Saturday, July 10th

CLEAR AIR! It was like drinking from a spring to breathe it when I woke up at half past five. All the outlines so sharp, and the pale blue sea defined by a dark blue line at the horizon as I saw it in Greece. It must be weeks since we have had a day unblurred by steamy heat.

Everything is a great joy at the moment … such a pleasure to go down to a tidy garden where the annuals are. And the other day I tidied up the workbench in the garage where all the gardening tools, fertilizers, wheelbarrows, stakes are. It was a wild, sad jumble. Tidying things up clears the mind—that being so, how can I allow such disorder up here? I think because people are more important, so, instead of tidying, I answer a letter. Flowers are more important and their silent cries for water … so I tell myself that maybe in winter I’ll get to unpacking the boxes of books from Judy’s house, attack the files, but I am not an optimist about ever getting it done!

The other day, bothered by the “no-see-ums” when I lay down to rest for a half hour after lunch, unable to fall asleep, I amused myself listening to all the summer sounds—the leaves stirring like the rustling of taffeta; beyond it the gentle steady roar of the sea, tide rising; but what surprised me was how many birds were singing at that hour, two in the afternoon. First I became aware of the beeble of a wren; then several varied songs by the mockingbird; a sweet burble of goldfinches as they flew past; the robin’s call of warning (Bramble must be near by); the jays making their summer call (so much less harsh than their winter screams); and finally a crowd of gulls flying up with loud cries. I lay there for a half hour, listening, and got up refreshed.

Germaine Lafeuille, retired now from Wellesley, is going back to France for a year to make up her mind where to settle—in Europe or in the United States. Talking with her—we had a lovely, casual, happy time—I became nostalgic for Europe, for the kind of friendship that is possible there. Why is it? Germaine is possibly the most detached person I have ever known; she looks like an eleventh-century carved figure on Chartres, an austere beauty that breaks into a charming warmth only when she is talking to an animal, especially a cat. (For once a guest who appreciated Bramble’s wild nature more than Tamas’ all-loving one!) If she decides to leave here for France, I gathered that she will not be wrenching away from any really intimate friend. It is nature that moves her to the depths.