The day before I passed with my aunt and cousins, who
are not so pretty as some members of the family, but are dear good
people, with a fine sense of fun, and we were very happy until the
arrival of two newly married snobs, whose happiness disgusted me and
drove me home early to find three acquaintances smoking in the moonlight
at the hotel door, who came up and passed the night in my rooms. No, I
forgot, I went to the play first; but only for an hour--I couldn't stand
more than an hour of the farce, which made me laugh while it lasted, but
left a profound black melancholy behind it. Janin said last night that
life was the greatest of pleasures to him; that every morning, when he
woke, he was thankful to be alive; that he was always entirely happy,
and had never known any such thing as blue devils, or repentance, or
satiety. I had great fun giving him authentic accounts of London. I told
him that to see the people boxing in the streets was a constant source
of amusement to us; that in November you saw every lamp-post on London
Bridge with a man hanging from it who had committed suicide--and he
believed everything. Did you ever read any of the works of Janin?--No?
well, he has been for twenty years famous in France, and he on his side
has never heard of the works of Titmarsh, nor has anybody else here, and
that's a comfort.
Pages:
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385