2 January 1922 – 8 January 1922

Little round birds in the fir-tree at the side window, scouring the tree for food. I crumbled a piece of bread, but though the crumbs fell in the branches only two found them. There was a strange remoteness in the air, the scene, the winter cheeping. In the eve- ning, for the first time for 1 felt rested. I sat up in bed and discovered I was singing within. Even the sound of the wind is different. It is joyful, not ominous and black. Dark looks in at the window and is only black dark. In the afternoon it came on to rain, long glancing rain, falling aslant. I have not done the work I should have done. I shirk the lunch party , This is very bad. In fact I am disgusted with myself. There must be a change from now on. What I chiefly admire in Jane Austen is that what she promises, she performs, i.e. if Sir T. is to arrive, we have his arrival at length, and it's excellent and exceeds our expectations. This is rare ; it is also my very weakest point. Easy to see why. . . .

I dreamed I was at the Strand Palace, — having married M.D. — big blonde — in quantities of white satin. . . . There was a great deal more snow this morning ; it was very soft, ' like wool.' The cocoanut was bought and sawn in half and hung from J.'s balcony. The milk came tinkling out of the nut in brightest drops — not white milk. This was a profound surprise. The flesh of the nut is very lovely — so pure white. But it was that dewy, sweet liquid which made the marvel. Whence came it? It took one to the island. I read The Tempest. The papers came. I over-read them. Tell the truth. I did no work. In fact I was more idle and hateful than ever. Full of sin. Why? " Oh self, oh self, wake from thy common sleep." And the worst of it is I feel so much better in health. It is shameful ! The Tempest seems to me astonishing this time. When one reads the same play again, it is never the same play.

Dreamed of M.S. An important dream; its tone was important. That gallery over the sea and my " Isn't it beautiful? " and his weary " No doubt." His definition of the two kinds of women. . . . But I was not so wicked to-day. I have read a good deal of Cosmic Anatomy and understood it far better. Yes, such a book does fascinate me. Why does J. hate it so? To get a glimpse of the relation of things — to fol- low that relation and find it remains true through the ages enlarges my little mind as nothing else do. It's only a greater view of psychology. It helps me with my writing, for instance, to know that hot + bun may mean Taurus, Pradhana, substance. No, that's not really what attracts me ; it's that reactions to certain causes and effects always have been the same. It wasn't for nothing Constantia * chose the moon and water, for instance! Read Shakespeare. The snow is thicker, it clings to the branches like white new-born puppies.

A long typical boat dream. I was, as usual, going to N.Z. But for the first time my stepmother was very friendly — so nice. I loved her. A tragic dream as regards L.M. She disappeared, and it was too late to find her or tell her to come back at last. Read Cosmic Anatomy. I managed to work a little. Broke through. This is a great relief. J. and I put out food for the birds. When I went to the window all the food was gone, but there was the tiny print of their feet on the sill. J. brought up the half cocoanut and sprinkled crumbs as well. Very soon, terrified, how- ever, one came, then another, then a third, balanced on the cocoanut. They are precious little atoms. It still snows. I think I hate snow, downright hate it. There is something stupefying in it, a kind of ' You must be worse before you're better,' and down it spins. I love, I long for the fertile earth. How I have longed for the South of France this year ! So do I now. Soundly rated L.M. about food and clothing. She has a food ' complex.' J. and I read Mansfield Park with great enjoyment. I wonder if J. is as content as he appears ? It seems too good to be true.

The first quarter of the Moon. Jour de fete. The Christmas Tree is dismantled. I had a very bad night and did not fall deeply asleep enough to dream. In the morning, all white, all dim and cold, and snow still falling. While waiting in my room I watched the terrific efforts of a little bird to peck through the ice and get at the sweet food of the nut. He succeeded. But why must he so strive? My heart is always bad to-day. It is the cold. It feels congested, and I am uneasy, or rather my body is — vile feeling. I cough. Read Shakespeare, read Cosmic Anatomy, read The Oxford Dictionary. Wrote. But nothing like enough. In the afternoon W came to tea. I suspect he is timid, fearful and deeply kind. Deep within that vast substance lurks the seed. That is not sentimental. He wished me sun as he left. I felt his wish had power and was a blessing. One can't be mistaken in such things. He is in his stockings — pea-green and red! J. came up after ski-ing, excessively handsome — a glo- rious object, no less. I never saw a more splendid figure. I am wearing my ring on my middle ringer as a re- minder not to be so base. We shall see. . . .

It ceased snowing, and a deep, almost gentian blue sky showed. The snow lay heaped on the trees, big blobs of snow, like whipped cream. It was very cold, but, I suppose, beautiful. I cannot see this snow as anything but hateful. So it is. My birds have made a number of little attacks on the cocoanut, but it is still frozen. I read Cosmic Anatomy, Shakespeare and the Bible. Jonah. Very nice about the gourd, and also on his journey, " pay- ing the fare thereof." I wrote at my story, but did not finish the lunch party as I ought have to done. How very bad this is ! Had a long talk with L.M. and suddenly saw her again as a figure in a story. She resolves into so many. I could write books about her alone ! I dreamed a long dream. Chummie was young again, so was Jeanne. Mother was alive. We were going through many strange rooms — up in lifts, alighting in lounges. It was all vaguely for- eign.

All night dreamed of visiting houses, bare rooms, No. 39, going up and down in lifts, etc. Heavily, more heavily than ever, falls the snow. It is hypnotising. One looks, wonders vaguely how much has fallen and how much will fall and — looks again. Bandaged J.'s fingers. The Mercury came with At the Bay. I am very unsatisfied. In the afternoon J. and I played cribbage, with nuts for counters. I recalled the fact that I used to play so often with such intense — Heavens with what feel- ings ! — in the drawing-room at Carlton Hill while T played the piano. But it meant absolutely noth- ing. J. giving me a bad nut and me paying him the bad nut again was all that really mattered. After tea we knitted and talked and then read. We were idle — snow-bound. One feels there is nothing to be done while this goes on. Had a letter from The Sketch asking for work. I must obey. J. and I talked Paris yesterday and he quite understood. This is a proof that one must be calm and explain and be true. Remember that !