The Diary of a Nobody

November 23.—In the evening, Cummings came early.  Gowing came a little later and brought, without asking permission, a fat and, I think, very vulgar-looking man named Padge, who appeared to be all moustache.  Gowing never attempted any apology to either of us, but said Padge wanted to see the Irving business, to which Padge said: “That’s right,” and that is about all he did say during the entire evening.  Lupin came in and seemed in much better spirits.  He had prepared a bit of a surprise.  Mr. Burwin-Fosselton had come in with him, but had gone upstairs to get ready.  In half-an-hour Lupin retired from the parlour, and returning in a few minutes, announced “Mr. Henry Irving.”

I must say we were all astounded.  I never saw such a resemblance.  It was astonishing.  The only person who did not appear interested was the man Padge, who had got the best arm-chair, and was puffing away at a foul pipe into the fireplace.  After some little time I said; “Why do actors always wear their hair so long?”  Carrie in a moment said, “Mr. Hare doesn’t wear long hair.”  How we laughed except Mr. Fosselton, who said, in a rather patronising kind of way, “The joke, Mrs. Pooter, is extremely appropriate, if not altogether new.”  Thinking this rather a snub, I said: “Mr. Fosselton, I fancy—”  He interrupted me by saying: “Mr. Burwin-Fosselton, if you please,” which made me quite forget what I was going to say to him.  During the supper Mr. Burwin-Fosselton again monopolised the conversation with his Irving talk, and both Carrie and I came to the conclusion one can have even too much imitation of Irving.  After supper, Mr. Burwin-Fosselton got a little too boisterous over his Irving imitation, and suddenly seizing Gowing by the collar of his coat, dug his thumb-nail, accidentally of course, into Gowing’s neck and took a piece of flesh out.  Gowing was rightly annoyed, but that man Padge, who having declined our modest supper in order that he should not lose his comfortable chair, burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at the little misadventure.  I was so annoyed at the conduct of Padge, I said: “I suppose you would have laughed if he had poked Mr. Gowing’s eye out?” to which Padge replied: “That’s right,” and laughed more than ever.  I think perhaps the greatest surprise was when we broke up, for Mr. Burwin-Fosselton said: “Good-night, Mr. Pooter.  I’m glad you like the imitation, I’ll bring the other make-up to-morrow night.”

November 24.—I went to town without a pocket-handkerchief.  This is the second time I have done this during the last week.  I must be losing my memory.  Had it not been for this Daisy Mutlar business, I would have written to Mr. Burwin-Fosselton and told him I should be out this evening, but I fancy he is the sort of young man who would come all the same.

Dear old Cummings came in the evening; but Gowing sent round a little note saying he hoped I would excuse his not turning up, which rather amused me.  He added that his neck was still painful.  Of course, Burwin-Fosselton came, but Lupin never turned up, and imagine my utter disgust when that man Padge actually came again, and not even accompanied by Gowing.  I was exasperated, and said: “Mr. Padge, this is a surprise.”  Dear Carrie, fearing unpleasantness, said: “Oh! I suppose Mr. Padge has only come to see the other Irving make-up.”  Mr. Padge said: “That’s right,” and took the best chair again, from which he never moved the whole evening.

My only consolation is, he takes no supper, so he is not an expensive guest, but I shall speak to Gowing about the matter.  The Irving imitations and conversations occupied the whole evening, till I was sick of it.  Once we had a rather heated discussion, which was commenced by Cummings saying that it appeared to him that Mr. Burwin-Fosselton was not only like Mr. Irving, but was in his judgment every way as good or even better.  I ventured to remark that after all it was but an imitation of an original.

Cummings said surely some imitations were better than the originals.  I made what I considered a very clever remark: “Without an original there can be no imitation.”  Mr. Burwin-Fosselton said quite impertinently: “Don’t discuss me in my presence, if you please; and, Mr. Pooter, I should advise you to talk about what you understand;” to which that cad Padge replied: “That’s right.”  Dear Carrie saved the whole thing by suddenly saying: “I’ll be Ellen Terry.”  Dear Carrie’s imitation wasn’t a bit liked, but she was so spontaneous and so funny that the disagreeable discussion passed off.  When they left, I very pointedly said to Mr. Burwin-Fosselton and Mr. Padge that we should be engaged to-morrow evening.

November 25.—Had a long letter from Mr. Fosselton respecting last night’s Irving discussion.  I was very angry, and I wrote and said I knew little or nothing about stage matters, was not in the least interested in them and positively declined to be drawn into a discussion on the subject, even at the risk of its leading to a breach of friendship.  I never wrote a more determined letter.

On returning home at the usual hour on Saturday afternoon I met near the Archway Daisy Mutlar.  My heart gave a leap.  I bowed rather stiffly, but she affected not to have seen me.  Very much annoyed in the evening by the laundress sending home an odd sock.  Sarah said she sent two pairs, and the laundress declared only a pair and a half were sent.  I spoke to Carrie about it, but she rather testily replied: “I am tired of speaking to her; you had better go and speak to her yourself.  She is outside.”  I did so, but the laundress declared that only an odd sock was sent.

Gowing passed into the passage at this time and was rude enough to listen to the conversation, and interrupting, said: “Don’t waste the odd sock, old man; do an act of charity and give it to some poor man with only one leg.”  The laundress giggled like an idiot.  I was disgusted and walked upstairs for the purpose of pinning down my collar, as the button had come off the back of my shirt.

When I returned to the parlour, Gowing was retailing his idiotic joke about the odd sock, and Carrie was roaring with laughter.  I suppose I am losing my sense of humour.  I spoke my mind pretty freely about Padge.  Gowing said he had met him only once before that evening.  He had been introduced by a friend, and as he (Padge) had “stood” a good dinner, Gowing wished to show him some little return.  Upon my word, Gowing’s coolness surpasses all belief.  Lupin came in before I could reply, and Gowing unfortunately inquired after Daisy Mutlar.  Lupin shouted: “Mind your own business, sir!” and bounced out of the room, slamming the door.  The remainder of the night was Daisy Mutlar—Daisy Mutlar—Daisy Mutlar.  Oh dear!

November 26, Sunday.—The curate preached a very good sermon to-day—very good indeed.  His appearance is never so impressive as our dear old vicar’s, but I am bound to say his sermons are much more impressive.  A rather annoying incident occurred, of which I must make mention.  Mrs. Fernlosse, who is quite a grand lady, living in one of those large houses in the Camden Road, stopped to speak to me after church, when we were all coming out.  I must say I felt flattered, for she is thought a good deal of.  I suppose she knew me through seeing me so often take round the plate, especially as she always occupies the corner seat of the pew.  She is a very influential lady, and may have had something of the utmost importance to say, but unfortunately, as she commenced to speak a strong gust of wind came and blew my hat off into the middle of the road.

I had to run after it, and had the greatest difficulty in recovering it.  When I had succeeded in doing so, I found Mrs. Fernlosse had walked on with some swell friends, and I felt I could not well approach her now, especially as my hat was smothered with mud.  I cannot say how disappointed I felt.

In the evening (Sunday evening of all others) I found an impertinent note from Mr. Burwin-Fosselton, which ran as follows:

“Dear Mr. Pooter,—Although your junior by perhaps some twenty or thirty years—which is sufficient reason that you ought to have a longer record of the things and ways in this miniature of a planet—I feel it is just within the bounds of possibility that the wheels of your life don’t travel so quickly round as those of the humble writer of these lines.  The dandy horse of past days has been known to overtake the slow coach.

“Do I make myself understood?

“Very well, then!  Permit me, Mr. Pooter, to advise you to accept the verb. sap.  Acknowledge your defeat, and take your whipping gracefully; for remember you threw down the glove, and I cannot claim to be either mentally or physically a coward!

“Revenons à nos moutons.

“Our lives run in different grooves.  I live for MY ART—THE STAGE.  Your life is devoted to commercial pursuits—‘A life among Ledgers.’  My books are of different metal.  Your life in the City is honourable, I admit.  But how different!  Cannot even you see the ocean between us?  A channel that prevents the meeting of our brains in harmonious accord.  Ah!  But chaçun à son goût.

“I have registered a vow to mount the steps of fame.  I may crawl, I may slip, I may even falter (we are all weak), but reach the top rung of the ladder I will!!!  When there, my voice shall be heard, for I will shout to the multitudes below: ‘Vici!’  For the present I am only an amateur, and my work is unknown, forsooth, save to a party of friends, with here and there an enemy.

“But, Mr. Pooter, let me ask you, ‘What is the difference between the amateur and the professional?’

“None!!!

“Stay!  Yes, there is a difference.  One is paid for doing what the other does as skilfully for nothing!

“But I will be paid, too!  For I, contrary to the wishes of my family and friends, have at last elected to adopt the stage as my profession.  And when the farce craze is over—and, mark you, that will be soon—I will make my power known; for I feel—pardon my apparent conceit—that there is no living man who can play the hump-backed Richard as I feel and know I can.

“And you will be the first to come round and bend your head in submission.  There are many matters you may understand, but knowledge of the fine art of acting is to you an unknown quantity.

“Pray let this discussion cease with this letter.  Vale!

Yours truly,“Burwin-Fosselton.”

I was disgusted.  When Lupin came in, I handed him this impertinent letter, and said: “My boy, in that letter you can see the true character of your friend.”

Lupin, to my surprise, said: “Oh yes.  He showed me the letter before he sent it.  I think he is right, and you ought to apologise.”

CHAPTER XII

A serious discussion concerning the use and value of my diary.  Lupin’s opinion of ’Xmas.  Lupin’s unfortunate engagement is on again.

December 17.—As I open my scribbling diary I find the words “Oxford Michaelmas Term ends.”  Why this should induce me to indulge in retrospective I don’t know, but it does.  The last few weeks of my diary are of minimum interest.  The breaking off of the engagement between Lupin and Daisy Mutlar has made him a different being, and Carrie a rather depressing companion.  She was a little dull last Saturday, and I thought to cheer her up by reading some extracts from my diary; but she walked out of the room in the middle of the reading, without a word.  On her return, I said: “Did my diary bore you, darling?”

She replied, to my surprise: “I really wasn’t listening, dear.  I was obliged to leave to give instructions to the laundress.  In consequence of some stuff she puts in the water, two more of Lupin’s coloured shirts have run and he says he won’t wear them.”

I said: “Everything is Lupin.  It’s all Lupin, Lupin, Lupin.  There was not a single button on my shirt yesterday, but I made no complaint.”

Carrie simply replied: “You should do as all other men do, and wear studs.  In fact, I never saw anyone but you wear buttons on the shirt-fronts.”

I said: “I certainly wore none yesterday, for there were none on.”

Another thought that strikes me is that Gowing seldom calls in the evening, and Cummings never does.  I fear they don’t get on well with Lupin.

December 18.—Yesterday I was in a retrospective vein—to-day it is prospective.  I see nothing but clouds, clouds, clouds.  Lupin is perfectly intolerable over the Daisy Mutlar business.  He won’t say what is the cause of the breach.  He is evidently condemning her conduct, and yet, if we venture to agree with him, says he won’t hear a word against her.  So what is one to do?  Another thing which is disappointing to me is, that Carrie and Lupin take no interest whatever in my diary.

I broached the subject at the breakfast-table to-day.  I said: “I was in hopes that, if anything ever happened to me, the diary would be an endless source of pleasure to you both; to say nothing of the chance of the remuneration which may accrue from its being published.”

Both Carrie and Lupin burst out laughing.  Carrie was sorry for this, I could see, for she said: “I did not mean to be rude, dear Charlie; but truly I do not think your diary would sufficiently interest the public to be taken up by a publisher.”

I replied: “I am sure it would prove quite as interesting as some of the ridiculous reminiscences that have been published lately.  Besides, it’s the diary that makes the man.  Where would Evelyn and Pepys have been if it had not been for their diaries?”

Carrie said I was quite a philosopher; but Lupin, in a jeering tone, said: “If it had been written on larger paper, Guv., we might get a fair price from a butterman for it.”

As I am in the prospective vein, I vow the end of this year will see the end of my diary.

December 19.—The annual invitation came to spend Christmas with Carrie’s mother—the usual family festive gathering to which we always look forward.  Lupin declined to go.  I was astounded, and expressed my surprise and disgust.  Lupin then obliged us with the following Radical speech: “I hate a family gathering at Christmas.  What does it mean?  Why someone says: ‘Ah! we miss poor Uncle James, who was here last year,’ and we all begin to snivel.  Someone else says: ‘It’s two years since poor Aunt Liz used to sit in that corner.’  Then we all begin to snivel again.  Then another gloomy relation says ‘Ah!  I wonder whose turn it will be next?’  Then we all snivel again, and proceed to eat and drink too much; and they don’t discover until I get up that we have been seated thirteen at dinner.”

December 20.—Went to Smirksons’, the drapers, in the Strand, who this year have turned out everything in the shop and devoted the whole place to the sale of Christmas cards.  Shop crowded with people, who seemed to take up the cards rather roughly, and, after a hurried glance at them, throw them down again.  I remarked to one of the young persons serving, that carelessness appeared to be a disease with some purchasers.  The observation was scarcely out of my mouth, when my thick coat-sleeve caught against a large pile of expensive cards in boxes one on top of the other, and threw them down.  The manager came forward, looking very much annoyed, and picking up several cards from the ground, said to one of the assistants, with a palpable side-glance at me: “Put these amongst the sixpenny goods; they can’t be sold for a shilling now.”  The result was, I felt it my duty to buy some of these damaged cards.

I had to buy more and pay more than intended.  Unfortunately I did not examine them all, and when I got home I discovered a vulgar card with a picture of a fat nurse with two babies, one black and the other white, and the words: “We wish Pa a Merry Christmas.”  I tore up the card and threw it away.  Carrie said the great disadvantage of going out in Society and increasing the number of our friends was, that we should have to send out nearly two dozen cards this year.

December 21.—To save the postman a miserable Christmas, we follow the example of all unselfish people, and send out our cards early.  Most of the cards had finger-marks, which I did not notice at night.  I shall buy all future cards in the daytime.  Lupin (who, ever since he has had the appointment with a stock and share broker, does not seem over-scrupulous in his dealings) told me never to rub out the pencilled price on the backs of the cards.  I asked him why.  Lupin said: “Suppose your card is marked 9d.  Well, all you have to do is to pencil a 3—and a long down-stroke after it—in front of the ninepence, and people will think you have given five times the price for it.”

In the evening Lupin was very low-spirited, and I reminded him that behind the clouds the sun was shining.  He said: “Ugh! it never shines on me.”  I said: “Stop, Lupin, my boy; you are worried about Daisy Mutlar.  Don’t think of her any more.  You ought to congratulate yourself on having got off a very bad bargain.  Her notions are far too grand for our simple tastes.”  He jumped up and said: “I won’t allow one word to be uttered against her.  She’s worth the whole bunch of your friends put together, that inflated, sloping-head of a Perkupp included.”  I left the room with silent dignity, but caught my foot in the mat.

December 23.—I exchanged no words with Lupin in the morning; but as he seemed to be in exuberant spirits in the evening, I ventured to ask him where he intended to spend his Christmas.  He replied: “Oh, most likely at the Mutlars’.”

In wonderment, I said: “What! after your engagement has been broken off?”

Lupin said: “Who said it is off?”

I said: “You have given us both to understand—”

He interrupted me by saying: “Well, never mind what I said.  It is on again—there!”

CHAPTER XIII

I receive an insulting Christmas card.  We spend a pleasant Christmas at Carrie’s mother’s.  A Mr. Moss is rather too free.  A boisterous evening, during which I am struck in the dark.  I receive an extraordinary letter from Mr. Mutlar, senior, respecting Lupin.  We miss drinking out the Old Year.

December 24.—I am a poor man, but I would gladly give ten shillings to find out who sent me the insulting Christmas card I received this morning.  I never insult people; why should they insult me?  The worst part of the transaction is, that I find myself suspecting all my friends.  The handwriting on the envelope is evidently disguised, being written sloping the wrong way.  I cannot think either Gowing or Cummings would do such a mean thing.  Lupin denied all knowledge of it, and I believe him; although I disapprove of his laughing and sympathising with the offender.  Mr. Franching would be above such an act; and I don’t think any of the Mutlars would descend to such a course.  I wonder if Pitt, that impudent clerk at the office, did it?  Or Mrs. Birrell, the charwoman, or Burwin-Fosselton?  The writing is too good for the former.

Christmas Day.—We caught the 10.20 train at Paddington, and spent a pleasant day at Carrie’s mother’s.  The country was quite nice and pleasant, although the roads were sloppy.  We dined in the middle of the day, just ten of us, and talked over old times.  If everybody had a nice, uninterfering mother-in-law, such as I have, what a deal of happiness there would be in the world.  Being all in good spirits, I proposed her health, and I made, I think, a very good speech.

I concluded, rather neatly, by saying: “On an occasion like this—whether relatives, friends, or acquaintances,—we are all inspired with good feelings towards each other.  We are of one mind, and think only of love and friendship.  Those who have quarrelled with absent friends should kiss and make it up.  Those who happily have not fallen out, can kiss all the same.”

I saw the tears in the eyes of both Carrie and her mother, and must say I felt very flattered by the compliment.  That dear old Reverend John Panzy Smith, who married us, made a most cheerful and amusing speech, and said he should act on my suggestion respecting the kissing.  He then walked round the table and kissed all the ladies, including Carrie.  Of course one did not object to this; but I was more than staggered when a young fellow named Moss, who was a stranger to me, and who had scarcely spoken a word through dinner, jumped up suddenly with a sprig of misletoe, and exclaimed: “Hulloh!  I don’t see why I shouldn’t be on in this scene.”  Before one could realise what he was about to do, he kissed Carrie and the rest of the ladies.

Fortunately the matter was treated as a joke, and we all laughed; but it was a dangerous experiment, and I felt very uneasy for a moment as to the result.  I subsequently referred to the matter to Carrie, but she said: “Oh, he’s not much more than a boy.”  I said that he had a very large moustache for a boy.  Carrie replied: “I didn’t say he was not a nice boy.”

December 26.—I did not sleep very well last night; I never do in a strange bed.  I feel a little indigestion, which one must expect at this time of the year.  Carrie and I returned to Town in the evening.  Lupin came in late.  He said he enjoyed his Christmas, and added: “I feel as fit as a Lowther Arcade fiddle, and only require a little more ‘oof’ to feel as fit as a £500 Stradivarius.”  I have long since given up trying to understand Lupin’s slang, or asking him to explain it.

December 27.—I told Lupin I was expecting Gowing and Cummings to drop in to-morrow evening for a quiet game.  I was in hope the boy would volunteer to stay in, and help to amuse them.  Instead of which, he said: “Oh, you had better put them off, as I have asked Daisy and Frank Mutlar to come.”  I said I could not think of doing such a thing.  Lupin said: “Then I will send a wire, and put off Daisy.”  I suggested that a post-card or letter would reach her quite soon enough, and would not be so extravagant.

Carrie, who had listened to the above conversation with apparent annoyance, directed a well-aimed shaft at Lupin.  She said: “Lupin, why do you object to Daisy meeting your father’s friends?  Is it because they are not good enough for her, or (which is equally possible) she is not good enough for them?”  Lupin was dumbfounded, and could make no reply.  When he left the room, I gave Carrie a kiss of approval.

December 28—Lupin, on coming down to breakfast, said to his mother: “I have not put off Daisy and Frank, and should like them to join Gowing and Cummings this evening.”  I felt very pleased with the boy for this.  Carrie said, in reply: “I am glad you let me know in time, as I can turn over the cold leg of mutton, dress it with a little parsley, and no one will know it has been cut.”  She further said she would make a few custards, and stew some pippins, so that they would be cold by the evening.

Finding Lupin in good spirits, I asked him quietly if he really had any personal objection to either Gowing or Cummings.  He replied: “Not in the least.  I think Cummings looks rather an ass, but that is partly due to his patronising ‘the three-and-six-one-price hat company,’ and wearing a reach-me-down frock-coat.  As for that perpetual brown velveteen jacket of Gowing’s—why, he resembles an itinerant photographer.”

I said it was not the coat that made the gentleman; whereupon Lupin, with a laugh, replied: “No, and it wasn’t much of a gentleman who made their coats.”

We were rather jolly at supper, and Daisy made herself very agreeable, especially in the earlier part of the evening, when she sang.  At supper, however, she said: “Can you make tee-to-tums with bread?” and she commenced rolling up pieces of bread, and twisting them round on the table.  I felt this to be bad manners, but of course said nothing.  Presently Daisy and Lupin, to my disgust, began throwing bread-pills at each other.  Frank followed suit, and so did Cummings and Gowing, to my astonishment.  They then commenced throwing hard pieces of crust, one piece catching me on the forehead, and making me blink.  I said: “Steady, please; steady!”  Frank jumped up and said: “Tum, tum; then the band played.”

I did not know what this meant, but they all roared, and continued the bread-battle.  Gowing suddenly seized all the parsley off the cold mutton, and threw it full in my face.  I looked daggers at Gowing, who replied: “I say, it’s no good trying to look indignant, with your hair full of parsley.”  I rose from the table, and insisted that a stop should be put to this foolery at once.  Frank Mutlar shouted: “Time, gentlemen, please! time!” and turned out the gas, leaving us in absolute darkness.