“The humiliating thing is that almost any strong character hypnotises me into complacency, especially if he is a stranger.... But by Jove, I wreak vengeance on my familiars, and on those brethren even weaker than myself. They get my concentrated gall, my sulphurous fulminations, and would wonder to read this confession.”
In order that any community may exist and thrive each individual must do things for the common welfare. He must regulate his activity so as not to impair or jeopardise the property and self-respect of his neighbours. He must contribute to its existence and development by an active execution of deeds that draw more closely the bonds of fellowship and knit more securely the fabric of society. He must exercise self-restraint in those countless ways by which the conduct of a person in the presence of others is shorn of indulgences which he allows himself when alone, and he must perform those ceremonies and benevolences which constitute politeness and courtesy. The unwritten law which compels these in order that he may have a reputation for “normalcy” is even more inexorable than the written law which compels him to pay taxes and serve on juries and does not permit him to beat carpets or rugs in the open. Although Barbellion seemed to be very keen in participating in the defence of the country against external foes, his diary does not reveal that he had any desire to undertake municipal, political, or social duties. Illness may explain this, but illness did not keep him from recording the desire to do so or the regret that he was prevented from participation in the full life.
Every estimate of Barbellion must take his illness into consideration. Readily might he subscribe to Sir Thomas Browne's statement, “For the world, I count it not as an inn, but an hospital; and a place not to live, but to die in.” In the first entries of the diary he speaks of being ill, and although the disease of which he died is not habitually associated with mental or emotional symptoms, it is nevertheless so horribly incapacitating and is accompanied by such distressing evidences of disturbed bodily functions that it invariably tinges the victim's thoughts with despondency and tinctures his emotional activities with despair.
Barbellion capitalised his infirmity to an extraordinary degree. He says we are all such egotists that a sorrow or hardship, provided it is great enough, flatters our self-importance. We feel that a calamity by overtaking us has distinguished us above our fellows. Were it not for his illness his book would never have found a publisher, for it is not a psychological history of his own life—which he believed would make such an interesting volume—but a Pepysian record of his doings, which, taken in toto, is fairly drab. It was the display of equanimity, resignation, and courage when confronted with the inevitable, and the record of his thoughts during that time that give the book its value and vogue. He was constantly fighting disease and cognisant of his waning strength.
“I do not fear ill health in itself, but I do fear its possible effect on my mind and character. Already my sympathy with myself is maudlin. As long as I have spirit and buoyancy I don't care what happens, for I know that so long I cannot be counted a failure.”
This is one of the keynotes of his character—that he shall not be counted a failure. The other—and it is the same—keynote, is that he shall be a success; that he will make a noise in the world.
The entries after he had got a two-months' sick leave are pathetic. He was on the point of proposing marriage; he had been to see a well-known nerve specialist who said that a positive diagnosis could not be made; he had set out for his holiday at the seaside and had a most depressing time. When he returned to London he was no better; in fact he was much worse, and had thoughts of suicide. After he had found out the nature of his disease he expressed himself with great fortitude, saying,
“My life has become entirely posthumous. I live now in the grave and am busy furnishing it with posthumous joys. I accept my fate with great content, my one-time restless ambition lies asleep now, my one-time furious self-assertiveness is anæsthetised by this great war; the war and the discovery about my health together have plucked out of me that canker of self-obsession ... for I am almost resigned to the issue in the knowledge that some day, someone will know, perhaps somebody will understand and—immortal powers!—even sympathise, 'the quick heart quickening from the heart that's still.'”
Barbellion's account of his experience with physicians engenders sadness. He went from general practitioner to chest specialists, digestion specialists, ophthalmologists, neurologists, without ever getting the smallest intimation of the nature of his illness, until it had progressed to an advanced stage. For a long time, indeed, it seemed to baffle all the physicians who were consulted. One of the distresses of the diary is that it testifies that doctors are far from omniscient. Nearly always he was advised to go and live on the prairies; and, like all sufferers from incurable diseases, the quacks finally got him.
With the spectre of disease always lurking in the background, when not taking an evident part in the drama of Barbellion's life, it is inevitable that his attitude toward death should colour his thoughts to a very marked degree. As early as 1912, when he was twenty-three years old, he wrote, “As an egoist I hate death because I should cease to be I”; and the next year,