25 December 1816
I daresay Father thought it a great joke, giving me a journal for Christmas. As if I should want such a thing.
He said, “I think a little introspection is what’s wanted for you, Sebastian.”
I suppose I ought not to be surprised by it, receiving a gift at Christmas that is meant to improve me. Seems inevitable really.
John said I ought to enjoy writing in a journal as I always like hearing myself talk. The beast. Besides, he has it wrong. I don’t enjoy hearing myself talk; I enjoy hearing myself talk to other people. It is an entirely different thing! Writing in a journal is highly unsatisfying.
Couldn’t stand John having the last word, so I cast a spell on all his kerchiefs so they left streaks of green whenever he wiped his skin. Hilarious!
Thought it might be good to jot all this down so I remember what this journal is later. Also, must remember to pack it when I leave. Otherwise Father might find it and get angry with me. Not that it takes much these days.
28 February 1817
Note:
Essay on Henry VIII due 3 Mar.
27 March 1817
Note:
window 20 paces from fountain. Illusion spell poss.? Must put focus out of view of dean office.
29 April 1817
Note:
chestnut mare too big to fit through dorm. door. Try grey mare?
1 May 1817
Note:
Grey mare weakness for oats, not carrots. Ha. Parks can stop joking I’ll be sufficient bait.
6 May 1817
Have been sent down.
The dean told Father about the horse in the dormitory hallway. Odious man. Not particularly enjoyable to return home “in disgrace” as John put it. Father was seething. Read me a fine scold. Quite frightening, really. I will keep forgetting just how terrifying a person he is. That is one nice thing about being at school—I am spared his disapproving looks.
It was the usual rubbish about what a disappointment I am. How I never try to improve. He even brought up this journal.
“Have you been attempting some amount of introspection as I asked?” he said.
“Well,” I said. “It is hardly the done thing, you know. Writing in a journal. Least of all at school. What if one of my friends found it? I’d never live it down. I am using it, though,” I added hastily. “It’s come in handy for keeping notes and things.”
Father frowned at this and was quiet for a long time. “I suppose quiet reflection is a skill one must develop,” he said at last. “I should like for you to start learning, Sebastian.”
“Learning what?” I ventured.
“Learning who you are and what sort of a person you have become,” he said. “You can start by spending time alone. From here on out, I would like you to devote some time each day to contemplation. Use the journal to track your progress, if you please. There will be no one around that you should fear finding it.”
I did not point out that John would most certainly not quibble about reading my journal.
He sighed. “I don’t know what I shall do with you, Sebastian. You will be confined to your room until I have come to a satisfactory decision. I do not believe I need to tell you I am very disappointed in your behavior.”
It was all so predictable, really. Problems afoot. Writing in the journal because there’s nothing else to do.
7 May 1817
Realized that if I’m to track my progress—whatever that means—I may need this journal as evidence. I’m not at all sure what I’m to write in it each day but needs must, I suppose.
I’ve been thinking about the matter and I must admit I’m very put out about Father declaring I never try to improve myself. I mean to say, what does he expect? My marks are just about as good as any of my friends’. And just because I’m the only one who gets caught playing pranks does not mean I’m the only one who does them. Besides, if I didn’t have pranks, I wouldn’t have any friends. Not that I can explain that to Father. I daresay he’d tell me that having no friends is a noble sacrifice. Or some such rot.
8 May 1817
I am quite bored to tears.
Being at home now is even worse than it was before I went to Oxford. At least back then I had Gerry and Gavin around sometimes. Of course, they were usually off doing something or other—riding across the estate, swimming in the lake, or whatever else older siblings do when they’re chummy. I suppose they did invite me to join when they remembered to do so. But I do hate pity invitations.
I am already well sick of this ridiculous journal. Doesn’t help that I feel as though my future rests in its pages. That is, even if I can’t be the person Father seems to think I should be, I’d like to have something to show for myself when all is said and done. Can’t help thinking it is a useless effort, though.
9 May 1817
Father sat me down in his study and told me I need to learn to be a proper gentleman. Ominous start. He listed out all manner of qualities I appear to be lacking: responsibility, gravity, good judgment. Frankly, I forget the rest of them. Said he was sending me to Bedfordshire to stay with Gavin and his husband. Pretty sure I dodged a much nastier solution. Could have been John, who was, by the way, furious—highly insulted that Father does not consider him a proper role model. So I am to go to a tiny village in the middle of nowhere in order to see how Gavin and his Mr. Kentworthy behave, apparently. Also, Father insisted I take the journal with me. Reiterated his desire for me to learn introspection.
12 May 1817
Have arrived.
Tutting-on-Cress is so small as to be idyllic. Hate it already. It is abominably peaceful and quiet and everyone keeps to themselves. I’m not thrilled with the notion of rattling around in this place with no one to talk to.
Gavin somberly told me that he was instructed to ensure I spend at least two hours every day in quiet contemplation with this journal or a book or something. God help me! As if I need more quiet in my life.
Since I appear to be stuck with the infernal thing, I have decided to name it. It will feel a great deal less pathetic if I feel as though I am writing to someone. So, future entries shall be addressed to Bartleby. Quite like the name. Feels good in the mouth. I do so love things that feel good in the mouth.
Lord, Gerry has arrived. I sense more lectures to come.
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