very dull to remain stationary—once a peer always a peer.
Miss ⸻ heard me sigh today 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 antennae.
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.
A Foolish Bird
With a menacing politeness, B⸺ today 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 everyone laughs at them and I have a shrewd suspicion it is one of W. S. Gilbert’s legacies—the Pirates of Penzance having become part of the national Consciousness.
On Lighting Chloe’s Cigarette
R⸺ remarked today 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 you know.”
Carlyle called Lamb a despicable abortion. What a crime!
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 through the glass angrily and reflected how she was gazing out with that same expression even at the butcher’s boy or the lamplighter. 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 forever. 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.
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.
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.
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 anyone 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 séances 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
