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A Young Man’s Diary
by
Georgie-Porgie, pudding and pie. . . .
It is as irrelevant as life itself.
Georgie-Porgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry. . . .
Why pudding? Why pie? Why–if you ask this–why any realism? These concrete accidents solidify a thin and abstract love-story for our human comprehension. Or are they, perchance, symbolical? Georgie-Porgie’s promises, like pie-crust, were made to be broken. He–
Kissed the girls and made them cry.
When the girls came out to play,
Georgie-Porgie ran away.
–Simple solution of the difficulty! And I am already learning to walk! Poor woman!
Wednesday, 9th. I am troubled whenever I reflect on the subject of heredity. It terrifies me to think that I may grow up to resemble papa. Mamma, too, is hardly less a savage: she wore diamonds in her hair when she came up to the nursery, late last night, to look at me. She believed that I was asleep; but I wasn’t, and I never in my life felt so sorry that I couldn’t speak. The appalling barbarism of those trinkets! I got out of the cradle and rocked myself to sleep.
It is raining this afternoon–the sky weeping like a Corot–and I am forced to stay indoors and affect an interest in Noah and his ark! Nurse’s father came up and accosted her in the Gardens this morning. He is one of the Submerged Tenth, and extremely interesting. On the threat of running off with me and pitching me neck and crop into the Round Pond, he extracted half a crown from her. She gave him the coin docilely. I found myself almost hoping that he would raise his price, that I might discover how much the poor creature was ready to sacrifice for my sake. She is looking pale this afternoon; but this may be because I cried half the night and kept her awake. The fact is, I was cutting a tooth. I have given up learning to walk; but have some idea of trying somnambulism instead.
Thursday, 10th. To-day I was spanked for the first time. When I have stopped crying, I mean to analyse my sensations. Sometimes, in Kensington Gardens, I feel like a boy who is never growing up. . .