There was no sign

of a human being, coming or going.

The lane was deserted. Then I deliberately walked downstairs into

the kitchen, and asked the grey-faced landlady if a gentleman had just

that minute called for me.

The answer, given with an odd, weary sort of smile, was “No!”

Dec. 1.—I feel genuinely alarmed and uneasy over the state of my

nerves. Dreams are dreams, but never before have I had dreams in broad

daylight.

I am looking forward very much to Chapter’s arrival. He is a

capital fellow, vigorous, healthy, with no nerves, and even less

imagination; and he has £2,000 a year into the bargain.

Periodically he makes me offers—the last was to travel round the

world with him as secretary, which was a delicate way of paying my

expenses and giving me some pocket-money—offers, however, which I

invariably decline. I prefer to keep his friendship. Women could not

come between us; money might—therefore I give it no opportunity.

Chapter always laughed at what he called my “fancies”, being himself

possessed only of that thin-blooded quality of imagination which is

ever associated with the prosaic-minded man. Yet, if taunted with this

obvious lack, his wrath is deeply stirred. His psychology is that of

the crass materialist—always a rather funny article. It will afford

me genuine relief, none the less, to hear the cold judgment his mind

will have to pass upon the story of this house as I shall have it to

tell.

Dec. 2.—The strangest part of it all I have not referred to in

this brief diary. Truth to tell, I have been afraid to set it down in

black and white. I have kept it in the background of my thoughts,

preventing it as far as possible from taking shape. In spite of my

efforts, however, it has continued to grow stronger.

Now that I come to face the issue squarely it is harder to express

than I imagined. Like a half-remembered melody that trips in the head

but vanishes the moment you try to sing it, these thoughts form a

group in the background of my mnind, behind my mind, as it were, and

refuse to come forward. They are crouching ready to spring, but the

actual leap never takes place.

In these rooms, except when my mind is strongly concentrated on my

own work, I find myself suddenly dealing in thoughts and ideas that

are not my own! New, strange conceptions, wholly foreign to my

temperament, are for ever cropping up in my head. What precisely they

are is of no particular importance. The point is that they are

entirely apart from the channel in which my thoughts have hitherto

been accustomed to flow. Especially they come when my mind is at rest,

unoccupied; when I’m dreaming over the fire, or sitting with a book

which fails to hold my attention. Then these thoughts which are not

mine spring into life and make me feel exceedingly uncomfortable.

Sometimes they are so strong that I almost feel as if someone were in

the room beside me, thinking aloud.

Evidently my nerves and liver are shockingly out of order.