Welcome to our blog!

It's better than a bat in the eye with a burnt stick!

This blog makes liberal use of AB's journals, letters, travel notes, and other sources.

And make sure to visit The Arnold Bennett Society for expert information and comment on all aspects of the life and work of AB.

Monday, 21 September 2015


Saturday, September 21st. at Les Sablons

Contentment has very little to do with prosperity. I mention this only because I feel rather contented at present, though I am far from being prosperous yet. I have hopes! I would like to go over to England for a week to introduce Marguerite to my sister and family but have neither the time nor the money.

I have just recovered from a mysterious malady which resembled influenza of the intestines. I have noticed that one tends to feel better having recovered from an illness than one would have done having not been ill in the first place, because feelings are relative. The malady did not prevent me from working each day. Today I finished the construction of the first part of "The Old Wives' Tale". I also conducted a sort of preliminary treaty with the Leberts and their architect for getting this house altered and taking on the lease.

My contentment has most to do with being married. The only worm gnawing at the root of my mind is that this business of being married cannot possibly last as it is. It can last perfectly well on my footing; but it cannot last on her footing. I am about a century older than my wife, though she is 32 and has been through pretty considerable things in the way of misfortune. It seems to me that she has steadily been getting younger during the last three months. I think that the establishment of regular sexual relations has been beneficial for us both. It is quite unnatural for human animals in the full vigour of life to abstain from sexual activity, and I feel sure that the suppression of the sexual instinct has an adverse effect on human nature and consequently on society.

Tuesday, 8 September 2015


Sunday, September 8th., 1907.

At Les Sablons, in France.

Marguerite and I have been on a cycling tour, and today we rode home from St. Julien. It was very hot and once we were misdirected. Also the first part of the journey was very heavy. We arrived at 5.30 after 70 kilometres. I drank two glasses of soda and milk, then four cups of tea, then two more glasses of soda and milk. Then nearly a bottle of white wine and half a siphon; then two cups of hot camomile. By this time it was 9 o'clock and I had got the better of my thirst. I think I may have been dehydrated.

We did a little over 300 kilometres in our six days, and would have done more but Marguerite was held back by rheumatism in her knees. The total expenses were 119 fr. 70 centimes. Deduct from this a minimum of 65 francs which we should have spent had we remained at home, and the total cost of the holiday comes out at 54 francs for two people. Not bad.

Monday, 7 September 2015

The value of art

Saturday, September 7th., 1929.

At 75 Cadogan Square, London.

Eight years ago I bought a portrait of a woman by Modigliani - certainly one of the greatest painters of this century - for £50. So that when I received an invitation to a private view of Modiglianis in a West End gallery, I accepted it at once. There were no £50 items in this show. I halted before the picture which pleased me most and asked the price of it. The manager replied: "A Paris dealer offered me £6000 but I refused it." This news delighted me. He did not say what his own price actually was and I did not inquire further. I never paid more than £100 for a picture in my life and I never will.

At this private view a professional photographer came up to me and asked permission to photograph me in the act of gazing at the masterpieces of Modigliani! I forbade. He then went up to a well-known collecting peer and made the same request, and was again rebuffed. These people must necessarily have very thick skins. I suppose that in truth it is not much different than the stoic attitude we authors must maintain in the face of our critics. Recently at Copenhagen I was interviewed three times, photographed four times and caricatured once, in a day. And simply couldn't help it. Such is the mixed blessing of being some sort of celebrity.

I have recently returned from a glance at Leningrad and Moscow, and my articles on the Soviet regime have commenced in the Daily Express. I started out to be sympathetic, but am now hostile, to the Soviet regime.

Sunday, 6 September 2015

George Moore

Tuesday, September 6th. 1910

At Villa des Nefliers, in France

Being unable to get rid of influenza-ish inquietudes of the stomach, and having had several bad nights de suite, I have spent a good deal of time in bed, reading and writing. 

Image result for george Moore authorToday I finished the third or fourth perusal of "A Mummer's Wife" by George Moore. This book really is original and fine and beautiful. The Islington scenes are superb. You have squalor and sordidness turned into poetry. And the painter-like effects of visualisation are splendid throughout. Language a bit clumsy and coarse occasionally. "Booze" and "Boozed" are amazing words! There are others, but what an amazing and powerful work! I think I have given credit elsewhere in these pages to Moore as an important inspiration for my own writing. "A Mummer's Wife" first opened my shut eyes to the extraordinary romantic quality of that sinister district from which I emerged. In fact I came to recognise that the feeling of romance which permeates the district is quite as wonderfully inspiring as any historic memory could be. The great and wholesome influence of George Moore on modern English fiction has not yet been adequately appreciated - hardly even noticed. But it exists.

Here is an example of the wisdom of George Moore:
"Does anyone know, or has everyone forgotten, that genius discovers itself? ... Genius can be likened unto apples. This year you complain that the apples are not as red as they should be; maybe they are too red, or maybe they are too plentiful, but small. But the apples go on just the same. They alone are unconcerned as to what the world says or thinks of them."

Saturday, 5 September 2015

Liking Venice

Sunday, September 5th., 1926.
At the Hotel Commercio in Venice.

Image result for Miracoli church veniceWe hired a gondola this morning and went to church of St. John and St. Paul and then to the small church of Something dei Miracoli, very grand and quiet but not thrilling. Then on to Grand Canal, which we came down, seeing all the flags and carpets exposed to decorate houses for the Regatta this afternoon. It was certainly a most wonderful and lovely scene. What a marvellous experience it is, on arriving at Venice by train, to walk out of the station onto the concourse and to see the whole life of the Grand Canal going forward in front of you. I knew in advance that it would be so and yet was still momentarily taken aback by the sight. Venice is truly a unique city. The gondola are good in their way but for my money the best way to see Venice is just to wander about, almost certainly getting lost in the process. I think I have a good sense of direction but it doesn't seem to work in Venice, which has somewhat damaged my pride. 

We also inspected two hotels, the Europa and the Britannia, with a view to moving from the Commercio. We liked both of these hotels, and at the Britannia were offered the apartment where Verdi had composed "Rigoletto" (a bad opera) at 450 lira a day. We could decide on nothing , as nothing (except the Verdi) was free.

I like Venice for a holiday better than any other place I have ever been in - provided it is not raining!

Friday, 4 September 2015


Friday, September 4th., 1925.
At Cadogan Square, London.

The big new French clock was on the floor in the box room. She said: "I put it away there because it stood out on the mantelpiece, and all the curves of the ornament, leaves and twigs and things, seemed to be the same as the curves of my nausea. So I put it away until the nausea has gone."

She saw two nice looking little boys in the restaurant at Harvey Nichols, and kept on referring to the extraordinary niceness of the face of one of them. At last she said: "I should like my boy to have a face like that." The secret was out. 

I have often written about babies and children in my novels and short stories. In fact one of my most successful short stories (I think) is "Baby's Bath" in "the Grim Smile of the Five Towns". Also I think I dealt well with the childhood of Cyril Povey, and sensitively with the relationship between Edwin Clayhanger and George Cannon. Indeed I am not without experience of children. However it is not quite the same as having a child of one's own. Will I show to advantage in this new role that fate has placed in my path? I hope so! 

There are other issues, and I am thinking particularly of the relationship between myself and Dorothy. She is an emotionally volatile person, by turns strong-minded and fragile. We have been content together for the last three years but naturally I have, as an older, more experienced and confident man, been the centre of her world; what now when I am displaced by the infant she is carrying and, subsequently, our child? I have already started to inform our family and friends, who have been supportive of our unconventional relationship. I hope and think that they will continue to be so. Nevertheless I cannot close my eyes to the fact that we will be parents to a bastard child, and all my best efforts will not shelter him or her from those who wish to be disapproving. Perhaps Marguerite will reconsider my plea for a divorce, but I doubt it.

To discover that I am to be a father has been a shock to me, though I think I have disguised it pretty well. I know it will change my life tremendously, and that is not an easy thing to contemplate at the age of sixty. But I have a curious feeling of elation, of response to a challenge from destiny. 

Thursday, 3 September 2015


Monday, September 3rd., 1928
At 75 Cadogan Square, London.

After chores I reached the St. James's Theatre at 11 a.m. My play, "The Return Journey" opened there two days ago. Everyone was pretty gloomy except me. They pretend to despise critics but they attach extraordinary importance to everything the critics say. Gilbert Miller was cheerful and he and I upraised these spirits. By 5 p.m. they were quite cheerful, and dreaming of "an enormous success"; and so on. I was on the stage for six hours during the day, making minor alterations, and changing the business at the end of the last act, and rehearsing the same. I doubt that it will make much difference but sometimes the semblance of positive activity has a revitalising effect.

I do not believe that notices affect the fate of plays. No play of mine has ever had a good press except "Mr. Prohack". There are not, literally, three dramatic critics in London whose opinions have the least interest for me. I hate the stage but I cannot help writing a play now and then. These plays are always a damned nuisance to me after they are written. God knows whether this play is any good. I don't. I merely know that nine critics out of ten have shown no understanding of the whatsoever. This is usual.

In any case it looks as if the future will be in motion pictures not the theatre and I am still working on my "Punch and Judy" film. Whether I will have any success in the new medium remains to be seen. I suspect not, as I am now in my sixties and it is difficult to embrace new ideas even though one feels oneself to be open to them. 

Sometimes I wonder if I have spread myself too thinly as it were? Of course I have been driven by the need for money to finance my lifestyle which some may consider extravagant, for example in the matter of clothes. Suppose I had concentrated on writing novels, by which I mean "proper" novels. I would certainly have been poorer but would I have been more contented, and would I have established a reputation to stand the test of time? I don't know. I think I have one more "proper" novel in me to be set in a great hotel. This is an idea I have been mulling over for years now and I think I am nearly ready to begin. I will commit myself to have started writing it by this time next year!

Wednesday, 2 September 2015

Septembers (2)

September 2nd., 1897

Received a letter from my mother today (dated August 30th.) informing me of the death by drowning of my sister Tertia's fiance, Willie Boulton.They are holidaying at Barmouth and it seems he was swept out to sea by a strong current. The body has not yet been recovered.

I threw the letter over to Kennerley to read, and walked away to the lock.
In a few minutes it occurred to me that of course I was going by the Newhaven steamer that night. Nothing else was possible.

As the time approached for the appearance of the steamer, little groups of people collected round the darkness of the lock, in which small craft had already encamped. At some distance on the other side of the channel, were a few electric lights where some earthworks had begun to be thrown up. Save for these and one or two other scattered lamps, all was mysterious gloom. At last the hoot of the steamer came eerily down the canal, and as the vessel rounded the last corner, its electric headlight, like a great eye dropping a tear in the still water, illuminated the vista of the canal, and though it was yet a mile away, threw a deep black shadow behind our figures.
Then suddenly I felt that this passage of a channel steamer through the Ouistreham lock was going to be an impressive transaction.
I was filled with the presence of an inexorable power. With tremendous majesty the great ship crept gradually forward to the accompaniment of hoarse calls and hoots, and so at last into the lock. It was an hour before the water of the lock had subsided and her bulwarks were level with the sides of the lock. She moved out silently, save for the pilot's call, and with the same dignity as she appeared, disappeared with us into the blackness of the sea.
Such scenes as this are the poetic apotheosis of machinery. The spectacle accorded with and soothed my feelings.

September 2nd., 1910

On Tuesday I went to Paris. Lunch at Martin's (his cousin Eugene was there). I met Lee Mathews at Hotel St. James at 6.10. We discussed plays and his projects till 7.20. Caught 7.55 home, for  bread and milk at 9 p.m. I bought nothing.
See also, 'French excursion' - 
September 24th., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/friday-september-24th.html

Couldn't work next day or yesterday. Not sure why. Sometimes one is oppressed by a sense of pointlessness; why make another effort, or even exert oneself to be pleasant? Fortunately, with experience comes the knowledge that the feeling will pass and life will resume its normal optimistic course. In the meantime go through the motions.
So, I resumed "Seeing Life in Paris" this morning, and did 1,200 words.
Yesterday afternoon I just did a New Age article. 

By first post I received news that Pinker could sell serial use of "The Honeymoon" to McClure's Magazine for £200. I cabled to accept, provided dramatic rights not jeopardised.

September 2nd., 1919

At the Midland Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool.
I came here from Dublin yesterday. Pouring rain. Packed steamer. Couldn't move on it except with the greatest difficulty. People placidly getting soaked through while being ill. I felt sure my luggage would reach Liverpool with me. It didn't. Great melancholy. Fruitless expeditions by hotel people to lost luggage office. At 9 p.m. I strolled up there myself and the trunk came in at that identical moment. It was like a miracle. How dependant our moods are on our particular circumstances - from dejected to delighted as the result of the arrival of an inanimate object!

On Sunday we drove over Wicklow mountains and things to Glendalough; ancient ecclesiastic city. Much of the scenery was superb. I drank one and a half bottles of stout which gravely incommoded me. 

Yesterday I sat in wet boots after leaving the boat, 12.30 a.m. to 9.30 p.m. No alternative. Yet did not catch cold.  

September 2nd., 1927

At 75 Cadogan Square, London.
I wrote 1,100 words of "Under the Hammer" in one and a half hours. Great going.
Considering that I only slept two hours last night I was in astonishing creative form today

Tuesday, 1 September 2015


There is something about the first day of September, the end of summer and the start of autumn. Children are back at school, nights are drawing in, the air feels cooler, and I feel a mood of reflection come upon me. Not a bad time to look back over some previous Septembers.

So, in 1907 for example I wrote in my journal:
"Every night now the tree-toads (if they are tree-toads) sing from dusk till some unascertained hour in the middle of the night. One of them, near this garden or in it, makes a noise of absolute regularity - a long note and a very short pause - for hours and hours.
I notice that in building here in France - there is a house going up in the main street - when the workmen finish a chimney they do as is done in England, they stick a flag on it - the tricolour.
Yesterday morning at 6.30 when I looked out of the window the forest was half hidden in mist. In a few minutes the mist had rolled over the village, and in another few minutes all was clear. The day developed into heat."

At that time I was 40 years old, and yet in so many ways still a young man. I had, for example, only recently married, and my literary successes were still in the future. I felt that France was where I wanted to be, and expected to live there indefinitely. Yet, when success brought me wealth I returned to live in England.

I was pleased at that time in 1907 with a poem recently finished, and sent it to my friend Eden Phillpotts for an opinion.


God made the country and man made the town
And so man made the doctor, God the down. 
God made the mountain, and the ants their hill, 
Where grinding servitudes each day fulfil.
God doubtless made the flowers, while in the hive
Unnatural bees against their passions strive.
God made the jackass and the bounding flea;
I render thanks to God that man made me.

Let those who recognise God's shaping power
Here but not there, in tree but not in tower,
In lane and field, but, not in street and square,
And in man's work see nothing that is fair -
Bestir their fancy to the odd
Conception of a 'country' ruled by God;
Where birds perceive the wickedness of strife
Against the winds, and lead the simple life
Nestless on God's own twigs; and squirrels free
From carking care, exist through February
On nuts that God has stored. Pray let them give
The fields to God's kind hand for just a year,
And then of God's own harvest make good cheer.

This cant of God and man would turn me sick, 
Did I not deeply know the age was quick
With large conception of a prouder creed
Whereon we shall not feel the craven need
To count ourselves less noble than a weed.

For me a rural pond is not more pure
Nor more spontaneous than my city sewer.

Reading it again now it seems clumsy and over-contrived. I had a point to make about the world of nature as compared with the world of man, and it was a fair point, but I don't think that a poem was the best medium and, frankly, I don't think my gift lies in poetry. I am not Hardy who was as accomplished a poet as he was a novelist, maybe more so. I recently re-read Hardy's "Pair of Blue Eyes", full of fine things and immensely sardonic, and browsed in "The Dynasts", a work too ambitious for the general taste. In July 1917 I dined at Barrie's in London with Thomas Hardy and his wife. Hardy was very lively, talked like anything! He had all his faculties unimpaired. Quite modest and without the slightest pose. Later G.B. Shaw and the Wellses came and Hardy seemed to curl up from fatigue. He became quite silent. The spectacle of Wells and GBS talking firmly and strongly about the war, in their comparative youth, in front of this aged, fatigued and silent man - incomparably their superior as a creative artist - was very striking.

In 1912 I wrote to Mrs Herzog, an American friend, that "we now possess an early Queen Anne house near the Essex coast and in February are going to install ourselves there definitely for everlasting; our deaths will one day cause a sensation in the village which we shall dominate, and the English villagers and gentry will wonder, as they stroll through the deserted house, why the madman had three bathrooms in a home so small; they will not know that it was due solely to a visit to the USA ..." I was of course referring to Comarques, my house at Thorpe-le-Soken, in Essex. I took the opportunity whilst in the area a few days ago to take a look at the house and it doesn't seem to have changed very much. Regrettably, my talent as a clairvoyant was not nearly as great as my talent as a writer!

I took a month's holiday in August 1917. We went to spend two days at the Schusters during it, and I saw the first batch of the American Army from the windows of the Yacht ClubHealth not very good during it, but a distinct benefit as regards the outlook on work actually in progress. I made some advance in watercolours, and more still in monotypes. I didn't read a lot, but tried Murray on Euripides - formless but gradually getting at something.