Here is another Monday. They do seem to come round so fast, like the horses we saw at the fair—no, the roosters—that was our one, wasn't it? Do you remember those little Princesses who went round for ever? They wore cotton frocks and tiny leather belts.

It's a chill, strange day. I breakfasted in Valhalla—cracks of lightning, thunder, tearing rain. Now I'm on the verandy and the clouds are immensely near and distinct like mountains.

Will you please say if my Dosty is all right? I sent it rather in fear and trembling, but I meant it. I am doing —–for this week's novel. I don't like it. My private opinion is that it is a lie in the soul. The war never has been: that is what its message is. I don't want (God forbid!) mobilisation and the violation of Belgium, but the novel can't just leave the war out. There must have been a change of heart. It is really fearful to see the ‘settling down’ of human beings. I page 279 feel in the profoundest sense that nothing can ever be the same—that, as artists, we are traitors if we feel otherwise: we have to take it into account and find new expressions, new moulds for our new thoughts and feelings. Is this exaggeration? What has been, stands. But Jane Austen could not write Northanger Abbey now—or if she did, I'd have none of her.

There is a trifling scene in —–'s book where a charming young creature in a light fantastic attitude plays the flute: it positively frightens me—to realise this utter coldness and indifference. But I will be very careful and do my best to be dignified and sober. Inwardly I despise them all for a set of cowards. We have to face our war. They won't. I believe our whole strength depends upon our facing things. I mean facing them without any reservation or restraints.

I fail because I don't face things. I feel almost that I have been ill so long for that reason: we fear for that reason: I mean fear can get through our defences for that reason. We've got to stand by our opinions and risk falling by them.

Do you want to know how I am? Yesterday, upstairs in my room I suddenly wanted to give a small jump—I have not given a small jump for two years—you know the kind, a jump-for-joy. I was frightened. I went over to the window and held on to the sill to be safer. Then I went into the middle of the room and did jump. And this seemed such a miracle I felt I must tell somebody. There was nobody to tell. So I went over to the mirror—and when I saw my excited face, I had to laugh. It was a marvellous experience.

The sea is up to the brim of the world to-day.