, and our friendship was
unbroken after that. The Diary, written as it is under the shadow of a
series of calamities, gives an impression of almost wilful sadness
which is far from the truth. The requisite contrast can only be
attained by representing him as he appeared to those who knew him.

He was the son of a moderately wealthy country solicitor, and was
brought up on normal lines. His mother died while he was a boy. He had
one brother, younger than himself, and a sister who was younger still.
He went to a leading public school, where he was in no way
distinguished either in work or athletics. I gathered, when I first
knew him, that he had been regarded as a clever, quiet, good-natured,
simple-minded boy, with a considerable charm of manner, but decidedly
retiring. He was not expected to distinguish himself in any way, and he
did not seem to have any particular ambitions. I went up to Cambridge
at the same time as he, and we formed a very close friendship. We had
kindred tastes, and we did not concern ourselves very much with the
social life of the place. We read, walked, talked, played games, idled,
and amused ourselves together. I was more attached to him, I think,
than he was to me; indeed, I do not think that he cared at that time to
form particularly close ties. He was frank, engaging, humorous, and
observant; but I do not think that he depended very much upon any one;
he rather tended to live an interior life of his own, of poetical and
fanciful reflection. I think he tended to be pensive rather than
high-spirited--at least, I do not often remember any particular
ebullition of youthful enthusiasm. He liked congenial company, but he
was always ready to be alone. He very seldom went to the rooms of other
men, except in response to definite invitations; but he was always
disposed to welcome any one who came spontaneously to see him. He was a
really diffident and modest fellow, and I do not think it even entered
into his head to imagine that he had any social gifts or personal
charm. But I gradually came to perceive that his mind was of a very
fine quality. He had a mature critical judgment, and, though I used to
think that his tastes were somewhat austere, I now see that he had a
very sure instinct for alighting upon what was best and finest in books
and art alike. He used to write poetry in those days, but he was shy of
confessing it, and very conscious of the demerits of what he wrote. I
have some of his youthf