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January I. I dreamed I sailed to Egypt with Grandma—a very white boat.

Cold, still. The gale last night has blown nearly all the snow off the trees; only big, frozen-looking lumps remain. In the wood where the snow is thick, bars of sunlight lay like pale fire.

I have left undone those things I ought to have done and I have done those things which I ought not to have done, e.g. violent impatience with L.M.

Wrote The Doves' Nest this afternoon. I was in no mood to write; it seemed impossible. Yet when I had finished three pages, they were all right. This is a proof (never to be too often proved) that once one has thought out a story nothing remains but the labour.

Wing Lee¹ disappeared for the day. Read W.J.D.'s poems. I feel very near to him in mind.

I want to remember how the light fades from a room—and one fades with it, is expunged, sitting still, knees together, hands in pockets….

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January 2. Little round birds in the fir-tree at the side window, scouring the tree for food. I crumbled a piece of bread, but though the crumbs fell in the branches only two found them. There was a strange remoteness in the air, the scene, the winter cheeping. In the evening, for the first time for — I felt rested. I sat up in bed and discovered I was singing within. Even the sound of the wind is different. It is joyful, not ominous and black. Dark looks in at the window and is only black dark. In the afternoon it came on to rain, long glancing rain, falling aslant.

I have not done the work I should have done. I shirk the lunch party [see The Doves' Nest]. This is very bad. In fact I am disgusted with myself. There must be a change from now on. What I chiefly admire in Jane Austen is that what she promises, she performs, i.e. if Sir T. is to arrive, we have his arrival at length, and it's excellent and exceeds our expectations. This is rare; it is also my very weakest point. Easy to see why….

January 3. I dreamed I was at the Strand Palace,—having married M.D.—big blonde—in quantities of white satin….

There was a great deal more snow this morning; it was very soft, ‘like wool.’ The cocoanut was bought and sawn in half and hung from J.'s balcony. The milk came tinkling out of the nut in brightest drops—not white milk. This was a profound surprise. The flesh of the nut is very lovely—so pure white. But it was that dewy, page 209 sweet liquid which made the marvel. Whence came it? It took one to the island.

I read The Tempest. The papers came. I over-read them. Tell the truth. I did no work. In fact I was more idle and hateful than ever. Full of sin. Why? “Oh self, oh self, wake from thy common sleep.” And the worst of it is I feel so much better in health. It is shameful! The Tempest seems to me astonishing this time. When one reads the same play again, it is never the same play.

January 4. Dreamed of M.S. An important dream; its tone was important. That gallery over the sea and my “Isn't it beautiful?” and his weary “No doubt.” His definition of the two kinds of women….

But I was not so wicked to-day. I have read a good deal of Cosmic Anatomy and understood it far better. Yes, such a book does fascinate me. Why does J. hate it so?

To get a glimpse of the relation of things—to follow that relation and find it remains true through the ages enlarges my little mind as nothing else does. It's only a greater view of psychology. It helps me with my writing, for instance, to know that hot + bun may mean Taurus, Pradhana, substance. No, that's not really what attracts me; it's that reactions to certain causes and effects always have been the same. It wasn't for nothing Constantia¹ chose the moon and water, for instance!

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Read Shakespeare. The snow is thicker, it clings to the branches like white new-born puppies.

January 5. A long typical boat dream. I was, as usual, going to N.Z. But for the first time my stepmother was very friendly—so nice. I loved her. A tragic dream as regards L.M. She disappeared, and it was too late to find her or tell her to come back at last.

Read Cosmic Anatomy. I managed to work a little. Broke through. This is a great relief. J. and I put out food for the birds. When I went to the window all the food was gone, but there was the tiny print of their feet on the sill. J. brought up the half cocoanut and sprinkled crumbs as well. Very soon, terrified, however, one came, then another, then a third, balanced on the cocoanut. They are precious little atoms.

It still snows. I think I hate snow, downright hate it. There is something stupefying in it, a kind of ‘You must be worse before you're better,’ and down it spins. I love, I long for the fertile earth. How I have longed for the South of France this year! So do I now.

Soundly rated L.M. about food and clothing. She has a food ‘complex.’ J. and I read Mansfield Park with great enjoyment. I wonder if J. is as content as he appears? It seems too good to be true.

January 6. The first quarter of the Moon. Jour de fête. The Christmas Tree is dismantled.

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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….

January 7. 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 page 212 Cosmic Anatomy, Shakespeare and the Bible. Jonah. Very nice about the gourd, and also on his journey, “paying the fare thereof.”

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.

January 8. 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.

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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!

January 9. Snow. The vegetable garden fence was all but gone. H——came and said there was between 6–7 feet of snow. He was very cheerful and friendly. Off his guard, speaking of Miss S——he declared, “Well, the fact is she is not normal. And anyone who is not normal I call mad. She is unconventional, that is to say, and people who are that are no good to anyone except themselves.” When he said “mad”, a look came into his eyes—a flash of power—and he swung the stethoscope, then picked up my fan and rattled it open.

Read and knitted and played cards. A long letter from S. I want to believe all he says about my story. He does see what I meant. He does not see it as a set of trivial happenings just thrown together. This is enough to be deeply grateful for—more than others will see. But I have this continual longing to write something with all my power, all my force in it.

January 10. Dreamed I was back in New Zealand.

Got up to-day. It was fine. The sun shone and melted the last trace of snow from the trees, from the roof. The drops were not like rain-drops, but bigger, softer, more exquisite. They made one realise how one loves the fertile earth and hates this snow-bound cold substitute.

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The men worked outside on the snowy road, trying to raise the telegraph pole. Before they began they had lunch out of a paper, sitting astride the pole. It is very beautiful to see people sharing food. Cutting bread and passing the loaf, especially cutting bread in that age-old way, with a clasp-knife. Afterwards one got up in a tree and sat among the branches working from there, while the other lifted. The one in the tree turned into a kind of bird, as all people do in trees—chuckled, laughed out, peered from among the branches, careless. At-tend! Ar-rêt! Al-lez!

January 11. In bed again. Heard from Pinker The Dial has taken The Doll's House. Wrote and finished A Cup of Tea. It took about 4–5 hours. In the afternoon M. came. She looked fascinating in her black suit, something between a Bishop and a Fly. She spoke of my “pretty little story” in the Mercury. All the while she was here I was conscious of a falsity. We said things we meant; we were sincere, but at the back there was nothing but falsity. It was very horrible. I do not want ever to see her or hear from her again. When she said she would not come often, I wanted to cry Finito! No, she is not my friend.

There is no feeling to be compared with the feeling of having written and finished a story. I did not go to sleep, but nothing mattered. There it was, new and complete.

Dreamed last night of a voyage to America.

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January 12. A vile cold day. The parcel came from M. But when one compares it with A.'s exquisite coat….

J. and I ‘typed’. I hate dictating; but the story still seems to me to be good. Is it?

All the whole time at the back of my mind slumbers not nor sleeps the idea of Paris, and I begin to plan what I will do when——Can it be true? What shall I do to express my thanks? I want to adopt a Russian baby, call him Anton, and bring him up as mine, with K. for a godfather and Mme. Tchehov for a godmother. Such is my dream.

I don't feel so sinful this day as I did, because I have written something and the tide is still high. The ancient landmarks are covered. Ah! but to write better! Let me write better, more deeply, more largely.

Baleful icicles hang in a fringe outside our window pane.

January 13. Heard from B. Her letter was almost frightening. It brought back the inexplicable past. It flashed into my mind too that she must have a large number of letters of mine which don't bear thinking about. In some way I fear her. I feared her at the rue de Tournon. There was a peculiar recklessness in her manner and in her tones which made me feel she would recognise no barriers at all. At the same time, of course, one is fascinated.

Wrote to K. Began a new story, but it went too slowly. J. typed for me. I am again held up page 216 by letters to write. Letters are the real curse of my existence. I hate to write them: I have to. If I don't, there they are—the great guilty gates barring my way.

H. came and suggested my heart condition was caused by the failure to expand the diaphragm. Then why, in that case, not learn to expand it?

January 14. I got up to-day and felt better. It was intensely cold.

M. came in the afternoon. She and I were alone. She wore a little blue hood fastened under the chin with a diamond clasp. She looked like a very ancient drawing. She suggested that if I did become cured, I might no longer write….

Dreamed last night I was in a ship, with the most superb, unearthly (in the heavenly sense) seas breaking. Deep, almost violet blue waves with high foamy crests, and this white foam bore down on the blue in long curls. It was a marvellous sight. The dream was about Chummie. He had married a girl without permission and Father and Mother were in despair. I ‘realised’ it was to be; what would have happened if he had not died.

Wingley made a dash at the bird window to-day.

January 15. Dreamed I was shopping, buying underclothes in Cook's and then in Warnock's.¹ But the dream ended horribly.

I have worked to-day in discomfort—not half enough. I could have written a whole story. Saw for the first time an exquisite little crested bird. Its call is a trill, a shake, marvellously delightful. It was very shy, though, and never had the courage to stop and eat. Saw people in sleighs and on luges. Snow is very blue. The icicles at dawn this morning were the colour of opals—blue lit with fire. M. lent us Will Shakespeare. Really awful stuff! I had better keep this for a sign.

January 16. A wonderfully pleasant dream about Paris. All went so well. The Doctor and his friends all had the same atmosphere. It was good, kind, quietly happy. I don't know when I've had a dream more delightful.

But the day has not been delightful. On the contrary. It snowed heavily, it was bitter cold, and my congestion worse than ever. I have been in pain and discomfort all day. My lung creaks. I have done no work. After tea I simply went to sleep out of sheer inertia. I am in a slough of despond to-day, and like everybody in such an ugly place, I am ugly, I feel ugly. It is the triumph of matter over spirit. This must not be. Tomorrow at all costs (here I swear) I shall write a story. This is my first resolution … in this journal. I dare not break it. Tomlinson's letter page 218 to J. came yesterday. It was a beautiful letter and not to be forgotten. But why am I so bad?

January 17. Tchehov made a mistake in thinking that if he had had more time he would have written more fully, described the rain, and the midwife and the doctor having tea. The truth is one can get only so much into a story; there is always a sacrifice. One has to leave out what one knows and longs to use. Why? I haven't any idea, but there it is. It's always a kind of race to get in as much as one can before it disappears.

But time is not really in it. Yet wait. I do not understand even now. I am pursued by time myself. The only occasion when I ever felt at leisure was while writing The Daughters of the Late Colonel. And at the end I was so terribly unhappy that I wrote as fast as possible for fear of dying before the story was sent. I should like to prove this, to work at real leisure. Only thus can it be done.

January 18. H. is a man to remember. At tea that day. Mrs. M. before the huge silver kettle and pots and large plates. The ornate cake; one must remember that cake. “It seems such a pity to cut it,” and the way the old hand, so calmly, grasped the knife. H. leaning back, slapping two pieces of bread and butter together. “More tea, Jim?” “No, thanks. Yes. Half a cup.” Pouring from the kettle to the tea-cup, the fat finger on the knob. “And how is he?” “Bleeding like a pig!” “Oh, dear”—gathering her page 219 lace scarf into her lap—“I'm sorry to hear that.”

H. always collects something—always will. China, silver, “any old thing that comes along”. He's musical and collects fiddles. His feeling for his children is so tender that it's pain. He can't understand it.

One must remember, too, his extraordinary insecurity. The world rocks under him, and it's only when he has that stethoscope that he can lay down the law. Then lay it down he does. “What I say is: she's mad. She's not normal. And a person who isn't normal I call mad—barmy.” And you hear pride in his voice; you hear the unspoken: “I am a plain man, you know….”

I'm afraid there is a vein of tremendous cynicism in him, too. He feels somewhere that all is ashes. He likes to go to church, to take part, to sing when others sing, to kneel, to intone the responses. This puts his heart at rest. But when it is over and he is at home and there is a smell of beef, there comes this restlessness. When he was little, I imagine he pulled the wings off flies. And I still see suicide as his end, in a kind of melancholia, and ‘nobody wants me’, and ‘damned if I won't.’

January 20. Wrote to de la Mare. Why it should be such an effort to write to the people one loves I cannot imagine. It's none at all to write to those who don't really count. But for weeks I have thought of D., wanted to, longed to page 220 write to him, but something held back my pen. What? Once started, really started, all goes easily…. I told him in this letter how much I thought of him. I suppose it is the effect of isolation that I can truly say I think of de la Mare, Tchehov, Koteliansky, Tomlinson, Lawrence, Orage, every day. They are part of my life….

I have got more or less used to pain at last. I wonder sometimes if this is worse or better than what has been; but I don't expect to be without. But I have a suspicion—sometimes a certainty—that the real cause of my illness is not my lungs at all, but something else. And if this were found and cured, all the rest would heal.

January 21. Grandma's birthday. Where is that photograph of my dear love leaning against her husband's shoulder, with her hair parted so meekly and her eyes raised? I love it. I long to have it. For one thing Mother gave it me at a time when she loved me. But for another—so much more important—it is she, my own Grandma, young and lovely. That arm. That baby sleeve. Even the velvet ribbon. I must see them again.

And one day I must write about Grandma at length, especially of her beauty in her bath—when she was about sixty. Wiping herself with the towel. I remember now how lovely she seemed to me. And her fine linen, her throat, her scent. I have never really described her yet. Patience! The time will come.

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January 22. My feeling about Ernestine is shameful. But there it is. Her tread, her look, the way her nose is screwed round, her intense stupidity, her wrists—revolt me. This is bad. For she feels it, I am sure she does. When we speak together she blushes in a way that doesn't seem to me natural. I feel that her self-respect is shamed by my thoughts.

Lumbago. This is a very queer thing. So sudden, so painful. I must remember it when I write about an old man. The start to get up—the pause—the look of fury—and how, lying at night, one seems to get locked. To move is an agony; till finally one discovers a movement which is possible. But that helpless feeling about with the legs first!

January 23. Paris? To remember the sound of wind—the peculiar wretchedness one can feel while the wind blows. Then the warm soft wind of spring searching out the heart. The wind I call the Ancient of Days which blows here at night. The wind that shakes the garden at night when one runs out into it.

Dust. Turning one's back on a high, heavy wind. Walking along the Esplanade when the wind carries the sea over. The wind of summer, so playful, that rocked and swung in the trees here. And wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't ever understand. I always see a field, a young horse—and there is a very fair Danish girl page 222 telling me something about her step-father. The girl's name is Elsa Bagge.

January 24. Wrote and finished Taking the Veil. It took me about 3 hours to write finally. But I had been thinking over the décor and so on for weeks—nay, months, I believe. I can't say how thankful I am to have been born in N.Z., to know Wellington as I do, and to have it to range about in. Writing about the convent seemed so natural. I suppose I have not been in the grounds more than twice. But it is one of the places that remains as vivid as ever. I must not forget the name of Miss Sparrow,¹ nor the name Palmer.

January 25. 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.

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January 26. Pinker writes to say The Nation has taken “The Doll's House.”

I am sure that meditation is the cure for the 7 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.

January 27. 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.

January 28. 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….

January 29. H. came. He says my right lung is practically all right. Can one believe such words? The other is a great deal better. He thinks my heart will give me far less trouble at a lower level. Can this be true? He was so hopeful page 224 to-day that T.B. seemed no longer a scourge. It seemed that one recovered more often than not. Is this fantastic?

Tidied all my papers. Tore up and ruthlessly destroyed much. This is always a great satisfaction. Whenever I prepare for a journey I prepare as though for death. Should I never return, all is in order. This is what life has taught me.

In the evening I wrote to O. about his book. It has taken me a week to write the letter. J. and I seem to have played cribbage off and on all day. I feel there is much love between us. Tender love. Let it not change!

January 30. There was a tremendous fall of snow on Sunday. Monday was the first real perfect day of winter. It seemed that the happiness of J. and of me reached its zenith on that day. We could not have been happier; that was the feeling. Sitting one moment on the balcony of the bed-room, for instance, or driving in the sleigh through masses of heaped-up snow. He looked so beautiful, too—hatless, strolling about with his hands in his pockets. He weighed himself. 10 stone. There was a harmonium in the waiting-room. Then I went away, after a quick but not hurried kiss….

It was very beautiful on the way to Sierre. Then I kept wondering if I was seeing it all for the last time—the snowy bushes, the leafless trees. “I miss the buns.”

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January 31. Travelling is terrible. All is so sordid, and the train shatters one. Tunnels are hell. I am frightened of travelling.

We arrived in Paris late, but it was very beautiful—all emerging from water. In the night I looked out and saw the men with lanterns. The hotel all sordid again,—fruit peelings, wastepaper, boots, grime, ill-temper. In the evening I saw Manoukhin. But on the way there, nay, even before, I realised my heart was not in it. I feel divided in myself and angry and without virtue. Then L.M. and I had one of our famous quarrels, and I went to the wrong house. Don't forget, as I rang the bell, the scampering and laughter inside. M. had a lame girl there as interpreter. He said through her he could cure me completely. But I did not believe it. It all seemed suddenly unimportant and ugly. But the flat was nice—the red curtains, marble clock, and picture of ladies with powdered hair.

February 1. At 5.30 I went to the clinique and saw the other man, D. I asked him to explain the treatment and so on. He did so. But first: as I approached the door it opened and the hall, very light, showed, with the maid smiling, wearing a little shawl, holding back the door. Through the hall a man slipped quickly carrying what I thought was a cross of green leaves. Suddenly the arms of the little cross waved feebly, and I saw it was a small child strapped to a wooden tray. While I waited, voices came from another room—very loud voices, M.'s over and above them: page 226 Da! Da! and then an interrogatory: Da? I have the feeling that M. is a really good man. I have also a sneaking feeling (I use that word ‘sneaking’ advisedly) that he is a kind of unscrupulous impostor. Another proof of my divided nature. All is disunited. Half boos, half cheers.

Yes, that's it. To do anything, to be anything, one must gather oneself together and ‘one's faith make stronger’. Nothing of any worth can come from a disunited being. It's only by accident that I write anything worth a rush, and then it's only skimming the top—no more. But remember The Daughters [of the Late Colonel] was written at Mentone in November when I was not so bad as usual. I was trying with all my soul to be good. Here I try and fail, and the fact of consciousness makes each separate failure very important—each a sin. If, combined with M.'s treatment, I treated myself—worked out of this slough of despond—lived an honourable life—and, above all, made straight my relations with L.M…. I am a sham. I am also an egoist of the deepest dye—such a one that it was very difficult to confess to it in case this book should be found. Even my being well is a kind of occasion for vanity. There is nothing worse for the soul than egoism. Therefore …

February 3. I went to M. for a treatment. A curious impression remains. M.'s beautiful gesture coming into the room was perfect. But D. shouted so, pushed his face into mine, asked me indecent questions. Ah, that's the horror of page 227 being ill. One must submit to having one's secrets held up to the light, and regarded with a cold stare. D. is a proper Frenchman. “Etesvous constipée?” Shall I ever forget that, and the wadding of his tie showing over his white coat? M. sits apart, smoking, and his head—which is a curious shape: one is conscious of it all the time as of an instrument—hangs forward. But he is deeply different. He desires to reassure. “Pas de cavernes.”

Had palpitation from the moment of getting on to the table till 5 o'clock. But when I felt this coming on while rays were working, I felt simply horribly callous. I thought: Well, if this kills me—let it! Voilà! That shows how bad I am.

February 4. Massingham accepts the idea of a regular story. Heard from K——about ‘people’. It was rather a horrible day. I was ill, and at night I had one of my terrible fits of temper over a parcel. Is it possible one can be so unruly?

Heard from J. saying he will stay in Montana. There breathes in his letter the relief from strain. It is remarkable. He does not believe a word about M. and talks of coming to ‘fetch’ me in May. Well, if I am any better, there will never be any more fetching. Of that I am determined. The letter kept me awake until very late. And my sciatica! Put it on record, in case it ever goes, what a pain it is. Remember to give it to someone in a story one day. L.M. is a very tragic figure. Remember her eyes—the pupils dark— page 228 black—and her whiteness. Even her hair seems to grow pale. She folded the quilt and held it in her arms as though it was a baby.

February 5. Wrote at my story, read Shakespeare. Read Goethe, thought, prayed.

The day was cold and fine. But I felt ill and could do nothing but lie still all day. This going to Paris has been so much more important than it seemed. Now I begin to see it as the result, the ending of all that reading. I mean that even Cosmic Anatomy is involved. Something has been built, a raft, frail and not very seaworthy; but it will serve. Before, I was cast into the water when I was ‘alone’—I mean during my illness—and now something supports me. But much is to be done. Much discipline and meditation is needed. Above all, it is important to get work done. Heard from Pinker that Cassells have taken “A Cup of Tea.”

Thought about French women and their impudent confidence in the power of sex.

February 6. Letters from B. and J. B.'s letter was the most beautiful I have ever received. It gave me a strange shock to find J. never even asked how things were going. A boyish letter like so many I have had, but absolutely impersonal. It might have been written to anyone. True, he was anxious for the post. But … that was because he is alone. Do I make J. up? Is he thankful to sink into himself again? I feel relief in every line. There's no strain—nothing that page 229 binds him. Then let it continue so. But I will not take a house anywhere. I, too, will be free. (I write exactly as I feel.) I do not want to see J. again just now. I shall beg him not to come here. He is at present just like a fish that has escaped from the hook.

A bad day. I feel ill, in an obscure way—horrible pains and so on, and weakness. I could do nothing. The weakness was not only physical. I must heal my Self before I will be well.

Yes, that is the important thing. No attention is needed here. This must be done alone and at once. It is at the root of my not getting better. My mind is not controlled. I idle, I give way, I sink into despair.

February 9. A miserable day. In the night I thought for hours of the evils of uprooting. Every time one leaves anywhere, something precious, which ought not to be killed, is left to die.

February 10. I did not go to the clinique because of my chill. Spent the day in bed, reading the papers. The feeling that someone was coming towards me is too strong for me to work. It was like sitting on a bench at the end of a long avenue in a park and seeing someone far in the distance coming your way. She tries to read. The book is in her hand, but it's all nonsense, and might as well be upside down. She reads the advertisements as though they were part of the articles.

I must not forget the long talk L.M. and I had the other evening about hate. What is hate? page 230 Who has ever described it? Why do I feel it for her? She says: “It is because I am nothing, I have suppressed all my desires to such an extent that now I have none. I don't think. I don't feel.” I reply: “If you were cherished and loved for a week, you would recover.” And that is true, and I would like to do it. It seems I ought to do it. But I don't. The marvel is that she understands. No one else on earth could understand.

All that week she had her little corner. “I may come into my little corner to-night?” she asks timidly, and I reply—so cold, so cynical—“If you want to.” But what would I do if she didn't come?

J. arrived early in the morning. In half an hour it seemed he had been here a long time. I still regret his coming here for his sake. I know it is right for our sake. We went together to the clinique. Bare leafless trees. A wonderful glow in the sky: the windows flashed fire. M—drew a picture of my heart. I wish he had not. I am haunted by the hideous picture, by the thought of my heart like a heavy drop in my breast. But he is good.

February 12. We put the chess-men on the board and began to play. It was an unsettled day. L.M. in and out with no home,—no place—whirled like a leaf along this dark passage and then out into the raw street.

J. read the Tchehov aloud. I had read one of the stories myself and it seemed to me nothing. page 231 But read aloud, it was a masterpiece. How was that?

I want to remember the evening before. I was asleep. He came in—thrust his head in at the door and as I woke, I did not know him. I saw a face which reminded me of his mother and Richard. But I felt a kind of immediate dread confusion. I knew I ought to know it and that it belonged to him, yet he was as it were not present. I think this is what people who are going out of their minds must feel about the faces that bend over them and old, old people about the children. And that accounts for the foolish offended look in their faces sometimes. They feel it's not right they should not know.

February 13. Felt ill all day. Feeling of violent confusion in my body and head. I feel more ill now than ever, so it seems.

J. went out and bought a tea-pot and so on; arranged a game of chess and we started playing. But the pains in my back and so on make my prison almost unendurable. I manage to get up, to dress, to make a show of getting to the restaurant and back without being discovered. But that is literally all. The rest is rather like being a beetle shut in a book, so shackled that one can do nothing but lie down. And even to lie down becomes a kind of agony. The worst of it is I have again lost hope. I don't, I can't believe this will change. I have got off the ship again and am swept here and there by the sea.

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February 14. Another hellish day. But J. found some pastilles which help my throat, and it seemed to me they had a calming effect on my heart.

I had one of my perfect dreams. I was at sea, sailing with my parasol opened to just a ‘freshet’ of wind. Heavenly the sea, the sky, the land—parasol pink—boat pale pink.

If I could only get over my discouragement! But who is going to help with that! Now that L.M. is going I have more to do—all my clothes and so on to put away and pull out, as well as a bowl or two to wash. The effort uses what remains of my strength. By 5 o'clock I am finished and must go to bed again.

It is a very dull day. The canaries sing. I have been reading Bunin's stories. He is not a sympathetic soul, but it is good to read him … he carries one away.

February 17. Went to the clinique. I felt that all was wrong there. M. was distrait and a little angry. D. as usual sailed over everything. But that means nothing. It seemed to me there had been some trouble or some trouble was brewing.

The servant there is a very beautiful plump woman with a ravishing smile. Her eyes are grey. She curls her hair in a small fringe and she wears a little grey shawl, an apron, and a pair of rather high boots; stepping lightly, with one small plump hand holding the shawl, she opens the door.