The Journal of a Disappointed Man

by W. N. P. Barbellion

  Next morning I was all right.

  February 20.

  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.

  February 21

  After four days of the most profound depression of spirits, bitterness, self-distrust, despair, I emerged from the cloud to-day 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 Schäfer’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.

  March 4.

  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 sheep-dog, 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.

  March 7.

  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.

  March 22.

  A Stagnant Day

  Went to bed late last night so I slept on soundly till 9 a.m. Went down to the bath-room, 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 bath-room 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 some one in the bath-room. 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 bath-room and secured it from further intruders. I observed that Miss — senior had been bathing her members, and that the bath, tho’ 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, re-thinking 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. 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 gossiped 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 tea-rooms, 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 kill-joy of sixty.

  On the ’bus, coming home, thro’ 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 to-day’s consciousness. This is about all I have thought, said, or done, or felt. A stagnant day!

  March 26.

  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 becau
se 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 tho’ you were well is good for hypochondriacs.

  April 15.

  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.

  April 16.

  … 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.

  April 17.

  A Humble Confession

  The Hon. —, son and heir of Lord —, to-day invited me to lunch with him in — Square. He is a handsome youth of twenty-five, with fair hair and blue eyes … and O! such an aristocrat. Good Lord.

  But to continue: the receipt of so unexpected an invitation from so glorious a young gentleman at first gave me palpitation of the heart. I was so surprised that I scarcely had enough presence of mind to listen to the rest of his remarks and later, it was only with the greatest difficulty that I could recall the place where we arranged to meet. His remarks, too, are not easy to follow, as he talks in a stenographic, Alfred-Jingle-like manner, jerking out disjected members of sentences, and leaving you to make the best of them or else to Hell with you – by the Lord, I speak English, don’t I? If I said, ‘I beg your pardon’, he jerked again, and left me often equally unenlightened.

  On arriving at his home, the first thing he did was to shout down the stairs to the basement: ‘Elsie, Elsie’, while I gazed with awe at a parcel on the hall table addressed to ‘Lord —’. Before lunch we sat in his little room and talked about —, but I was still quite unable to regain my self-composure. I couldn’t for the life of me forget that here was I lunching with Lord —’s son, on equal terms, with mutual interests, that his sisters perhaps would come in directly or even the noble Lord himself. I felt like a scared hare. How should I address a peer of the realm? I kept trying to remember and every now and then for some unaccountable reason my mind travelled into —shire and I saw Auntie C— serving out tea and sugar over the counter of the baker’s shop in the little village. I luxuriated in the contrast, tho’ I am not at all inclined to be a snob.

  He next offered me a cigarette, which I took and lit. It was a Turkish cigarette with one end plugged up with cotton-wool – to absorb the nicotine – a thing I’ve never seen before. I was so flurried at the time that I did not notice this and lit the wrong end. With perfect ease and self-possession, the Honourable One pointed out my error to me and told me to throw the cigarette away and have another.

  By this time I had completely lost my nerve. My pride, chagrin, excessive self-consciousness were entangling all my movements in the meshes of a net. Failing to tumble to the situation, I inquired, ‘Why the wrong end? Is there a right and a wrong end?’ Lord —’s son and heir pointed out the cotton-wool end, now blackened by my match.

  ‘That didn’t burn very well, did it?’

  I was bound to confess that it did not, and threw the smoke away under the impression that these wonderful cigarettes with right and wrong ends must be some special brand sold only to aristocrats, and at a great price, and possessing some secret virtue. Once again, handsome Mr — drew out his silver cigarette-case, selected a second cigarette for me, and held it towards me between his long delicate fingers, at the same time pointing out the plug at one end and making a few staccato remarks which I could not catch.

  I was still too scared to be in full possession of my faculties, and he apparently was too tired to be explicit to a member of the bourgeoisie, stumbling about his drawing-room. The cotton-wool plug only suggested to me some sort of a plot on the part of a dissolute scion of a noble house to lure me into one of his bad habits, such as smoking opium or taking veronal. I again prepared to light the cigarette at the wrong end.

  ‘Try the other end,’ repeated the young man, smiling blandly. I blushed, and immediately recovered my balance, and even related my knowledge of pipes fitted to carry similar plugs …

  During lunch (at which we sat alone) after sundry visits to the top of the stairs to shout down to the kitchen, he announced that he thought it wasn’t last night’s affair after all which was annoying the Cook (he got home late without a latch-key) – it was because he called her ‘Cook’ instead of Mrs Austin. He smiled serenely and decided to indulge Mrs A., his indulgent attitude betraying an objectionable satisfaction with the security of his own unassailable social status. There was a trace of gratification at the little compliment secreted in the Cook’s annoyance. She wanted Mr Charles to call her Mrs Austin, forsooth. Very well! and he smiled down on the little weakness de haut en bas.

  I enjoyed this little experience. Turning it over in my mind (as the housemaid says when she decides to stay on) I have come to the conclusion that the social parvenu is not such a vulgar fellow after all. He may be a bore – particularly if he sits with his finger tips apposed over a spherical paunch, festooned with a gold chain, and keeps on relating in extenso how once he gummed labels on blacking bottles. Often enough he is a smug fellow, yet, truth to tell, we all feel a little interested in him. He is a traveller from an antique land, and we sometimes like to listen to his tales of adventure and all he has come through. He has traversed large territories of human experience, he has met strange folk and lodged in strange caravanserai. Similarly with the man who has come down in the world – the fool, the drunkard, the embezzler – he may bore us with his maudlin sympathy with himself yet his stories hold us. It must be a fine experience within the limits of a single life to traverse the whole keyboard of our social status, whether up or down. I should like to be a peer who grinds a barrel organ or (better still) a one-time organ-grinder who now lives in Park Lane. It must be very dull to remain stationary – once a peer always a peer.

  April 20.

  Miss — heard me sigh to-day 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 antennæ.

  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 abomin
able. Best literature for the latrine: picture puzzles.

  April 23.

  A Foolish Bird

  With a menacing politeness, B— to-day 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 every one 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