The Bathing Season 



I took out my note-book once in a great open space at 

 the Tower of London, a sort of court or place of arms, 

 quite open and a gunshot across ; there was no one in 

 sight, and if there had been half a regiment they 

 could have passed (and would have passed) without 

 interference. I had scarcely written three lines when 

 the pencil flew up the page, some hulking lout having 

 brushed against me. He could not find room for 

 himself. A hundred yards of width was not room 

 enough for him to go by. He meant no harm; it did 

 not occur to him that he could be otherwise than 

 welcome. He was the sort of man who calmly sleeps 

 on your shoulder in a train, and merely replaces his 

 head if you wake him twenty times. The very same 

 thing has happened to me in the parks, and in country 

 fields; particularly it happens at the British Museum 

 and the picture galleries, there is room sufficient in 

 all conscience; but if you try to make a note or a 

 rough memorandum sketch you get a jog. There is 

 a jogger everywhere, just as there is a buzzing fly 

 everywhere in summer. The jogger travels, too. 



One day, while studying in the Louvre, I am certain 

 three or four hundred French people went by me, 

 mostly provincials I fancy, country-folks, in short, 

 from their dress, which was not Parisian, and their 

 accent, which was not of the Boulevards. Of all 

 these not one interfered with me; they did not 

 approach within four or five feet. How grateful I 

 felt towards them! One man and his sweetheart, a 

 fine southern girl with dark eyes and sun-browned 

 cheeks, sat down near me on one of the scanty seats 

 provided. The man put his umbrella and his hat 

 on the seat beside him. What could be more natural ? 

 No one else was there, and there was room for three 

 more couples. Instantly an official an authority! 

 149 



