In order to go away for a week-end one had to obtain (1) an invitation, (2) permission from parent or guardian to accept the invitation.  One week my brother, who was working at the Admiralty, offered his flat to myself and F——­, as he was going to Brighton himself.  Fleming wrote to his guardian—­a Scotsman—­for permission to stay with Captain Hankey.  The guardian wrote back for more information.  He saw by the Army List that Captain Hankey existed, but who were the Hankeys? etc., etc.  F——­ wrote back a furious letter, saying that he expected to have his friends accepted without question, and received the permission.  We went.  The awkward thing was that Captain Hankey was not there, and we shuddered to think of the rage of F——­’s guardian if he should find out.  Worse still, the guardian was supposed to be staying at the Oriental Club in Hanover Square, and my brother’s flat was in Oxford Street!  However, we didn’t meet.

F——­ and I neither of us knew London, and had the time of our lives.  We dined at Frascati’s—­a palace of splendour in our eyes—­and went to His Majesty’s to see Beerbohm Tree in Ulysses.  When it came to Hades, we held each other’s hands!  On Sunday we went to St. Peter’s, Vere Street, but were so furious at being kept waiting for pew holders long after service had commenced, that we went on to the Audley Street Chapel, a most queer little place.  It was full of monuments to the dependents of peers, in which the peers figured very largely and the dependents fared humbly—­the epitome of flunkeydom.  Among these tablets was one inscribed—­

  “To John Wilkes,
  Friend of Liberty.”

Truly refreshing!

We finished the day at some old friends of mine, and voted the week-end a huge success.

When I went to Woolwich I was just on the verge of getting keen on games and beginning to feel self-confident, and to enjoy the fellowship of my comrades.  Woolwich nipped this in the bud.  I left with no self-confidence, having renounced games, and with a sense of solitariness among my comrades.  I was a misanthrope, and the unhappiest sort of egotist—­the kind that dislikes himself.  To say the truth, too, I was then, and always have been, a bit of a funk, physically, which didn’t make me happier.  On the other hand, I was an omnivorous reader of everything which did not concern my profession, and a dabbler in military history.

I have sometimes thought that I was unconsciously a bit of a hero at Woolwich, standing out for purity and religion in an atmosphere of filth and blasphemy.  I have come to the conclusion, however, that there was nothing in this.  As to the general atmosphere, there is no doubt that it was singularly pernicious; even the officers and instructors contributed their quota of filthy jokes, and there was no religious instruction or influence at all except the parade service at the garrison church on Sunday, if one happened not to be on leave.  But as to my heroism I am reluctantly compelled to be sceptical.  I went as far as I felt my inclination, and stopped after a time because instinct was too strong the other way.