22 April 1918 – 28 April 1918

"Well sit down, Mansfield, and reposez- vous," said F., " and I'll get on with my dressing." So he went into his bedroom and shut the door be- tween, and I sat on the end of the sofa. The sun came full through the two windows, dividing the studio into four — two quarters of light and two of shadow, but all those things which the light touched seemed to float in it, to bathe and to sparkle in it as if they be- longed not to land, but to water ; they even seemed, in some strange way, to be moving. When you lean over the edge of the rock and see something lovely and brilliant flashing at the bottom of the sea it is only the clear, trembling water that dances — but — can you be quite sure ? . . . No, not quite sure, and that little Chinese group on the writing table may or may not have shaken itself awake for just one hundredth of a second out of hundreds of years of sleep. Very beautiful, O God ! is a blue tea-pot with two white cups attending; a red apple among oranges addeth fire to flame — in the white bookcases the books fly up and down in scales of colour, with pink and lilac notes recurring, until nothing remains but them, sounding over and over. There are a number of frames, some painted and some plain, leaning against the wall, and the picture of a naked woman with her arms raised, languid, as though her heavy flowering beauty were almost too great to bear. There are two sticks and an umbrella in one corner, and in the fireplace, a kettle, curiously like a bird. White net curtains hang over the windows. For all the sun it is raining outside. The gas in the middle of the room has a pale yellow paper shade and as F. dresses he keeps up a constant whistling. Reposez-vous. Oui, je me repose. . . .

If I had my way I should stay in the Red- cliffe Road until after the war. It suits me. Whatever faults it has it is not at all bourgeois. There is ' some- thing a bit queer ' about all the people who live in it ; they are all more or less ' touched.' They walk about without their hats on and fetch and carry their food and even their coal. There are nearly four bells to every door — the curtains are all * odd ' and shabby. The charwomen, blown old flies, buzz down each other's basements. ..." No. 56 'ad a party last night. You never seen anything like the stite of 'is room this morning. ...""... 'Igh time 'e did get married, I say. 'Is fiangse spends the night with 'im already. 'E says she 'as 'is bed and 'e sleeps on the table. You don't tell me a great stick of a fellow like 'im sleeps on 'is table!" Question: But do you like this sort of talk? This kind of thing? What about the Poets and — flowers and trees ? Answer : As I can't have the perfect other thing, I do like this. I feel, somehow, free in it. It has no abid- ing place, and neither have I. And — and — Oh well, I do feel so cynical.