle rain fell on the other side of the world. Frail — Frail. I felt Life was no more than this.

Marie and the Cauliflower "Mon pauvre mari rolled over and said: Tu as peur? Que tu es bête! Ce sont des rats. Douze encore." I thought, after she told me, and these words kept rippling and rippling through my mind, something had disturbed the long silent forgotten surface. How many of his words were remembered? Did anybody ever quote the living words he'd spoken? "Tu as peur?
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|mansfield|>
25 January 1922.
Played cribbage with J. I delight in seeing him win. When we play he sometimes makes faces at me — the same kind of faces that Chummie used to make. I think I am never so fond of him as when he does this.

We were talking of the personality of the cat to-day and saying that we ought to write it down. It is true he has become as real as if he could talk. I feel he does talk, and that when he is silent it is only a case of making his nettle shirt and he will begin. Perhaps the most engaging glimpse of him is playing his fiddle with wool for strings or sitting up to the piano and playing Nelly Bly. But his love Isbel, his whole complete little life side by side with ours, ought to be told. I shall never tell it, though.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|mansfield|>
26 January 1922.
Pinker writes to say The Nation has taken " The Doll's House."

1 See entry of October 18, 1920.

I am sure that meditation is the cure for the sickness of my mind, i.e. its lack of control. I have a terribly sensitive mind which receives every impression, and that is the reason why I am so carried away and borne under.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|mansfield|>
27 January 1922.
M. came, wearing her woolly lamb. A strange fate overtakes me with her. We seem to be always talking of physical subjects. They bore and disgust me, for I feel it is waste of time, and yet we always revert to them. She lay back on the pillows, talking. She had an absent air. She was saying how fine women were . . . and it was on the tip of my tongue to be indiscreet. But I was not. Thank Heaven !

I have been in pain, in bad pain all day. I ache all over. I can hardly stand. It seems impossible that I am going away on Monday.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|mansfield|>
28 January 1922.
These preparations for flight are almost incredible. The only way to keep calm is to play crib. J. and I sit opposite each other. I feel we are awfully united. And we play and laugh and it seems to keep us together. While the game lasts, we are there. A queer feeling. . . .
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
22 August 1914.
She went to Looe in Cornwall for the summer of 1918, and returned to a new house in Hampstead for the winter. In the spring of 1919 I became editor of The Athenaeum, and she began to write weekly criticisms of novels under the initials K.M., which then began to be famous, and a little later began to write a story each month for the paper. Then, for the first time, the publishers began to ask her to collect her stories, and at the beginning of 1920 Bliss, for which she received £40 in advance, appeared.

Before it appeared, she had been driven from England once more by her illness. She spent the winter
of 1919-1920 in Ospedaletti and Mentone, where she learned of the success of her book. She returned to Hampstead for the summer, and in September left once more for Mentone. From Mentone she went, in May 1921, to Montana in Switzerland.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
24 April 1668.
Up betimes, and by water to White Hall, to the Duke of York, and there hear that this day Hopis and Temple purpose to bring in the petition against Sir W. Coventry, which I am sorry for, but hope he will get out of it. Here I presented Mrs. Pett and her condition to Mr. Wren for his favour, which he promised us. Thence to Lord Brouncker and sat and talked with him, who thinks the Parliament will, by their violence and delay in money matters, force the King to run any hazard, and dissolve them. Thence to Ducke Lane, and there did overlook a great many of Monsieur Fouquet’s library, that a bookseller hath bought, and I did buy one Spanish , “Los Illustres Varones.”

Here did I endeavour to see my pretty woman that I did baiser in las tenebras a little while depuis. And did find her sofa in the book, but had not la confidence para alter a elle. So lost my pains. But will another time, and so home and to my office, and then to dinner. After dinner down to the Old Swan, and by the way called at Michell’s, and there did see Betty, and that was all, for either she is shy or foolish, and su mardi hath no mind para laiser me see su moher. To White Hall by water, and there did our business with the Duke of York, which was very little, only here I do hear the Duke of York tell how Sir W. Pen’s impeachment was brought into the House of Lords to-day; and spoke with great kindness of him: and that the Lords would not commit him till they could find precedent for it, and did incline to favour him. Thence to the King’s playhouse, and there saw a piece of “Beggar’s Bush,” which I have not seen some years, and thence home, and there to Sir W. Pen’s and supped and sat talking there late, having no where else to go, and my eyes too bad to read right, and so home to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
6 April 1669.
Up, and to the Office, and thence to the Excise Office about some business, and so back to the office and sat till late, end thence to Mr. Batelier’s to dinner, where my cozen Turner and both her daughters, and Talbot Pepys and my wife, and a mighty fine dinner. They at dinner before I come; and, when I had dined, I away home, and thence to White Hall, where the Board waited on the Duke of York to discourse about the disposing of Sir Thomas Allen’s fleete, which is newly come home to Portsmouth; and here Middleton and I did in plain terms acquaint the Duke of York what we thought and had observed in the late Court-martiall, which the Duke did give ear to; and though he thinks not fit to revoke what is already done in this case by a Court-martiall, yet it shall bring forth some good laws in the behaviour of Captains to their under Officers for the time to come. Thence home, and there, after a while at the Office, I home, and there come home my wife, who hath been with Batelier’s late, and been dancing with the company, at which I seemed a little troubled, not being sent for thither myself, but I was not much so, but went to bed well enough pleased.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|pepys|>
8 April 1669.
Up, and to White Hall, to the King’s side, to find Sir T. Clifford, where the Duke of York come and found me, which I was sorry for, for fear he should think I was making friends on that side. But I did put it off the best I could, my being there: and so, by and by, had opportunity alone to shew Sir T. Clifford the fair account I had drawn up of the Customes, which he liked, and seemed mightily pleased with me; and so away to the Excise-Office, to do a little business there, and so to the Office, where all the morning. At noon home to dinner, and then to the office again till the evening, and then with my wife by coach to Islington, to pay what we owe there, for the late dinner at Jane’s wedding; and so round by Kingsland and Hogsden home, pleased with my wife’s singing with me, by the way, and so to the office again a little, and then home to supper and to bed. Going this afternoon through Smithfield, I did see a coach run over the coachman’s neck, and stand upon it, and yet the man rose up, and was well after it, which I thought a wonder.
<|/entry|><|entry|><|pepys|>
15 April 1669.
Up, and to the office, and thence before the office sat to the Excise Office with W. Hewer, but found some occasion to go another way to the Temple upon business, and I by Deb.’s direction did know whither in Jewen Street to direct my hackney coachman, while I staid in the coach in Aldgate Street, to go thither just to enquire whether Mrs. Hunt, her aunt, was in town, who brought me word she was not; thought this was as much as I could do at once, and therefore went away troubled through that I could do no more but to the office I must go and did, and there all the morning, but coming thither I find Bagwell’s wife, who did give me a little note into my hand, wherein I find her para invite me para meet her in Moorfields this noon, where I might speak with her, and so after the office was up, my wife being gone before by invitation to my cozen Turner’s to dine, I to the place, and there, after walking up and down by the windmills, I did find her and talk with her, but it being holiday and the place full of people, we parted, leaving further discourse and doing to another time. Thence I away, and through Jewen Street, my mind, God knows, running that way, but stopped not, but going down Holborne hill, by the Conduit, I did see Deb. on foot going up the hill. I saw her, and she me, but she made no stop, but seemed unwilling to speak to me; so I away on, but then stopped and ‘light, and after her and overtook her at the end of Hosier lane in Smithfield, and without standing in the street desired her to follow me, and I led her into a little blind alehouse within the walls, and there she and I alone fell to talk and baiser la and toker su mammailles, but she mighty coy, and I hope modest.... I did give her in a paper 20s., and we did agree para meet again in the Hall at Westminster on Monday next; and so giving me great hopes by her carriage that she continues modest and honest, we did there part, she going home and I to Mrs. Turner’s, but when I come back to the place where I left my coach it was gone, I having staid too long, which did trouble me to abuse the poor fellow, so that taking another coach I did direct him to find out the fellow and send him to me. At my cozen Turner’s I find they are gone all to dinner to Povy’s, and thither I, and there they were all, and W. Batelier and his sister, and had dined; but I had good things brought me, and then all up and down the house, and mightily pleased to see the fine rooms: but, the truth is, there are so many bad pictures, that to me make the good ones lose much of the pleasure in seeing them. The. and Betty Turner in new flowered tabby gowns, and so we were pretty merry, only my fear upon me for what I had newly done, do keep my content in. So, about five or six o’clock, away, and I took my wife and the two Bateliers, and carried them homeward, and W. Batelier ‘lighting, I carried the women round by Islington, and so down Bishopsgate Street home, and there to talk and sup, and then to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
30 March 1660.
I was saluted in the morning with two letters, from some that I had done a favour to, which brought me in each a piece of gold. This day, while my Lord and we were at dinner, the Nazeby came in sight towards us, and at last came to anchor close by us. After dinner my Lord and many others went on board her, where every thing was out of order, and a new chimney made for my Lord in his bedchamber, which he was much pleased with. My Lord, in his discourse, discovered a great deal of love to this ship.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
19 March 1664.
Up and to the office, where all the morning, and at noon my wife and I alone, having a good hen, with eggs, to dinner, with great content. Then by coach to my brother’s, where I spent the afternoon in paying some of the charges of the buriall, and in looking over his papers, among which I find several letters of my brother John’s to him speaking very foale words of me and my deportment to him here, and very crafty designs about Sturtlow land and God knows what, which I am very glad to know, and shall make him repent them. Anon my father and my brother John came to towne by coach. I sat till night with him, giving him an account of things. He, poor man, very sad and sickly. I in great pain by a simple compressing of my cods to-day by putting one leg over another as I have formerly done, which made me hasten home, and after a little at the office in great disorder home to bed.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|pepys|>
4 April 1669.
(Lord’s day). Up, and to church, where Alderman Backewell’s wife, by my invitation with my head, come up with her mother, and sat with us, and after sermon I did walk with them home, and there left them, and home to dinner, and after dinner with Sir J. Minnes and T. Middleton to White Hall, by appointment; and at my Lord Arlington’s the Office did attend the King and Cabal, to discourse the further quantity of victuals fit to be declared for, which was 2,000 men for six months; and so without more ado or stay, there, hearing no news but that Sir Thomas Allen is to be expected every hour at home with his fleete, or news of his being gone back to Algier, and so home, where got my wife to read to me; and so after supper to bed. The Queen-Mother hath been of late mighty ill, and some fears of her death.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|>
[Prompt: What do you keep returning to?]
9 July 1664.
Up, and at the office all the morning. In the afternoon by coach with Sir J. Minnes to White Hall, and there to a Committee for Fishing; but the first thing was swearing to be true to the Company, and we were all sworne; but a great dispute we had, which, methought, is very ominous to the Company; some, that we should swear to be true to the best of our power, and others to the best of our understanding; and carried in the last, though in that we are the least able to serve the Company, because we would not be obliged to attend the business when we can, but when we list. This consideration did displease me, but it was voted and so went. We did nothing else, but broke up till a Committee of Guinny was set and ended, and then met again for Tangier, and there I did my business about my Lord Peterborough’s order and my own for my expenses for the garrison lately. So home, by the way calling for my Chaucer and other books, and that is well done to my mind, which pleased me well. So to my office till late writing letters, and so home to my wife to supper and bed, where we have not lain together because of the heat of the weather a good while, but now against her going into the country.
<|/entry|>


<|entry|><|vangogh|>
27 November 1887.
I am in a frenzy of work, for the trees are blossoming, and I wished to paint a Provence orchard in all its unbounded cheerfulness and beauty. To keep a clear head for writing in the midst of it all, is therefore no easy matter. Yesterday, for instance, I wrote some letters which I afterwards tore up. Every day I feel more strongly that we must do something in Holland, and it must be done with the utmost verve and with that French gaiety which is worthy of the cause for which we stand. This is therefore a plan of campaign which will cost us the best pictures which we have produced together, pictures which are certainly worth a few thousand franc notes, or which have cost us, at least, something in money and a great deal in health and life. It would be a clear and sonorous reply to all the whispered suggestions that we are already half dead, and a revenge for your journey last year, and your cold reception, etc. But enough of this. Well, then, suppose we give Jet Mauve the picture in memory of Mauve, a study to Breitner (I happen to have got one which is like the study I exchanged with R. and Pissaro: oranges on a white ground, with a blue background) then a few studies to our sister, and to the Modern Museum at the Hague (as so many memories are connected with it) the two Montmartre landscapes which are at the Independants’ exhibition. There still remains one other unpleasant thing. When T. wrote: “Send me impressionist pictures, but only those which you consider very good” you put one of my pictures among the batch. And now I am in the infernal position of having to convince T. that I am and will remain a real Impressionist of the _petit boulevard_. What do you say to my giving him a picture for his collection? Just lately I have been thinking things over, and have found something ever so much more amusing than my usual kind of study; it is a drawbridge, with a small yellow carriage upon it and a group of washerwomen. In this study the ground is a glaring orange, the grass is very green, and the sky and the water are blue. It must have a frame of royal blue and gold, the inside blue and outside a gilt moulding. The frame might be made of blue plush; but it would be better to paint the wood blue.... I cannot find time to write a quiet letter; my work absorbs me too much. But what I particularly wished to say to you is that I should like to paint a few studies for Holland, so as to have done with it. Quite recently, whilst thinking of Mauve, T., our mother and Will, I got more excited than was good for me, and I was comforted by the thought of painting a few pictures for home. After that I shall think no more about them, and think only of the _petit boulevard_.
<|/entry|>