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You say you would “dearly love to know exactly what I feel”—I thought I had told you. But my writing is so bad, my expression so vague that I expect I didn't make myself clear. I'll try to—

What a book is hidden here!

“Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is book is Like a phantasma or a dreadful dream; The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man Like to a little Kingdom suffers then The nature of an insurrection.”

The “thing” was not always “dreadful” neither was the “dream,” and you must substitute “spirit” for genius—otherwise there you have my life as I see it up till now—complete with all the alarms, enthusiasms, terrors, excitements—in fact the nature of an insurrection.

I've been dimly aware of it many times—I've had moments when it has seemed to me that this wasn't what my little Kingdom ought to be like—yes, and longings and regrets. But only since I came away this time have I fully realised it—confronted myself as it were, looked squarely at the extraordinary “conditions” of my existence.

… It wasn't flattering or pleasant or easy. I expect your sins are of the subconscious; they are easier to forgive than mine. I've acted my sins, and then excused them or put them away with it “doesn't do to think about these things” or (more often) “it was all experience.” But it hasn't all been experience. There is waste—destruction, too. So I confronted myself. As I write I falsify slightly. I can't help it; it's all so difficult. The whole thing was so much deeper and more difficult than I've described it—subtler—less conscious and more conscious if you know what I mean. I didn't walk up and down the room and groan, you know. As I am talking to you I'll dare say it all took place on another plane, page 69 because then we can smile at the description and yet mean something by it.

And I don't want to imply that the Battle is over and here I am victorious. I've escaped from my enemies—emerged—that is as far as I've got. But it is a different state of being to any I've known before and if I were to sin now—it would be mortal.

There. Forgive this rambling involved statement.

Monday. Midi: waiting for lunch. “En tirant la langue comme un chien” as they say here.

It's simply heavenly here to-day—warm, still, with wisps of cloud just here and there and le ciel deep blue. Everything is expanding and growing after the rain; the buds on the tea roses are so exquisite that one feels quite faint regarding them. A pink rose, ‘chinesy pink’ in my mind, is out—there are multitudes of flowers and buds. And the freezias are up and the tangerines are turning. A painter whose ladder I see against the house across the valley has been singing ancient Church music—awfully complicated stuff. But what a choice! How much more suited to the day and the hour than—and now, I'm dished. For every song I wanted to find ridiculous seems somehow charming and appropriate and quite equally lovable.

I put more whitewash on the old woman's face

Than I did on the gar—den wall!

—for instance. That seems to me a thoroughly good song. You know the first two lines are:

Up an' down, up an' down, in an' out the window

I did no good at all.

Sam Mayo used to sing it. Things weren't so bad in those days. I really believe everything was better. The tide of barbarism wasn't flowing in.

I was all wrong about the house painter!! He's just come back from lunch—in a grey flannel suit—put on his overall and started singing in English! Elizabethan airs.

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He must be some sensible fellow who's taken the little house and is doing the job himself. He makes me think of you—but his singing is different—more difficult…

Dream I.

I was living at home again in the room with the fire escape. It was night: Father and Mother in bed. Vile people came into my room. They were drunk. B. led them. “You don't take me in, old dear,” said she. “You've played the Lady once too often, Miss—coming it over me.” And she shouted, screamed Femme marquée and banged the table. I rushed away. I was going away next morning so I clecided to spend the night in the dark streets and went to a theatre in Piccadilly Circus. The play, a costume play of the Restoration, had just begun. The theatre was small and packed. Suddenly the people began to speak too slowly, to mumble: they looked at each other stupidly. One by one they drifted off the stage and very slowly a black iron curtain was lowered. The people in the audience looked at one another. Very slowly, silently, they got up and moved towards the doors—stole away.

An enormous crowd filled the Circus: it was black with people. They were not speaking—a low murmur came from it—that was all. They were still. A white-faced man looked over his shoulder and trying to smile he said: “The Heavens are changing already; there are six moons!”

Then I realised that our earth had come to an end. I looked up. The sky was ashy-green; six livid quarters swam in it. A very fine soft ash began to fall. The crowd parted. A cart drawn by two small black horses appeared. Inside there were Salvation Army women doling tracts out of huge marked boxes. They gave me one! “Are you corrupted?”

It got very dark and quiet and the ash fell faster. Nobody moved.

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Dream II.

In a café” G. met me. “Katherine, you must come to my table. I've got Oscar Wilde there. He's the most marvellous man I ever met. He's splendid!” G. was flushed. When he spoke of Wilde he began to cry—tears hung on his lashes, but he smiled.

Oscar Wilde was very shabby. He wore a green overcoat. He kept tossing and tossing back his long greasy hair with the whitest hand. When he met me he said: “Oh Katherine!”—very affected.

But I did find him a fascinating talker. So much so that I asked him to come to my home. He said would 12.30 to-night do? When I arrived home it seemed madness to have asked him. Father and Mother were in bed. What if Father came down and found that chap Wilde in one of the chintz armchairs? Too late now. I waited by the door. He came with Lady M. I saw he was disgustingly pleased to have brought her. He said, “Katherine's hand—the same gentle hand!” as he took mine. But again when we sat down—I couldn't help it. He was attractive—as a curiosity. He was fatuous and brilliant!

“You know, Katherine, when I was in that dreadful place I was haunted by the memory of a cake. It used to float in the air before me—a little delicate thing stuffed with cream and with the cream there was something scarlet. It was made of pastry and I used to call it my little Arabian Nights cake. But I couldn't remember the name. Oh, Katherine, it was torture. It used to hang in the air and smile at me. And every time I resolved that next time they let someone come and see me I would ask them to tell me what it was but every time, Katherine, I was ashamed. Even now…”

I said, “Mille feuilles à la crême?”

At that he turned round in the armchair and began to sob, and M. who carried a parasol, opened it and put it over him…

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I'm not up to much to-day. Yesterday was dark and stormy: to-day is too. And in spite of my feelings the weather affects me physically. I fly so high that when I go down—it's a drop. Nothing serious; just a touch of cold, but with it to ‘bear it company’ a black mood. Don't pay any attention to it. I expect it will have lifted utterly by the time this reaches you. And it's really caused by a queer kind of pressure—which is work to be done. I am writing—do you know the feeling?—and until this story is finished I am engulfed. It's not a tragic story either—but there you are. It seizes me—swallows me completely. I am Jonah in the whale and only you could charm that old whale to disgorge me. Your letters did for a minute but now I'm in again and we're thrashing through deep water. I fully realise it. It's the price we have to pay—we writers. I'm lost—gone—possessed and everybody who comes near is my enemy.