What a philosophy to be able to believe that.
But now the real tragedy had come to me. It was not that I was unable to believe there is no winter; it had come to me by this that I could not but remember there was. That little trick of forgetfulness, whereby you close the eyes of all consciousness, turning your night into day, the cunning of that had gone from me since I had been in Ireland. My supper-room, with its bright lights and its suggestive music, had no longer in its finger-bowls the waters of Lethe. I could only remember that it was winter outside, that people were cold and hungry, that in the hidden places of this great city there were those who had neither fire nor food to warm them.
How I lived through those two months since that last leaf fell from my plane tree I scarcely know. Depression came regularly to me every day, as though I had entered her into my service. She slipped into the room with Moxon and Dandy in the morning when they brought me my tea and then, while it grew lukewarm in the pot, I would lie staring out of the window into the grey light of the ill-weaned morning, thinking of that day when with such hope in my heart I had set out to meet Clarissa, when with such bitter knowledge of my folly I had returned.
Now, however, it is January. The days truly seem no longer, though we have passed that shortest day in December, when Hope, like a freshening bud, begins to swell again. I have not felt it swelling within me, yet I do my best to drive depression away.
I have bought window-boxes for all my windows, and this morning went down with Dandy to Covent Garden to purchase bulbs for the early spring. Snowdrops and crocuses they tell me are the first to flower. As if I did not know! Though possibly they were quite right to say it. There may be many here who are so sadly ignorant.
I asked the man who stands under that awning, where all the little boxes of tiny seedlings are ranged, tier upon tier, I asked him at what time of the year should I sow sweet peas.
I had a sudden fancy to see my own Lady Grizel in their bright green pinafores, growing up with their Young Lord Nelsons in a kindergarten of my own making.
"I suppose they ought to be sown soon?" I asked.
"'Ave yer got a light?" he asked.
"As much as there is these days," said I.