raw edged and ill joined. I have learnt something of the
impossibility of History. For all I have had to tell is the story
of one man's convictions and aims and how they reacted upon his
life; and I find it too subtle and involved and intricate for the
doing. I find it taxes all my powers to convey even the main forms
and forces in that development. It is like looking through moving
media of changing hue and variable refraction at something vitally
unstable. Broad theories and generalisations are mingled with
personal influences, with prevalent prejudices; and not only
coloured but altered by phases of hopefulness and moods of
depression. The web is made up of the most diverse elements, beyond
treatment multitudinous. . . . For a week or so I desisted
altogether, and walked over the mountains and returned to sit
through the warm soft mornings among the shaded rocks above this
little perched-up house of ours, discussing my difficulties with
Isabel and I think on the whole complicating them further in the
effort to simplify them to manageable and stateable elements.

Let me, nevertheless, attempt a rough preliminary analysis of this
confused process. A main strand is quite easily traceable. This
main strand is the story of my obvious life, my life as it must have
looked to most of my acquaintances. It presents you with a young
couple, bright, hopeful, and energetic, starting out under Altiora's
auspices to make a career. You figure us well dressed and active,
running about in motor-cars, visiting in great people's houses,
dining amidst brilliant companies, going to the theatre, meeting in
the lobby. Margaret wore hundreds of beautiful dresses. We must
have had an air of succeeding meritoriously during that time.

We did very continually and faithfully serve our joint career. I