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.
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 the next 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.
After four days of the most profound depression of spirits, bitterness, self-distrust, despair, I emerged from the cloud today 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’s Essentials of Histology (I have to watch myself carefully so that I may act at once as soon as the balance of mind is restored). In the lobby was a woman screaming as if in pain, with a passerby 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 my Essentials 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.
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 sheepdog, 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 phrases fall 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.
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.
A Stagnant Day
Went to bed late last night so I slept on soundly till 9 a.m. Went down to the bathroom, 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 bathroom 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 someone in the bathroom. 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, “the Lord be praised,” rushed down, entered the bathroom and secured it from further intruders. I observed that Miss ⸻ senior had been bathing her members, and that the bath, though 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 on Spallanzani. …
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, the Winning 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, rethinking 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 looked through them.
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