I wrote this morning the third article ("Fiction") in the series for the Home Reading Union.
After dinner I reached down the first volume of A. W. Benn's "Modern England", which I have had for about a year, and found that it was dedicated to Bernhard Berenson, which made me favourable to it. That a historian and publicist should be sufficiently intimate with, or an admirer of, a first-class art critic to wish to dedicate a book to him, is certainly a proof of the former's breadth of sympathy. I read the first chapter. Good, but very inferior after Taine. Still a work of genuine culture, and marked by liberal principles; perhaps he shows too much emotion when his feelings are outraged, as by the ill-treatment, industrially, of children. A historian has no business with righteous indignation. He ought to be above that. Cruelty to children is not worse than a lot of other cruelties. I admired the book; well written though perhaps a shade turgid. But I doubt if I shall finish it. I want something more masterful and of genius.
Reflecting on my poem about Fontainebleau, I settled on the general form and metre, and composed the first line. I can now go on with it any time.
Additionally for September 28th., see 'Parisian life' - http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/parisian-life.html
As I was sitting on the terrace of the Cafe de la Place Blanche, a voiture drove up containing two men, two women and a white puppy. One of the men was clearly an actor or singer of some sort, he had the face and especially the mouth; one of the women, aged perhaps 25, short, getting plump, and dressed with a certain rough style, especially as to the chic hat and the jupon, was evidently his petite amie; the other woman was a servant, nu-tete and wearing a white apron.