The Journal of a Disappointed Man Part 40

_November_ 7.

The flat is let and we are now living in rooms at ----, 20 miles out of London, to the Westward.

_November_ 8.

It is a great relief to be down in the country. Zeppelins terrify me.

Have just had a delightful experience in reading Conrad's new book, _Victory_--a welcome relief from all the tension of the past two months.

To outward view, I have been merely a youth getting married, catching the 'flu and giving up a London flat.

Inwardly, I have been whizzing around like a Catherine Wheel. Consider the items:

Concussion of the spine.

Resulting paralysis of left leg ten days before marriage.

Zeppelin raid (heard a cannon go off for the first time).

Severe cold in the head day before marriage (and therefore wild anxiety).

Successful marriage with abatement of cold.

Return to our home.

Ten days later, down with influenza.

A second Zeppelin raid.

Bad heart attack.

Then flat sub-let and London evacuated.

The record nauseates me. I am nauseated with myself and my self-centredness.... Suppose I have been "whizzing" as I call it--what then? They are but subjective trifles--meanwhile other men are seeing great adventures in Gallipoli and elsewhere. "The _Triumph_ is gone,"

exclaimed the Admiral who in a little group of naval officers on board the flags.h.i.+p had been watching H.M.S. _Triumph_ sink in the aegean. He shuts his telescope with a click and returns in great dudgeon to his own quarters. How I envy all these men who are partic.i.p.ating in this War--soldiers, sailors, war correspondents--all who live and throb and are not afraid. I am a timid youth, ansemic, wear spectacles, and am frightened by a Zep raid! How humiliating. I hate myself for a white-livered craven: I am suffocated for want of more life and courage.

My d.a.m.nable body is slowly killing off all my spirit and buoyancy. Even my mind is becoming blurred. My memory is like an old man's exactly.

(Ask ----.)

Yet thro' all my nausea, here I remain happy to discuss myself and my little mishaps. I'm d.a.m.ned sick of myself and all my neurotic whimperings, and so I hereby and now intend to lead a new life and throw this Journal to the Devil. I want to mangle it, tear it to shreds. You smug, hypocritical readers! you'll get no more of me. All you say I know is true before you say it and 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_

_November_ 27.

To-day, 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 doc.u.ment 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 thro' in five minutes," as he knows the state of my health. So at a time agreed upon, I went to-day 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 shewed the just visible symptoms of ---- ----" and altho' 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 Allb.u.t.t's System of Medicine. I wondered whether it was brain or heart; and the very thought gave me palpitation. I hope it is heartsomething 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 geting married: that I had this "nerve weakness," but I was more likely to succ.u.mb to pneumonia than to any nervous trouble, and that only 12 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?

_November_ 28.

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 to-day.

_December_ 5.

I believe it's creeping paralysis. My left leg goes lame after a short walk. Fortunately E---- does not take alarm.

_December_ 17.

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.

_December_ 20.

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 thro' my mind. I look at her but find no solution. However--for the present--the matter is not urgent.

[1] The English Dialect Dictionary derives the word from Old French _chiboule_, and gives a reference to Piers Plowman. Why hasn't such an old and useful word become a part of the English language like others also brought over at the time of the Norman Conquest?

1916

_February_ 1.

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.

_February_ 2.

"And she draiglet all her petticoatie, Coming thro' 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."