Sunday, February 5th., Rue de Calais, Paris.
I am now settled down again in Paris. I had five days in Putney and London and practically negotiated the sale of plays to Harrison and to Legge, had one talkative evening at the flat, and came over here on Friday. The first thing I noticed on landing in France was the thin and exiguous 'feel' of the folded French newspaper compared to the English.
I went down to see Mme Debraux on Saturday evening and found her if anything rather more fine than before; then I dined at the Chat Blanc with the Montparnasse crowd. I lunched with Kelly on Sunday in his new studio up in the heavens; had tea at the Cornilliers.
I feel 'at home'. Why is it, I ask myself, that Paris seems so much more agreeable than London. Well of course I have many friends here, not least Schwob who I admire greatly, but I have as many in London. It is I think a matter of the 'culture' of the place. Here the relationship between the sexes is much more relaxed; London is both actually and metaphorically corseted! I find opportunities for a little adventure much easier to find here. A marvellous place for a single man with an artistic disposition and a growing reputation. An analogy might be of coming home from business, divesting oneself of professional garments, donning a lounging suit, and throwing oneself into a favourite armchair for an evening of relaxation. Delicious.
By the way, Schwob is very ill and I fear it may be serious. I regard him as the most learned man in my experience, and my literary Godfather.
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