30 January 1922 – 5 February 1922

There was a tremendous fall of snow on Sunday. Monday was the first real perfect day of winter. It seemed that the happiness of J. and of me reached its zenith on that day. We could not have been happier ; that was the feeling. Sitting one moment on the balcony of the bed-room, for instance, or driving in the sleigh through masses of heaped-up snow. He looked so beautiful, too — hatless, strolling about with his hands in his pockets. He weighed himself. 10 stone. There was a harmonium in the waiting-room. Then I went away, after a quick but not hurried kiss. . . . It was very beautiful on the way to Sierre. Then I kept wondering if I was seeing it all for the last time — the snowy bushes, the leafless trees. " I miss the buns."

Travelling is terrible. All is so sordid, and the train shatters one. Tunnels are hell. I am fright- ened of travelling. We arrived in Paris late, but it was very beautiful — all emerging from water. In the night I looked out and saw the men with lanterns. The hotel all sordid again, — fruit peelings, wastepaper, boots, grime, ill- temper. In the evening I saw Manoukhin. But on the way there, nay, even before, I realized my heart was not in it. I feel divided in myself and angry and with- out virtue. Then L.M. and I had one of our famous quarrels, and I went to the wrong house. Don't forget, as I rang the bell, the scampering and laughter inside. M. had a lame girl there as interpreter. He said through her he could cure me completely. But I did not believe it. It all seemed suddenly unimportant and ugly. But the flat was nice — the red curtains, marble clock, and picture of ladies with powdered hair.

At 5.30 I went to the clinique and saw the other man, D. I asked him to explain the treatment and so on. He did so. But first: as I approached the door it opened and the hall, very light, showed, with the maid smiling, wearing a little shawl, holding back the door. Through the hall a man slipped quickly carrying what I thought was a cross of green leaves. Suddenly the arms of the little cross waved feebly, and I saw it was a small child strapped to a wooden tray. While I waited, voices came from another room — very loud voices, M.'s over and above them : Da! Da!

I went to M. for a treatment. A curious impression remains. M.'s beautiful gesture coming into the room was perfect. But D. shouted so, pushed his face into mine, asked me indecent questions. Ah, that's the horror of being ill. One must submit to hav- ing one's secrets held up to the light, and regarded with a cold stare. D. is a proper Frenchman. "Etes-vous constipee? " Shall I ever forget that, and the wadding of his tie showing over his white coat? M. sits apart, smoking, and his head — which is a curious shape: one is conscious of it all the time as of an instrument — hangs forward. But he is deeply different. He de- sires to reassure. " Pas de cavernes." Had palpitation from the moment of getting on to the table till 5 o'clock. But when I felt this coming on while rays were working, I felt simply horribly callous. I thought : Well, if this kills me — let it ! Voila ! That shows how bad I am.

Massingham accepts the idea of a regular story. Heard from K about * people.' It was rather a horrible day. I was ill, and at night I had one of my terrible fits of temper over a parcel. Is it possible one can be so unruly? Heard from J. saying he will stay in Montana. There breathes in his letter the relief from strain. It is remarkable. He does not believe a word about M. and talks of coming to * fetch ' me in May. Well, if I am any better, there will never be any more fetching. Of that I am determined. The letter kept me awake until very late. And my sciatica ! Put it on record, in case it ever goes, what a pain it is. Remember to give it to someone in a story one day. L.M. is a very tragic figure. Remember her eyes — the pupils dark — black — and her whiteness. Even her hair seems to grow pale. She folded the quilt and held it in her arms as though it was a baby.

Wrote at my story, read Shakespeare. Read Goethe, thought, prayed. The day was cold and fine. But I felt ill and could do nothing but lie still all day. This going to Paris has been so much more important than it seemed. Now I begin to see it as the result, the ending of all that read- ing. I mean that even Cosmic Anatomy is involved. Something has been built, a raft, frail and not very seaworthy ; but it will serve. Before, I was cast into the water when I was ' alone ' — I mean during my illness — and now something supports me. But much is to be done. Much discipline and meditation is needed. Above all, it is important to get work done. Heard from Pinker that Cassells have taken " A Cup of Tea." Thought about French women and their impudent confidence in the power of sex.