Left darling Mother in a very weak state in bed, with neuritis and a weak heart. She cried when I said "Goodbye," and asked me to go to Church as often as I could, and to read a portion of Scripture every day. I promised. Then she added, "For Dad's sake;" just as if I would not do it for her. Poor dear, she suffers a deal of pain. She does not know how ill I am. I have not told her.
July3.
Back at work. A terrible day. Thoughts of suicide—a pistol.
July8.
I get thro' each day with the utmost difficulty. I have to wrestle with every minute. Each hour is a conquest. The three quarters of an hour at lunch comes as a Godsend. I look forward to it all the morning, I enter into it with joyful relief with no thought of the dreadful moment impending when I must return and re-enter my room. By being wise like this, I manage to husband my spirits and am relatively cheerful for one hour in the middle of each difficult day.
July9.
Several times I have gone to bed and hoped I should never wake up. Life grows daily more impossible. To-day I put a slide underneath the microscope and looked at it. It was like looking at something thro' the wrong end of a telescope. I sat with eye glued to the ocular, so as to keep up a pretence of work in case some one came in. My mind was occupied with quite different affairs. Ifone is pondering on Life and Death, it is a terrible task to have to study Mites.
July10.
Am doing no work at all.... I sit motionless in my chair and beat the devil's tattoo with my thumbs and think, think, think in the same horrible circle hour after hour. I am unable to work. I haven't the courage to. I've lost my nerve.
At five I return "home" to the Boarding-house and get more desperate.
Two old maids sat down to dinner to-night, one German youth (a lascivious, ranting, brainless creature), a lady typist (who takes drugs they say), a dipsomaniac (who has monthly bouts—H—— carried him upstairs and put him to bed the other night), two invertebrate violinists who play in the Covent Garden Orchestra, a colonial lady engaged in a bedroom intrigue with a man who sits at my table. What are these people to me? I hate them all. They know it and are offended.
After dinner, put on my cap and rushed out anywhere to escape. Walked to the end of the street, not knowing where I was going or what doing. Stopped and stared with fixed eyes at the traffic in Kensington Road, undetermined what to do with myself and unable to make up my mind (volitional paralysis). Turned round, walked home, and went straight to bed 9 p.m., anxiously looking forward to to-morrow evening when I go to see her again, but at the same time wondering how on earth I am to get through to-morrow's round before the evening comes.... This is a hand-to-mouth existence. My own inner life is scorching up all outside interests. Zoology appears as a curious thing in a Bagdad bazaar. I sit in my room at the B.M. and play with it; I let it trickle thro' my fingers and roll away like a child playing with quicksilver.
July11.
Over to the flat. She was looking beautiful in a black dress, with a white silk blouse, and a Byron collar, negligentlyopen in front as if a button had come out. She said I varied: sometimes I went up in her estimation, sometimes down; once I went down very low. I understood her to say I was now UP! Alleluia!
July14.
... It would take too long and I am too tired to write out all the varying phases of this day's life—all its impressions and petty miseries chasing one another across my consciousness or leap-frogging over my chest like gleeful fiends.[1]
July21.
Thoroughly enjoyed the journey up to town this morning. I secretly gloated over the fact that the train was dashing along over the rails to London bearing me and all the rest of the train's company upon their pursuits—wealth, fame, learning. I was inebriated with the speed, ferocity, and dash of living.... If the train had charged into the buffers I should have hung my head out of the window and cheered. If a man had got in my way, I'd have knocked him down. The wheels of the carriage were singing a lusty song in which I joined.
July30.
... We talked of men and women, and she said she thought men were neither angels nor devils but just men. I said I thought women were either angels or devils.
"I am afraid to ask you which you think me."
"You needn't," I said shortly.
August9.
Horribly upset with news from home. Mother is really ill. The Doctor fears serious nerve trouble and says she will always be an invalid. This is awful, poor dear! It's dreadful, and yet I have a tiny wish buried at thebottom of my heart that she may be removed early from us rather than linger in pain of body and mind. Especially do I hope she may not live to hear any grievous news of me.... What irony that she should lose the use of her right arm only two years after Dad's death from paralysis. It is cruel for it reminds her of Dad's illness.... What, too, would she think if she could have heard M——'s first words to me yesterday on one of my periodical visits to his consulting room, "Well, how's theparalysis?"
In the evening went over to see her. She was wearing a black silk gown and looked handsome.... She is always the same sombre, fascinating, lissom, soft-voiced She! She herself never changes.... What am I to do? I cannot give her up and yet I do not altogether wish to take her to my heart. It distresses me to know how to proceed. I am a wily fish.
August10.
Sat in the gardens with her. We sat facing the sun for a while until she was afraid of developing freckles and turned around, deliberately turning her back on good King Sol.... I said it was disrespectful.
"Oh! he doesn't mind," she said. "He's a dear. He kissed me and said, 'Turn round my dear if you like.'"
Isn't she tantalising?
I wanted to say sarcastically, "I wonder you let him kiss you," but there was a danger of the remark reviving the dead.
August14.
I tried my best, I've sought every loophole of escape, but I am quite unable to avoid the melancholy fact that her thumbs are—lamentable. I am genuinely upset about it for I like her. No one more than I would be more delighted if they were otherwise.... Poor dear! how I love her! That's why I'm so concerned about her thumbs.
August21.
A wire from A—— came at 11.50 saying "Darling Mother passed peacefully away yesterday afternoon." ... Yesterday afternoon I was writing Zoology and all last night I slept soundly.... It was quite sudden. Caught the first train home.
August23.
The funeral.
August31.
Staying at the Hotel du Guesclin at Cancale near St. Malo with my dear A——.
This flood of new experiences has knocked my diary habit out of gear. To be candid, I've forgotten all about myself. I've been too engrossed in living to stand the strain of setting down and in cold blood writing out all the things seen and heard. If I once began I should blow thro' these pages like a whirlwind.... But what a waste of time with M. le batelier waiting outside with his bisque to take us mackerel fishing!...
September8.
Returned to Southampton yesterday. Have spent the night at Okehampton in Devonshireen routefor T—— Rectory. This morning we hatched the ridiculous idea of hiring two little Dartmoor ponies and riding out from the town. A—— rides fairly well tho' he has not been astride a beast for years. As for me, I cannot ride at all! Yet I had the idea that I could easily manage a pretty little pony with brown eyes and a long tail. On going out into the Inn yard, was horrified—two horses saddled—one a large traction beast.... I climbed on to the smaller one, walked him out of the yard and down the road in good style without accident. Once in the country, however, my animal, the fresher of the two, insisted on a smart trot which shook me up a good deal so that I hardly kept my seat. This eventually so annoyedthe animal that it began to fidget and zigzag across the road—no doubt preparing to break away at a stretch gallop when once it had rid itself of the incomprehensible pair of legs across its back.
I got off quickly and swopped horses with A——.
Walked him most of the way, while A—— cantered forward and back to cheer me on. Ultimately however this beast, too, got sick of walking and began to trot. For a time I stood this well and began to rise in my saddle quite nicely. After two miles, horrible soreness supervened, and I had to get off—very carefully, with a funny feeling in my legs—even looked down at them to assure myself they were not bandy! In doing so, the horse—this traction monster—stepped on my toe and I swore.
On nearing the village, L—— arrived, riding A——'s animal and holding his sides for laughing at me as I crawled along holding the carthorse by the bridle. Got on again and rode into the Rectory grounds in fine style like a dashing cavalier, every one jeering at me from the lawn.
September28.
Having lived on this planet now for the space of 24 years, I can claim with some cogency that I am qualified to express some sort of opinion about it. I therefore hereby record that I find myself in an absorbingly interesting place where I live, move and have my being, dominated by one monstrous feature above all others—the mystery of it all! Everything is so astonishing, my own existence so incredible!
Nothing explains itself. Every one is dumb. It is like walking about at a masqued Ball.... Even I myself am a mystery to me. How wonderful and frightening that is—to feel yourself—your innermost and most substantial possession to be a mystery, incomprehensible. I look at myself in the mirror and mock at myself. On some days I am to myself as strange and unfamiliar as a Pterodactyl. There is a certain grim humour in finding myself herepossessed of a perfectly arbitrary arrangement of lineaments when I never asked to be here and never selected my own attributes. To the dignity of a human being it seems like a coarse practical joke.... My own freakish physique is certainly a joke.
October4.
In London Again
K—— comes in from her dancing class, nods to me, hugs her sister around the neck and says,—
"Oh! you dear thing, you've got a cold."
"I shouldn't do that," I remark, green-eyed, "she's in an awful wax to-night."
She: "Oh! I don't mind K——!"
(Laughter!)
October8.
Heard a knock at the door last night, and, thinking it was R——, I unbolted it and let in a tramp who at once asked God to bless me and crown all my sorrow with joy. An amiable fellow to be sure—so I gave him some coppers and he at once repeated with wonderful fervour, "God bless you, sir."
"I wish He would," I answered, "I have a horrible cold."
"Ah, I know, I gets it myself and the hinfluenza—have you had that, sir?"
In ten minutes I should have told him all my personal history. But he was thirsting for a drink and went off quickly and left me with my heart unburthened. London is a lonely place.
To-day journeyed to —— where I gave evidence as anexpertin Economic Entomology at the County Court in a case concerning damage to furniture by mites for which I am paid £8 8s. fee and expenses and travelled first class. What irony! (See June 30, 1911.)
October11.
I may be a weak, maundering, vacillating fool but I cannot help loving her on one day, being indifferent the next and on some occasions even disliking her.... To-day she was charming, with a certain warm glossy perfection on her face and hair.... And she loves me—I could swear it. "And when a woman woos ..." etc. How difficult for a vain and lonely man to resist her. She tells me many times in many dainty ways that she loves me without so much as stopping her work to talk.
I wish I were permanently and irresistibly enamoured. I want abouleversement....
October13.
Went to see a Harley Street oculist about the sight of one eye, which has caused a lot of trouble and worry of late and continuously haunted me with the possibility of blindness. At times, I see men as trees walking and print becomes hopelessly blurred.
The Specialist however is reassuring. The eye is healthy —no neuritis—but the adjustment muscles have been thrown out of gear by the nervous troubles of last spring.
Was ever man more sorely tempted? Here am I lonely and uncomfortable in diggings with a heart like nascent oxygen.... Shall I? Yes, but.... And I have neither health nor wealth.
October22.
The British Museum Reading Room
I saw it for the first time to-day! Gadzooks!! This is the only fit ejaculation to express my amazement! It's a pagan temple with the Gods in the middle and all around, various obscure dark figures prostrating themselves in worship.
For any one who is not simply a Sheep or Cow or whose nervous organisation is a degree more sensitive than the village blacksmith's, it is a besetting peril to his peace of mind to be constantly moving about an independent being, with loves and hates, and a separate identity among other separate identities, who prowl and prowl around like the hosts of Midian—ready to snarl, fight, seize you, bore you, exasperate you, to arouse all your passions, call up all the worst from the depths where they have lain hidden.... A day spent among my fellows goads me to a frenzy by the evening. I am no longer fit for human companionship. People string me up to concert pitch. I develop suspicions of one that he is prying, of another that he patronises. Others make me horribly anxious to stand well in their eyes and horribly curious to know what they think of me. Others I hate and loathe—for no particular reason. There is a man I am acquainted with concerning whom I know nothing at all. He may be Jew, Gentile, Socinian, Pre-adamite, Anabaptist, Rosicrucian—I don't know, and I don't care, for I hate him. I should like to smash his face in. I don't know why.... In the whole course of our tenuous acquaintance we have spoken scarce a dozen words to each other. Yet I should like to blow up his face with dynamite. If I had £200 a year private income I should be in wait for him to-morrow round a corner and land him one—just to indicate my economic independence. He would call for the police and the policeman—discerning creature—on arrival, would surely say, "With a face like that, I'm not surprised."
R—— said to me this morning, "Well, have you heard?" with an exuberance of curiosity that made my blood boil—he was referring to my Essay still at the bar of the opinion of the Editor of theEnglish Review. "You beast," I snapped and walked off.
R—— shouted with laughter for he realizes my anger with him is only semi-serious: it is meant and not meant:meant, for it is justified by the facts; not meant, for I can't be too serious over anythingau fond.
Of all the grim and ridiculous odds and ends of chance that Fortune has rolled up to my feet, my friendship with a man like B—— is the grimmest and most ridiculous. He is a bachelor of sixty, rather good-looking, of powerful physique and a faultless constitution.... His ignorance is colossal and he once asked whether Australia, for example, tho' surrounded by water, is not connected up with other land underneath the sea. Being himself a child in intelligence (tho' commercially cunning), he has a great respect for my brains. Being himself a strong man, he views my ill-health with much contempt. His private opinion is that I am in consumption. When asked once by a lady if I were not going to be "a great man" one day, he replied, "Yes—if he lives." I ought to walk six miles a day, drink a bottle of stout with my dinner, and eat plenty ofonions. His belief in the curative properties of onions is strong as death....
His system of prophylaxis may be quickly summarised,—
(1) Hot whiskyad lib. and off to bed.
(2) A woman.
These two sterling preventives he has often urged upon me at the same time tipping out a quantity of anathemas on doctors and physic....
He is a cynic. He scoffs at the medical profession, the Law, the Church, the Press. Every man is guilty until he is proved innocent. The Premier is an unscrupulous character, the Bishop a salacious humbug. No doctor will cure, for it pays him to keep you ill. Every clergyman puts the Sunday-school teacher in the family way. His mouth is permanently distorted by cynicism.
He is vain and believes all women are in love with him. When playing the Gallant, he turns on a special voice, wears white spats, and looks like a Newmarket "Crook."
"I lost my 'bus," a girl says to him. "Lost your bust," he answers, in broad Scotch. "I can't see that you've done that." ... His sexual career has been a remarkable one, he claiming to have brought many women to bed, and actually to have lain with women of almost all European nationalities, for he has been a great traveller....
This man is my devoted friend!... And truth to tell I get on with him better than I do with most people. I like his gamey flavour, his utter absence of self-consciousness, and his doggy loyalty to myself—his weaker brother. He may be depraved in his habits, coarse in his language, boorish in his manners, ludicrous in the wrongness of all his views. But I like him just because he is so hopeless. I get on with him because it is so impossible to reclaim him—my missionary spirit is not intrigued. If he only dabbled in vice (for an experiment), if he had pale, watery ideas about current literature—if—to use his own favourite epithet—he weregenteel, I should quarrel.
October30.
Having developed a passion for a piece of sculpture by R. Boeltzig called the Reifenwerferin—the most beautiful figure of a woman. I am already devoted to Rodin's "Kiss" and have a photo of it framed in my bedroom. Have written to Bruciani's.
I suspect that my growing appreciation of the plastic art is with me only distilled sensuality. I enjoy my morning bath for the same reason. My bath is a daily baptism. I revel in the pleasure of the pain of the cold water. I whistle gleefully because I am clean and cool and nude early in the morning with the sun still low, before the day has been stained by clothes, dirt, pain, exasperation, death.... How I love myself as I rub myself down!—the cool, pink skin—I could eat it! I want to be all day in a cold bath to enjoy the pain of mortifying the flesh—it is so beautiful, so soft, so inscrutable—if I cut out chunks of it, it would only bleed.
November8.
The other morning R—— said hyperbolically that he hadn't slept all night for fear that, before he had time to put an arresting hand on my shoulder and say "Don't," I might have gone and become "Entangled." ...
... No, I'm as firm as a rock, my dear. But in imagination the affair was continued as follows,—
She: "I am fond of you, you know."
He: "I wish you wouldn't say these things to me—they're quite embarrassing."
She: "Oh! my dear, I'm not serious, you know—you're such a vain young man."
He: "Well, it's equally embarrassing any way."
She: "Then Iamserious."
Tears.
I say: "I wish you would take me only for what I am—a blackguard with no good intentions, yet no very evil ones—but still a blackguard, whom you seem to find has engaging manners."
I breathe freely hoping to have escaped this terrible temptation and turn to go. But she, looking up smiling thro' a curtain of wet eyelashes, asks,—
"Won't the blackguard stop a little longer?" In a moment my earth works, redoubts, and bastions fall down, I rush forward impetuously into her arms shouting, "Iwill, Iwill, I will as long as for eternity."
(Curtain.)
I dramatised this little picture and much more last night before going to sleep when I was in a fever. I should succumb at once to the first really skilful coquette.
November9.
Ludo
We played Ludo together this evening and she won 2s. 6d. Handsomely gowned in black and wearing black ornaments, she sat with me in the lamplight on the sofa in the Morris Room, with the Ludo board between us placed on a large green cushion. Her face was white asparchment and her hair seemed an ebony black. I lolled in the opposite corner, a thin, elongated youth, with fair hair all stivvered up, dressed in a light-brown lounge suit with a good trouser crease, a soft linen collar and—a red tie! Between us, on its green cushion the Ludo board with its brilliantly coloured squares:—all of it set before a background formed by the straight-backed, rectangular, settle-like sofa, with a charming covering which went with the rest of the scheme.
"Rather decorative,"—— remarked in an audible voice, turning her head on one side and quizzing. I can well believe it was.Shelooked wholly admirable.
November21.
My Nightmare
Can't get rid of my cough. I have so many things to do—I am living in a fever of haste to get them done. Yet this cough hinders me. There is always something which drags me back from the achievement of my desires. It's like a nightmare; I see myself struggling violently to escape from a monster which draws continuously nearer, until his shadow falls across my path, when I begin to run and find my legs tied, etc. The only difference is that mine is a nightmare from which I never wake up. The haven of successful accomplishment remains as far off as ever. Oh! make haste.
November29.
TheEnglish Reviewhas returned my Essay!—This is a keen disappointment to me. "I wish I could use this, but I am really too full," the Editor writes. To be faintly encouraged and delicately rejected—why I prefer the printed form.
December1.
More Irony
Renewed my cold—I do nothing all day but blow my nose, cough, and curse Austin Harrison.
M—— thinks the lungs are all right. "There is nothing there, I think," said he, this morning. Alleluia! I'vehad visions of consumption for weeks past and M—— himself has been expecting it. I always just escape: I always almost get something, do something, go somewhere, I have dabbled in a variety of diseases, but never got one downright[2]—but only enough to make me feel horribly unfit and very miserable without the consolation of being able to regard myself as the heroic victim of some incurable disorder. Instead of being Stevenson with tuberculosis, I've only been Jones with dyspepsia. So, too, in other directions, big events have always just missed me: by Herculean efforts I succeeded in giving up newspaper journalism and breaking thro' that steel environment—but only to become an Entomologist! I once achieved success in an Essay in theAcademy, which attracted attention—a debut, however, that never developed. I had not quite arrived. It is alwaysnot quite.
Yesterday, I received a state visit from the Editor of theFurniture Recordseeking advice on how to eradicate mites from upholstering! I received him ironically—but little did he understand.
I shot up like a ball on a bagatelle board all steamy into zoology (my once beloved science) but at once rolled dead into the very low hole of Economic Entomology! Curse.... Why can't I either have a first-rate disease or be a first-rate zoologist?
Now just think what a much better figure I should have cut, from the artistic view point, had I remained a newspaper reporter who had taught himself prodigious embryology out of F.M. Balfour's Textbook, who had cut sections of fowls' eggs and newt embryos with a hand microtome, who had passionately dissected out the hidden, internal anatomy of a great variety of animals, who could recite Wiedersheim'sComparative Anatomy of Vertebratesand patter off the difference between a nephridium and a cœlomic duct without turning a hair—or the phylogenetic history (how absorbing!) of the kidney—pronephros, mesonephros and metanephros and all the ducts!... All this, over now and wasted. My hardly-won knowledgewrenched away is never brought into use—it lies piled up in my brain rotting. I could have become a first-rate comparative anatomist.
December3.
Cold better. So back at work—gauging ale at Dunfermline as R—— puts it.
December9.
In the evening found it quite impossible to stay in the house any longer: some vague fear drove me out. I was alarmed to be alone or to be still. It is my cough, I think.
Had two glasses of port at the Kensington Hotel, conversed with the barmaid, and then came home.
December10.
"Don't be an old fossil," she said to me to-night, irrelevantly.
"A proposof what?" I inquired.
"Mother, here's W—— proposing to E——! Do come," cried ——, with intent to confuse. I laughed heartlessly.
Dear, dear, where will it all end? It's a sad business when you fall in love with a girl you don't like.
December26.
Spent a romping day at the Flat. Kissed her sister twice under the mistletoe, and in the evening went to a cinema. After supper made a mock heroic speech and left hilarious.
[1]"The life of the Soul is different; there is nothing more changing, more varied, more restless ... to describe the incidents of one hour would require an eternity."—Journal of Eugénie de Guérin.
[1]"The life of the Soul is different; there is nothing more changing, more varied, more restless ... to describe the incidents of one hour would require an eternity."—Journal of Eugénie de Guérin.
[2]See entry for November 27, 1915.
[2]See entry for November 27, 1915.
February4.
... Finally and in conclusion I have fallen ill again, have again resumed my periodical visits to the Doctor, and am swallowing his rat-poison in a blind faith as aforetime. In fact, I am in London, leading the same solitary life, seeing no one, talking to no one, and daily struggling with this demon of ill-health. Can no one exorcise him? The sight ofbothmy eyes is affected now. Blindness?
B—— continues whoring, drinking, sneering. R—— asusual, devoid of emotion, cold, passionless, Shavian, and self-absorbed, still titillates his mind with etching, sociology, music, etc., and I have at last ceased to bore him with what he probably calls the febrile utterances of an overwrought mind.
Such is my world! Oh! I forgot—on the floor below me is a corpse—that of an old gentleman who passed away suddenly in the night. In the small hours, the landlady went for the Doctor over the way, but he refused to come, saying the old man was too aged. So the poor gentleman died alone—in this rat hole of a place.
February7.
Intending to buy my usual 3d. packet of Goldflakes, entered a tobacconist's in Piccadilly, but once inside surprised to find myself in a classy west-end establishment, which frightened my flabby nature into buying De Reszke's instead. I hadn't the courage to face the aristocrat behind the counter with a request for Goldflakes—probably not stocked. What would he think of me? Besides, I shrank from letting him see I was not perfectly well-to-do.
February14.
I wonder what this year has in store for me? The first twenty-four years of my life have hunted me up and down the keyboard—I have been right to the top and also to the bottom—very happy and very miserable. Yet I prefer the life that is a hunt and an adventure. I don't really mind being chased like this. I almost thrive on the excitement. If I knew always where to look with any degree of certainty for my next day's life I should yawn! "What if to-day be sweet," I say, and never look ahead. To me, next week is next century.
The danger and uncertainty of my life make me cherish and hug closely to my heart various little projects that otherwise would seem unworthy. I work at them quickly, frantically, sometimes, afraid to whisper to a living soul what expectations I dare to harbour in my heart. What ifnowthe end be near? Not a word! Let me go onward.
February15.
To-day I have reviewed the situation carefully, exhaustively. I have peered into every aspect of my life and achievements and everything I have seen nauseates me. I can find no ray of comfort in anything I have done or in anything I might do. My life seems to have been a wilderness of futile endeavour. I started wrong from the very beginning. At the moment of my birth I was coming into the world in the wrong place and under wrong conditions. Why seek to overcome such colossal initial disadvantages? In this mood I found fault with my parentage, my inheritance, all my mental and physical disabilities....
This must be a form of incipient insanity. Even as a boy, I can remember being preternaturally absorbed in myself and preternaturally discontented. I was accustomed to exhaust my mind by the most harassing cross-examinations—no Counsel at the Bar ever treated a witness more mercilessly. After a day of this sort of thing, when silently and morbidly in every spare moment, at meals, in school, or on a walk, I would incessantly ply the questions, "What is the ultimate value of your work,cui bono?" etc. I went to bed in the evening with a feeling of hopelessness and dissatisfaction—haggard with considerations and reconsiderations of my outlook, my talent, my character, my future. In bed, I tossed from side to side, mentally exhausted with my efforts to obtain some satisfying conclusion—always hopeful, determined to the last to be able to square up my little affairs before going to sleep. But out of this mazy, vertiginous mass of thinking no satisfaction ever came.Now, I thought—or thenext moment—or as soon as I review and revise myself in this or in that aspect, I shall be content. And so I went on, tearing down and reforming, revising and reviewing, till finally from sheer exhaustion and very unhappy I fell asleep.
Next morning I was all right.
February20.
Am feeling very unwell. My ill-health, my isolation, baulked ambitions, and daily breadwinning all conspire to bring me down. The idea of a pistol and the end of it grows on me day by day.
February21.
After four days of the most profound depression of spirits, bitterness, self-distrust, despair, I emerged from the cloud to-day quite suddenly (probably the arsenic and strychnine begins to take effect) and walked up Exhibition Road with the intention of visiting the Science Museum Library so as to refer to Schafer'sEssentials of Histology(I have to watch myself carefully so that I may actat onceas soon as the balance of mind is restored). In the lobby was a woman screaming as if in pain, with a passer-by at her side saying sternly, "What is the matter with you?" as if she were making herself ridiculous by suffering pain in public.
I passed by quickly, pretending not to notice lest—after all—I should be done out of myEssentials of Histology.Even in the Library I very nearly let the opportunity slide by picking up a book on squaring the circle, the preface and introduction of which I was forced to read.
March4.
The Entomological Society
There were a great many Scarabees present who exhibited to one another poor little pinned insects in collecting-boxes ... It was really a one-man show, Prof. Poulton, a man of very considerable scientific attainments, being present, and shouting with a raucous voice in a way that must have scared some of the timid, unassuming collectors of our country's butterflies and moths. Like a great powerful sheep-dog, he got up and barked, "Mendelian characters," or "Germ plasm," what time the obedient flock ran together and bleated a pitiful applause. I suppose, having frequently heard these and similar phrasesfall from the lips of the great man at these reunions, they have come to regard them as symbols of a ritual which they think it pious to accept without any question. So every time the Professor says, "Allelomorph," or some such phrase, they cross themselves and never venture to ask him what the hell it is all about.
March7.
A Scots Fir
Have been feeling very "down" of late, but yesterday I saw a fine Scots Fir by the roadside—tall, erect, as straight as a Parthenon pillar. The sight of it restored my courage. It had a tonic effect. Quite unconsciously I pulled my shoulders back and walked ahead with renewed vows never to flinch again. It is a noble tree. It has strength as a giant, and a giant's height, and yet kindly withal, the branches drooping down graciously towards you—like a kind giant extending its hands to a child.
March22.
A Stagnant Day
Went to bed late last night so I slept on soundly till 9 a.m. Went down to the bath-room, but found the door was shut, so went back to my bedroom again, lay down and dosed a while, thinking of nothing in particular. Went down again—door still locked—swore—returned once more to my room and reclined on the bed, with door open, so that I could hear as soon as the bath-room door opened.... Rang the bell, and Miss —— brought up a jug of hot water to shave with, and a tumbler of hot water to drink (for my dyspepsia). She, on being interrogated, said there was some one in the bath-room. I said I wanted a bath too, so as she passed on her way down she shouted, "Hurry up, Mr. Barbellion wants a bath as well." Her footsteps then died away as she descended lower into the basement, where the family lives, sleeps, and cooks our food.
At length, hearing the door open, I ejaculated, "theLord be praised," rushed down, entered the bath-room and secured it from further intruders. I observed that Miss —— senior had been bathing her members, and that the bath, tho' empty, was covered inside with patches of soap —unutterably black! Oh! Miss ——!
Dressed leisurely and breakfasted. When the table was cleared wrote a portion of my essay onSpallanzani....
Then, being giddy and tired, rang for dinner. Miss —— laid the table. She looked very clean. I said, "Good-morning," and she suitably replied, and I went on reading, theWinning Post. Felt too slack to be amiable. Next time she came in, I said as pleasantly as I could, "Is it all ready?" and being informed proceeded to eat forthwith.
In the afternoon, took a 'bus to Richmond. No room outside, so had to go inside—curse—and sit opposite a row—curse again—of fat, ugly, elderly women, all off to visit their married daughters, the usual Sunday jaunt. At Hammersmith got on the outside, and at Turnham Green was caught in a hail storm. Very cold all of a sudden, so got off and took shelter in the doorway of a shop, which was of course closed, the day being Sunday. Rain, wind, and hail continued for some while, as I gazed at the wet, almost empty street, thinking, re-thinking and thinking over again the same thought, viz., that the 'bus ride along this route was exceptionally cheap—probably because of competition with the trams.
The next 'bus took me to Richmond. Two young girls sat in front, and kept looking back to know if I was "game." I lookedthroughthem. Walked in the Park just conscious of the singing of Larks and the chatter of Jays, but harassed mentally by the question, "To whom shall I send my essay, when finished?" To shelter from the rain sat under an oak where four youths joined me and said, "Worse luck," and "Not half," and smoked cigarettes. They gossipped and giggled like girls, put their arms around each other's necks. At the dinner last night, they said, they had Duck and Tomato Soup and Beeswax ("Beesley, you know, the chap that goes about with Smith a lot") wore a fancy waistcoat with a dinnerjacket. When I got up to move on, they became convulsed with laughter. I scowled.
Had tea in the Pagoda tea-rooms, dry toast and brown bread and butter. Two young men opposite me were quietly playing the fool.
"Hold my hand," one said audibly enough for two lovers to hear, comfortably settled up in a corner. Even at a side view I could see them kissing each other in between mouthfuls of bread and butter and jam.
On rising to go, one of the two hilarious youths removed my cap and playfully placed it on top of the bowler which his friend was wearing.
"My cap, I think," I said sharply, and the young man apologised with a splutter. I glared like a kill-joy of sixty.
On the 'bus, coming home, thro' streets full of motor traffic and all available space plastered with advertisements that screamed at you, I espied in front three pretty girls, who gave me the "Glad Eye." One had a deep, musical voice, and kept on using it, one of the others a pretty ankle and kept on showing it.
At Kew, two Italians came aboard, one of whom went out of his way to sit among the girls. He sat level with them, and kept turning his head around, giving them a sweeping glance as he did so, to shout remarks in Italian to his friend behind. He thought the girls were prostitutes, I think, and he may have been right. I was on the seat behind this man and for want of anything better to do, studied his face minutely. In short, it was fat, round, and greasy. He wore black moustachios with curly ends, his eyes were dark shining, bulgy, and around his neck was wrapped a scarf inside a dirty linen collar, as if he had a sore throat. I sat behind him and hated him steadily, perseveringly.
At Hammersmith the three girls got off, and the bulgy-eyed Italian watched them go with lascivious eyes, looking over the rail and down at them on the pavement—still interested. I looked down too. They crossed the road in front of us and disappeared.
Came home and here I am writing this. This is the content of to-day's consciousness. This is about all I have thought, said, or done, or felt. A stagnant day!
March26.
Home with a bad influenza cold. In a deplorable condition. The best I could do was to sit by the fire and read newspapers one by one from the first page to the last till the reading became mechanical. I found myself reading an account of the Lincoln Handicap and a column article on Kleptomania, while advertisements of new books were devoured with relish as delicacies. My mind became a morass of current Divorce Court News, Society Gossip—"if Sir A. goes Romeward, if Miss B. sings true"—and advertisements. I went on reading because I was afraid to be alone with myself.
B—— arrived at tea and after saying he felt very "pin-eyed" swallowed a glass of Bols gin—the Gin of Antony Bols—and recovered sufficiently to inform me delightedly that he had just won £50. He told me all the story; meanwhile, I, tired of wiping and blowing my nose, sat in the dirty armchair hunched up with elbows on knees and let it drip on to the dirty carpet. B——, of course, noticed nothing, which was fortunate.
Some kinds of damned fool would have been kindly and sympathetic. I must say I like old B——. I like him for his simpleness and utter absence of self-consciousness, which make him as charming as a child. Moreover, he often makes me a present of invaluable turf tips. Of course, he is a liar, but his lies are harmless and on his mouth like milk on an infant's. My own lies are much more dangerous. And when you are ill, to be treated as tho' you were well is good for hypochondriacs.
April15.
H——'s wedding. Five minutes before time, I am told I made a dramatic entry into the church clad in an audaciously light pair of Cashmere trousers, lemon-colouredgloves, with top hat and cane. The latter upset the respectability frightfully—it is notcomme il faut.
April16.
... If I am to admit the facts they are that I eagerly anticipate love, look everywhere for it, long for it, am unhappy without it. She fascinates me—admitted. I could, if I would, surrender myself. Her affection makes me long to do it. I am sick of living by myself. I am frightened of myself. My life is miserable alone, and sometimes desperately miserable when I long for a little sympathy to be close at hand.
I have often tried to persuade R—— to share a flat with me, because I don't really wish to marry. I struggle against the idea, I am egotist enough to wish to shirk the responsibilities.
But then I am a ridiculously romantic creature with a wonderful ideal of a woman I shall never meet or if I do she won't want me—"that (wholly) impossible She." R—— in a flat with me would partly solve my difficulties. I don't love her enough for marriage. Mine must be a grand passion, abouleversement—for I am capable of it.
April17.
A Humble Confession
The Hon. ——, son and heir of Lord ——, to-day invited me to lunch with him in —— Square. He's a handsome youth of twenty-five, with fair hair and blue eyes.... and O! such an aristocrat. Good Lord.
But to continue: the receipt of so unexpected an invitation from so glorious a young gentleman at first gave me palpitation of the heart. I was so surprised that I scarcely had enough presence of mind to listen to the rest of his remarks and later, it was only with the greatest difficulty that I could recall the place where we arranged to meet. His remarks, too, are not easy to follow, as he talks in a stenographic, Alfred-Jingle-like manner, jerking out disjected members of sentences, and leaving you to makethe best of them or else to Hell with you—by the Lord, I speak English, don't I? If I said, "I beg your pardon," he jerked again, and left me often equally unenlightened.
On arriving at his home, the first thing he did was to shout down the stairs to the basement: "Elsie, Elsie," while I gazed with awe at a parcel on the hall table addressed to "Lord ——." Before lunch we sat in his little room and talked about ——, but I was still quite unable to regain my self-composure. I couldn't for the life of me forget that here was I lunching with Lord ——'s son, on equal terms, with mutual interests, that his sisters perhaps would come in directly or even the noble Lord himself. I felt like a scared hare. How should I address a peer of the realm? I kept trying to remember and every now and then for some unaccountable reason my mind travelled into ——shire and I saw Auntie C—— serving out tea and sugar over the counter of the baker's shop in the little village. I luxuriated in the contrast, tho' I am not at all inclined to be a snob.
He next offered me a cigarette, which I took and lit. It was a Turkish cigarette with one end plugged up with cotton-wool—to absorb the nicotine—a, thing I've never seen before. I was so flurried at the time that I did not notice this and lit the wrong end. With perfect ease and self-possession, the Honourable One pointed out my error to me and told me to throw the cigarette away and have another.
By this time I had completely lost my nerve. My pride, chagrin, excessive self-consciousness were entangling all my movements in the meshes of a net. Failing to tumble to the situation, I inquired, "Why thewrongend? Is there a right and a wrong end?" Lord ——'s son and heir pointed out the cotton-wool end, now blackened by my match.
"That didn't burn very well, did it?"
I was bound to confess that it did not, and threw the smoke away under the impression that these wonderful cigarettes with right and wrong ends must be some special brand sold only to aristocrats, and at a great price, andpossessing some secret virtue. Once again, handsome Mr. —— drew out his silver cigarette-case, selected a second cigarette for me, and held it towards me between his long delicate fingers, at the same time pointing out the plug at one end and making a few staccato remarks which I could not catch.
I was still too scared to be in full possession of my faculties, and he apparently was too tired to be explicit to a member of the bourgeoisie, stumbling about his drawing-room. The cotton-wool plug only suggested to me some sort of a plot on the part of a dissolute scion of a noble house to lure me into one of his bad habits, such as smoking opium or taking veronal. I again prepared to light the cigarette at the wrong end.
"Try the other end," repeated the young man, smiling blandly. I blushed, and immediately recovered my balance, and even related my knowledge of pipes fitted to carry similar plugs....
During lunch (at which we sat alone) after sundry visits to the top of the stairs to shout down to the kitchen, he announced that he thought it wasn't last night's affair after all which was annoying the Cook (he got home late without a latch-key)—it was because he called her "Cook" instead of Mrs. Austin. He smiled serenely and decided to indulge Mrs. A., his indulgent attitude betraying an objectionable satisfaction with the security of his own unassailable social status. There was a trace of gratification at the little compliment secreted in the Cook's annoyance. She wanted Mr. Charles to call her Mrs. Austin, forsooth. Very well! and he smiled down on the little weaknessde haute en bas.
I enjoyed this little experience. Turning it over in my mind (as the housemaid says when she decides to stay on) I have come to the conclusion that the social parvenu is not such a vulgar fellow after all. He may be a bore—particularly if he sits with his finger tips apposed over a spherical paunch, festooned with a gold chain, and keepson relatingin extensohow once he gummed labels on blacking bottles. Often enough he is a smug fellow, yet, truth to tell, we all feel a little interested in him. He is a traveller from an antique land, and we sometimes like to listen to his tales of adventure and all he has come through. He has traversed large territories of human experience, he has met strange folk and lodged in strange caravanserai. Similarly with the man who has come down in the world—the fool, the drunkard, the embezzler—he may bore us with his maudlin sympathy with himself yet his stories hold us. It must be a fine experience within the limits of a single life to traverse the whole keyboard of our social status, whether up or down. I should like to be a peer who grinds a barrel organ or (better still) a one-time organ-grinder who now lives in Park Lane. It must be very dull to remain stationary—once a peer always a peer.
April20.
Miss —— heard me sigh to-day and asked what it might mean. "Only the sparks flying upward," I answered lugubriously.
A blackguard is often unconscious of a good deal of his wickedness. Charge him with wickedness and he will deny it quite honestly—honest then, perhaps, for the first time in his life.
An Entomologist is a large hairy man with eyebrows like antennæ.
Chronic constipation has gained for me an unrivalled knowledge of all laxatives, aperients, purgatives and cathartic compounds. At present I arrange two gunpowder plots a week. It's abominable. Best literature for the latrine: picture puzzles.
April23.
A Foolish Bird
With a menacing politeness, B—— to-day inquired of a fat curate who was occupying more than his fair share of a seat on top of a 'bus,—
"Are you going to get up or stay where ye are, sir?"
The foolish bird was sitting nearly on top of B——, mistaking a bomb for an egg.
"I beg your pardon," replied the fat curate.
B—— repeated his inquiry with more emphasis in the hideous Scotch brogue.
"I suppose I shall stay here till I get down presently."
"I don't think you will," said B——.
"What do you mean?" asked the fat one in falsetto indignation.
"This," B—— grunted, and shunted sideways so that the poor fellow almost slid on to the floor.
A posse of police walking along in single file always makes me laugh. A single constable is a Policeman, but several in single file are "Coppers." I imagine every one laughs at them and I have a shrewd suspicion it is one of W.S. Gilbert's legacies—thePirates of Penzancehaving become part of the national Consciousness.
On Lighting Chloe's Cigarette
R—— remarked to-day that he intended writing a lyric on lighting Chloe's cigarette.
"Ah!" I said at once appreciative, "now tell me, do you balance your hand—by gently (ever so gently) resting the extreme tip of your little finger upon her chin, and" (I was warming up) "do you hold the match vertically or horizontally, and do you light it in the dark or in the light? If you have finesse, you won't need to be told that the thing is to get a steady flame and the maximum of illumination upon her face to last over a period for as long as possible."
"Chloe," replied R——, "is wearing now a charming blouse with a charming V-shaped opening in front. Her Aunt asked my Mother last night tentatively, 'How do you like Chloe's blouse? Is it too low?' My Mother scrutinised the dear little furry, lop-eared thing and answered doubtfully, 'No, Maria, I don't think so.'"
"How ridiculous! Why the V is a positive signpost. My dear fellow," I said to R——, "I should refuse to be bluffed by those old women. Tell them youknow."
Carlyle called Lamb a despicable abortion. What a crime!
May2.
Developed a savage fit. Up to a certain point, perhaps, but beyond that anxiety changes into recklessness—you simply don't care. The aperients are causing dyspepsia and intermittent action of the heart, which frightens me. After a terrifying week, during which at crises I have felt like dropping suddenly in the street, in the gardens, anywhere, from syncope, I rebelled against this humiliating fear. I pulled my shoulders back and walked briskly ahead along the street with a dropped beat every two or three steps. I laughed bitterly at it and felt it could stop or go on—I was at last indifferent. In a photographer's shop was the picture of a very beautiful woman and I stopped to look at her. I glowered in thro' the glass angrily and reflected how she was gazing out with that same expression even at the butcher's boy or the lamp-lighter. It embittered me to think of having to leave her to some other man. To me she represented all the joy of life which at any moment I might have had to quit for ever. Such impotence enraged me and I walked off up the street with a whirling heart and the thought, "I shall drop, I suppose, when I get up as far as that." Yet don't think I was alarmed. Oh! no. The iron had entered me, and I went on with cynical indifference waiting to be struck down.
... She is a very great deal to me. Perhaps I love her very much after all.
May3.
Bad heart attack all day. Intermittency is very refined torture to one who wants to live very badly. Your pump goes a "dot and carry one," or say "misses a stitch,"what time you breathe deep, begin to shake your friend's hand and make a farewell speech. Then it goes on again and you order another pint of beer.
It is a fractious animal within the cage of my thorax, and I never know when it is going to escape and make off with my precious life between its teeth. I humour and coax and soothe it, but, God wot, I haven't much confidence in the little beast. My thorax it appears is an intolerable kennel.
May10.
In a very cheerful mood. Pleased with myself and everybody till a seagull soared overhead in Kensington Gardens and aroused my vast capacities for envy—I wish I could fly.
May24.
In L—— with my brother, A——. The great man is in great form and very happy in his love for N——. He is a most delightful creature and I love him more than any one else in the wide world. There is an almost feminine tenderness in my love.
We spent a delightful day, talking and arguing and insulting one another.... At these seances we take delight in anaesthetising our hearts for the purposes of argument, and a third person would be bound to suppose we were in the throes of a bitter quarrel. We pile up one vindictive remark on another, ingeniously seeking out—and with malice—weak points in each other's armour, which previous exchange of confidences makes it easy to find. Neither of us hesitates to make use of such private confessions, yet our love is so strong that we can afford to take any liberty. There is, in fact, a fearful joy in testing the strength of our affection by searching for cutting rejoinders—to see the effect. We rig up one another's cherished ideals like Aunt Sallies and then knock them down, we wax sarcastic, satirical, contemptuous in turn, we wave our hands animatedly (hand-wavingis a great trick with both of us), get flushed, point with our fingers, and thump the table to clinch some bit of repartee. Yet it's all smoke. Our love is unassailable—it's like the law of gravitation, you cannot dispute it, it underlies our existence, it is the air we breathe.
N—— is charming, and thought we were quarrelling, and therefore intervened on his side!
May31.
R—— outlined an impression he had in Naples one day during a sirocco of the imminence of his own death. It was evidently an isolated experience and bored me a little as I could have said a lot myself about that. When he finished I drew from my pocket an envelope with my name and three addresses scribbled on it to help the police in case of syncope as I explained. I have carried this with me for several years and at one time a flask of brandy.
June3.
Went to see the Irish Players inThe Playboy. Sitting in front of me was a charming little Irish girl accompanied by a male clod with red-rimmed eyes like a Bull-terrier's, a sandy, bristly moustache like a housemaid's broom, and a face like a gluteal mass, and a horrid voice that crepitated rather than spoke.
She was dark, with shining blue eyes, and a delightful little nose of the utmost import to every male who should gaze upon her. Between the acts, the clod hearkened to her vivacious conversation—like an enchanted bullock. Her vivacity was such that the tip of her nose moved up and down for emphasis and by the end of the Third Act I was captured entirely. Lucky dog, that clod!
After the play this little Irish maiden caught my eye and it became a physical impossibility for me to check a smile—and oh! Heavens!—she gave me a smile in return. Precisely five seconds later, she looked again to see if I was still smiling—I was—and we then smiled broadly and openly on one another—her smile being the timorousingénue's not the glad eye of afemme de joie. Later, on the railway platform whither I followed her, I caught her eye again (was ever so lucky a fellow?), and we got into the same carriage. But so did the clod—ah! dear, was ever so unlucky a fellow? Forced to occupy a seat some way off, but she caught me trying to see her thro' a midnight forest of opera hats, lace ruffles, projecting ears and fat noses.
Curse! Left her at High Street Station and probably will never see her again. This is a second great opportunity. The first was the girl on Lundy Island. These two women I shall always regret. There must be so many delightful and interesting persons in London if only I could get at them.
June4.
Rushed off to tell R—— about my little Irish girl. Her face has been "shadowing" me all day.
June6.
A violent argument with R——remarriage. He says Love means appropriation, and is taking the most elaborate precautions to forfend passion—just as if it were a militant suffragette. Every woman he meets he first puts into a long quarantine, lest perchance she carries the germ of the infectious disease. He quotes Hippolytus and talks like a mediæval ascetic. Himself, I imagine, he regards as a valuable but brittle piece of Dresden china which must be saved from rough handling and left unmolested to pursue its high and dusty destiny—an old crock as I warned him. By refusing to plunge into life he will live long and be a well preserved man, but scarcely a living man—a mummy rather. I told him so amid much laughter.
"You're a reactionary," says he.
"Yes, but why should a reactionary be a naughty boy?"
June7.
My ironical fate lured me this evening into another discussion on marriage in which I had to take up a position exactly opposite to the one I defended yesterday against R——. In fact, I actually subverted to my own pressing requirements some of R——'s own arguments! The argument, of course, was with Her.
Marriage, I urged, was an economic trap for guileless young men, and for my part (to give myself some necessary stiffening) I did not intend to enter upon any such hazardous course, even if I had the chance. Miss —— said I was a funk—to me who the day before had been hammering into R—— my principle of "Plunge and damn the consequences." I was informed I was an old woman afraid to go out without an umbrella, an old tabby cat afraid to leave the kitchen fire, etc., etc.
"Yes, Iamafraid to go out without an umbrella," I argued formally, "when it's raining cats and dogs. As long as I am dry, I shall keep dry. As soon as I find myself caught in the rain or victimised by a passion, I shan't be afraid of falling in love or getting wet. It would be a misadventure, but I am not going in search of one."
All the same the discussion was very galling, for I was acting a part.
... The truth is I have philandered abominably with her. I know it. And now I am jibbing at the idea of marriage.... I am such an egotist, I want, I believe, a Princess of the Blood Royal.
June9.
Some days ago sent a personal advertisement to the newspaper to try to find my little Irish girl who lives at Notting Hill Gate. To-day they return me the money and advert, no doubt mistaking me for a White Slave trafficker. And by this time, I'm thinking, my little Irish girl can go to blazes. Shall spend the P.O. on sweets or monkey nuts.
June10
Lupus
It is raining heavily. I have just finished dinner. In the street an itinerant musician is singing dolefully, "O Rest in the Lord." In my dirty little sitting room I begin to feel very restless, so put on my hat and cloak and walk down towards the Station for a paper to read. It is all very dark and dismal, and I gaze with hungry eyes in thro' some of the windows disclosing happy comfortable interiors. At intervals thunder growls and lightning brightens up the deserted dirtiness of the Station Waiting Room. A few bits of desolate paper lie about on the floor, and up in one corner on a form a crossing-sweeper, motionless and abject, driven in from his pitch by the rain. His hands are deep in his trousers' pockets, and the poor devil lies with legs sprawling out and eyes closed: over the lower part of his face he wears a black mask to hide the ravages of lupus.... He seemed the last man on earth—after every one else had died of the plague. Not a soul in the station. Not a train. And this is June!
June15.
Measuring Lice
Spent the day measuring the legs and antennæ of lice to two places of decimals!
To the lay mind how fantastic this must seem! Indeed, I hope it is fantastic. I do not mind being thought odd. It seems almost fitting that an incurable dilettante like myself should earn his livelihood by measuring the legs of lice. I like to believe that such a bizarre manner of life suits my incurable frivolousness.
I am a Magpie in a Bagdad bazaar, hopping about, useless, inquisitive, fascinated by a lot of astonishing things:e.g., a book on the quadrature of the circle, thegabbertushed fustilugspassage in Burton'sAnatomy of Melancholy, names like Mr. Portwine or Mr. Hogsflesh, Tweezer's Alley or Pickle Herring Street, the excellent,conceitful sonnets of Henry Constable or Petticoat Lane on a Sunday morning.
Colossal things such as Art, Science, etc., frighten me. I am afraid I should develop a thirst that would make me wish to drink the sea dry. My mind is a disordered miscellany. The world is too distracting. I cannot apply myself for long. London bewilders me. At times it is a phantasmagoria, an opium dream out of De Quincey.
June17.
Prof. Geo. Saintsbury's book on Elizabethan literature amuses me.George, there can be no doubt, is a very refined, cultivated fellow. I bet he don't eat periwinkles with a pin or bite his nails—and you should hear him refer to folk who can't read Homer in the original or who haven't been to Oxford—to Merton above all. He also saysnon so cheforje ne sais quoi.
June26.
... I placed the volume on the mantelpiece as if it were a bottle of physic straight from my Dispensary, and I began to expostulate and expound, as if she were a sick person and I the doctor.... She seemed a little nettled at my proselytising demeanour and gave herself out to be very preoccupied—or at any rate quite uninterested in my physic. I read the book last night at one sitting and was boiling over with it.
"I fear I have come at an inconvenient time," I said, with a sardonic smile and strummed on the piano.... "I must really be off. Please read it (which sounded like 'three times a day after meals') and tell me how you like it. (Facetiously.) Of course don't give up your present manual for it, that would be foolish and unnecessary." ... I rambled on—disposed to be very playful.
At last calmly and horribly, in a thoughtful voice she answered,—
"I think you are very rude; you play the piano after Iasked you to stop and walk about just as if it were your own home."
I remained outwardly calm but inwardly was very surprised and full of tremors. I said after a pause,—
"Very well, if you think so.... Good-bye."
No answer; and I was too proud to apologise.
"Good-bye," I repeated.
She went on reading her novel in silence while I got as far as the door—very upset.
"Au revoir."
No answer.
"Oh," said I, and went out of the room leaving my lady for good and all and I'm not sorry.
In the passage met Miss ——. "What?" she said, "going already?"
"Farewell," I said sepulchrally. "A very tragic farewell," which left her wondering.
June29.
At the Albert Hall
Went with R—— to the Albert Hall to theEmpress of IrelandMemorial Concert with massed bands. We heard the Symphonie Pathétique, Chopin's Funeral March, Trauermarsch from Götterdammerung, the Ride of the Valkyries and a solemn melody from Bach.
This afternoon I regard as a mountain peak in my existence. For two solid hours I sat like an Eagle on a rock gazing into infinity—a very fine sensation for a London Sparrow....
I have an idea that if it were possible to assemble the sick and suffering day by day in the Albert Hall and keep the Orchestra going all the time, then the constant exposure of sick parts to such heavenly air vibrations would ultimately restore to them the lost rhythm of health. Surely, even a single exposure to—say Beethoven's Fifth Symphony—must result in some permanent reconstitution of ourselves body and soul. No one can be quite the same after a Beethoven Symphony has streamed thro' him.
If one coulddevelopa human soul like a negative the effect I should say could be seen.... I'll tell you what I wish they'd do—seriously: divide up the arena into a series of cubicles where, unobserved and in perfect privacy, a man could execute all the various movements of his body and limbs which the music prompts. It would be such a delicious self-indulgence and it's torture to be jammed into a seat where you can't even tap one foot or wave an arm.
The concert restored my moral health. I came away in love with people I was hating before and full of compassion for others I usually condemn. A feeling of immeasurable well being—a jolly bonhomie enveloped me like incandescent light. At the close when we stood up to sing the National Anthem we all felt a genuine spirit of camaraderie. Just as when Kings die, we were silent musing upon the common fate, and when the time came to separate we were loath to go our several ways, for we were comrades who together had come thro' a great experience. For my part I wanted to shake hands all round—happy travellers, now alas! at the journey's end and never perhaps to meet again—never.
R—— and I walked up thro' Kensington Gardens like two young Gods!
"I even like that bloody thing," I said, pointing to the Albert Memorial.