neo-conventional nonsense again. Have you ever in
your career as a city man stood outside a money-changer's and looked at
the fine collection of genuine banknotes in the window? Supposing I told
you that you could look at them and enjoy the sight of them, and nobody
could do more?... No, my boy, to enjoy a thing properly you've got to
own it. And anybody who says the contrary is probably a member of the
League of all the Arts." He gave another enormous yawn. "Excuse my
yawning, Paul, but this house is a perfect Inferno for me. The church of
St. Nicodemus is hard by, and the church of St. Nicodemus has a striking
clock, and the clock strikes all the hours and all the quarters on a
half cracked bell or two bells. If I am asleep every hour wakes me up,
and most of the quarters. The clock strikes not only the hours and the
quarters but me. I regulate my life by that clock. If I'm beginning to
repose at ten minutes to the hour, I say to myself that I must wait till
the hour before really beginning, and I do wait. It is killing me, and
nobody can see that it is killing me. The clock annoys some individuals
a little occasionally; they curse, and then go to sleep and stay
asleep. For them the clock is a nuisance; but for me it's an
assassination. However, I can't make too much fuss. Several thousands of
people must live within sound of the St. Nicodemus clock; yet the rector
has not been murdered nor the church razed to the ground. Hence the
clock doesn't really upset many people. And there are hundreds of such
infernal clocks in London, and they all survive. It follows therefore
that I am peculiar. Nobody has a right to be peculiar. Hence I do not
complain. I suffer. I've tried stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, and
stuffing the windows of my bedroom with eiderdowns. No use. I've tried
veronal. No use either. The only remedy would be for me to give the
house up. Which would he absurd. My wife soothes me and says that of
course I shall get used to the clock. I shall never get used to it.
Lately she has ceased even to mention the clock. My daughter thinks I am
becoming a grumbler in my latter years. My son smiles indifferently. I
admit that my son's secretary is more sympathetic. Like most people who
are both idle and short of sleep, I usually look very well, spry and
wideawake. My friends remark on my healthy appearance. You did. The
popular mind cannot conceive that I am merely helplessly waiting for
death to put me out of my mi