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Here, by the way, is a curious point. These bigots are so inconsistent that I have never been able to 
follow the working of their minds. There is a great deal of doctrine in "The Ancient Mariner" which 
outrages every tenet of the Plymouth Brethren, but my mother does not appear to have taken 
offence at that. My only suggestion is that she detested snakes for Freudian reasons; she had 
probably met them in dreams and had therefore good reason (from her point of view) for identifying 
them with the devil in his most objectionable form. My mother was naturally a rather sensual type 
of woman and there is not doubt that sexual repression had driven her as nearly as possible to the 
borders of insanity. 
My cousin Agnes had a house in Dorset Square. My mother took me to tea there one afternoon. A 
copy of Dr. Pascal was in the room. The word "Zola" caught my mother's eye and she made a verbal 
assault of hysterical fury upon her hostess. Both women shouted and screamed at each other 
simultaneously, amid floods of tears. Needless to say, my mother had never read a line of Zola --- 
the name was simply a red rag to a cow. 
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This inconsistency, by the way, seems universal. I have known a printer object to set up "We gave 
them hell and Tommy", while passing unquestioned all sorts of things to which exception could quite 
reasonably be taken by narrow-minden imbeciles. The censor habitually passes what I, who am no 
puritan, consider nauseating filth, while refusing to license Oedipus Rex, which we are compelled to 
assimilate at school. The country is flooded with the nasty pornography of women writers, while 
there is an outcry against epoch-making masterpieces of philosophy like Jurgen. The salacious 
musical comedy goes its libidinous way rejoicing, while Ibsen and Bernard Shaw are on the black 
list. The fact is, of course, that the puritan has been turned by sexual repression into a sexual 
pervert and degenerate, so that he is insane on the subject. 
Of course, I could not be prevented entirely from reading. I was kept very short of pocket money, so 
that I could not even buy books to any extent. But I used to get them now and again, smuggle them 
into the house inside my clothes, and lock myself into the water-closet to read them. One such 
book, I remember, was The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. My mother considered the hansom cab as an 
engine specially devised by the devil and any reference to one was considered obscene. 
Having given an idea of the atmosphere of home, it should be intelligible that I was prepared to go 
out of my way to perform any act which might serve as a magical affirmation of my revolt. I was, in 
fact, restrained from developing my mind in any wholesome manner. I had no opportunity to think 
of anything but fighting fire with fire. 
A new parlour maid took it into her head to better herself by getting a stranglehold on the young 
master. I arranged to meet her on her evening out at a safe distance from Streatham and we drove 
in a cab over to Herne Hill, indulging in a mild flirtation on the way. On Sunday morning, however, I 
brought things to a point. I made an excuse for staying away from the morning meeting, got the girl 
into my mother's bedroom and made my magical affirmation. I had no idea that there was any 
counterplot, but the girl proceeded to "blow the gaff". She was, of course, instantly flung into the 
street, but she continued her operations for bettering herself. Uncle Tom intervened, for of course 
my mother could not discuss such a subject with me at all. I denied the whole affair point blank. My 
uncle tried to find the cabman, but failed. They scented trouble for somebody and knew no more 
than so many Chinamen. He begged me, however, to try to furnish some positive proof of my 
innocence; and this is where my subtlety came in. I pretended to be in great trepidation. Yes, I 
could prove it, and yet, how could I? My uncle scented a mystery and adjourned the examination. 
I immediately went out and appealed to the tobacconist on the bridge 
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above Streatham station to say, if asked, that he remembered my having been in his shop on the 
Thursday night previous, which was that of the cab drive. He was a good sportsman and naturally 
anxious to oblige. I went back to my uncle and proposed a deal. I would tell him where I had been,