ds I have left behind me in England. I cannot help the absurd fancy
that her rich vitality helps me along. I have not been feeling quite
so robust as I did when I saw her daily. And twinges are coming more
frequently. I don't think that rolling about in the Mediterranean on
board the _Marechal Bugeaud_ is good for little pains inside.

CHAPTER XI

When I began this autobiographical sketch of the last few weeks of my
existence, I had conceived, as I have already said, the notion of making
it chiefly a guide to conduct for my young disciple, Dale Kynnersley.
Not only was it to explain to him clearly the motives which led to my
taking any particular line of action with regard to his affairs, and so
enable me to escape whatever blame he might, through misunderstanding,
be disposed to cast on me, but also to elevate his mind, stimulate his
ambitions, and improve his morals. It was to be a Manual of Eumoiriety.
It was to be sweetened with philosophic reflections and adorned with
allusions to the lives of the great masters of their destiny who have
passed away. It was to have been a pretty little work after the manner
of Montaigne, with the exception that it ran of its own accord into
narrative form. But I am afraid Lola Brandt has interposed herself
between me and my design. She had brought me down from the serene
philosophic plane where I could think and observe human happenings and
analyse them and present them in their true aspect to my young friend.
She has set me down in the thick of events--and not events such as
the smiling philosopher is in the habit of dealing with, but lunatic,
fantastic occurrences with which no system of philosophy invented by man
is capable of grappling. I can just keep my head, that is all, and note
down what happens more or less day by day, so that when the doings of
dwarfs and captains, and horse-tamers and youthful Members of Parliament
concern me no more, Dale Kynnersley can have a bald but veracious
statement of fact. And as I have before mentioned, he loves facts, just
as a bear loves honey.

I passed a quiet day or two in my hotel garden, among the sweet-peas,
and the roses, and the geraniums. There were little shady summer-houses
where one could sit and dream, and watch the blue sky and the palms and
the feathery pepper trees drooping with their coral berries, and the
golden orange-trees and the wisteria and the great gorgeous splash of
purple bougainvillea above the Moorish arches