The Record of Nicholas Freydon: An AutobiographyDawson, A. J. (Alec John)
General
The Record of Nicholas Freydon: An Autobiography
Dawson, A. J. (Alec John)
Fiction
It is surprising that I can set these things down with no particular
sense of shame. I distinctly remember striding along the deserted
roads, speaking these absurdities aloud, in an only slightly subdued
conversational voice. My mood was one of remarkable exaltation. I
wonder if other young men have been equally mad!
'How d'ye do, Foster?' I would murmur airily as I swung round a
corner. 'Have you seen my new book?'; or, 'I noticed you published
that article of mine yesterday!' Presently I found myself in open,
scrub-covered country, and singing, quite loudly, the old sailor's
doggerel about its being a braw thing to be a 'clairk in an orfiss';
my real thought being that it was a braw thing to be Nicholas Freydon,
a clerk in an office, who was very soon to be something quite
otherwise.
I am not quite sure if this mood was typical of the happy madness of
youth. There may have been a lamentable kind of snobbery about it; I
dare say. I only know this was my mood; these were my apparently crazy
actions on that remote Sunday night. And, too, before getting into bed
that night--fortunately for himself, perhaps, poor Mr. Smith was
already asleep, and so safe from my loquacity--I carefully folded the
two magnificent rainbow-hued silk handkerchiefs which good Mrs.
Gabbitas had given me, and stowed them away at the very bottom of my
ancient carpet-bag.
The sort of remarks which I had been addressing to the moon were not
remarks which I ever should have dreamed of addressing to any human
being. I think in justice I might add that. But I had greatly enjoyed
hearing myself say them to the silent night.
XVIII
Actually, I dare say the process of one's sophistication was gradual
enough. But looking back now upon my Dursley period, and the four
years spent in Sydney--and, indeed, my stay in the Orphanage, and my
life with my father in Livorno Bay--it appears to me that my growth,
education, development, whatever it may be called, came at intervals,
jerkily, in sudden leaps forward. The truth probably is that the
development was constant and steady, but that its symptoms declared
themselves spasmodically.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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