(FROM A TRAIN.)
Really the news is very bad this morning. On the front page there are two
Foreign crises and a Home one. On the next page there is one Grave Warning
and two probable strikes. On every other page there is either a political
murder or a new war. It is awful ...
Yet somehow I don't feel depressed. I rather feel like giggling. An empty
smoker in the Cornish express--_empty_ except for me! Extraordinary! And
all my luggage in the right van, labelled for Helston, and not for Hull or
Harwich or Hastings. That porter was a splendid fellow, so respectful, so
keen on his work--no Bolshevism about _him_. I gave him a shilling. I gave
the taxi-man a shilling too. That guard is a pleasant fellow also; I shall
give him two shillings, perhaps half-a-crown. Yet I see that the railways
are seething with unrest.
I have just read _The Times'_ leader. Everything seems to be coming undone
... Persia, Mesopotamia, Egypt, India. This Bolshevist business ...
dreadful. The guard has got me a ticket for the Second Luncheon. A capital
fellow. I gave him three shillings. Absurd. I have no more shillings now. I
am overdrawn. There is a financial crisis. But that, of course, is general.
I see that Mr. Iselbaum anticipates a general smash this winter. A terrible
winter it is going to be ... no coal, no food ... We ought to be in by
five, in time for a fat late tea ... Cornish cream ... jam. Gwen will be at
the station, with the children, all in blue ... or pink perhaps. How jolly
the country looks! Superficial, of course; the harvest's ruined; no wheat,
no fruit. And unemployment will be very bad. And the more people there are
unemployed the more people will strike ... Sounds funny, that; but true ...
Hope they've given us the usual table in the coffee-room, that jolly
window-table in the corner, where one can look across the bay to the cliffs
and the corn-fields and the hills ... Only there's no corn, I suppose, this
year ... And one has a good view of the rest of the room there ... can
study the new arrivals at dinner, instead of having to wait till
afterwards. Dinner is much the best time to study them; you can see at once
how they eat. And it is so much easier to decide which is the sister and
which the _fiancée_ of the young man when they are all stationary at a
table. When you only see them rushing about passages in ones it takes days.
All the usual families will be there, I suppose--the Bradleys and the
Clinks, old Mrs. Puntage and the kids--if they can afford it this year ...
Very likely they can't. I can't, certainly. But I'm going.
"Not since the fateful week-end of August, 1914, when the destinies of
Europe were decided in a few hours, have issues of such gravity engaged the
attention of the British race...." Dreadful. I shall get some tennis
tomorrow. I shan't be called. I shall get up when the sun is on my face and
not before. I shall dress very, very slowly, looking at the sea and the
sands and the sun, not rushing, not shaving properly, not thinking, not
washing a great deal, just sort of falling into an old coat and some grey
flannels.... Then I shall just sort of fall downstairs--about half-past
nine, and give the old barometer a bang. Then breakfast, very deliberate,
but cheerful, because the glass went up when I banged it--it always goes up
at that hotel ... like the cost of living. Up another five points to-day, I
see. Bread's going to be one-and-threepence. But of course there won't _be_
any bread this winter, so the price doesn't much matter. But what about
coal? and milk? and meat? "Several new sets of wage claims are due for
decision within the next few weeks, and it is possible that two of them at
least may not be determined without a cessation of work." More strikes ...
But not for a week or two. To-morrow there won't be any papers at
breakfast; there won't be any letters. I shan't catch the 9.5. After
breakfast I shall smoke on the cliff--then some tennis. Most of the balls
will go over the cliff, but when they have all gone one just slips down and
bathes, and picks them up on the way. Undress on the rocks--no machines, no
tents. Jolly bathing. Mixed, of course. This Tonbridge councillor is on
about that again, I see. He ought to come to Mullion. Mixed bathing depends
entirely on the mixture. He doesn't realise that. Of course, if he _will_
bathe at Tonbridge ...
"In diplomatic circles no one is attempting to conceal that the situation
is extremely grave." Now which situation is that? That must be one of these
world-plots. Don't really see how civilisation can carry on more than a
week or two now. Lucky I only took a single, perhaps. It was only two
pounds, but I hadn't enough for a return. Never shall have enough,
probably--but no matter. If the world is coming to an end, might as well be
in a good part of it at the time. And it would be sickening to be snuffed
out with an unused return-ticket in one's pocket.
On the sands after lunch--build a few castles and dams and things for the
children--at least, not altogether for the children, not so much as they
think, anyhow. Tea at the farm, with plenty of cream, possibly an egg ...
No eggs this winter, I see; some question of non-unionists. Then a little
golf before dinner--and perhaps a little dancing afterwards. Coffee, anyhow
...
Then _The Times_ arrives, all wrapped up, just as one is explaining about
the seventh hole. It is all stiff and crinkly, and one spends a long time
rearranging it, flattening out the folds ...
And one never reads it. That's the best of all.