1 January 1915 – 3 January 1915

What a vile little diary! But I am deter- mined to keep it this year. We saw the Old Year out and the New Year in. A lovely night, blue and gold. The church bells were ringing. I went into the garden and opened the gate and nearly — just walked away. J. stood at the window mashing an orange in a cup. The shadow of the rose-tree lay on the grass like a tiny bouquet. The moon and the dew had put a spangle on everything. But just at 12 o'clock I thought I heard footsteps on the road and got fright- ened and ran back into the house. But nobody passed. J. thought I was a great baby about the whole affair. The ghost of L.M. ran through my heart, her hair flying, very pale, with dark startled eyes. For this year I have two wishes : to write, to make money. Consider. With money we could go away as we liked, have a room in London, be as free as we liked, and be independent and proud with nobodies. It is only poverty that holds us so tightly. Well, J. doesn't want money and won't earn money. I must. How? First, get this book finished. That is a start. When ? At the end of January. If you do that, you are saved. If I wrote night and day I could do it. Yes, I could. Right O ! I feel the new life coming nearer. I believe, just as I always have believed. Yes, it will come. All will be well.

A horrible morning and afternoon. Je me sens incapable de tout, and at the same time I am just not writing very well. I must finish my story to- morrow. I ought to work at it all day, — yes, all day and into the night if necessary. A vile day. J'ai envie de prier au bon Dieu comme le vieux pere Tolstoi. Oh, Lord, make me a better creature to-morrow. Le cceur me monte aux levres d'un gout de sang. Je me deteste aujourd'hui. Dined at L.'s and talked the Is- land. It is quite real except that some part of me is blind to it. Six months ago Fd have jumped. The chief thing I feel lately about myself is that I am getting old. I don't feel like a girl any more, or even like a young woman. I feel really quite past my prime. At times the fear of death is dreadful. I feel ever so much older than J. and that he recognises it, I am sure. He never used to, but now he often talks like a young man to an older woman. Well, perhaps, it's a good thing.

A cold, ugly day. It was dark soon after two. Spent it trying to write and running from my room into the kitchen. I could not get really warm. The day felt endless. Read in the evening, and later read with J. a good deal of poetry. If I lived alone I would be very dependent on poetry. Talked over the Island idea with J. For me I know it has come too late.