Man and Maid

February, 1918.

I am sick of my life--The 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 it--I must be a philosopher.

Mercifully I have no near relations--Mercifully 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 night--When 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.

Paris--Eton--Cannes--Continuous traveling. Some years of living and

enjoying a rich orphan's life.--The war--fighting--a zest hitherto

undreamed of--unconsciousness--agony--and 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 not--and care not.

* * * * *

Three charming creatures are coming to have tea with me to-day. They had

heard of my loneliness and my savageness from Maurice--They burn to give

me their sympathy--and have tea with plenty of sugar in it--and

chocolate cake.

I used to wonder in my salad days what the brains of women were made

of--when 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 divorcée--a war

widow of two years--and the third with a husband fighting.