1 October 1917 – 7 October 1917

The immediate future horrifies me.

Poushkin (as we have named the cat) is coiled up on my bed, purring and quite happy. It does me good to see him. But consider: A paralytic, a screaming infant, two women, a cat and a canary, shut up in a tiny cottage with no money, the war still on, and food always scarcer day by day. "Give us this day, our daily bread." I want to be loved--above all, I want to love. My great danger is lest I grow maudlin and say petulantly, "Nobody loves me, nobody cares." I must have more courage and more confidence in other people's good-nature. Then I can love more freely.

I am grateful to-day for some happy hours plucked triumphantly from under the very nose of Fate, and spent in the warm sun in the garden. They carried me out at 12, and I stayed till after tea-time. A Lark sang, but the Swallows--dear things--have gone. E---- picked two Primroses. I sat by some Michaelmas Daisies and watched the Bees, Flies, and Butterflies.

In fits of maudlin self-compassion I try to visualise Belgium, Armenia, Serbia, etc., and usually cure myself thereby.