Oh, what a relief it was to come home to Cornelius after that interminable meeting! It’s strange that since his stroke, especially now that we know he will get almost entirely well, we have been having a lovely time together. The children will be here for Thanksgiving, and six of the grandchildren, I hope, but I almost dread the interruption. We are reading Swann’s Way aloud. We go for little drives and have been soaking in this glorious autumn—the leaves are only just starting to fall and the maples are stupendous. I am so grateful that we can stay on this year, maybe even right through Christmas, although Cornelius begins to talk about going back to the office, optimist that he is.

The most wonderful thing is that for the first time since John tried to commit suicide I’ve been able to talk about him with Cornelius without one of us getting too angry or upset for words. Cornelius is beginning to see that, without meaning to, he always managed to make John feel inferior—he jeered at John’s interests—how well I remember the fearful incident over the butterfly-chasing when John was twelve and was starting his collection. Cornelius simply would not accept that this could be as valid an occupation as playing touch football. Oh dear me, I am so glad I am a woman! At least women don’t have to make such desperate efforts to prove they are women as men seem to have to do to prove they are men! Darling John is just as stubborn as his father, and for so many years they behaved like two stags, horns locked. I tried so hard to explain them to each other but always failed. The anger went too deep—it is stupid to open these wounds. I just have to accept that we made terrible cruel mistakes with our firstborn, but we loved him, and some of the love must have been good.

Family life! The United Nations is child’s play compared to the tugs and splits and need to understand and forgive in any family. That’s the truth, I am sure, but, like every hard truth, we all try to pretend it isn’t true.

It was so moving to see John’s tenderness when he first went to see his father in the hospital three months ago. I’m sure Cornelius felt it and that is why, perhaps, we have been able to talk about the boy—man, I should say. John is fifty, and since he was twenty, for thirty years, he has fought the terrible depression and managed to stay alive. If only Cornelius could admit the courage!