Friday, June 13th

THE WOODSONS and Barbara Barton did finally arrive a little after four, Nancy ravishing in a wide straw hat, denim skirt, and simple short-sleeved white blouse, her long pale gold hair, the perfect oval of her face, the clear blue eyes, all making her look like a charming Impressionist painting. At last the braces have gone from Tommy’s teeth! He looked a little wan, perhaps because he is working hard for a biology exam—later on he went up to my study to cram for an hour. Anne, Barbara, and I wrapped up in sweaters stayed out on the terrace till nearly seven, sipping scotch and drinking in the peaceful blue sea and green field. Nancy had decided to go in, so I lit the fire in the cozy room for her and she curled up with the Illustrated London News. Tommy upstairs, Nancy downstairs … I enjoyed the idea of the house with children in it, and of our communion as separate people. It felt more intimate than when they were sitting rather stiffly with us on the terrace. Finally we all gobbled up lobster salad, sitting around the fire, and talked a little about how one’s view of people changes with time—I am experiencing this with A World of Light, of course.

Yesterday and today, dismal downpour all day long and all last night. I had hoped to do hours of peaceful gardening and catch up; instead, I feel dull and sleepy, and have not been able to overcome a reluctance, a holding back, before the portrait of Céline. The difficulty is, as usual, the complexity—and why not? I knew her for sixty years and in that time both she and I changed. The golden world she inhabited for me when I was a small child changed to a silver one in her middle age, when I began to be conscious of her terrible possessiveness and inability to see herself, and finally to a sad leaden one when she had to go on too long doing all the work, when the bitterness against her children grew painful to witness. Thank heavens, the very end, the last years, did have a warm sunset glow about them, after the house was sold and she moved into Brussels.

What is precious, the thread of gold through the whole portrait, is that our relationship remained so warm and loving through all that time. Perhaps that was possible because I came and went and was with her nearly every year, except during the war, for a few weeks, but only as a guest. The wear and tear of life did not touch us.

I have to note (as a warning to myself?) that yesterday while I was sitting here writing a letter I suddenly felt very queer, nauseated, then a cold sweat. Is that what a heart attack feels like? I was frightened and went down and drank a teaspoon of brandy. The greatest achievement of the day was shortening a pair of pants! I sew so rarely and so clumsily that it makes me laugh.