Short Commons 149
something in one’s mind that prevents one from thinking
of the thing one wants to.
It was perfectly silly of us to be hunting round
London for dope and getting mixed up with a rotten
crowd like we did in Naples. It never struck us till
to-night that all we had to do was to go round to King
Lamus. He would give us all we needed at the proper
price.
Funny, too, it was Cockie that thought of that. I
know he: hates the man, though he never said so
except in an outburst which I knew didn’t mean
anything..
We went to the studio in a taxi, Curse the luck,
he was out! There was a girl there, a tall, thin woman
with a white face like a wedge. We gave several hints ;
but she didn’t rise, and wretched as we were, we didn’t
want to spoil the market by telling her outright.
Lamus would be there in the morning, she said.
We said we'd be there at eleven o'clock. —
We drove back. We had a rotten night economising.
We didn’t dare tell each other what we really feared:
that somehow he might let us down. ...
I can’t sleep. Cockie is lying awake with his eyes
wide open, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t stir a
muscle. It maddens me that he takes no interest in
me. But after all, I take no interest in him. I am
as restless as the wandering Jew. At the same time,
I can’t settle down to anything. I keep on scribbling
this stuff in my diary. It relieves me somehow to
write what I feel.
What is so utterly damnable is that I understand
what I am doing. This complaining rambling
rubbish is the substitute which has taken the place of
love.
What have I done to forfeit love ? I feel as if I had
died and got forgotten in some beastly place where
there was nothing but hunger and thirst. Nothing
means anything any more except dope, and dope
itself doesn’t really mean anything vital.