Dry ― dull, gray.

Rose late ― & breakfasted at 10.30 ― expecting W. Holman Hunt, but no-one came.

Passed all the morning ― arranging dearest Ann’s letters & ˇ[the] little things I shall always keep for her sake.

Lacäita came at 2 & staid more than half-an-hour, he really seems a very good fellow, malgrado1 ――

But is there anything so dreadful as a Sunday in London, ― when upset in body ˇ[or] mind, & although kept prisoner in the house, unable to apply to anything?

Partly I slept X.

Partly, inwardly moaning, paced up & down.

Crakes are away: W. Nevills I think also: Beadons ditto. Nor can I get out to call on Baring’s, Dr. Lushingtons, or any one else ― for fear of people coming who said they might come on this my last day of my painting being here. ―

At 5 I walked out: day very cold, dry, dusty. ― Called on Mrs. Crake, who was all alone. Mr. C. is pretty well at Hastings. The old lady spoke sadly enough about John’s death, but seems to look to Mr. C.’s as a mother ― of course ― as in fact it is, while the other was not so. She is somehow, as old Mr. Harness said once ― a half very clever woman, mute, as it were. I do not know but that it is more painful to be so acute to the [load] of life ― than to be gradually childish, like Lady Grey. ― It was too late to make other visits, so I walked back, looking at the new omnibuses, which gather crowds. ― Walked at 7 to the Blue Posts ― but it was full ― so I walked on ― (seeing Spedding & speaking to him for a moment,) ― & left a card on Massingberd, & asked after little Miss James: & after that, at 8 came again to the Blue Posts, & dined. ―

Home by 9.30 ― or 10. A weary dreary sad day.

[Transcribed by Marco Graziosi from Houghton Library, Harvard University, MS Eng. 797.3.]

  1. Notwithstanding. [↩]