I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.
It’s hopeless to make friends with people who never talk about themselves.
I feel quite unreasonably happy this minute, watching them both; knowing I can go and join them in the warmth, yet staying here in the cold.
I think it worthy of note that I never felt happier in my life – despite sorrow for Father, pity for Rose, embarrassment about Stephen’s poetry and no justification for hope as regards our family’s general outlook. Perhaps it is because I have satisfied my creative urge; or it may be due to the thought of eggs for tea.
No, that was my privilege.
We used to manage quite well when she was away sitting for artists, because in those days we lived mostly on bread, vegetables and eggs; but now that we can afford some meat or even chickens, I keep coming to grief. I scrubbed some rather dirty-looking chops with soap which proved very lingering, and I did not take certain things out of a chicken that I ought to have done. Even.
The caravans bark but the dogs move on.
I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.
Neil is wearing a coat such as I never saw in my life before: checked back and front, but plain sleeves. Perhaps it was made out of two old coats – though I hope not, as that would show him to be poor and his brother mean. And it looked rather a noisily new coat. I expect it’s just American.
But there is something I want to capture. It has to do with the feeling I had when I watched the Cottons coming down the lane, the queer separate feeling. I like seeing people when they can’t see me. I have often looked at our family through lighted windows and they seem quite different, a bit the way rooms seen in looking-glasses do. I can’t get the feeling into words – it slipped away when I tried to capture it.
They’d be all right if it was midsummer,” said Rose, when we tried them on. “But in April – – !” Still, we decided to wear them if the fine weather held. And when we woke up yesterday it was more like June than April. Oh, it was the most glorious morning! I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.
How queer to think that the old lady in the black military cloak was the Miss Milly who went to the dancing class! It makes me wonder what I shall be like when I am old.
Is it awful to join in this planning? Is it trying to sell one’s sister? But surely Rose can manage to fall in love with them – I mean, with whichever one will fall in love with her. I hope it will be Neil, because I really do think Simon is a little frightening – only it is Neil who thinks England is a joke.
The Vicar isn’t High Church enough for confessions, and certainly most of me would have loathed to tell him or anybody else one word; but I did have a feeling that a person as wretched as I was ought to be able to get some sort of help from the Church. Then I told myself that as I never gave the Church a thought when I was feeling happy, I could hardly expect it to do anything for me when I wasn’t. You can’t get insurance money without paying in premiums.
Any cat can make a house seem haunted.
And he needs me here – I’m the only one who can cook.” “That’s hardly very important when we’ve nothing to cook,” said Rose. “Could I earn money as a model?” “I’m afraid not,” said Topaz. “Your figure’s too pretty – there isn’t enough drawing in your bones. And you’d never have the patience to sit still. I suppose if nothing turns up I’ll have to go to London. I could send about ten shillings a week home.
Sometimes I try to imagine what happens to characters in books – after the books finish, I mean.
I love owls, but I wish God had made them vegetarian.
You see, you have classical features,” I explained, in a matter-of-fact voice. “It seems a waste when I’m not a gentleman.” He grinned – a little sarcastic sort of grin. “Don’t talk like that,” I said quickly. “Gentlemen are men who behave like gentlemen. And you certainly do.” He shook his head. “You can only be a gentleman if you’re born one, Miss Cassandra.” “Stephen, that’s old-fashioned nonsense,” I said. “Really, it is. And, by the way, will you please stop calling me ‘Miss’ Cassandra.
Ik schrijf dit terwijl ik in de gootsteen zit.
And I regret to say that there were moments when my deep and loving pity for her merged into a desire to kick her fairly hard. For she is a girl who cannot walk her troubles off, or work them off; she is a girl to sit around and glare.