Man and Maid

I am sick of my lifeThe war has robbed it of all that a young man can find of joy. I look at my mutilated face before I replace the black patch over the left eye, and I realize that, with my crooked shoulder, and the leg gone from the right knee downwards, that no woman can feel emotion for me again in this world. So be itI must be a philosopher. Mercifully I have no near relationsMercifully I am still very rich, mercifully I can buy love when I require it, which under the circumstances, is not often. Why do people write journals? Because human nature is filled with egotism. There is nothing so interesting to oneself as oneself; and journals cannot yawn in one's face, no matter how lengthy the expression of one's feelings may be! A clean white page is a sympathetic thing, waiting there to receive one's impressions! Suzette supped with me, here in my appartement last nightWhen she had gone I felt a beast. I had found her attractive on Wednesday, and after an excellent lunch, and two Benedictines, I was able to persuade myself that her tenderness and passion were real, and not the result of some thousands of francs,And then when she left I saw my face in the glass without the patch over the socket, and a profound depression fell upon me. Is it because I am such a mixture that I am this rotten creature?An American grandmother, a French mother, and an English father. ParisEtonCannesContinuous traveling. Some years of living and enjoying a rich orphan's life.The warfightinga zest hitherto undreamed ofunconsciousnessagonyand then?well now Paris again for special treatment. Why do I write this down? For posterity to take up the threads correctly?Why? From some architectural sense in me which must make a beginning, even of a journal, for my eyes alone, start upon a solid basis? I know notand care not. Three charming creatures are coming to have tea with me to-day. They had heard of my loneliness and my savageness from MauriceThey burn to give me their sympathyand have tea with plenty of sugar in itand chocolate cake. I used to wonder in my salad days what the brains of women were made ofwhen they have brains!The cleverest of them are generally devoid of a logical sense, and they seldom understand the relative value of things, but they make the charm of life, for one reason or another. When I have seen these three I will dissect them. A divorcéea war widow of two yearsand the third with a husband fighting. All, Maurice assures me, ready for anything, and highly attractive. It will do me a great deal of good, he protests. We shall see. Night. They came, with Maurice and Alwood Chester, of the American Red Cross. They gave little shrill screams of admiration for the room. "Quel endroit delicieux!What boiserie! English?Yes, of course, English dix-septième, one could seeWhat silver!and cleanedAnd everything of a chic!And the hermit so séduisant with his airmaussade!Hein." "Yes, the war is much too longOne has given of one's time in the first yearbut now, really, fatigue has overcome one!and surely after the spring offensive peace must come soonand one must live!" They smoked continuously and devoured the chocolate cake, then they had liqueurs. They were so well dressed! and so lissome. They wore elastic corsets, or none at all. They were well painted; cheeks of the new tint, rather apricot colouredand magenta lips. They had arranged themselves when they had finished munching, bringing out their gold looking-glasses and their lip grease and their powderand the divorcee continued to endeavour to enthrall my senses with her voluptuous half closing of the eyes, while she reddened her full mouth.

Dettagli