18 January 1915 – 24 January 1915

A man outside is breaking stones. The day is utterly quiet. Sometimes a leaf rustles and a strange puff of wind passes the window. The old man chops, chops, as though it were a heart beating out there. In the afternoon there came a violent storm, but we walked over to C.'s, dined with them and the L.'s and the S.'s and had a play after. Late we went to the L.'s to sleep, very untidy — newspapers and faded mistletoe. I hardly slept at all, but it was nice. A stormy day. We walked back this morning. It has rained and snowed and hailed and the wind blows. The dog at the mill howls. A man far away is playing the bugle. I have read and sewed to-day, but not written a word. I want to to-night. It is so funny to sit quietly sewing, while my heart is never for a moment still. I am dreadfully tired in head and body. This sad place is killing me. I live upon old made-up dreams ; but they do not deceive either of us.

1 am in the sitting-room downstairs. The wind howls outside, but here it is so warm and pleas- ant. It looks like a real room where real people live. My sewing-basket is on the table: under the book- case are poked J.'s old house shoes. The black chair, half in shadow, looks as if a happy person had sprawled there. We had roast mutton and onion sauce and baked rice for dinner. It sounds right. I have run the ribbons through my underclothes with a hair-pin in the good home way. But my anxious heart is eat- ing up my body, eating up my nerves, eating up my brain. I feel this poison slowly filling my veins — every particle becoming slowly tainted. ... I am never, never calm, never for an instant. I remember years ago saying I wished I were one of those happy people who can suffer so far and then collapse or be- come exhausted. But I am just the opposite. The more I suffer, the more of fiery energy I feel to bear it.

Weather worse than ever. At tea-time I surprised myself by breaking down. I simply felt for a moment overcome with anguish and came upstairs and put my head on the black cushion. My longing for cities engrosses me.

The old man breaking stones again. A thick white mist reaches the edge of the field.