February 4, 1940

Last night I was able to go to White Plains with Thurema. I packed my valise. We went to dinner together. My chest began to ache again and I came back and went to bed. I have no energy, no desire to go anywhere. I stayed alone all day. I inserted pages on my father’s downfall in my old diary, a development which belonged there.

I felt physically weak but mystically strong. I faced my eternal problem—I want to publish, to give, to communicate, but I can’t publish the diary. I have reached an impasse. I brood over my relationship with Henry. The last two afternoons he took me into his bed, I responded fully, though there is no passion, no tenderness even. Henry is remote, dehumanized. I yearn for Gonzalo’s fire, tenderness. Yet I cannot break the mystical relationship with Henry. His attitude about me is fixed, unmovable. He acts as if it is natural I should always be there. He has a faith which baffles me—Henry, the man of change.

February 7, 1940

Again delays and frustrations—I was all ready to meet Gonzalo’s ship, and it will be a day late, naturally, for he is always late. I am so keyed up it is painful.

One evening I did enjoy myself with Brigitte and Hugh Chisholm. She is flawless, a delight to look at. A Viking, but full-breasted, with rich hair, a rich voice, a wonderful ease. She was sitting cross-legged on a satin divan, wearing slacks, she the natural beauty, I the artificial one, the created one, the one who needs a certain atmosphere, a certain light, a certain mood. That night, in the warmth of their admiration, I too bloomed.

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