Yesterday we shifted into a tiny cottage at half the rental of the other one, and situated about two miles further out from the village.... A wholly ideal and beautiful little cottage you may say. But a "camouflaged" cottage. For in spite of the happiness of its exterior it contains just now two of the most dejected mortals even in this present sorrow-laden world.
September 30.
Last night, E—— sitting on the bed by me, burst into tears. It was my fault. "I can stand a good deal but there must come a breaking point." Poor, poor girl, my heart aches for you.
I wept too, and it relieved us to cry. We blew our noses. "People who cry in novels," E—— observed with detachment, "never blow their noses. They just weep." ... But the thunder clouds soon come up again.
October 1.
The immediate future horrifies me.
October 2.
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.