Chapter 9

"I SUPPOSE I ought to enjoy the joke of what's going on here," I
wrote, "but somehow it doesn't amuse me. Pessimism on the contrary
possesses me and cynicism deeply engages. I positively feel my own
flesh sore from the brass nails in Neil Paraday's social harness.
The house is full of people who like him, as they mention, awfully,
and with whom his talent for talking nonsense has prodigious
success. I delight in his nonsense myself; why is it therefore
that I grudge these happy folk their artless satisfaction? Mystery
of the human heart - abyss of the critical spirit! Mrs. Wimbush
thinks she can answer that question, and as my want of gaiety has
at last worn out her patience she has given me a glimpse of her
shrewd guess. I'm made restless by the selfishness of the
insincere friend - I want to monopolise Paraday in order that he
may push me on. To be intimate with him is a feather in my cap; it
gives me an importance that I couldn't naturally pretend to, and I
seek to deprive him of social refreshment because I fear that
meeting more disinterested people may enlighten him as to my real
motive. All the disinterested people here are his particular
admirers and have been carefully selected as such. There's
supposed to be a copy of his last book in the house, and in the
hall I come upon ladies, in attitudes, bending gracefully over the
first volume. I discreetly avert my eyes, and when I next look
round the precarious joy has been superseded by the book of life.
There's a sociable circle or a confidential couple, and the
relinquished volume lies open on its face and as dropped under
extreme coercion. Somebody else presently finds it and transfers
it, with its air of momentary desolation, to another piece of
furniture. Every one's asking every one about it all day, and
every one's telling every one where they put it last. I'm sure
it's rather smudgy about the twentieth page. I've a strong
impression, too, that the second volume is lost - has been packed
in the bag of some departing guest; and yet everybody has the
impression that somebody else has read to the end. You see
therefore that the beautiful book plays a great part in our
existence. Why should I take the occasion of such distinguished
honours to say that I begin to see deeper into Gustave Flaubert's
doleful refrain about the hatred of literature? I refer you again
to the perverse constitution of man.

"The Princess is a massive lady with the organisation of an athlete
and the confusion of tongues of a valet de place. She contrives to
commit herself extraordinarily little in a great many languages,
and is entertained and conversed with in detachments and relays,
like an institution which goes on from generation to generation or
a big