9 January 1922 – 15 January 1922

Snow. The vegetable garden fence was all but gone. H came and said there was between 6-7 feet of snow. He was very cheerful and friendly. Off his guard, speaking of Miss S he declared, " Well, the fact is she is not normal. And anyone who is not normal I call mad. She is unconventional, that is to say, and people who are that are no good to any- one except themselves." When he said " mad," a look came into his eyes — a flash of power — and he swung the stethoscope, then picked up my fan and rattled it open. Read and knitted and played cards. A long letter from S. I want to believe all he says about my story. He does see what I meant. He does not see it as a set of trivial happenings just thrown together. This is enough to be deeply grateful for — more than others will see. But I have this continual longing to write something with all my power, all my force in it.

Dreamed I was back in New Zealand. Got up to-day. It was fine. The sun shone and melted the last trace of snow from the trees, from the roof. The drops were not like raindrops, but bigger, softer, more exquisite. They made one realise how one loves the fertile earth and hates this snow-bound cold substitute. The men worked outside on the snowy road, trying to raise the telegraph pole. Before they began they had lunch out of a paper, sitting astride the pole. It is very beautiful to see people sharing food. Cutting bread and passing the loaf, especially cutting bread in that age-old way, with a clasp-knife. Afterwards one got up in a tree and sat among the branches working from there, while the other lifted. The one in the tree turned into a kind of bird, as all people do in trees — chuck- led, laughed out, peered from among the branches, careless. At-tend! Ar-ret! Al-lez!

A vile cold day. The parcel came from M. But when one compares it with A.'s exquisite coat. . . . J. and I ' typed.' I hate dictating ; but the story still seems to me to be good. Is it? All the whole time at the back of my mind slumbers not nor sleeps the idea of Paris, and I begin to plan what I will do when Can it be true ? What shall I do to express my thanks ? I want to adopt a Russian baby, call him Anton, and bring him up as mine, with K. for a godfather and Mme. Tchehov for a god- mother. Such is my dream. I don't feel so sinful this day as I did, because I have written something and the tide is still high. The an- cient landmarks are covered. Ah ! but to write better ! Let me write better, more deeply, more largely. Baleful icicles hang in a fringe outside our window pane.

Heard from B. Her letter was almost frightening. It brought back the inexplicable past. It flashed into my mind too that she must have a large number of letters of mine which don't bear thinking about. In some way I fear her. I feared her at the rue de Tournon. There was a peculiar recklessness in her manner and in her tones which made me feel she would recognise no barriers at all. At the same time, of course, one is fascinated. Wrote to K. Began a new story, but it went too slowly. J. typed for me. I am again held up by letters to write. Letters are the real curse of my existence. I hate to write them : I have to. If I don't, there they are — the great guilty gates barring my way. H. came and suggested my heart condition was caused by the failure to expand the diaphragm. Then why, in that case, not learn to expand it?

1 got up to-day and felt better. It was in- tensely cold. M. came in the afternoon. She and I were alone. She wore a little blue hood fastened under the chin with a diamond clasp. She looked like a very ancient drawing. She suggested that if I did become cured, I might no longer write. . . . Dreamed last night I was in a ship, with the most superb, unearthly (in the heavenly sense) seas break- ing. Deep, almost violet blue waves with high foamy crests, and this white foam bore down on the blue in long curls. It was a marvellous sight. The dream was about Chummie. He had married a girl without per- mission and Father and Mother were in despair. I ' realised ' it was to be ; what would have happened if he had not died. Wingley made a dash at the bird window to-day.

Dreamed I was shopping, buying under- clothes in Cook's and then in Warnock's. But the dream ended horribly. Another chill, bloodless day. I got up, but all was difficult. In the afternoon J. went down the mountain and came back in the evening with a letter for me from M. ; so generous, so sweet a letter that I am ashamed of what I said or thought the other day. I have worked to-day in discomfort — not half enough. I could have written a whole story. Saw for the first time an exquisite little crested bird. Its call is a trill, a shake, marvellously delightful. It was very shy, though, and never had the courage to stop and eat. Saw people in sleighs and on luges. Snow is very blue. The icicles at dawn this morning were the colour of opals — blue lit with fire. M. lent us Will Shake- speare. Really awful stuff ! I had better keep this for a sign.