W.N.P. Barbellion
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
Marriage, I urged, was an economic trap for guileless young men, and for my part (to give myself some necessary stiffening) I did not intend to enter upon any such hazardous course, even if I had the chance. Miss Miss – said I was a funk – to me who the day before had been hammering into R – my principle of "Plunge and damn the consequences." I was informed I was an old woman afraid to go out without an umbrella, an old tabby cat afraid to leave the kitchen fire, etc., etc.
"Yes, I am afraid to go out without an umbrella," I argued formally, "when it's raining cats and dogs. As long as I am dry, I shall keep dry. As soon as I find myself caught in the rain or victimised by a passion, I shan't be afraid of falling in love or getting wet. It would be a misadventure, but I am not going in search of one."
All the same the discussion was very galling, for I was acting a part.
… The truth is I have philandered abominably with her. I know it. And now I am jibbing at the idea of marriage… I am such an egotist, I want, I believe, a Princess of the Blood Royal.
June 9.
Some days ago sent a personal advertisement to the newspaper to try to find my little Irish girl who lives at Notting Hill Gate. To-day they return me the money and advert, no doubt mistaking me for a White Slave trafficker. And by this time, I'm thinking, my little Irish girl can go to blazes. Shall spend the P.O. on sweets or monkey nuts.
June 10
Lupus
It is raining heavily. I have just finished dinner. In the street an itinerant musician is singing dolefully, "O Rest in the Lord." In my dirty little sitting room I begin to feel very restless, so put on my hat and cloak and walk down towards the Station for a paper to read. It is, all very dark and dismal, and I gaze with hungry eyes in thro' some of the windows disclosing happy comfortable interiors. At intervals thunder growls and lightning brightens up the deserted dirtiness of the Station Waiting Room. A few bits of desolate paper lie about on the floor, and up in one corner on a form a crossing-sweeper, motionless and abject, driven in from his pitch by the rain. His hands are deep in his trousers' pockets, and the poor devil lies with legs sprawling out and eyes closed: over the lower part of his face he wears a black mask to hide the ravages of lupus… He seemed the last man on earth – after every one else had died of the plague. Not a soul in the station. Not a train. And this is June!
June 15.
Measuring Lice
Spent the day measuring the legs and antennæ of lice to two places of decimals!
To the lay mind how fantastic this must seem! Indeed, I hope it is fantastic. I do not mind being thought odd. It seems almost fitting that an incurable dilettante like myself should earn his livelihood by measuring the legs of lice. I like to believe that such a bizarre manner of life suits my incurable frivolousness.
I am a Magpie in a Bagdad bazaar, hopping about, useless, inquisitive, fascinated by a lot of astonishing things: e. g., a book on the quadrature of the circle, the gabbertushed fustilugs passage in Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, names like Mr. Portwine or Mr. Hogsflesh, Tweezer's Alley or Pickle Herring Street, the excellent, conceitful sonnets of Henry Constable or Petticoat Lane on a Sunday morning.
Colossal things such as Art, Science, etc., frighten me. I am afraid I should develop a thirst that would make me wish to drink the sea dry. My mind is a disordered miscellany. The world is too distracting. I cannot apply myself for long. London bewilders me. At times it is a phantasmagoria, an opium dream out of De Quincey.
June 17.
Prof. Geo. Saintsbury's book on Elizabethan literature amuses me. George, there can be no doubt, is a very refined, cultivated fellow. I bet he don't eat periwinkles with a pin or bite his nails – and you should hear him refer to folk who can't read Homer in the original or who haven't been to Oxford – to Merton above all. He also says non so che for je ne sais quoi.
June 26.
… I placed the volume on the mantelpiece as if it were a bottle of physic straight from my Dispensary, and I began to expostulate and expound, as if she were a sick person and I the doctor… She seemed a little nettled at my proselytising demeanour and gave herself out to be very preoccupied – or at any rate quite uninterested in my physic. I read the book last night at one sitting and was boiling over with it.
"I fear I have come at an inconvenient time," I said, with a sardonic smile and strummed on the piano… "I must really be off. Please read it (which sounded like 'three times a day after meals') and tell me how you like it. (Facetiously.) Of course don't give up your present manual for it, that would be foolish and unnecessary." … I rambled on – disposed to be very playful.
At last calmly and horribly, in a thoughtful voice she answered, —
"I think you are very rude; you play the piano after I asked you to stop and walk about just as if it were your own home."
I remained outwardly calm but inwardly was very surprised and full of tremors. I said after a pause, —
"Very well, if you think so… Good-bye."
No answer; and I was too proud to apologise.
"Good-bye," I repeated.
She went on reading her novel in silence while I got as far as the door – very upset.
"Au revoir."
No answer.
"Oh," said I, and went out of the room leaving my lady for good and all and I'm not sorry.
In the passage met Miss – . "What?" she said, "going already?"
"Farewell," I said sepulchrally. "A very tragic farewell," which left her wondering.
June 29.
At the Albert Hall
Went with R – to the Albert Hall to the Empress of Ireland Memorial Concert with massed bands. We heard the Symphonie Pathétique, Chopin's Funeral March, Trauermarsch from Götterdammerung, the Ride of the Valkyries and a solemn melody from Bach.
This afternoon I regard as a mountain peak in my existence. For two solid hours I sat like an Eagle on a rock gazing into infinity – a very fine sensation for a London Sparrow…
I have an idea that if it were possible to assemble the sick and suffering day by day in the Albert Hall and keep the Orchestra going all the time, then the constant exposure of sick parts to such heavenly air vibrations would ultimately restore to them the lost rhythm of health. Surely, even a single exposure to – say Beethoven's Fifth Symphony – must result in some permanent reconstitution of ourselves body and soul. No one can be quite the same after a Beethoven Symphony has streamed thro' him.
If one could develop a human soul like a negative the effect I should say could be seen… I'll tell you what I wish they'd do – seriously: divide up the arena into a series of cubicles where, unobserved and in perfect privacy, a man could execute all the various movements of his body and limbs which the music prompts. It would be such a delicious self-indulgence and it's torture to be jammed into a seat where you can't even tap one foot or wave an arm.
The concert restored my moral health. I came away in love with people I was hating before and full of compassion for others I usually condemn. A feeling of immeasurable well being – a jolly bonhomie enveloped me like incandescent light. At the close when we stood up to sing the National Anthem we all felt a genuine spirit of camaraderie. Just as when Kings die, we were silent musing upon the common fate, and when the time came to separate we were loath to go our several ways, for we were comrades who together had come thro' a great experience. For my part I wanted to shake hands all round – happy travellers, now alas! at the journey's end and never perhaps to meet again – never.
R – and I walked up thro' Kensington Gardens like two young Gods!
"I even like that bloody thing," I said, pointing to the Albert Memorial.
We pointed out pretty girls to one another, watched the children play ring-a-ring-a-roses on the grass. We laughed exultingly at the thought of our dismal colleagues … tho' I said (as before!) I loved 'em all – God bless 'em – even old – . R – said it was nothing short of insolence on their part to have neglected the opportunity of coming to the Concert.
Later on, an old gaffer up from the country stopped us to ask the way to Rotten Row – I overwhelmed him with directions and happy descriptive details. I felt like walking with him and showing him what a wonderful place the world is.
After separating from R – very reluctantly – it was horrible to be left alone in such high spirits, walked up towards the Round Pond, and caught myself avoiding the shadows of the trees – so as to be every moment out in the blazing sun. I scoffed inwardly at the timorousness of pale, anæmic folk whom I passed hiding in the shadows of the elms.
At the Round Pond, came across a Bulldog who was biting out great chunks of water and in luxuriant waste-fulness letting it drool out again from each corner of his mouth. I watched this old fellow greedily (it was very hot), as well pleased with him and his liquid "chops" as with anything I saw, unless it were a girl and a man lying full length along the grass and kissing beneath a sunshade. I smiled; she saw me, and smiled, too, in return, and then fell to kissing again.
June 30.
Dinosaurs
There are books which are Dinosaurs – Sir Walter Raleigh's History of the World, Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. There are men who are Dinosaurs – Balzac completing his Human Comedy, Napoleon, Roosevelt. I like them all. I like express trains and motor lorries. I enjoy watching an iron girder swinging in the air or great cubes of ice caught up between iron pincers. I must always stop and watch these things. I like everything that is swift or immense: London, lightning, Popocatepetl. I enjoy the smell of tar, of coal, of fried fish, or a brass band playing a Liszt Rhapsody. And why should those foolish Mænads shout Women's Rights just because they burn down a church? All bonfires are delectable. Civilisation and top hats bore me. My own life is like a tame rabbit's. If only I had a long tail to lash it in feline rage! I would return to Nature – I could almost return to Chaos. There are times when I feel so dour I would wreck the universe if I could.10
(1917: I think after three years of Armageddon I feel quite ready to go back to top hats and civilisation.)
July 8.
Sunset in Kensington Gardens
The instinct for worship occurs rhythmically – at morning and evening. This is natural, for twice a day at sunrise and sunset – however work-sodden we may be, however hypnotised by daily routine – our natural impulse is (provided we are awake) to look to the horizon at the sun and stand a moment with mute lips. During the course of the day or night, we are too occupied or asleep – but sunrise is the great hour of the departure and sunset is the arrival at the end. Everything puts on a mysterious appearance – to-night the tops of the elms seemed super-naturally high and, pushing up into the sky, had secret communion with the clouds; the clouds seemed waiting for a ceremony, a way had been prepared by the tapissier, a moment of suspense while one cloud stretched to another like courtiers in whispered conversation; a rumour of the approach; then slowly the news came thro' that the sun had arrived for immediate departure.
July 14.
Have finished my essay. But am written out – obviously. To-night I struggled with another, and spent two hours sucking the end of my pen. But after painfully mountainous parturition, all I brought forth were the two ridiculous mice of one meretricious trope and one grammatical solecism. I can sometimes sit before a sheet of paper, pen in hand, unable to produce a word.
July 19.
For a walk with R – in the country, calling for tea at his Uncle's house at – . Played clock golf and made the acquaintance of Miss – , a tall, statuesque lady, with golden hair, as graceful as an antelope and very comely, her two dear little feet clad in white shoes peeping out (as R – said) like two white mice one after the other as she moved across the lawn.
Coming home I said to R – histrionically, "Some golden-haired little boy will some day rest his head upon her bosom, beautiful in line and depth, all unconscious of his luck or of his part in a beautiful picture – would that I were the father to make that group a fait accompli" R – , with meticulous accuracy, always refers to her as "that elegant virgin."
July 25.
While sketching under Hammersmith Bridge yesterday, R – heard a whistle, and, looking up, saw a charming "young thing" leaning over the Bridge parapet smiling like the blessed Damozel out of Heaven.
"Come down," he cried.
She did, and they discussed pictures while he painted. Later he walked with her to the Broadway, saw her into a 'bus and said "Good-bye," without so much as an exchange of names.
"Even if she were a whore," I said, "it's a pity your curiosity was so sluggish. You should have seen her home, even if you did not go home with her. Young man, you preferred to let go of authentic life at Hammersmith Broadway, so as to return at once to your precious water-colour painting."
"Perhaps," replied he enigmatically.
"Whatever you do, if ever you meet her again," I rejoined, "don't introduce her to that abominable – . He is abominably handsome, and I hate him for it. To all his other distinctions he is welcome – parentage, money, success, but I can never forgive him his good looks and the inevitable marriage to some beautiful fair-skinned woman."
R. (reflectively): "Up to now, I was inclined to think that envy as a passion did not exist."
"Have you none?"
"Not much," he answered, and I believe it.
"Smug wretch, then. All I can say is, I may have instincts and passions but I am not a pale water-colour artist… What's the matter with you," I foamed, "is that you like pictures. If I showed you a real woman, you would exclaim contemplatively, 'How lovely;' then putting out one hand to touch her, unsuspectingly, you'd scream aghast, 'Oh! it's alive, I hear it ticking.' 'Yes, my boy,' I answer severely with a flourish, 'That is a woman's heart.'"
R – exploded with laughter and then said, "A truce to your desire for more life, for actual men and women. … I know this that last night I would not have exchanged the quiet armchair reading the last chapter of Dostoieffsky's The Possessed for a Balaclava Charge."
"A matter of temperament, I suppose," I reflected, in cold detachment. "You see, I belong to the raw meat school. You prefer life cooked for you in a book. You prefer the confectioner's shop to cutting down the wheat with your own scythe."
July 26.
The B.M. is a ghastly hole. They will give me none of the apparatus I require. If you ask the Trustees for a thousand pounds for the propagation of the Gospel in foreign parts they say, "Yes." If you ask for twenty pounds for a new microscope they say, "No, but we'll cut off your nose with a big pair of scissors."
July 27.
To a pedantic prosy little old maid who was working in my room this morning, I exclaimed, —
"I'd sooner make a good dissection than go to a Lord Mayor's Banquet. Turtle Soup ain't in it."
She was uninspired, and said, "Oom," and went on pinning insects. Then more brightly, and with great punctilio in the pronunciation of her words, having cleared her throat and drawn herself up with great deliberation to deliver herself of a remark, she volunteered, —
"I whish I had nevah taken up such a brittle grooop as the Stones (Stoneflies). One dare not loook at a Stone."
Poor dear little old maid. This was my turn to say "Oom."
"Pretty dismal work," I added ambiguously. Then with malice aforethought I whistled a Harry Lauder tune, asked her if she had ever heard Willie Solar sing, "You made me love you," and then absent-mindedly and in succession inquired, —
"What's become of all the gold?"
"What's become of Waring?"
"What shall I sing when all is sung?"
To which several categorical interrogations she ventured no reply, but presently in the usual voice, —
"I have placed an Agrionine in this drawer for security and, now I want it, cannot find it."
"Life is like that," I said. "I never can find my Agrionines!"
August 1.
All Europe is mobilising.
August 2.
Will England join in?
August 12.
We all await the result of a battle between two millions of men. The tension makes me feel physically sick.
August 21 —August 24.
In bed with a fever. I never visit the flat now, but her mother kindly came over to see me.
September 25.
[Living now in rooms alone.]
I have – since my return from Cornwall – placed all my journals in a specially made cabinet. R – came to dinner and after a glass or so of Beaune and a cigarette, I open my "coffin"11 (it is a long box with a brass handle at each end), and with some show of deliberation select a volume to read to him, drawing it from its division with lavish punctiliousness, and inquiring with an oily voice, "A little of 1912?" as if we were trying wines. R – grins at the little farce and so encourages me.
September 26.
Doctor's Consulting Rooms – my life has been spent in them! Medical specialists – Harley Street men – I have seen four and all to no purpose. M – wrote me the other day, —
"Come along and see me on Tuesday; some day I dare say we shall find something we can patch."
He regards me with the most obvious commiseration and always when I come away after a visit he shakes me warmly by the hand and says, "Good-bye, old man, and good luck." More luck than the pharmacopœia.
My life has always been a continuous struggle with ill-health and ambition, and I have mastered neither. I try to reassure myself that this accursed ill-health will not affect my career. I keep flogging my will in the hope of winning thro' in the end. Yet at the back of my mind there is the great improbability that I shall ever live long enough to realise myself. For a long time past my hope has simply been to last long enough to convince others of what I might have done – had I lived. That will be something. But even to do that I will not allow that I have overmuch time. I have never at any time lived with any sense of security. I have never felt permanently settled in this life – nothing more than a shadowy locum tenens, a wraith, a festoon of mist likely to disappear any moment.
At times, when I am vividly conscious of the insecurity of my tenure here, my desires enter on a mad race to obtain fulfilment before it is too late … and as fulfilment recedes ambition obsesses me the more. I am daily occupied in calculating with my ill-health: trying to circumvent it, to carry on in spite of all. I conquer each day. Every week is a victory. I am always surprised that my health or will has not collapsed, that, by Jove! I am still working and still living.
One day it looks like appendicitis, another stoppage, another threatened blindness, or I develop a cough and am menaced with consumption. So I go on in a hurricane of bad dreams. I struggle like Laocoon with the serpents – the serpents of nervous depression that press around the heart tighter than I care to admit. I must use every kind of blandishment to convince myself that my life and my work are worth while. Frequently I must smother and kill (and it calls for prompt action) the shrill voice that cries from the tiniest corner of my heart, "Are you quite sure you are such an important fellow as you imagine?" Or I fret over the condition of my brain, finding that I forget what I read, I lose in acuteness of my perceptions. My brain is a tumefaction. But I won't give in. I go on trying to recollect what I have forgotten, I harry my brain all day to recall a word or name, I attack other folk importunately. I write things down so as to look them up in reference books – I am always looking up the things I remember I have forgotten…
There is another struggle, too, that often engrosses all my energies… It is a horrible thing that with so large an ambition, so great a love of life, I should nevertheless court disaster like this. Truly Sir Thomas Browne you say, "Every man is his own Atropos."
In short, I lead an unfathomably miserable existence in this dark, gray street, in these drab, dirty rooms – miserable in its emptiness of home, love, human society. Now that I never visit the flat, I visit about two houses in London – the Doctor's and R – 's Hotel. I walk along the streets and stare in the windows of private houses, hungry for a little society. It creates in me a gnawing, rancorous discontent to be seeing people everywhere in London – millions of them – and then to realise my own ridiculously circumscribed knowledge of them. I am passionately eager to have acquaintances, to possess at least a few friends. If I die to-morrow, how many persons shall I have talked to? or how many men and women shall I have known? A few maiden aunts and one or two old fossils. I am burning to meet real live men, I have masses of mental stuff I am anxious to unload. But I am ignorant of people as of countries and live in celestial isolation.
This, I fear, reads like a wail of self-commiseration. But I am trying to give myself the pleasure of describing myself at this period truthfully, to make a bid at least for some posthumous sympathy. Therefore it shall be told that I who am capable of passionate love am sexually starved, and endure the pangs of a fiendish solitude in rooms, with an ugly landlady's face when … I despair of ever finding a woman to love. I never meet women of my own class, and am unprepossessing in appearance and yet I fancy that once my reserve is melted I am not without attractions. "He grows on you," a girl said of me once. But I am hypercritical and hyperfastidious. I want too much… I search daily in the streets with a starved and hungry look. What a horrible and powerful and hateful thing this love instinct is! I hate it, hate it, hate it. It will not let me rest. I wish I were a eunuch.
"There's a beautiful young thing," R – and I say to one another sardonically, hoping thereby to conceal the canker within.
I could gnash my teeth and weep in anger – baulked, frustrated as I am at almost every turn of life – in my profession, in my literary efforts, and in my love of man and woman kind. I would utter a whole commination service in my present state of mind.
October 7.
To me woman is the wonderful fact of existence. If there be any next world and it be as I hope it is, a jolly gossiping place, with people standing around the mantelpiece and discussing their earthly experiences, I shall thump my fist on the table as my friends turn to me on entering and exclaim in a loud voice, "WOMAN."
October 11.
Since I grew up I have wept three times. The first time they were tears of exasperation. Dad and I were sitting down side by side after a wordy combat in which he had remained adamant and I was forced both by conscience and argument to give in, to relinquish my dissections, and go off to some inquest on a drowning fatality. The second time was when Mother died, and the third was to-day. But I am calm now. To-day they were tears of remorse…
On occasion bald confession in this Journal is sweet for the soul and strengthens it. It gives me a kind of false backbone to communicate my secrets: for I am determined that some day some one shall know. If God really intervenes in our affairs, here is an opportunity. Let Him save me. I challenge Him to save me from perishing in this ditch… It is not often I am cornered into praying but I did this morning, for I feel defeated this day, and almost inarticulate in my misery.
Nietzsche in a newspaper I read to-day: "For myself I have felt exceptionally blest having Hell's phantoms inside me to thrust at in the dark, internal enemies to dominate till I felt myself an ecstatic victor, wrenching at last good triumphant joys thro' the bars of my own sickness and weakness – joys with which your notions of happiness, poor sleek smug creatures, cannot compare! You must carry a chaos inside you to give birth to a dancing star."
But Nietzsche is no consolation to a man who has once been weak enough to be brought to his knees. There I am and there I think I have prayed a little somehow to-day. But it's all in desperation, not in faith. Internal chaos I have, but no dancing star. Dancing stars are the consolation of genius.
October 12.
Am better to-day. My better self is convinced that it is silly and small-minded to think so much about my own puny destiny – especially at times like these when – God love us all – there is a column of casualties each day. The great thing to be thankful for is that I am alive and alive now, that I was alive yesterday, and even may be to-morrow. Surely that is thrilling enough. What, then, have I to complain of? I'm a lucky dog to be alive at all. My plight is bad, but there are others in a worse one. I'm going to be brave and fight on the side of Nietzsche. Who knows but that one day the dancing star may yet be born!
October 13.
Spent the evening in my lodgings struggling with my will. Too flabby to work, disinclined to read, a dreadful vague unrest possessing me. I couldn't sit still in my chair, so walked around the table continuously like a squirrel in a cage. I wanted to be going out somewhere, talking to some one, to be among human beings.
Many an evening during the past few months, I have got up and gone down the road to look across at the windows of the flat, to see if there were a red light behind the curtains, and, if so, wonder if she were there, and how she was. My pride would never allow me to visit there again on my own initiative. K – has managed to bring about a rapprochement but I go very seldom. Pride again.
I wanted to do so to-night. I thought I would just go down the road to look up at the windows. That seemed to be some comfort. Why do I wish to do this? I do not know. From a mere inspection one would say that I am in love. But remember I am also ill. Three times to-night I nearly put on my boots and went down to have a look up! What ridiculous weakness! Yet this room can be a frightful prison. Shall I? I cannot decide. I see her figure constantly before me – gentle, graceful, calm, stretching forth both hands and to me…
Seized a pack of cards and played Patience and went on playing Patience because I was afraid to stop. Given a weak constitution, a great ambition, an amorous nature, and at the same time a very fastidious one, I might have known I was in for trouble.
October 14.
Marie Bashkirtseff
Some time ago I noticed a quotation from one, Marie Bashkirtseff in a book on Strindberg, and was struck with the likeness to a sentiment of my own. Who are you? I wondered.
This evening went to the Library and read about her in Mathilde Blind's introductory essay to her Journal. I am simply astounded. It would be difficult in all the world's history to discover any two persons with temperaments so alike. She is the "very spit of me "! I devoured Mathilde Blind's pages more and more astonished. We are identical! Oh, Marie Bashkirtseff! how we should have hated one another! She feels as I feel. We have the same self-absorption, the same vanity and corroding ambition. She is impressionable, volatile, passionate – ill! So am I. Her journal is my journal. All mine is stale reading now. She has written down all my thoughts and forestalled me! Already I have found some heart-rending parallels. To think I am only a replica: how humiliating for a human being to find himself merely a duplicate of another. Is there anything in the transmigration of souls? She died in 1886. I was born in 1889.
October 15.
A man is always looking at himself in the mirror if for no other reason than to tie his tie and brush his hair. What does he think of his face? He must have private opinions. But it is usually considered a little out of taste to entertain opinions about one's personal appearance.
As for myself, some mirrors do me down pretty well, others depress me! I am bound to confess I am biassed in favour of the friendly mirror. I am not handsome, but I look interesting – I hope distinguished. My eyes are deep-set … but my worst moments are when the barber combs my hair right down over my forehead, or when I see a really handsome man in Hyde Park. Such occasions direct my gaze reflexly, and doubt like a thief in the night forces the back door!
To-day, M – sent me dancing mad by suggesting that I copied R – in my manner of speech and opinions.
Now R – has a damned pervasive way of conducting himself – for all the world as if he were a high official of the Foreign Office. I, on the contrary, am shy, self-conscious, easily overlooked, and this makes me writhe. As we are inseparable friends – everybody assumes that I am his tacky-lacky, a kind of appoggiatura to his big note. He, they suppose, is my guide, philosopher, and Great Maecenas – Oxford befriending the proletariat. The thought of it makes me sick – that any one should believe I imbibe his ideas, echo his conceits, and even ape his gestures and manner of voice.
"Lost yourself?" inquired a despicable creature the other morning as I came out of R – 's room after finding him out. I could have shot him dead! … As for – more than one person thinks that he alone is the brilliant author until at last he himself has got into the way of thinking it.
"It makes me hate you like mad," I said to him to-day. "How can I confront these people with the naked truth?" R – chuckled complacently.
"If I deny your alleged supremacy, as I did this morning, or if suddenly, in a fit of spleen, I'm induced to declare that I loathe you (as I sometimes do)" – (more chuckles) "that your breath stinks, your eyes bulge, that you have swollen jugulars and a platter face: they will think I am either jealous or insincere… To be your Echo tho'! – my God!" I spat. We then grinned at one another, and I, being bored, went to the lavatory and read the newspaper secure from interruption.
Resignation
In the Tube, a young widow came in and sat in front of me – pale-faced, grief-stricken, demure – a sort of "Thy Will be Done" look. The adaptability of human beings has something in it that seems horrible. It is dreadful to think how we have all accommodated ourselves to this War. Christian resignation is a feeble thing. Why won't this demure widow with a loud voice blaspheme against this iniquitous world that permits this iniquitous war?