PART I—THE JOURNAL BEGINS WHEN ITS AUTHOR IS A LITTLE OVER 13 YEARS OLD. (continued 2)

"Would you have there, I suppose, any insects, in a case like, what you might say to study to yourself when no one is by?" he inquired.

6.40. It is now one hour before I need leave for the meeting, and whether I sigh, cough, smoke, or read the paper, she goes on. She even refuses to allow me to scan the lines below photos in the Illustrated London News. I write this as the last sole resource to escape her devastating prattle and the ceaseless hum of her tiny gnat-like mind. She thinks (because I told her so) that I am preparing notes for the evening meeting.

Later: Spent an absolutely damnable day. Am sick, tired, bored, frantic with her voice which I have been able to share with no one except the intellectual giant, her husband, at tea time. In order to break the flow of chatter, I would rudely interrupt and go on talking, by this means keeping my end up for as long as I could, and enjoying a short respite from the fret-sawing voice. But I tired of this and it was of no permanent value. When I broke in, she still went on for a few sentences unable to stop, and lo! here was the spectacle of two persons alone together in a room both talking at the same time and neither listening. I persisted though—and she had to stop. Once started, I was afraid to stop—scared at the certain fact of the voice beginning to saw again. After a while the fountain of my artificial garrulity dried up, and the Voice at once leaped into the breach, resuming—amazing and incredible as it seems—at the precise point where it had left off. At 7 I am quite exhausted and sit on the opposite side of the hearth, staring with glassy eyes, arms drooping at my sides and mouth druling. At 7.05 her cough increases, and she has to stop to attend to it. With a fiendish smile I push back my chair, and quietly watch her cough.... She coughs continuously now and can talk no longer. Thank God! 8 p.m., left for the meeting, where I read my paper in a state of awful nervousness.... I read out all I had to say and kept them amused for about ten minutes. I was very excited when Dr. —— got up and praised the paper,[3] saying it was interesting, and hoping I should continue the experiments. The chairman, Sir John Rose Bradford, asked a question, I answered it and then sat down. After the meeting we went upstairs to the library, had tea and chatted with some of the big people.... Zoology is certainly delightful, yet it seems to me the Zoologists are much as other people. I like Zoology. I wish I could do without Zoologists....

October 30.

Home once more. The Natural History Museum impressed me enormously. It is a magnificent building—too magnificent to work there—to follow one's profession in a building like that seems an altogether too grandiose manner of life. A pious zoologist might go up to pray in it—but not to earn his daily bread there.

October 31.

I'm in, in, in!!!!!!!!! being first with 141 marks to spare. Old M——[the servant] rushes up to my sister's bedroom with the news just after 7 a.m., and she says, "Fine, fine," and comes down in her nightgown to my bedroom, where we drink our morning cup of tea together—and talk! I'm delighted. What a magnificent obstacle race it has been! Still one ditch—the medical exam! Wired to friends.

November 1.

This is the sort of letter which is balm to me:—"My darling W——,—I need hardly tell you how absolutely delighted we were at the grand news of this morning. You must be feeling a huge glow of satisfaction with the knowledge of your object attained through untold difficulties. I don't wish to butter you up, or to gush, but I must honestly say that I feel tip-top proud of my old Beano. I admire your brains more than ever, and also your indomitable pluck and grit, and your quiet bravery in disappointment and difficulty...."

November 14.

The three most fascinating books in Science that I have so far read are (easily):—1. Darwin's Expression of the Emotions. 2. Gaskell's Origin of Vertebrates. 3. Bergson's Le Rire.

Went to the dentist in the afternoon. Evening chiefly occupied in reading Le Rire. By my halidom, it is an extraordinarily interesting book!

November 29.

... I am always looking out for new friends—assaying for friendship.... There is no more delightful adventure than an expedition into a rich, many-sided personality. Gradually over a long probation—for deep minds are naturally reticent—piece after piece is added to the geography of your friend's mind, and each piece pleases or entertains, while in return you let him steal away piece after piece of your own territory, perhaps saving a bit up here and there—such as an enthusiasm for Francis Thompson's poetry—and then letting it go unexpectedly. It's a delightful reciprocity.

I dream of "the honeyed ease of the Civil Servant's working day" (Peacock). Yet the French say Songes sont mensonges.

December 13.

In the Park it was very dark and she said,—

"If I lose you I shan't be able to find my way home."

"Oh! I'll look after you," I said.

Both being of the same mind at the same time we sat down on a seat together when a fortunate thing happened. It began to rain. So I offered her part of my overcoat. She nestled in under my arm and I kissed her out of hand. Voilà! A very pretty little girl, 'pon my word.

December 20.

The thing is obsessing me. After an early supper called and found my lady ready to receive me. No one else at home. So walked into the oak-panelled room with the red-curtained windows, took off my coat and scarf. She followed and switched off the light. There was a roaring fire in the grate. She is very amorous and I am not Hippolytus, so we were soon closely engaged in the large chair before the fire. As we sailed thus, close hauled to the wind, with double entendres and she trembled in the storm (and I was at the helm) the garden gate slammed and both of us got up quickly. I next heard a key turn in the lock and a foot in the passage: "Mr. ——" she said....

She switched on the light, went out swiftly into the passage, and meeting him conducted him to her office, while I as swiftly put on overcoat and scarf, and slipped out through the open door, stumbling over his bicycle, but of course not stopping to pick it up. Later she telephoned to say it was all right. Very relieved!... She recalls Richepin's La Glu.

December 21.

She is a fine sedative. Her movements are a pleasant adagio, her voice piano to pianissimo, her conversation breaks off in thrilling aposiopoeses.

An awful comedy this morning—for as soon as I was securely "gagged" the dentist went out of the room. She approached, leered at me helpless, and said provokingly, "Oh! you do look funny." Minx. On returning he said to her, "Would you like to hold his hand?"

She: "Oh! not just now."

And they grinned at one another and at me waiting to be tortured.

December 23.

... On the Station waited for an hour for the train. Gave her a box of sweets and the Bystander. We walked up the platform to extreme end in the dark and kissed! But it was very windy and cold. (I noticed that!) So we entered an empty luggage guard's van on rail beside platform left there by shunters. Here we were out of the wind and far better off. But a shunter came along and turned us out. She gave me a silver match-box. But I believe for various reasons that it is one of her own and not a new one. Said "Good-bye."

December 28.

At R——. Played the negligent flaneur, reclining on the Chesterfield, leaning against the grand piano, or measuring my length on the mat before the fire.

December 31.

To-morrow I begin duties at the British Museum of Natural History. I cannot quite imagine myself a Museum assistant. Before I get there I know I shall be the strangest assistant on the staff. It will be singing my song in a Strange land and weeping—I hope not too bitterly—down by the waters of a very queer Babylon.

Still, I have burnt my bridges like Cæsar—or burnt my ships like Cortez. So forward!