Now there is nothing to bear, except a blank
purposelessness which eats the heart out of me. I am in the lowest
place, in the darkness and the deep.
January 8, 1889.
Snow underfoot this morning; and a brown blink on the horizon which
shows that more is coming. I have the odd feeling that I have never
really seen my house before, the snow lights it all up so
strangely, tinting the ceilings a glowing white, touching up high
lights on the top of picture-frames, and throwing the lower part of
the rooms into a sort of pleasant dusk.
Maud and the children went off this afternoon to an entertainment.
I accompanied them to the door; what a pretty effect the snow
background gives to young faces; it lends a pretty morbidezza to
the colouring, a sort of very delicate green tinge to the paler
shades. That does not sound as if it would be beautiful in a human
face, but it is; the faces look like the child-angels of
Botticelli, and the pink and rose flush of the cheeks is softly
enriched and subdued; and then the soft warmth of fair and curly
hair is delicious. I was happy enough with them, in a sort of
surface happiness. The little waves at the top of the mind broke in
sunlight; but down below, the cold dark water sleeps still enough.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113