SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.
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'hôte 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.
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!"
And this is Saturday! I am under a curse!