I know now all the criticism you are going to launch. So please spare yourself the trouble. You cannot enlighten me upon myself. I know. I disgust myself—and you, and as for you, you can go to the Devil with this Journal.
Finis
Today, armed with a certificate from my Doctor in a sealed envelope and addressed “to the Medical Officer examining Mr. W. N. P. Barbellion,” I got leave to attend the recruiting office and offer my services to my King and Country. At the time, the fact that the envelope was sealed caused no suspicion and I had been comfortably carrying the document about in my pocket for days past.
Of course I attended merely as a matter of form under pressure of the authorities, as I knew I was totally unfit—but not quite how unfit. After receiving this precious certificate, I learnt that K⸺ was recruiting Doctor at W⸺, and he offered to “put me through in five minutes,” as he knows the state of my health. So at a time agreed upon, I went today and was immediately rejected as soon as he had stethoscoped my heart. The certificate therefore was not needed, and coming home in the train I opened it out of curiosity. …
I was quite casual and thought it would be merely interesting to see what M⸺ said.
It was.
“Some 18 months ago,” it ran, “Mr. Barbellion showed the just visible symptoms of ⸻ ⸻”—and although this fact was at once communicated to my relatives it was withheld from me and M⸺ therefore asked the M.O. to respect this confidence and to reject me without stating on what grounds. He went on to refer to my patellar and plantar reflexes, by which time I had had enough, tore the paper up and flung it out of the railway carriage window.
I then returned to the Museum intending to find out what ⸻ ⸻ was in Clifford Allbutt’s System of Medicine. I wondered whether it was brain or heart; and the very thought gave me palpitation. I hope it is heart—something short and sharp rather than lingering. But I believe it must be ⸻ of the brain, the opposite process of softening occurring in old age. I recall M⸺’s words to me before getting married: that I had this “nerve weakness,” but I was more likely to succumb to pneumonia than to any nervous trouble, and that only twelve months’ happiness would be worth while.
On the whole I am amazed at the calm way in which I take this news. I was a fool never to have suspected serious nerve trouble before. Does dear E⸺ know? What did M⸺ tell her when he saw her before our marriage?
As soon as I woke up in this clear, country air this morning, I thought: ⸻ ⸻. I have decided never to find out what it is. I shall find out in good time by the course of events.
A few years ago, the news would have scared me. But not so now. It only interests me. I have been happy, merry, and quite high-spirited today.
I believe it’s creeping paralysis. My left leg goes lame after a short walk. Fortunately E⸺ does not take alarm.
Spent the last two days, both of us, in a state of unrelieved gloom. The clouds never lifted for a moment—it’s awful. I scarcely have spoken a word. … And eugenically, what kind of an infant would even a Mark Tapley expect of a father with a medical history like mine, and a mother with a nervous system like hers? … Could anything be more unfortunate? And the War? What may not have happened by this time next year? My health is grotesque.
I wonder if she knows. I believe she does but I am afraid to broach the matter in case she doesn’t. I think she must know something otherwise she would show more alarm over my leg, and when I went to the Recruiting Office she seemed to show no fear whatever lest they took me. Several times a day in the middle of a talk, or a meal, or a kiss, this problem flashes through my mind. I look at her but find no solution. However—for the present—the matter is not urgent.
1916
Since I last wrote—a month ago—I have recovered my buoyancy after a blow which kept me under water so long I thought I should never come up and be happy again. … I was reciting my woes to R⸺, and gaining much relief thereby, when we espied another crony on the other side of the street, crossed over at once, bandied words with him and then walked on, picking up the thread of my lugubrious story just where I had left off—secretly staggered at my emotional agility. I’ve got to this now—I simply don’t care.
“And she draiglet all her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.” These words have a ridiculous fascination for me; I cannot resist their saccharine, affectionate, nay amorous jingle and keep repeating them aloud all over the house—as Lamb once kept reciting “Rose Aylmer.”
We took possession of our country cottage today: very charming and overlooking a beautiful Park.
Have just discovered the Journal of the de Goncourts and been reading it greedily. Life has really been a commodity. I am boiling over with vitality, chattering amiably to everyone about nothing—argumentative, sanguine, serious, ridiculous. I called old R⸺ a Rapscallion, a Curmudgeon, and a Scaramouche, and E⸺ a trull, a drab, a trollop, a callet. “You certainly are a unique husband,” said that sweet little lady, and I. …
With me, one of the symptoms of delirium is always a melodramatic truculence! I shake my fist in R⸺’s face and make him explode with laughing. … The sun today, and the great, whopping white clouds all bellied
