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 dinner jacket. When I got up to move on, they became convulsed with laughter. I scowled.
Had tea in the Pagoda tearooms, 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 killjoy of sixty.
On the bus, coming home, through 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 today’s consciousness. This is about all I have thought, said, or done, or felt. A stagnant day!
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 though you were well is good for hypochondriacs.
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-coloured gloves, with top hat and cane. The latter upset the respectability frightfully—it is not comme il faut.
… 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, a bouleversement—for I am capable of it.
A Humble Confession
The Hon. ⸻, son and heir of Lord ⸻, today invited me
