It seems morbid to write thus, but I have not been either
morbid or depressed. It has been an easy life, the life of the last
few months, without effort or dissatisfaction, but without zest. It
is a mental tiredness, I suppose. I have written myself out, and
the cistern must fill again. Yet I have had no feeling of fatigue.
It would have been almost better to have had something to bear; but
I am richer than I need be, Maud and the children have been in
perfect health and happiness, I have been well and strong. I shall
hope that the familiar scene, the pleasant activities of home-life
will bring the desire back. I realise how much the fabric of my
life is built upon my writing, and write I must. Well, I have said
enough; the pleasure of these entries is that one can look back to
them, and see the movement of the current of life in a bygone day.
I have an immense mass of arrears to make up, in the form of
letters and business, but I want to survey the ground; and the
survey is not a very happy one this morning; though if I made a
list of my benefits and the reverse, like Robinson Crusoe, the
credit side would be full of good things, and the debit side nearly
empty.
September 15, 1888.
Pages:
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40