W.N.P. Barbellion was the nom de plume of Bruce Cummings, best known for writing “The Journal
of a Disappointed Man”. When it was first published in 1919, it was a literary sensation, but both
Barbellion and his diary have now fallen into almost complete obscurity.
He was born at 14 Cross Street, Barnstaple on 7 September 1889. His father, John, worked as a
columnist for and manager of the north Devon office of the Devon and Exeter Daily Gazette
at the same address, and his mother Maria would later run a sweet shop from these premises.
Perhaps it ought to be explained from the outset, that Cummings derived the pseudonym Barbellion
from the name of a sweet wholesalers, but the initials of his first three names, W.N.P., stood for
Wilhelm (as in Kaiser Wilhelm), Nero and Pilate (as in Pontius), whom he considered to be the three wretchedest men who ever lived, except,of course for himself, for reasons we shall see as the narrative unfolds. He used a nom de plume in the first place to protect the the identities of family, friends and locations mentioned throughout the diaries, which only at a later stage did he consider worthy of publication.
He was the youngest of six children, was a small and sickly child, and was somewhat mollycoddled
in his early years by his parents, starting school at a later age than most children, eventually
attending Rock Park School in Victoria Road and then North Devon School at Trafalgar Lawn.
He was a shy and retiring child to begin with, but his keen intelligence soon shone through, and he
showed a special talent for mathematics and composition.
Whilst still at school, at the age of 13, he decided to start writing a diary, which in those early
years was largely filled with entries relating to his two main interests in life, the natural
world, especially ornithology, and girls. As the diary develops, so does his interest in nature,
and his main ambition in life is to achieve fame as a zoologist.
The diary also shows a developing literary talent, and as it progresses, the range of subjects it deals with expands, sometimes reaching rhapsodic heights of philosophical comment on life in general,
and his own life in particular.
From an early age, though, he is destined to a life full of disappointment.
In order to make a living, he is obliged to follow in his father’s footsteps as a hack reporter, in which he has little interest, still harbouring a desire to to succeed as a zoologist. He takes an examination for one of three posts in the Britsh Museum’s Natural History Department, but comes fourth. He is
offered a post at the Plymouth Marine Laboratories, but his father dies before he is able to take up the post, and has to resign before he even starts work there.
Eventually, he does get his cherished post at the British Museum, only to find that because of his lack of formal academic qualifications, he has been consigned to a lowly department, specialising
in the study of lice.
Life in London is lonely too, and he craves to get married.
But there is another strand in the diary which becomes evident, and that is, his increasingly poor health, but no diagnosis as to what is wrong. Because of this, he wonders if he should in fact marry, but eventually , in November 1914, marries a fashion designer and distant cousin, Eleanor Benger,
at Kensington Registry Office.
Of course, by this time the First World War has broken out, and , a year later, Barbellion is asked to attend the recruiting office in order to enlist, so, armed with a sealed letter from his doctor, he goes along only to be given the most cursory of examinations, and fails the medical. Barbellion is puzzled why he is dismissed so peremptorily, and on the way home decides to open the doctor’s letter. To his astonishment, he finds that he has been diagnosed with what we would now call multiple sclerosis, and has been given only five years to live.
He tries to hide all this from his wife, and becomes quite angry when he discovers that she has known all along, even before they married.
Barbellion mentions all this in his diary. He appreciates that it is of sufficiently high literary quality to warrant publication, and now that he knows that he has not long to live, is anxious to see his
journal in print. Even here, he is thwarted. Collins originally agree to publish it, but, schoolbooks
and Bibles being their specialities, they don’t want to upset their usual clientele with what they deem to be an immoral book, and decline it. Eventually, Chatto and Windus agree to publish it, with a foreward by H.G.Wells, who is enthusiastic about it, probably because he sees echoes of
his own younger life in the book.
The journal is finally published on 27 March 1919, and by mid-summer has run through a third
impression. However, by October, Barbellion is dead. His fame is very short-lived.
The critics were very divided on its merits, one asking why anyone should find the ramblings of
such an ordinary mortal so interesting. Some dismissed it as a work of fiction, even claiming that H.G.Wells himself had written it. Others, however, saw in it signs of genius, calling it a masterpiece, plumbing as it does the depths of the human heart with great skill and psychological insight, “ a wonderful record of a great spirit and a great fight”.
Some have compared his work (the Journal was followed by two shorter volumes) to Kafka and Joyce. The French novelist, Raymond Queneau, was a particular fan, and included it in his top
99 books of all time. Ronald Blythe called it “among the most moving diaries ever created.”
“The Journal of a Disappointed Man” has largely been forgotten about nowadays, although it is still in print, and is particularly favoured by multiple sclerosis societies, who see in it a faithful account
of the progress of the disease, and one man’s reaction to it.
The Journal, if nothing else, is very quotable. One of the most poignant passages is the very last
one:
“I am only twenty-eight, but I have telescoped in those few years a tolerably long life. I have
loved and married, and have a family; I have wept and enjoyed, struggled and overcome, and when the hour comes, I shall be content to die.”
He was cremated at Golders Green in 1919, his daughter, Penelope, later moving his ashes to Old Basing in Hampshire where she lived. His wife, Eleanor, who later remarried, outlived him by 60 years, dying aged 89, in 1979.
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