THOUGHTS ON "THE TIMES."
(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 ...