28 December 1914 – 31 December 1914

The year is nearly over. Snow has fallen, and everything is white. It is very cold. I have changed the position of my desk into a corner. Per- haps I shall be able to write far more easily here. Yes, this is a good place for the desk, because I cannot see out of the stupid window. I am quite private. The lamp stands on one corner and in the corner. Its rays fall on the yellow and green Indian curtain and on the strip of red embroidery. The forlorn wind scarcely breathes. I love to close my eyes a moment and think of the land outside, white under the mingled snow and moonlight — the heaps of stones by the roadside white — snow in the furrows. Mon Dieu! How quiet and how patient !