Nostalgic

 Wednesday, December 9th., Cadogan Square, London.

Thinking about Paris as I often do. I was generally happy there and seemed set fair to become a Parisian, but it was not to be. For several years there had been gradually germinating in my mind the conviction that I should be compelled by some obscure instinct to return to England. I had a most disturbing suspicion that I was losing touch with England and that my literary work would soon begin to suffer accordingly. And one day I gave notice to my landlady, and then I began to get estimates for removing my furniture and books. And then I tried to sell to my landlady the fittings of the admirable bathroom which I had installed in her house, and she answered me that she had no desire for a bathroom in her house and would I take the fittings away?

And then I unhooked my pictures and packed my books. And lastly the removers came and turned what had been a home into a litter of dirty straw. And I saw the tail of the last van as it rounded the corner. And I gave up my keys so bright with use and definitely quitted the land where eating and love are understood, where art and learning are honoured, where women well-dressed and without illusions are not rare, where thrift flourishes, where politeness is practised,and where politics are shameful and grotesque.

 

I return merely as a visitor. I should probably have enjoyed myself more in France, only I prefer to live in England and regret France than to live in France and regret England. I think the permanent exile is a pathetic figure. I suppose I have a grim passion for England but I know why France is the darling of nations, and why I will always be thinking of Paris.