=March Tuesday 23rd=
Won three pounds on the nags, lost four entire on the dogs and was about on par where pugilism was concerned.
The funniest thing is by society's rules, were I a gentleman of the more blue-blooded sort, I'd lose four hundred in a single hand at cards and be welcomed by the well-to-do with open arms. But that's the point, isn't it? It's always a matter of scale. The poor are insane, the rich eccentric. Those who risk pennies are unfortunate, those who risk fortunes are daring. The poor have whores, the rich courtesans. I have a gambling habit, whilst they have a good time...
(Enough, John, be glad you came out near even, don't get self-pitying for god's sake. At least being an 'unfortunate' you can rib your betters in good humour – when the upper echelons do it it's simply scorn.)
=March Wednesday 24th=
Had the oddest of conversations with SH.
I ragged him about some flaw in his knowledge – politics – or maybe astrology – the sort of thing I thought was so common-place anyone with the barest education would know it.
He, far from being abashed at his ignorance launched into a tirade about the nature of the mind. How the brain is a store house with limited space and one should tale care to pack it carefully with only information that is of importance else one would run out of room, skull fit to bursting with useless trivialities.
I've never been made to feel so wholly stupid for being able to name the current cabinet's primary ministers or knowing the pole-star.
Odd fellow.
If his conjecture's true (and I rather wish it was) oh the things I would clear from my mind – nail up into tea-chests and throw out - if not to make room then just to be rid of the damn things. I can only hope he was joking; if I take it seriously I'll be banging on his door begging that he teach me the trick of it. His expressions can be so bland upon occasion that I cannot tell if he's in jest or not – and what little I know of his humour is dry enough that he might be ragging me in turn.
=March Saturday 27th=
I write little of pleasurable happenstances in here – I should rectify that else if I ever read it back I'll be roundly cursing myself as the most miserable blinder in all England.
My life in truth is comfortable and contains much I am thankful for. I do not make of it all I should, but I don't squander it as I have previously either. I've settled into a routine of sorts; I take regular meals, try to get out and about in the city each day both for my health and strength of mind. (For how can one hope to rejoin humanity in any decent capacity if one locks oneself away from it? Yes, John, you've become quite the philosopher.)
I try also (with general but mixed success) to limit my gambling or the times I fall to ill humour and take myself out to drown my sorrows, as it helps neither my mood nor my constitution. (Besides, I've noted Sorrows have an alarming habit of swimming – front and back crawl, the little bastards.)
I've been thinking on what to do with myself, for although I have two seasons before my pension comes to an end it would be as well to plan. Whilst I miss the action and structure of military life, I hold no delusions on the subject. I know I'm unfit for it... and I am in no hurry to return to the sand, the screams, the blood and the insanity. I've done my bit for the Empire and I fancy that once my nine months recompense is up we shall be well quit of each other, all dues settled, no hard feelings.
What to do?
I could become a clerk-of-work – my arithmetic is sound enough. But such a thing is so dreadfully dull. I could return to medicine: work either as a surgeon's assistant in a hospital or as a general practitioner. Assistant would be easiest to arrange; I have acquaintance's at Bart's who could place me. But I'm not sure I could face the scientific and beneficent butchery required. I've had my fill of mangled limbs, collapsed lungs and the scent of ether, the heavy drip of blood as it runs from the table. I could do it in a pinch if required, my nerves aren't so tattered that I baulk at blood and tissue, but it's not how I wish to fill my days.
General practice then. Starting from scratch will be slow going, building up clients. Not to mention finding rooms for a practice and gathering supplies. I should husband my resources so I have the capital to start...
(Tomorrow, says the whisper of my lesser self, let it wait 'til tomorrow.)
=March Monday 29th=
I've not mentioned previously, but my flatmate has an ever increasing amount of post (most of which he distains to open). Also a remarkable number of visitors he receives at all hours.
(John, in comparison to you a hermit would have a lot of social calls.)
There's a short fellow in a bowler and heavy coat who's rather gruffly self important; he was introduced to me in passing as Mr. Lestrade. He came by three or four times in the past week. Can't say I care for him, he's cagey, ambitious and ferrity-looking – men like that never pay attention to whom their boots trample.
On Tuesday morning a young woman arrived (I'm sure she's come before) evidently distressed but keeping herself admirably composed. She was fashionably dressed, unaccompanied, and stayed for an hour or more.
Thursday afternoon brought a grey-headed, hawk of a man who reminded me of the Jewish silversmiths in Bethnal Green – he was in a near frenzy about something. Not ten minutes after, a grubby but imperious dark-haired woman followed, talking to herself in a foreign tongue.
Saturday brought a very respectable looking old white-haired gentleman who had an interview with SH – given the state of the sitting room I would have been embarrassed to admit him, but I don't believe 'embarrassment' is in the fellow's repertoire.
Any time I'm in residence when these visitors call, SH requests the use of the sitting room, undisturbed. He asks quite politely too, by which I must conclude it's important to him. (He has charmingly polished manners; he just usually leaves them behind, like a set of diamond shirt-studs too costly for everyday.) "Sorry for the inconvenience old chap," he calls as I head upstairs, "this won't take long."
As an aside note, I'm pleased he doesn't ask 'do you mind?'. Most people would, forcing one to reply 'no, no, quite all right' because not only do they have to put you to trouble but you have to like it too.
These visitors are his clients, although what they employ him to do is still inscrutable. It occurs to me that Mrs H might know, but asking her seems rather underhand.
(Come along John, you do little enough with yourself as it is. Are you really so poor a man that you can't unravel the question of your flatmate's profession? Hm. Or perhaps I should council myself thus: Damn it all, John, has your life come to such that the most constructive thing you can find to do with yourself is puzzle out what your flatmate does for a living? ...Both leave a sour taste in the mouth, and still the mystery remains.)
=March Tuesday 30th=
Article in the Gazette called The Book of Life – I read it just to satisfy myself the title was as ridiculously pretentious as I feared. (It was one of those rare occasions both SH and I were at the table together, I wasn't ignoring him, but I needed a pot of coffee before I could manage even the most rudimentary of conversations.) The article attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by examining all that came his way – a premise I have no quarrel with. It was the amount the author claimed could be learnt - and with such iron-clad certainty! - as if he was proving Euclid, not rickety points of reasoning.
I accept that some trades and walks of life leave their mark upon a man. But to believe that the life of every man may be mapped by his fingernails and shirtcuffs is laughable – and laugh I did. "That's a bit bloody rich!"
"What is?"
I waved the magazine at him and held forth about the impracticality of the article's argument. "I'd like to see the author travel third class on the Metropolitan and give the trades of his fellow passengers."
"No one takes the Metropolitan. It goes nowhere anyone has a use for."
"South to Waterloo then. I'd lay a thousand to one he'd still be foxed at Elephant and Castle."
"How many are in the carriage?" His fingers were steepled, the question lazy but pointed.
"What? Oh, a dozen say."
"Done! Trafalgar Square - I'd have them all pegged - Charing Cross at the latest. Provided one started here of course..." He smiled.
Something in his expression made me look at the article again. Sheridan Hope. I sighed at my own flat-footedness (although how the devil was I meant to know?) "You wrote the article."
His smile was brighter, brimful of humour. "See old boy? You're getting the hang of it already. You can write me a cheque..."
I snorted in a show of light contempt, but I can't help but think (yes, despite my skepticism) that he would have them all down by Trafalgar Square too.
=April Friday 2nd=
Stamford invited me to dinner, he and a few of his fellows are going out on the town. This is no doubt a transparent excuse to discover how things are going at Baker Street, but I cannot begrudge him the curiosity.
My leg is stronger these days. Both the exercise and the more clement weather have worked in tandem to improve it immensely. It's still stiff, which given the irreparable muscle damage will never fully fade, but I find it able to bear my weight with more certainty and allow me to walk with more speed and ease than I have been previously. It will never be quite 'good-as-new' but I fancy with work and care it will serve me better than I'd dared hope – a heartening thought indeed.
=April Saturday 3rd=
I wonder if there is a quantity theory of good luck or tragedy, some overarching balance that claims any small victory must spell misfortune for someone else, even if the events are entirely unconnected. May every new star ascend only as another falls? I hope not. My world continues to better itself by degrees; SH's slips into decline.
Dinner with Stamford was somehow both more and less than I expected of it. His cronies were well enough and we made a fine evening of it. I think however I am becoming far too used to SH's particular brand of wit and unpredictability to view all else in any light other than 'staid'. He's a skerrik of vinegar, no mistake... but then I've always liked both pickles and lemon sherbert, so perhaps I shouldn't be so very surprised.
Hadn't seen SH for a few days, although empty tea cups, various receptacles in service as ashtrays and ever more-chaotic chemistry experiments told me he had passed through at some point. Came in from dinner to find him studiously writing something on his shirt-cuff and remonstrating with his own thoughts. I offered him the use of a notebook.
Without looking up or ceasing his ruination of yet another shirt he answered – although I'm still unable to make head or tail of what he said. The rhythm of his words were such as to make up a sentence, some phrases and sub-clauses were even recognisable, but the rest was utterly impenetrable, somewhere between a code and glossolalia. Eventually when he had run out of shirtcuff and snapped the nib of his pen on the back of his hand he took to pacing – still talking all the while. As he moved about his words became clearer until linguistically (if not intellectually) he was making sense. His tirade was about mould. That it was hindering his work and doing harm to his person was all I could really glean for certain.
Since all this was only marginally stranger than his usual behaviour, I waited to see what would come of it. Perhaps he'd discovered a new passion for the lost tribal cultures of Zanzibar or some such. Wouldn't put it past him...
At length he almost strode right into me, which brought him up short. "Who the devil are you?"
"Very funny," I said dryly. "I know you're clearly having a time of it but there's no need to take it out on me."
Looks of complete blankness, cunning, and feigned recognition passed across his face in swift succession. "No. Well. I'm very tired," he hedged.
"Want a drink of something? You look done in. I've some decent brandy if..."
An almost comically suspicious expression.
"No, eminently sensible of you, it might be mouldy," I said facetiously. I wasn't in the mood to allow SH's sleep-deprived fancies to ruin my evening. "Well, I'm to bed. You should do the same."
He trailed me to the doorway and stood there, watching after me with confusion and thinly veiled hostility until I'd closed the door of my room.
Perhaps the Lancet has some article on the effects of over-stimulation and lack of rest on the nervous functions of the brain?