The Journal of a Disappointed Man

October 26. The nose-snuffling, cynical man who studies La Rochefoucauld, and prides himself on a knowledge of human motives, is pleased to point out that every action and every motive is selfish, from the philanthropist who advertises himself by his charities to the fanatic who lays down his life for a cause. Even secret charities, for they give pleasure to the doer. So your cynic thinks he has thus, with one stroke of his psychological scalpel, laid human nature bare in all its depravities. All he has done really is to reclassify motives--instead of grouping them as selfish and unselfish (which is more convenient) he lumps them together as selfish, a method by which even he is forced to recognise different grades of selfishness. For example, the selfishness of a wife-beater is lower than the selfishness of a man who gives up his life for another. October 28. The result arrived. As I thought, I have failed, being fourth with only three vacancies. November 7. It is useless to bewail the course of fortune. It cannot be much credit to possess--though we may covet--those precious things, to possess which depends on circumstances outside our control. November 9. Dined at the Devonshire Club in St. James's Street, W., with Dr. H----and Mr. ----, the latter showing the grave symptomatic phenomena of a monocle and spats. A dinner of eight courses. Only made one mistake --put my salad on my dish instead of on the side dish. Horribly nervous and reticent. I was apparently expected to give an account of myself and my abilities--and with that end in view, they gave me a few pokes in my cranial ribs. But I am a peculiar animal, and, before unbosoming myself, I would require a happier mise-en-scène than a West End Club, and a more tactful method of approach than ogling by two professors, who seemed to think I was a simple penny-in-the-slot machine. I froze from sheer nervousness and nothing resulted.