Parents (December, 1940)

How beautiful they were, those old people - I mean father and

mother - how simple, how clear, how untroubled. I have been

dipping into old letters and father's memoirs. He loved her:

oh and was so candid and reasonable and transparent...

How serene and gay even, their life reads to me: no mud;

no whirlpools. And so human - with the children and the

little hum and song of the nursery. But if I read as a

contemporary I shall lose my child's vision and so must

stop. Nothing turbulent; nothing involved; no introspection.