By W. N. P. Barbellion 1889-1919
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Extra info for A last diary
And nurse. Four weeks of happiness — with the obvious reservation. I am in love with my wife ! Oh! dear woman, what agony of mind, and what happiness you give me. To think of you alone struggling against the world, and you are not strong, you want a protector, someone's strong arm. But we are happy, these few weeks — I record it because it's so strange. I am deeply in love and long to have something so as to sacrifice it all with a passion, with a vehemence of self-abnegation. August 15th, 1918.
They wheeled me into the garden for an hour: primroses, violets, butterflies, bees; the song of the chaffinches and thrushes—otherwise silence. With the newspaper on my knee, the beauty of the day was oppressive. Its unusualness at this time of year seemed of evil import. Folk shake their heads, and they say in the village there is to be an earthquake on account of the heat. In rural districts simple souls believe it is the end of the world coming upon us. At such times as these my isolation here is agonising.
Now that he is dead it must appear to be a fruitless speculation. But it is not perhaps without interest. I am convinced that he would not have remained at South Kensington longer than was necessary to provide him with bread and butter. He was that comparatively rare combination—a man of science, and a man of letters. He was in love with life as soon as he was in love with science, and the life of man inspired his imagination more than the lives of the animals it was his business to know about.