December 1919

Surely I do know more than other people: I have suffered more, and endured more. I know how they long to be happy, and how precious is an atmos- phere that is loving, a climate that is not frightening. Why do I not try to bear this in mind, and try to culti- vate my garden? Now I descend to a strange place among strangers. Can I not make myself felt as a real personal force? (why should you?) Ah, but I should. I have had experiences unknown to them. I should by now have learnt C.'s obiter dictum — how true it might be. It must be.

It often happens to me now that when I lie down to sleep at night, instead of getting drowsy, I feel more wakeful and, lying here in bed, I begin to live over either scenes from real life or imaginary scenes. It's not too much to say they are almost hallu- cinations: they are marvellously vivid. I lie on my right side and put my left hand up to my forehead as though I were praying. This seems to induce the state. Then, for instance, it is 10:30 p.m. on a big liner in mid ocean. People are beginning to leave the Ladies' Cabin. Father puts his head in and asks if " one of you would care for a walk before you turn in. It's glo- rious up on deck." That begins it. I am there. Details : Father rubbing his gloves, the cold air — the night air, the pattern of everything, the feel of the brass stair-rail and the rubber stairs. Then the deck — the pause while the cigar is lighted, the look of all in the moonlight, the steadying hum of the ship, the first officer on deck, so far aloft the bells, the steward going into the smok- ing-room with a tray, stepping over the high, brass- bound step. . . . All these things are far realer, more in detail, richer than life. And I believe I could go on until . . . There's no end to it. I can do this about everything. Only there are no personalities. Neither am I there personally. People are only part of the silence, not of the pattern — vastly different from that — part of the scheme. I could always do this to a certain extent ; but it's only since I was really ill that this — shall we call it? — " consolation prize " has been given to me. My God ! it's a marvellous thing. I can call up certain persons — Doctor S. for in- stance. And then I remember how I used to say to J. and R. " He was looking very beautiful to-day." I did not know what I was saying. But when I so sum- mon him and see him ' in relation,' he is marvellously beautiful. There again he comes complete, to every detail, to the shape of his thumbs, to looking over his glasses, his lips as he writes, and particularly in all connected with putting the needle into the syringe. . . . I relive all this at will. "Any children? " he said, taking his stethoscope as I struggled with my nightgown. " No, no children." But what would he have said if I'd told him that until a few days ago I had had a little child, aged five and three quarters, of indeterminate sex? Some days it was a boy. For two years now it had very often been a little girl. . . .