3 P.M.--Arrive at Starmouth--the retired Watering-place at which I
propose to write the Nautical Drama that is to render me famous and
wealthy. Leave luggage at Station, and go in search of lodgings. Hotel
out of the question--_table d'hote_ quite fatal to inspiration. On the
Esplanade, noting likely places with critical eye. Perhaps I _am_ a
little fastidious. What I should _really_ like is a little cottage;
two bow-windows, clematis on porch, flagstaff, and cannon (if it
wouldn't go off) in front. I could achieve immortality in a place like
that. Sea-view, of course, _indispensable_. Must be within sight of
the ever-changing ocean, within hearing of "the innumerable laughter
of the waves"--I know what the phrase _means_, though I shouldn't like
to have to explain it, and the waves just now are absolutely roaring.
[Illustration: Down by the Sea.]
3.15.--Still noting; plenty of time, and Starmouth "all before me
where to choose." More than a mile of Esplanade, and several brass
plates and cards advertising "Apartments." Must be cautious--not throw
the handkerchief in a hurry. Haven't seen the ideal place _yet_.
3.30.--Better make a beginning. Try "Blenheim House" (all the houses
here either bear ducal, naval, or frankly plebeian names, I observe).
Ring: startling effect--grey-mouldy old person, with skeleton hands
folded on woollen tippet, glides in a ghastly manner down passage.
They really ought to put up a warning to people with nerves, as M. VAN
BEERS does at his _Salon Parisien_. Feel as if I had raised a ghost.
Wonder if she waits on lodgers--if so, my dinners will be rather like
the banquet GULLIVER had at Laputa. "Has she rooms to let at once?"
"No?" "_Oh!_" Well out of _that!_
3.45.--Warming to my work. Ring at door in "Amelia Terrace." Maid
appears--nice-looking girl, rather. "Have you"--I begin--when I see a
boy at the ground-floor window. Don't object to boys, as a class, but
this particular boy is pallid, with something round his throat, and an
indescribable air about him of conscious deadliness, and pride in the
unusual terror he inspires, which can only be accounted for by
recent Measles. Never under the same roof with _that_ boy! He eyes me
balefully, and I stare back, fascinated. "Have you," I begin
again--(I am full of resource, thank goodness!) "a Mrs. WALKER--(first
appropriate name that occurs to me)--staying here?" By a horrible
coincidence, they _have_! She has taken the ground-floor--where that
boy is! Awkward--very.... I manage to gasp out, "Then will you
please mention that I called?" and retire before she can ask my name.
Presence of mind, again!
4 P.M.--Still seeking. Not so fastidious as I _was_. Have given up
the cottage, and clematis, and flagstaff. Only place answering that
description belongs--or so I inferred, from his language--to a retired
sea-captain, whom I disturbed in his nap to inquire whether he let
lodgings. As it happened, he _didn't_. Then (as I very nearly went
back and told him) what right had he to sport a brass plate? However,
I got some good racy dialogue for the Nautical Drama out of him.
4.15.--More failures. Starmouth busy digesting, which it does publicly
in bow-windows. I must _not_ be so particular. I will do without
balconies--even bow-windows--but I cannot, I will not, sit on
horsehair furniture.
4.20.--After all, so long as I get a sea-view, what matters? I can be
nautical and dramatic on _any_ kind of chair. And "Collingwood House,"
too--what a name for me! I will go in. Rejected again--nothing till
Thursday fortnight! I am beginning to feel like an unpopular man at
a dance. I regard the people wallowing at the windows with a growing
hate; they are the elect--but that is no reason why they should parade
it in that ostentatious way--bad taste!... Can't get any rooms along
these terraces--I subdue my pride, and try a back-street.
4.30.--Nature too strong for me--I _must_ face the sea. Surely there
must be _some_ cards I have overlooked!... Thought so! staring me in
the face all the time! Ring--ghost effect again--same old grey lady!
She asks me, in hollow tones, what I want. I ask her whether I left my
umbrella here (full of resource!) "No!" "Oh!" Back-street again after
that.
4.40.--Even the back-streets will have none of me! I grow morbid.
Remember words of song, entreating vague somethings (perhaps stars)
"to smile on their vagabond boy"--no one smiles on me. And _I_ to have
vapoured about "throwing the handkerchief." Fool--fool!... They are
more sympathetic in the back-streets, though. "Starmouth is very
full!" They say, complacently, "they don't know if there's any place I
_could_ get into, not to say at once--they really _don't_!"
5 P.M.--Back on the Esplanade again. Why, I certainly haven't been
_here_ before. Ring. While I am waiting for some one to appear, face
rises at window--_the measly boy!_ Confound these terrace-houses, all
alike! This time I _don't_ wait--I bolt. They will think I am a clown
out for a holiday, but I can't help that.
5.15.--No, I must draw the line somewhere. At "Hatfield House," (good
address this) landlady appears with eruptive face, powdered--effect
not entirely happy--but I waive that. She has rooms--but the
sitting-room is out at the end of a yard, and I am to get to my bed
room through the kitchen! Can't write an epoch-making drama under
those conditions.
5.30.--I am growing humbler--I would almost take a coal-cellar
now. Think I will go back to Hatfield and recant.... I have. "Very
sorry--this moment let".... "Oh!"
5.35.--_At last!_ May choicest blessings light upon the head of
PLAPPER!--or rather of Mrs. PLAPPER, as her husband is out. She has
taken me in! Charming rooms--not actually facing the sea, but with
capital view of it round corner from bow-window. PLAPPER is an
optician--wonder whether it is weak eyes, or wifely duty, that
makes Mrs. P. wear blue spectacles? Everything arranged--terms most
reasonable--now to recover luggage. Stop; better ask address--or I
might never be able to find my optician again--like _Mrs. Barrett
Browning_ and her lost Bower! "You've only got to use PLAPPER'S name,
Sir, anywhere, and it will be all right," says Mrs. P. with natural
pride. Very convenient. For instance: _Stern Constable_ (to me).
"Can't come in here, Sir." _Myself._ "Can't I, though? _PLAPPER!_" And
in I go! Or I am in a scrape of some sort: "Have you anything to say?"
asks the Inspector. I whisper in his ear, "PLAPPER!" And they grovel
and release me.
5.45.--Odd--but now I find myself wondering ungratefully, whether
I mightn't have done better than PLAPPER, after all. This is human
nature, I suppose--but discreditable. I _am_ overjoyed--really. I no
longer hate people. _I_ too am an initiate! But I can pity poor devils
who are houseless, I hope.... I order sundry things: "Send them in
to PLAPPER'S." Luggage regained and sent back--to PLAPPER'S. I feel
self-respect once more.
6 P.M.--Returning to PLAPPER'S. And in this secure retreat my Nautical
drama is destined to see the light--if PLAPPER only knew! I feel an
affection already for this humble temporary home. Mrs. P. meets me at
the door. "So sorry, Sir--but _you can't have the rooms, after all_!
PLAPPER had let 'em quite unbeknown to me!"