Sunday, January 27th., Cadogan Square, London.
Early start en route to Canary Islands for a much needed break
I doubt I shall attend much to this journal whilst I am away.
Sunday 27 January 2019
Saturday 26 January 2019
Extremities
Wednesday, January 26th., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.
I have done 2,000 words each day this week of "Clayhanger". I think the stuff is getting better each day.
Last night Orage sent me the first novel (I think) censured by the Libraries under their new scheme. I read 100 pages of it. I won't be reading any more.
Perfect weather today. Hard frost. Chilblains on all my extremities.
Still reading Stendhal's "Le Rouge et le Noir" with humility.
I have done 2,000 words each day this week of "Clayhanger". I think the stuff is getting better each day.
Last night Orage sent me the first novel (I think) censured by the Libraries under their new scheme. I read 100 pages of it. I won't be reading any more.
Perfect weather today. Hard frost. Chilblains on all my extremities.
Still reading Stendhal's "Le Rouge et le Noir" with humility.
Friday 25 January 2019
Time for a change
Friday, January 25th., Chiltern Court, London.
I am in the throes of packing for a holiday to the Canary Islands, allegedly a place where it is always Spring. I do hope so because I have reached that stage in the British winter when the weather is getting me down. Not that it has been particularly cold, or particularly wet (come to think of it, it hasn't been very wet at all) but a pervasive greyness assaults the spirit and depresses the mind. I hope for some warmth, and some blue skies, and some colour; in fact I long for them.
In the meantime I have finished an interesting and unusual book titled "The Lost Child" by Rahel Sanzara. Sanzara is said to be the pseudonym of a famous German actress, who apparently suffers from an unnatural objection to publicity. It is the story of the murder of a little girl by a boy. The author has considerable gift of narrative, and she has invented a plot which, while perhaps somewhat antipathetic to the normal mind (such as my own), is worked out very effectively indeed. The abnormal psychology is very well done.
German critics call "The Lost Child" a masterpiece. I don't. I call it rather the brilliant outpouring of a highly emotional woman who was mastered by 'a great notion for a story', and who freed herself from the obsession of it by writing it down at a temperature of 104 degrees. I remember reading once that Rider Haggard wrote his novels 'at white heat'. He has something in common then with Rahel Sanzara. Bit of an odd name (even an invented name) for a German woman that. But the book is certainly 'enthralling' as people say and induces you to read it 'from cover to cover', also as people say. Certainly it is more enthralling than the majority of detective novels. Of course I read it in translation and this may have detracted somewhat from my estimate of it as a potential masterpiece.
And now I must get on with selecting a variety of books to accompany me on my travels. I have several novels to hand but also like to read a little history and perhaps a biography or two. Maybe some popular science, but no philosophy! Not of any kind.
I am in the throes of packing for a holiday to the Canary Islands, allegedly a place where it is always Spring. I do hope so because I have reached that stage in the British winter when the weather is getting me down. Not that it has been particularly cold, or particularly wet (come to think of it, it hasn't been very wet at all) but a pervasive greyness assaults the spirit and depresses the mind. I hope for some warmth, and some blue skies, and some colour; in fact I long for them.
In the meantime I have finished an interesting and unusual book titled "The Lost Child" by Rahel Sanzara. Sanzara is said to be the pseudonym of a famous German actress, who apparently suffers from an unnatural objection to publicity. It is the story of the murder of a little girl by a boy. The author has considerable gift of narrative, and she has invented a plot which, while perhaps somewhat antipathetic to the normal mind (such as my own), is worked out very effectively indeed. The abnormal psychology is very well done.German critics call "The Lost Child" a masterpiece. I don't. I call it rather the brilliant outpouring of a highly emotional woman who was mastered by 'a great notion for a story', and who freed herself from the obsession of it by writing it down at a temperature of 104 degrees. I remember reading once that Rider Haggard wrote his novels 'at white heat'. He has something in common then with Rahel Sanzara. Bit of an odd name (even an invented name) for a German woman that. But the book is certainly 'enthralling' as people say and induces you to read it 'from cover to cover', also as people say. Certainly it is more enthralling than the majority of detective novels. Of course I read it in translation and this may have detracted somewhat from my estimate of it as a potential masterpiece.
And now I must get on with selecting a variety of books to accompany me on my travels. I have several novels to hand but also like to read a little history and perhaps a biography or two. Maybe some popular science, but no philosophy! Not of any kind.
Thursday 24 January 2019
Ideas
Wednesday, January 24th., Yacht Club, London.
I came to London yesterday morning. Hard frost and cold travelling.
Lunch with Pinker at Arts Club today, about the whole question of cinematograph rights, which I regard as a swindle on the author. Constant fine snow showers.
I dined at Madame Van der Velde's, Rossetti Gardens Mansions. Fry was there. Omega Flat. I saw the Omega Bed. Flat exceeding cold.
I became involved in a discussion about Sophocles' "Antigone", or at least I was on the edge of the discussion, not having enough knowledge to contribute effectively. I have read "Antigone", though some time ago, but must go to it again. All those involved in the discussion emphasised the various aspects of the play, and drew different conclusions about its essential 'purpose'. One thought that power was the essence, especially in the character of Creon who abuses his power; thus the play is a warning to the Greeks about authoritarianism. Another emphasised the family aspect, the breach between Antigone and her sister, their brothers, and of course the father; so, is family loyalty important and does it take precedence over civic duty. A third thought the play was a call to avoid fanaticism in all its aspects and should be required viewing for all would-be politicians. All seemed to me to have validity and perhaps this was Sophocles' genius, to write a play which inspires deep consideration. And it remains relevant because it is about human nature. I think any person will find some aspect of his or her self there.
I came to London yesterday morning. Hard frost and cold travelling.
Lunch with Pinker at Arts Club today, about the whole question of cinematograph rights, which I regard as a swindle on the author. Constant fine snow showers.
I dined at Madame Van der Velde's, Rossetti Gardens Mansions. Fry was there. Omega Flat. I saw the Omega Bed. Flat exceeding cold.
I became involved in a discussion about Sophocles' "Antigone", or at least I was on the edge of the discussion, not having enough knowledge to contribute effectively. I have read "Antigone", though some time ago, but must go to it again. All those involved in the discussion emphasised the various aspects of the play, and drew different conclusions about its essential 'purpose'. One thought that power was the essence, especially in the character of Creon who abuses his power; thus the play is a warning to the Greeks about authoritarianism. Another emphasised the family aspect, the breach between Antigone and her sister, their brothers, and of course the father; so, is family loyalty important and does it take precedence over civic duty. A third thought the play was a call to avoid fanaticism in all its aspects and should be required viewing for all would-be politicians. All seemed to me to have validity and perhaps this was Sophocles' genius, to write a play which inspires deep consideration. And it remains relevant because it is about human nature. I think any person will find some aspect of his or her self there.
Wednesday 23 January 2019
Cast down
Sunday, January 23rd., Victoria Grove, London.
After an interval of about nine months I sit down again to the composition of serious fiction; and though I make slow progress, finding myself out of practice, I experience a satisfaction deeper than I can get from any other sort of labour. Is it in my nature to be a writer, I mean a real writer? I feel that it is but I also know that I want to have material reward and I wonder whether the two things are incompatible except in a few cases. Before all else I must establish a reputation.
At Lowry and Eckhardt's studio for tea. As I went down their street I perceived Lowry and a rather pretty girl buying muffins from a muffin-man. It was dusk and a mist rising. Several men in the studio, which is large, with a good collection of antique furniture, Japanese prints and French Posters; the posters are even visible in the obscurity of the ceiling. Eckhardt with all the appearance of a simple good-natured unaffected schoolboy, was at work in his shirtsleeves on a black and white sketch. The girl presently reappeared and began to prepare afternoon tea. Everyone called her Marie. A girl about 25, dressed in black; red-gold hair, large expressive eyes; and a certain intense ecstatic expression which was matched by the low voice; obviously a favourite model of Eckhardt's.
After tea, Lowry being laid flat on the floor in front of the stove, she made the grave, moody leader writer of the Morning Post go through his tricks of catching and throwing a cushion with his feet.
Artists and their models. I must admit that I came away feeling envious of Eckhardt who is, I surmise, sleeping with Marie. It all seems so easy and natural. No self-consciousness. She hardly took any notice of me, and I could not find anything captivating to say to capture her attention, if only momentarily. Left me feeling out of sorts and generally dissatisfied with myself. Sexual frustration I suppose. As things stand I see little opportunity for relief unless I avail myself of professional services; even that may be beyond me!
After an interval of about nine months I sit down again to the composition of serious fiction; and though I make slow progress, finding myself out of practice, I experience a satisfaction deeper than I can get from any other sort of labour. Is it in my nature to be a writer, I mean a real writer? I feel that it is but I also know that I want to have material reward and I wonder whether the two things are incompatible except in a few cases. Before all else I must establish a reputation.
At Lowry and Eckhardt's studio for tea. As I went down their street I perceived Lowry and a rather pretty girl buying muffins from a muffin-man. It was dusk and a mist rising. Several men in the studio, which is large, with a good collection of antique furniture, Japanese prints and French Posters; the posters are even visible in the obscurity of the ceiling. Eckhardt with all the appearance of a simple good-natured unaffected schoolboy, was at work in his shirtsleeves on a black and white sketch. The girl presently reappeared and began to prepare afternoon tea. Everyone called her Marie. A girl about 25, dressed in black; red-gold hair, large expressive eyes; and a certain intense ecstatic expression which was matched by the low voice; obviously a favourite model of Eckhardt's.
After tea, Lowry being laid flat on the floor in front of the stove, she made the grave, moody leader writer of the Morning Post go through his tricks of catching and throwing a cushion with his feet.
Artists and their models. I must admit that I came away feeling envious of Eckhardt who is, I surmise, sleeping with Marie. It all seems so easy and natural. No self-consciousness. She hardly took any notice of me, and I could not find anything captivating to say to capture her attention, if only momentarily. Left me feeling out of sorts and generally dissatisfied with myself. Sexual frustration I suppose. As things stand I see little opportunity for relief unless I avail myself of professional services; even that may be beyond me!
Tuesday 22 January 2019
Gothic
Friday, January 22nd., Cadogan Square, London.
Dentist this morning, well, at noon to be precise. I hate going to the dentists even just to be checked over, but prevention is better than cure as my mother always said. Anyway, no problems but I was told, as usual, that excessive smoking stains the teeth and that I should clean more frequently. I have always used toothpowder with a stiff bristle brush but the dentist recommends a paste which can be bought in tubes apparently. Sounds like a commercial gimmick to me. Speaking of my mother, she claimed that, as a girl, she used soot as a dentifrice. I was consistently appaled by the notion but I supose it would work if one could get over the initial repulsion. Evidently the Romans used tooth powder. What remarkable people they were. I think sometimes that if they had only had the good fortune to hit on the idea of steam for motive power then the industrial revolution would have started 1,500 years earlier than it did. And where would we be now? On the moon I shouldn't wonder!
I have just finished reading "Melmoth" by Sarah Perry. Perry is the author of "The Essex Serpent" which I read and enjoyed a year or so ago. I don't think this second book is quite so good, but good enough. It is a 'gothic' novel: mysterious figures, ancient documents, omens and signs ..... that sort of thing. At times Perry intervenes with direct observations to the reader. I don't know why she does that, and I don't think it really works. It seems to me that if you are going to write a 'gothic' novel then best to go for it full throttle. This one has all the elements but is not quite adequately true to its genre. Some interesting characters and effective atmospheres, of which more could have been made. Essentially the book is about inhumanity and makes the point that inhumanity very much includes sins of omission as well as sins of commission. Perhaps, thinking about it, it may be that the author's desire to get across a message detracted (at least for me) from the gothic experience I had anticipated.
Dentist this morning, well, at noon to be precise. I hate going to the dentists even just to be checked over, but prevention is better than cure as my mother always said. Anyway, no problems but I was told, as usual, that excessive smoking stains the teeth and that I should clean more frequently. I have always used toothpowder with a stiff bristle brush but the dentist recommends a paste which can be bought in tubes apparently. Sounds like a commercial gimmick to me. Speaking of my mother, she claimed that, as a girl, she used soot as a dentifrice. I was consistently appaled by the notion but I supose it would work if one could get over the initial repulsion. Evidently the Romans used tooth powder. What remarkable people they were. I think sometimes that if they had only had the good fortune to hit on the idea of steam for motive power then the industrial revolution would have started 1,500 years earlier than it did. And where would we be now? On the moon I shouldn't wonder!
I have just finished reading "Melmoth" by Sarah Perry. Perry is the author of "The Essex Serpent" which I read and enjoyed a year or so ago. I don't think this second book is quite so good, but good enough. It is a 'gothic' novel: mysterious figures, ancient documents, omens and signs ..... that sort of thing. At times Perry intervenes with direct observations to the reader. I don't know why she does that, and I don't think it really works. It seems to me that if you are going to write a 'gothic' novel then best to go for it full throttle. This one has all the elements but is not quite adequately true to its genre. Some interesting characters and effective atmospheres, of which more could have been made. Essentially the book is about inhumanity and makes the point that inhumanity very much includes sins of omission as well as sins of commission. Perhaps, thinking about it, it may be that the author's desire to get across a message detracted (at least for me) from the gothic experience I had anticipated.Monday 21 January 2019
Delicious dilemma
Tuesday, January 21st., Trinity Hall Farm, Hockliffe.
Out for a good walk this morning. Cold but not freezing. Not much wind and so quiet, a waiting time of the year. Few people about but those I encountered acknowledged me. I notice that in the country people do acknowledge each other whereas in the town it is more usual to walk by without making any sort of eye contact. Perhaps this is a residual instinct from prehistoric times whereby in an isolated place somebody one encounters may be a potential 'threat' and contact must be made to establish that neither of you have a predatory intent. In the town, where there are generally people about, this is not necessary. Rarely, if ever, are women seen walking by themselves out of town. I feel sorry for the female sex in this respect because their activity is restricted by anxiety and convention. And the impracticality of female clothing doesn't help either.
I have come to the conclusion that, though I enjoy the country enormously, I shall never know anything about it. I regard it in the mass. I don't think about flowers and vegetables naturally; I have to make myself think about them. This is a bad sign. I daresay I may ultimately know something about horses; I find myself interested in them naturally. I have now got two. Not that I want two, but owing to my inability to resist a 'trade' when I see the chance of a bargain.
I have been sorting and rearranging my books. There are few more enjoyable pastimes I find. A delicious dilemma as to whether to use an alphabetical system by author's name, or by book title, or to categorise by subject. Then there is the question of book size which inevitably disrupts categorisation. The main thing is to handle the books personally, to browse in a few as you go, and just to know which is where. I think I could be happy running a small bookshop, if I didn't absolutely have to sell anything.
This is a rather strange period in my life, living here with my parents but not with them as parents. We are all a little wary of the change in our relationship. Of course my father is not a well man which is good in one way because had he still the natural tendency to dominate the house then it wouldn't work. I find I am getting him to tell me more about his early life which is good.
Out for a good walk this morning. Cold but not freezing. Not much wind and so quiet, a waiting time of the year. Few people about but those I encountered acknowledged me. I notice that in the country people do acknowledge each other whereas in the town it is more usual to walk by without making any sort of eye contact. Perhaps this is a residual instinct from prehistoric times whereby in an isolated place somebody one encounters may be a potential 'threat' and contact must be made to establish that neither of you have a predatory intent. In the town, where there are generally people about, this is not necessary. Rarely, if ever, are women seen walking by themselves out of town. I feel sorry for the female sex in this respect because their activity is restricted by anxiety and convention. And the impracticality of female clothing doesn't help either.
I have come to the conclusion that, though I enjoy the country enormously, I shall never know anything about it. I regard it in the mass. I don't think about flowers and vegetables naturally; I have to make myself think about them. This is a bad sign. I daresay I may ultimately know something about horses; I find myself interested in them naturally. I have now got two. Not that I want two, but owing to my inability to resist a 'trade' when I see the chance of a bargain.
I have been sorting and rearranging my books. There are few more enjoyable pastimes I find. A delicious dilemma as to whether to use an alphabetical system by author's name, or by book title, or to categorise by subject. Then there is the question of book size which inevitably disrupts categorisation. The main thing is to handle the books personally, to browse in a few as you go, and just to know which is where. I think I could be happy running a small bookshop, if I didn't absolutely have to sell anything.
This is a rather strange period in my life, living here with my parents but not with them as parents. We are all a little wary of the change in our relationship. Of course my father is not a well man which is good in one way because had he still the natural tendency to dominate the house then it wouldn't work. I find I am getting him to tell me more about his early life which is good.
Sunday 20 January 2019
Neuralgic
Tuesday, January 20th., Cadogan Square, London.
One of the main things at my age is to avoid strain - 'pushing forward' (as you do when you are in a taxi and are getting late for an appointment). Nearly all my life I have been keeping to a time programme, and I have been doing it until quite recently, and have carried programmes through in spite of neuralgia and such obstacles. I think that now this method results in less instead of more work.
On Sunday afternoon, after two hours work with Knoblock on "Mr. Prohack" in the morning (with neuralgia) I gave up the bit of rewriting that I had meant to do in the afternoon, and stayed in bed all afternoon, and of course felt much sronger. In fact, towards 6, I was really inclined to clear off some small oddments, including a 300 word appreciation of Thomas Hardy for Harpers, which I did, all right.
Yesterday my scheme was to rewrite the end of Act 2 of "Prohack" in the morning. However, I had a sense of rush and strain even before breakfast, and so I became placid and gave myself all day to finish Act 2, and telephoned to Knoblock suggesting that he should put off our appointment tp proceed with Act 3 from 3 p.m. yesterday to 11 a.m. today. He agreed. After all he is not getting any younger himself. I finished the Act easily at 7 p.m. and in the meantime had read the whole of Johnson's little book on me, which isn't bad. The sense of strain had gone, and though I had neuralgia all day, I felt better, and had quite a fair night and began to do letters and oddments at 8 a.m. in good form.
Dorothy is much on my mind and I find myself expecting letters at every post. I am often wondering what she is doing. Our correspondence is full of trivialities and gentle teasing which, on my part at least, does insufficient justice to how I feel. Am I being a stupid old fool? I am nearly 60 and she is 30 years my junior. I don't think she will tolerate the role of 'mistress', but there is no prospect of Marguerite agreeing to divorce, so she cannot be a 'wife'. The question is, if I were free to marry her, would I?
One of the main things at my age is to avoid strain - 'pushing forward' (as you do when you are in a taxi and are getting late for an appointment). Nearly all my life I have been keeping to a time programme, and I have been doing it until quite recently, and have carried programmes through in spite of neuralgia and such obstacles. I think that now this method results in less instead of more work.
On Sunday afternoon, after two hours work with Knoblock on "Mr. Prohack" in the morning (with neuralgia) I gave up the bit of rewriting that I had meant to do in the afternoon, and stayed in bed all afternoon, and of course felt much sronger. In fact, towards 6, I was really inclined to clear off some small oddments, including a 300 word appreciation of Thomas Hardy for Harpers, which I did, all right.
Yesterday my scheme was to rewrite the end of Act 2 of "Prohack" in the morning. However, I had a sense of rush and strain even before breakfast, and so I became placid and gave myself all day to finish Act 2, and telephoned to Knoblock suggesting that he should put off our appointment tp proceed with Act 3 from 3 p.m. yesterday to 11 a.m. today. He agreed. After all he is not getting any younger himself. I finished the Act easily at 7 p.m. and in the meantime had read the whole of Johnson's little book on me, which isn't bad. The sense of strain had gone, and though I had neuralgia all day, I felt better, and had quite a fair night and began to do letters and oddments at 8 a.m. in good form.
Dorothy is much on my mind and I find myself expecting letters at every post. I am often wondering what she is doing. Our correspondence is full of trivialities and gentle teasing which, on my part at least, does insufficient justice to how I feel. Am I being a stupid old fool? I am nearly 60 and she is 30 years my junior. I don't think she will tolerate the role of 'mistress', but there is no prospect of Marguerite agreeing to divorce, so she cannot be a 'wife'. The question is, if I were free to marry her, would I?
Saturday 19 January 2019
Visionaries
Wednesday, January 19th., Cadogan Square, London.
Began my day's work at 6.45 after a goodish night starting at 11.45. I wrote 1,300 words, and finished a scene by 11.30 about. Yesterday I wrote a letter to the Daily Express and 800 words of a story in the morning, and felt very sensitive afterwards.
To Royal Theatre this afternoon for a matinee performance of "Our Lady of Kibeho", having seen a very positive review in the newspaper. The play centres around three young women in a Catholic school who experience visions of the Virgin Mary. The visions are portrayed as 'real' (that is the visionaries are sincere in their belief) and the meat of the play is in the behaviour of those responding to them - the local priest, a senior nun, the bishop, a Vatican investigator, other girls, parents and local people. The priority almost inevitably becomes how to make something of the events, rather than their spiritual significance. Those in power see an opportunity which must not be wasted. The priest is conflicted. The nun is jealous because she has not been vouchsafed visions despite a life of devotion. And in the end it turns out that the 'message' Mary wants to communicate is about mans' essential inhumanity - not ideal as a positive foundation. Excellent acting. Very intense at times. Good use of music and a capella singing. Nothing wasted. I enjoyed it and expect to be thinking about it for some time to come.
The downside to matinee performances is that I miss my afternoon doze. Otherwise it seems to me to be an ideal time to watch a play - one's ability to concentrate (indeed to stay awake) is so much less in the evening, especially after a decent dinner.
Began my day's work at 6.45 after a goodish night starting at 11.45. I wrote 1,300 words, and finished a scene by 11.30 about. Yesterday I wrote a letter to the Daily Express and 800 words of a story in the morning, and felt very sensitive afterwards.
To Royal Theatre this afternoon for a matinee performance of "Our Lady of Kibeho", having seen a very positive review in the newspaper. The play centres around three young women in a Catholic school who experience visions of the Virgin Mary. The visions are portrayed as 'real' (that is the visionaries are sincere in their belief) and the meat of the play is in the behaviour of those responding to them - the local priest, a senior nun, the bishop, a Vatican investigator, other girls, parents and local people. The priority almost inevitably becomes how to make something of the events, rather than their spiritual significance. Those in power see an opportunity which must not be wasted. The priest is conflicted. The nun is jealous because she has not been vouchsafed visions despite a life of devotion. And in the end it turns out that the 'message' Mary wants to communicate is about mans' essential inhumanity - not ideal as a positive foundation. Excellent acting. Very intense at times. Good use of music and a capella singing. Nothing wasted. I enjoyed it and expect to be thinking about it for some time to come.
The downside to matinee performances is that I miss my afternoon doze. Otherwise it seems to me to be an ideal time to watch a play - one's ability to concentrate (indeed to stay awake) is so much less in the evening, especially after a decent dinner.
Friday 18 January 2019
Rattling good things
Thursday, January 18th., Hotel Californie, Cannes.
Yesterday I finished the fifth article of the Harper's series. And today I turned towards the construction of the sequel to "The Card" (I haven't decided what to title it yet) for the American Magazine. It is only between two spells of work that I can find time for unimportant correspondence, notes etc. For example I wrote declining an invitation to speak at a dinner of the Writers' Club. The invitation, from a Miss Simpson, was most flattering but that sort of thing is entirely out of my line; I consistently refuse speaking engagements though I could make money from them.
I had a letter from my cousin in the Isle of Man, and must reply to that before I get immersed in the novel. Also, she mentioned a couple of things which perplexed me and I must ask about them. She seems well and was extolling the virtues of the mild Isle of Man climate - no extremes of weather apparently. No doubt she has a point, but I would rather be in Cannes!
My days are always full at the moment, without counting that I have hadthree abcesses, two together, as a result of a chill in December. The last one is not yet gone, quite.
I am now in the full swing of my ordinary day: writing, reading a lot of newspapers, and several books at once. I bought Whymper's "Scrambles among the Alps", and Stendhal's "Vie de Napoleon", and began reading them together, and immediately felt that I had got hold of two rattling good things. These, with a more or les daily instalment of Sorel's "l'Europe et la Revolution Francais", keep me busy.
Yesterday I finished the fifth article of the Harper's series. And today I turned towards the construction of the sequel to "The Card" (I haven't decided what to title it yet) for the American Magazine. It is only between two spells of work that I can find time for unimportant correspondence, notes etc. For example I wrote declining an invitation to speak at a dinner of the Writers' Club. The invitation, from a Miss Simpson, was most flattering but that sort of thing is entirely out of my line; I consistently refuse speaking engagements though I could make money from them.
I had a letter from my cousin in the Isle of Man, and must reply to that before I get immersed in the novel. Also, she mentioned a couple of things which perplexed me and I must ask about them. She seems well and was extolling the virtues of the mild Isle of Man climate - no extremes of weather apparently. No doubt she has a point, but I would rather be in Cannes!
My days are always full at the moment, without counting that I have hadthree abcesses, two together, as a result of a chill in December. The last one is not yet gone, quite.
I am now in the full swing of my ordinary day: writing, reading a lot of newspapers, and several books at once. I bought Whymper's "Scrambles among the Alps", and Stendhal's "Vie de Napoleon", and began reading them together, and immediately felt that I had got hold of two rattling good things. These, with a more or les daily instalment of Sorel's "l'Europe et la Revolution Francais", keep me busy.
Thursday 17 January 2019
Family matters
Sunday, January 17th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.
I was much disquieted today by Tertia's letter in which she said twice that our mother was 'extremely ill'. Deep down in everyone's mind will be the idea that I am 'enjoying myself on the Riviera' while she is extremely ill. It is the address of the absent son that matters on these occasions. But I should be a fool to go to London unless she was much worse than she is. And I know she wouldn't want me to. I can't blame Tertia. She is a sensible woman and will have reasoned that she could prove to be at fault whether she told me or not; so she left the decision to me. I would have done the same.
However, I managed to do a good day's work, and finished Chapter 5 of "A Great Man", 5,500 words.
Frederick Hanbury, of Allen and Hanbury's Foods, and the great botanist, editor of "The London Catalogue", came to lunch. He is staying with his cousin Sir Thomas Hanbury, the Lord God of these parts. Sir Thomas apparently has the finest private garden in the world, 100 acres, 5,000 species (some absolutely unique) and 46 gardeners. Quite what criteria have been applied in coming to the conclusion that it is 'the finest' were not vouchsafed. One suspects family pride may be a significant factor. We were not invited to visit which I am glad about as formal gardens leave me rather cold.
Speaking of Monte Carlo, Hanbury told us of how he was at the tables 30 years ago and saw two Russian princesses there losing heavily, but keeping stoical silence, the tears streaming down their cheeks. He is emphatically not a man of the world and his Russian princesses were probably French whores, but nevertheless his picture of the women playing and losing, in silent, irrepressible, hopeful despairing tears, was an effective one. He is fgar from an ordinary man, and I rather liked something at the root of him, but soon after lunch I stole away to sleep.
I was much disquieted today by Tertia's letter in which she said twice that our mother was 'extremely ill'. Deep down in everyone's mind will be the idea that I am 'enjoying myself on the Riviera' while she is extremely ill. It is the address of the absent son that matters on these occasions. But I should be a fool to go to London unless she was much worse than she is. And I know she wouldn't want me to. I can't blame Tertia. She is a sensible woman and will have reasoned that she could prove to be at fault whether she told me or not; so she left the decision to me. I would have done the same.
However, I managed to do a good day's work, and finished Chapter 5 of "A Great Man", 5,500 words.
Frederick Hanbury, of Allen and Hanbury's Foods, and the great botanist, editor of "The London Catalogue", came to lunch. He is staying with his cousin Sir Thomas Hanbury, the Lord God of these parts. Sir Thomas apparently has the finest private garden in the world, 100 acres, 5,000 species (some absolutely unique) and 46 gardeners. Quite what criteria have been applied in coming to the conclusion that it is 'the finest' were not vouchsafed. One suspects family pride may be a significant factor. We were not invited to visit which I am glad about as formal gardens leave me rather cold.
Speaking of Monte Carlo, Hanbury told us of how he was at the tables 30 years ago and saw two Russian princesses there losing heavily, but keeping stoical silence, the tears streaming down their cheeks. He is emphatically not a man of the world and his Russian princesses were probably French whores, but nevertheless his picture of the women playing and losing, in silent, irrepressible, hopeful despairing tears, was an effective one. He is fgar from an ordinary man, and I rather liked something at the root of him, but soon after lunch I stole away to sleep.
Wednesday 16 January 2019
Keeping to time
Saturday, January 16th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.
London today to see the work of the Queen's Fund. I took my niece Mary and my nephew Richard with me and Tertia met us at Liverpool Street. They all went off to do their own things and we met later for the return trip. Needless to say the 10.7 was late. I have never known it not to be late. I mentioned it to the ticket inspector and he said: "It's because of the war." Unbelievable! I was so surprised by the sheer effrontery of that reply that I failed to make a rejoinder.
Lunch at Mrs. McKenna's, wife of Reginald. Largeish house in Smith Square, designed by Lutyens. Very bare and lacking in furniture. I don't think they have been there long. What furniture there was was good though. Oresent: Masterman, full of good humour; Brock, Secretary of National Relief Fund; and Mary Mc Arthur, stoutish matron with a marked Scotch accent. I met her on doorstep and introduced myself. I liked her.
Mrs. McArthur had prepared a timed programme of our pilgrimage, with times in it for leaving like 2.48. Definitely a woman after my own heart. And we kept to it fairly well.
London today to see the work of the Queen's Fund. I took my niece Mary and my nephew Richard with me and Tertia met us at Liverpool Street. They all went off to do their own things and we met later for the return trip. Needless to say the 10.7 was late. I have never known it not to be late. I mentioned it to the ticket inspector and he said: "It's because of the war." Unbelievable! I was so surprised by the sheer effrontery of that reply that I failed to make a rejoinder.
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| 36 Smith Square |
Mrs. McArthur had prepared a timed programme of our pilgrimage, with times in it for leaving like 2.48. Definitely a woman after my own heart. And we kept to it fairly well.
Tuesday 15 January 2019
Journalistically speaking
Saturday, January 15th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.
I went to London Wednesday and returned Friday and was ill nearly all the time with dyspepsia. Edward Garnett lunched with me on Wednesday. He said he had an important matter to discuss. It was a project for a weekly 1d. political paper to tell the truth about politics. He wanted me to give up everything and edit it; also to start it and organise it. He had the title and a plan of contents, including chiefly a series of "Fables for Liberals". He had written the first fable himself. When I asked him what he would do, he said he only meant to contribute himself. He was quite sincere, and had not begun to suspect that the scheme originated in his idea for a fable about Liberals who had lost their trousers.
From the Reform I went to the Statesman to discuss with Sharp the notion of some plainer writing about political facts. I had previously seen McKenna's brother, who told me that Reginald was still quite determined to leave the Cabinet if it tried to outrun the constable. He indicated that the financial situation was exceedingly grave.
At night I dined with Atkins who told us he had met an old friend that day, an American journalist named Marshall whom he had known in the Cuban war, and who had been shot in the spine in a very interesting way, so much so that it ought ot have been impossible for him to live, and two medical books had been written about him. He walks with a stick or sticks. This man was coming to Europe journalistically, and Bernsdorff had him in at the Waldorf-Astoria, and said to him: "You can have £50,000, not dollars, before you leave this hotel if you will go to Europe in German interests." Marshall refused. Bernsdorff then went further and told him that he could have the biggest journalistic scoop that any journalist had ever had. Namely that he should be taken from Belgium to Berlin in a Zeppelin and there have an interview with the Kaiser, and be brought back. Marshall refused. Atkins said he knew Marshall very well and vouched for his honesty. The Zeppelin excursion was afterwards accepted by another American journalist, whose name I forget, but he died in the Zeppelin on the way. Atkins seemed to genuinely believe all this twaddle.
He then told us that Lord Cromer had told him that an English officer out in Russia on military contracts business found himself absolutely unable to do the business without backsheesh to officials, which he refused to give. He then managed to see the Tsar, who affected great surprise and went over the heads of the officials - but how long the Tsar's arrangement 'worked' Atkins couldn't say. Atkins is certainly an entertaining dinner companion; I wonder what he will do for stories after the war?
I went to London Wednesday and returned Friday and was ill nearly all the time with dyspepsia. Edward Garnett lunched with me on Wednesday. He said he had an important matter to discuss. It was a project for a weekly 1d. political paper to tell the truth about politics. He wanted me to give up everything and edit it; also to start it and organise it. He had the title and a plan of contents, including chiefly a series of "Fables for Liberals". He had written the first fable himself. When I asked him what he would do, he said he only meant to contribute himself. He was quite sincere, and had not begun to suspect that the scheme originated in his idea for a fable about Liberals who had lost their trousers.
From the Reform I went to the Statesman to discuss with Sharp the notion of some plainer writing about political facts. I had previously seen McKenna's brother, who told me that Reginald was still quite determined to leave the Cabinet if it tried to outrun the constable. He indicated that the financial situation was exceedingly grave.
At night I dined with Atkins who told us he had met an old friend that day, an American journalist named Marshall whom he had known in the Cuban war, and who had been shot in the spine in a very interesting way, so much so that it ought ot have been impossible for him to live, and two medical books had been written about him. He walks with a stick or sticks. This man was coming to Europe journalistically, and Bernsdorff had him in at the Waldorf-Astoria, and said to him: "You can have £50,000, not dollars, before you leave this hotel if you will go to Europe in German interests." Marshall refused. Bernsdorff then went further and told him that he could have the biggest journalistic scoop that any journalist had ever had. Namely that he should be taken from Belgium to Berlin in a Zeppelin and there have an interview with the Kaiser, and be brought back. Marshall refused. Atkins said he knew Marshall very well and vouched for his honesty. The Zeppelin excursion was afterwards accepted by another American journalist, whose name I forget, but he died in the Zeppelin on the way. Atkins seemed to genuinely believe all this twaddle.
He then told us that Lord Cromer had told him that an English officer out in Russia on military contracts business found himself absolutely unable to do the business without backsheesh to officials, which he refused to give. He then managed to see the Tsar, who affected great surprise and went over the heads of the officials - but how long the Tsar's arrangement 'worked' Atkins couldn't say. Atkins is certainly an entertaining dinner companion; I wonder what he will do for stories after the war?
Monday 14 January 2019
Squinting about
Saturday, January 14th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.
Wednesday evening I went into Westminster Cathedral, and saw how to use it again in my novel. Very cold day. Nice warm cathedral. Ugly chapels, detail invisible. A non-RC parson or two squinting about. Noise of a charwoman washing floor. Exceedingly few people. The at 10.10 either Prime or Tierce, don't know which. A few performers came in after a bell had been rung; took their seats and then the intoning begins; scarcely audible for a second or less. It 'steals' out. Words utterly incomprehensible. Outside, front of shop devoted to rosaries, crucifixes etc.
By yesterday Walpole's scheme for me to republish Jacob Tonson articles in volume had taken shape. I read through a lot of the stuff and found it enormously vivacious. I wish I could write with such life and vigour now. In fact I hated to leave it last night in order to dress to go to a ball given by 2nd First London R.G.A. at Weeley - "The Fields".
Wednesday evening I went into Westminster Cathedral, and saw how to use it again in my novel. Very cold day. Nice warm cathedral. Ugly chapels, detail invisible. A non-RC parson or two squinting about. Noise of a charwoman washing floor. Exceedingly few people. The at 10.10 either Prime or Tierce, don't know which. A few performers came in after a bell had been rung; took their seats and then the intoning begins; scarcely audible for a second or less. It 'steals' out. Words utterly incomprehensible. Outside, front of shop devoted to rosaries, crucifixes etc.By yesterday Walpole's scheme for me to republish Jacob Tonson articles in volume had taken shape. I read through a lot of the stuff and found it enormously vivacious. I wish I could write with such life and vigour now. In fact I hated to leave it last night in order to dress to go to a ball given by 2nd First London R.G.A. at Weeley - "The Fields".
Sunday 13 January 2019
Listless
Wednesday, January 13th., Rue de Calais, Paris.
Horrible muddy weather yesterday and the same again today. A sort of thick mist filled the air, not substantial enough to be called rain but effective at wetting one's person, and depressing one's soul. I long for some warmth and some sunshine. I did nothing all day but prepare to depart for Menton.
Of course I had a list. I am one of those people who cannot proceed in the absence of a list. Whenever I have some scheme in prospect the first thing I do is to make a list. I like to have it handy, by me, so as to be able to add or subtract as my inclinations develop. To be honest I cannot understand how others manage without lists. I have come across people (men and women) who assert that they would rather die than waste time making lists. Needless to say they generally turn out to be the same people who find themselves missing some essential item. And who do they then turn to? In the face of repeated experience they are generally incorrigible.
I bought two Stevensons recently and have read a lot of "Island Nights". Good sound work, but, strictly judged, decidedly mediocre - though marked by the most charming justice of 'values' as they say in painting. I am in need of a really 'good' book to read and have failed to find one, not for want of trying. Of course I could re-read something I know to be first-rate, but I have a desire for something new and exciting. This is symptomatic I think of a general staleness which I hope this working holiday will dissipate.
Horrible muddy weather yesterday and the same again today. A sort of thick mist filled the air, not substantial enough to be called rain but effective at wetting one's person, and depressing one's soul. I long for some warmth and some sunshine. I did nothing all day but prepare to depart for Menton.
Of course I had a list. I am one of those people who cannot proceed in the absence of a list. Whenever I have some scheme in prospect the first thing I do is to make a list. I like to have it handy, by me, so as to be able to add or subtract as my inclinations develop. To be honest I cannot understand how others manage without lists. I have come across people (men and women) who assert that they would rather die than waste time making lists. Needless to say they generally turn out to be the same people who find themselves missing some essential item. And who do they then turn to? In the face of repeated experience they are generally incorrigible.
I bought two Stevensons recently and have read a lot of "Island Nights". Good sound work, but, strictly judged, decidedly mediocre - though marked by the most charming justice of 'values' as they say in painting. I am in need of a really 'good' book to read and have failed to find one, not for want of trying. Of course I could re-read something I know to be first-rate, but I have a desire for something new and exciting. This is symptomatic I think of a general staleness which I hope this working holiday will dissipate.
Saturday 12 January 2019
Change afoot
Saturday, January 12th., Cadogan Square, London.
I went yesterday morning to a smallish second-hand furniture shop (authentic antiques) in Basil Street. A tall gentleman in charge and alone there. He apologised for a certain untidiness, and said that his partner was even more untidy than he was himself. I didn't see the partner but I guessed that there was no love lost between them. A tall man, conventionally dressed, tail coat, striped trousers. Perfect manners. Evidently a gentleman, insofar as I understand that term.
He gave a twinge and apologised in moving some furniture. We had a short discussion comparing the varieties of back pain; mine is rather 'tender' at the moment. Said his was rheumatism, caught in Bolshevist Russia. Rather implied that he held the Bolsheviks to blame. Man probably about 45 -48. Biggish nose. In moving some more furniture he let a cut-glass jug slip off a table, but I caught it as it fell. Excellent reactions for a man nearing 60.
When, eventually, I said that I should have to think over a proposed purchase as I wasn't sure if I liked it, he said eagerly: "Certainly, I should not care for you to buy anything and regret it afterwards." Just before I left a very tall young man and a biggish boy came in, and he told them to go into his office. Both stylish. "My sons," he said to me, concealing his pride. This place was a good illustration of the invasion of trade by the educated and well-bred classes.
Another instance I had the other day at Gereth's in Beauchamp Place, where the middle-aged lady boss was a most charming woman. Another is the "Cottars Market", run by Mrs. Pitt Chatham and Mrs. Playfair. All these three close together. I suppose all this tells us something about societal changes since the war. It is of a kind with the shortage of servants, and the noticeable decline in deference, and the fall-off in church attendance. All of which I believe intellectually to be good things, but I can't help feeling that the world was a better place when I was young. I suppose that is part and parcel of getting old.
I went yesterday morning to a smallish second-hand furniture shop (authentic antiques) in Basil Street. A tall gentleman in charge and alone there. He apologised for a certain untidiness, and said that his partner was even more untidy than he was himself. I didn't see the partner but I guessed that there was no love lost between them. A tall man, conventionally dressed, tail coat, striped trousers. Perfect manners. Evidently a gentleman, insofar as I understand that term.
He gave a twinge and apologised in moving some furniture. We had a short discussion comparing the varieties of back pain; mine is rather 'tender' at the moment. Said his was rheumatism, caught in Bolshevist Russia. Rather implied that he held the Bolsheviks to blame. Man probably about 45 -48. Biggish nose. In moving some more furniture he let a cut-glass jug slip off a table, but I caught it as it fell. Excellent reactions for a man nearing 60.
When, eventually, I said that I should have to think over a proposed purchase as I wasn't sure if I liked it, he said eagerly: "Certainly, I should not care for you to buy anything and regret it afterwards." Just before I left a very tall young man and a biggish boy came in, and he told them to go into his office. Both stylish. "My sons," he said to me, concealing his pride. This place was a good illustration of the invasion of trade by the educated and well-bred classes.
Another instance I had the other day at Gereth's in Beauchamp Place, where the middle-aged lady boss was a most charming woman. Another is the "Cottars Market", run by Mrs. Pitt Chatham and Mrs. Playfair. All these three close together. I suppose all this tells us something about societal changes since the war. It is of a kind with the shortage of servants, and the noticeable decline in deference, and the fall-off in church attendance. All of which I believe intellectually to be good things, but I can't help feeling that the world was a better place when I was young. I suppose that is part and parcel of getting old.
Friday 11 January 2019
A hard read
Wednesday, January 11th., Cadogan Square, London.
Ivor Nicholson came for tea at 5.15, and wanted six more articles for Hearsts: but only the English rights thereof. So I refused. I said I would write for 2s. a word and return to Hearsts all I received by selling the articles on my own in the U.S.A. It wasn't what he was expecting!
The Daily News rang up to say that Hardy was dead, and would I say something. I wouldn't. But I decided that I must get up early tomorrow morning, and write a Standard article on Hardy to take the place of the one on Gilbert Murray. This news has affected me. I liked Hardy and he was really the last link with a former generation of writers.
Last evening in bed I finished an interesting book titled "The History of Loneliness", by John Boyne, a writer not previously known to me. The subject is corruption in the Catholic Church in Ireland, and specifically the covering-up of child sexual abuse by priests. It takes the form of a first person narrative by one Odran Yates, himself a priest in his sixties. Giving an account of incidents in his life he exposes religious hypocricy, abuse of power, cultural inertia and much more. All culminating in admission of his own culpability as a man who did nothing. And we as readers realise, as Yates does himself, that his life has been a waste and a sham. Depressing. Boyne is excellent at dialogue, conveying a real sense of the tensions and evasions that litter discourse. I particularly enjoyed his account of a radio interview of an Irish Cardinal. He mistakenly, in my view, inserts an episode where Yates goes to Rome and works for the Pope which does nothing to take the story forward. I suppose the intention was to say that corruption in the Catholic Church is widespread and systemic. Overall this is a powerful piece of writing which should probably be required reading in theological colleges everywhere. The good news seems to be that Irish society has moved on from its subservience to the Church. I would thank God for that if I believed in Him!
Ivor Nicholson came for tea at 5.15, and wanted six more articles for Hearsts: but only the English rights thereof. So I refused. I said I would write for 2s. a word and return to Hearsts all I received by selling the articles on my own in the U.S.A. It wasn't what he was expecting!
The Daily News rang up to say that Hardy was dead, and would I say something. I wouldn't. But I decided that I must get up early tomorrow morning, and write a Standard article on Hardy to take the place of the one on Gilbert Murray. This news has affected me. I liked Hardy and he was really the last link with a former generation of writers.
Last evening in bed I finished an interesting book titled "The History of Loneliness", by John Boyne, a writer not previously known to me. The subject is corruption in the Catholic Church in Ireland, and specifically the covering-up of child sexual abuse by priests. It takes the form of a first person narrative by one Odran Yates, himself a priest in his sixties. Giving an account of incidents in his life he exposes religious hypocricy, abuse of power, cultural inertia and much more. All culminating in admission of his own culpability as a man who did nothing. And we as readers realise, as Yates does himself, that his life has been a waste and a sham. Depressing. Boyne is excellent at dialogue, conveying a real sense of the tensions and evasions that litter discourse. I particularly enjoyed his account of a radio interview of an Irish Cardinal. He mistakenly, in my view, inserts an episode where Yates goes to Rome and works for the Pope which does nothing to take the story forward. I suppose the intention was to say that corruption in the Catholic Church is widespread and systemic. Overall this is a powerful piece of writing which should probably be required reading in theological colleges everywhere. The good news seems to be that Irish society has moved on from its subservience to the Church. I would thank God for that if I believed in Him!
Thursday 10 January 2019
Well of loneliness
Thursday, January 10th., Chiltern Court, London.
I was attracted to Radclyffe Hall's "The Well of Loneliness" by a line in the publisher's advertisement: "With a commentary by Havelock Ellis", Havelock Ellis being a name which means much to me. I knew nothing of the author's previous work, nor of the subject of this one. I ought to have guessed its subject. It is Havelock Ellis the essayist to whom I am indebted for the enlargement of my outlook; he is, in addition to being a very valuable philosophical essayist, among the greatest European authorities upon the vagaries or aberrations of nature in the matter of sexual characteristics. He is also, notoriously, married to and living apart from a confirmed lesbian. A fascinating character who I should like to meet.
"The Well of Loneliness" is the story of one of the victims of Nature's caprices. Havelock Ellis stands by it. He praises it for its fictional quality, its notable psychological and sociological significance, and its complete absence of offence. I cannot disagree with him. At present there is a campaign getting underway by one of our major newspapers to have the book banned. I can only assume that they have not read it. The newspaper is the Sunday Express and its editor, Mr. James Douglas, has called for an immediate ban on "The Well of Loneliness" stating that "I would rather give a healthy boy or a healthy girl a phial of prussic acid than this novel. Poison kills the body but moral poison kills the soul." This was an act of stunt journalism, typical of the Sunday Express, which appalled many notable figures in the literary world, myself includud.
Uncertain in touch at first, this novel is in the main fine. Disfigured by loose writing and marred by loose construction, it nevertheless does hold you. It is honest, convincing, and extremely courageous. What it amounts to is a cry for unprejudiced social recognition of the victim. The cry attains genuine tragic poignancy. The future may hide highly strange things, and therefore conservative prophecy is dangerous, but I must say that I do not think the cry will be effectively heard, at least not for a long time. At present, and I think for some time to come, the forces of church and establishment are too powerfully barricaded to hear any cry from those less fortunate than themselves. Nature has no prejudices, but human nature is less broad-minded and has a deep instinct for the protection of 'society'. It puts up a powerful defence of its own limitations. "The Well of Loneliness" is not a novel for those who prefer not to see life steadily and see it whole.
I was attracted to Radclyffe Hall's "The Well of Loneliness" by a line in the publisher's advertisement: "With a commentary by Havelock Ellis", Havelock Ellis being a name which means much to me. I knew nothing of the author's previous work, nor of the subject of this one. I ought to have guessed its subject. It is Havelock Ellis the essayist to whom I am indebted for the enlargement of my outlook; he is, in addition to being a very valuable philosophical essayist, among the greatest European authorities upon the vagaries or aberrations of nature in the matter of sexual characteristics. He is also, notoriously, married to and living apart from a confirmed lesbian. A fascinating character who I should like to meet."The Well of Loneliness" is the story of one of the victims of Nature's caprices. Havelock Ellis stands by it. He praises it for its fictional quality, its notable psychological and sociological significance, and its complete absence of offence. I cannot disagree with him. At present there is a campaign getting underway by one of our major newspapers to have the book banned. I can only assume that they have not read it. The newspaper is the Sunday Express and its editor, Mr. James Douglas, has called for an immediate ban on "The Well of Loneliness" stating that "I would rather give a healthy boy or a healthy girl a phial of prussic acid than this novel. Poison kills the body but moral poison kills the soul." This was an act of stunt journalism, typical of the Sunday Express, which appalled many notable figures in the literary world, myself includud.
Uncertain in touch at first, this novel is in the main fine. Disfigured by loose writing and marred by loose construction, it nevertheless does hold you. It is honest, convincing, and extremely courageous. What it amounts to is a cry for unprejudiced social recognition of the victim. The cry attains genuine tragic poignancy. The future may hide highly strange things, and therefore conservative prophecy is dangerous, but I must say that I do not think the cry will be effectively heard, at least not for a long time. At present, and I think for some time to come, the forces of church and establishment are too powerfully barricaded to hear any cry from those less fortunate than themselves. Nature has no prejudices, but human nature is less broad-minded and has a deep instinct for the protection of 'society'. It puts up a powerful defence of its own limitations. "The Well of Loneliness" is not a novel for those who prefer not to see life steadily and see it whole.
Wednesday 9 January 2019
Getting ideas
Saturday, January 9th., Hotel Belvedere, Mont Pelerin sur Vevey, Switzerland.
Maiden, aged about 30. Self-conscious. Big nose and eyes, and big features generally. Badly dressed. What is characteristic about her is her pose in an armchair at night, needle-working. Looks intently at her work, with virginal expression, while others are talking. Then at intervals looks up suddenly; you can't see her eyes for the white gleam of her spectacles, and she seems to embrace the whole room, or perhaps the talker alone, in a wide candid, ingenuous glance, as of surprise, as if saying slowly: "What the hell are you talking about?" I wonder what is going on behind those spectacles? Am I right in my assessment that she remains inviolate? How would she respond if an attempt were made at seduction?
I discussed this with Marguerite later. She too had noticed the woman and had drawn the same conclusion. She said you wouldn't find a Frenchwoman like that. She is right. We got on to talking about how a seduction might be carried out and, one thing leading to another, the evening ended most enjoyably. Naughtily, M. suggested that the seduction might be conducted as well by a woman as by a man. A stimulating idea I found.
A honeymoon pair came the other night. Gave me an idea for my novel. Across the dining room they looked immensely distinguished. He might have been a brother of Rostand. Fine nose. White hands. She seemed mysterious in a da Vinci way. I made sure he was some sort of artist. No, he proved to be in business. When we saw them close to in the little reading room - intense vulgarity of gesture, movement etc. He seemed more like a barber's assistant and she a vendeuse mal elevee. Long time since I have been so taken in. Interesting to watch how gestures effective at a distance (theatrical) grew vulgar close at hand.
I did four sketches and one watercolour today, and found all sorts of ideas for novel quite easily. My recent coorrespondence seems to have been mainly about "The Old Wives' Tale" which is now in a second edition and selling regularly. It has been better received than I expected. In fact things are going very well for me at present. My "Matador" story should be in the English Review alongside Hardy, Conrad, Galsworthy, Wells, and Tolstoy - I shall not feel ashamed of the company. Also I have been informed that my new play is 'simply terrific'.
Maiden, aged about 30. Self-conscious. Big nose and eyes, and big features generally. Badly dressed. What is characteristic about her is her pose in an armchair at night, needle-working. Looks intently at her work, with virginal expression, while others are talking. Then at intervals looks up suddenly; you can't see her eyes for the white gleam of her spectacles, and she seems to embrace the whole room, or perhaps the talker alone, in a wide candid, ingenuous glance, as of surprise, as if saying slowly: "What the hell are you talking about?" I wonder what is going on behind those spectacles? Am I right in my assessment that she remains inviolate? How would she respond if an attempt were made at seduction?
I discussed this with Marguerite later. She too had noticed the woman and had drawn the same conclusion. She said you wouldn't find a Frenchwoman like that. She is right. We got on to talking about how a seduction might be carried out and, one thing leading to another, the evening ended most enjoyably. Naughtily, M. suggested that the seduction might be conducted as well by a woman as by a man. A stimulating idea I found.
A honeymoon pair came the other night. Gave me an idea for my novel. Across the dining room they looked immensely distinguished. He might have been a brother of Rostand. Fine nose. White hands. She seemed mysterious in a da Vinci way. I made sure he was some sort of artist. No, he proved to be in business. When we saw them close to in the little reading room - intense vulgarity of gesture, movement etc. He seemed more like a barber's assistant and she a vendeuse mal elevee. Long time since I have been so taken in. Interesting to watch how gestures effective at a distance (theatrical) grew vulgar close at hand.
I did four sketches and one watercolour today, and found all sorts of ideas for novel quite easily. My recent coorrespondence seems to have been mainly about "The Old Wives' Tale" which is now in a second edition and selling regularly. It has been better received than I expected. In fact things are going very well for me at present. My "Matador" story should be in the English Review alongside Hardy, Conrad, Galsworthy, Wells, and Tolstoy - I shall not feel ashamed of the company. Also I have been informed that my new play is 'simply terrific'.
Tuesday 8 January 2019
Nothing simple
Friday, January 8th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.
This is the sort of thing we must expect in war time. Yesterday afternoon Dr. H. called in a state of great excitement to tell me that the village was seething with the news that R. was pro-German, and taking advantage of his position as chauffeur to the military representative to transmit secret information as to English plans through his sweetheart, a German girl, to the German authorities. H. Believed it, or half-believed it.
I wrote to the Police Inspector last night and he called to see me today. He said he was constantly having complaints about signalling etc., all absurd. I told him that R. was engaged to an English girl and that the whole thing was idiotic. He said he had received a letter about it (signed) and had to make a few enquiries, but expected of course no result. A very decent sort of chap.
What does it tell us about human nature? Really only what we already know, but are generally unprepared to admit, that people will tend to reinforce their own sense of identity by singling out some other person, or group, for demonisation. Just look at the way Jews have been treated for centuries. And war is the perfect medium for such behaviour to proliferate. I hear that even the royal family are changing their name in an effort not to attract accusations of 'disloyalty'.
I have been thinking about health as a concept. Tricky thing to define when you start to think beneath the surface. In fact the more I have thought about it the less useful a concept I think it is. My thinking was triggered by browsing in some books on ancient history. It seems for the Greeks and Romans that health was very much a physical thing and was largely a matter of 'balance', of the bodily fluids; and of course the gods could intervene either way. Nowadays we have a more 'mechanical' approach. We see the person as more or less a machine to be maintained and, where necessary, corrected. And the science of psychology has arisen with the inference that the mind can be regarded separately. I am suspicious of that way of thinking myself. But I must admit to being nonplussed when trying to decide if I am 'healthy' or not.
This is the sort of thing we must expect in war time. Yesterday afternoon Dr. H. called in a state of great excitement to tell me that the village was seething with the news that R. was pro-German, and taking advantage of his position as chauffeur to the military representative to transmit secret information as to English plans through his sweetheart, a German girl, to the German authorities. H. Believed it, or half-believed it.
I wrote to the Police Inspector last night and he called to see me today. He said he was constantly having complaints about signalling etc., all absurd. I told him that R. was engaged to an English girl and that the whole thing was idiotic. He said he had received a letter about it (signed) and had to make a few enquiries, but expected of course no result. A very decent sort of chap.
What does it tell us about human nature? Really only what we already know, but are generally unprepared to admit, that people will tend to reinforce their own sense of identity by singling out some other person, or group, for demonisation. Just look at the way Jews have been treated for centuries. And war is the perfect medium for such behaviour to proliferate. I hear that even the royal family are changing their name in an effort not to attract accusations of 'disloyalty'.
I have been thinking about health as a concept. Tricky thing to define when you start to think beneath the surface. In fact the more I have thought about it the less useful a concept I think it is. My thinking was triggered by browsing in some books on ancient history. It seems for the Greeks and Romans that health was very much a physical thing and was largely a matter of 'balance', of the bodily fluids; and of course the gods could intervene either way. Nowadays we have a more 'mechanical' approach. We see the person as more or less a machine to be maintained and, where necessary, corrected. And the science of psychology has arisen with the inference that the mind can be regarded separately. I am suspicious of that way of thinking myself. But I must admit to being nonplussed when trying to decide if I am 'healthy' or not.
Monday 7 January 2019
Period piece
Saturday, January 7th., Cadogan Square, London.
At Dorothy's urgent request, I went over to the Court Theatre where "Mr. Prohack" is in performance. The atmosphere was of the last night of a run, but, although no other theatre has yet been obtained, we trust it is not the last night of the run. Evelyn Cochran came round after the performance, and Charles was really enthusiastic about the play. He said he hadn't liked a play so much for years. Evelyn said she had never seen Charlie so happy in a theatre, which is certainly saying something. He also liked the acting, especially Laughton. It seemed impossible not to believe that this play, in the West End, and kept on for a bit, should not develop into a very great success. And yet, I wonder if we have not been left behind, Knoblock and I, by changing taste in drama. When I look at this play I have to admit it could have been put on ten or even twenty years ago; it seems to me now a sort of period piece. I suppose I am something of a period piece myself!
All the packing up had to be finished in Dorothy's dressing room. More goodbyes. Sally, the dresser, is really a very nice old woman, with a voice as thin as a piece of paper. We got home at midnight. Then searchings in the larder for food for Dorothy. If I am honest, I feel too old for this sort of thing. If not for Dorothy and the child I would be leading a simpler, quieter, and more dignified life than I do. The expense of this household is staggering, but not through my extravagance. Where will it all end?
 |
| Sir Charles Cochran |
All the packing up had to be finished in Dorothy's dressing room. More goodbyes. Sally, the dresser, is really a very nice old woman, with a voice as thin as a piece of paper. We got home at midnight. Then searchings in the larder for food for Dorothy. If I am honest, I feel too old for this sort of thing. If not for Dorothy and the child I would be leading a simpler, quieter, and more dignified life than I do. The expense of this household is staggering, but not through my extravagance. Where will it all end?
Sunday 6 January 2019
Feeling feeble
Wednesday, January 6th., Rue de Calais, Paris.
All day yesterday I was ill, probably owing to mussel soup at Sylvain's on Monday night, but I do not feel sure. I was there with Rhoden and the dinner seemed admirable, but perhaps my assessment was premature. Rawson came for his lunch and I was obliged to send him away again.
Chichi came in the evening and stayed until midnight. I had slept nearly all day but was still too tired for any sensual experiences. Pity as she was on good form and clearly only awaited a little encouragement. Still we had a good talk. As curiously illustrating the customs of costume she told me that she cannot go out to do household shopping in a hat. She must go bare-headed. The matrons of Burslem would be horrified.
I couldn't read anything yesterday but newspapers. I read Stead's new paper, The Daily Paper, first number, all through. It made me admire the man, but if the paper succeeds I shall be surprised. He is certainly a controversial figure - journalist, editor, pacifist and spiritualist. Of course he served time in prison following the notorious Eliza Armstrong case. In fact this is the re-launch of the paper and seems to me to be aimed at domestic readers, particularly women. My sense is that he has passed his high-water mark.
Although feeble I did a good day's work today.
Davray called, and handed me the half-price ticket for Mentone he obtained for me through the Mercure de France. Rhoden gave me an excellent Viennese dinner at an Austrian restaurant in the Rue d'Hauteville. Afterwards at the Grand Cafe he enlarged on his international experiences as an insurance man.
All day yesterday I was ill, probably owing to mussel soup at Sylvain's on Monday night, but I do not feel sure. I was there with Rhoden and the dinner seemed admirable, but perhaps my assessment was premature. Rawson came for his lunch and I was obliged to send him away again.
Chichi came in the evening and stayed until midnight. I had slept nearly all day but was still too tired for any sensual experiences. Pity as she was on good form and clearly only awaited a little encouragement. Still we had a good talk. As curiously illustrating the customs of costume she told me that she cannot go out to do household shopping in a hat. She must go bare-headed. The matrons of Burslem would be horrified.
I couldn't read anything yesterday but newspapers. I read Stead's new paper, The Daily Paper, first number, all through. It made me admire the man, but if the paper succeeds I shall be surprised. He is certainly a controversial figure - journalist, editor, pacifist and spiritualist. Of course he served time in prison following the notorious Eliza Armstrong case. In fact this is the re-launch of the paper and seems to me to be aimed at domestic readers, particularly women. My sense is that he has passed his high-water mark.
Although feeble I did a good day's work today.
Davray called, and handed me the half-price ticket for Mentone he obtained for me through the Mercure de France. Rhoden gave me an excellent Viennese dinner at an Austrian restaurant in the Rue d'Hauteville. Afterwards at the Grand Cafe he enlarged on his international experiences as an insurance man.
Saturday 5 January 2019
By the sea
Saturday, January 5th., Chiltern Court, London.
You can find a certain kind of wide romance even in the January sales at the draper's shop. This thought came into my mind when thinking about my mother. She was a character. She told me once how she had bought some very large unbleached linen sheets, 1s.11d. each, and nearly 4 yards in length. She was told that they are woven by Russian peasants by hand. They are then sold to the French War Office, used during annual military manoeuvres, and after the wear of a month or so are sold by the French Government to English traders. So it came to pass that I slept between linen that had passed through the hands of the most miserable and unhappy people in Europe - Russian peasants and French conscripts. If that isn't romance then I don't know what is!
We returned today from our short tour of North Devon. All good. Dramatic scenery, extensive beaches, hospitable people and plenty of interesting history. I discounted the "Lorna Doone" aspect of the area as being too commonplace and was caught up instead by "Westward Ho!" which I picked up in a second-hand bookshop in Appledore. Incidentally we visited Westward Ho! the place which is nondescript, but revels in that unique exclamation mark. "Westward Ho!" has the reputation of being Kingsley's best book, and I think it is. I read it again, after perhaps 35 years. It is tremendously long, 591 close pages, and I quailed as I set forth on the voyage. There were storms en route, and good ones; but there were also interminable doldrums. I must admit to 'skipping' through the doldrums. My obstinate courage in sticking to the ship until she finally dropped anchor at Appledore has convinced me that in a previous incarnation I must have been at least Francis Drake. That said, it must be admitted that "Westward Ho!" is a confection; honest enough but a confection. I would not read it again for £100.
Now Appledore is a place in which I could live happily. Narrow lanes, steep hills, characterful inns, the rise and fall of the tide, sea-stories and sea-people. There too is romance in all its aspects: expansive tales of the sea and ships; and also the lives of those who live by the sea, but not on the sea. Conrad should have come to live there. We also liked Ilfracombe though it is fading somewhat. Made me think of an actress who has been beautiful and successful, but is now past her prime and resorts to tricks and distractions to maintain a fiction of youth and desirability.
You can find a certain kind of wide romance even in the January sales at the draper's shop. This thought came into my mind when thinking about my mother. She was a character. She told me once how she had bought some very large unbleached linen sheets, 1s.11d. each, and nearly 4 yards in length. She was told that they are woven by Russian peasants by hand. They are then sold to the French War Office, used during annual military manoeuvres, and after the wear of a month or so are sold by the French Government to English traders. So it came to pass that I slept between linen that had passed through the hands of the most miserable and unhappy people in Europe - Russian peasants and French conscripts. If that isn't romance then I don't know what is!
We returned today from our short tour of North Devon. All good. Dramatic scenery, extensive beaches, hospitable people and plenty of interesting history. I discounted the "Lorna Doone" aspect of the area as being too commonplace and was caught up instead by "Westward Ho!" which I picked up in a second-hand bookshop in Appledore. Incidentally we visited Westward Ho! the place which is nondescript, but revels in that unique exclamation mark. "Westward Ho!" has the reputation of being Kingsley's best book, and I think it is. I read it again, after perhaps 35 years. It is tremendously long, 591 close pages, and I quailed as I set forth on the voyage. There were storms en route, and good ones; but there were also interminable doldrums. I must admit to 'skipping' through the doldrums. My obstinate courage in sticking to the ship until she finally dropped anchor at Appledore has convinced me that in a previous incarnation I must have been at least Francis Drake. That said, it must be admitted that "Westward Ho!" is a confection; honest enough but a confection. I would not read it again for £100.
Now Appledore is a place in which I could live happily. Narrow lanes, steep hills, characterful inns, the rise and fall of the tide, sea-stories and sea-people. There too is romance in all its aspects: expansive tales of the sea and ships; and also the lives of those who live by the sea, but not on the sea. Conrad should have come to live there. We also liked Ilfracombe though it is fading somewhat. Made me think of an actress who has been beautiful and successful, but is now past her prime and resorts to tricks and distractions to maintain a fiction of youth and desirability. Thursday 3 January 2019
Varied
Thursday, January 3rd., Yeolden House, North Devon
Plenty of walking today. Strolled about Tiverton this morning. Woodland walk later. By the sea this afternoon. A varied and enjoyable day, though cold. Still, I've been colder! Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, which is good. It won't be memorable, but it doesn't need to be.
I have been reading Salley Vickers. What a very versatile writer she is. After about fifty pages of "Dancing Backwards" I was convinced that this was a 'comic' novel, and in a way it is, but the writer's more serious intent gradually became clear. I suppose that the common denominator in Vickers' books is the quest for personal authenticity - at least that is how they seem to me. But this is very different in style, if not in purpose, from say "Where Three Roads Meet" my favourite of Vickers' fiction so far. Different also from "Instances of the Number 3" which is the one that recurs most frequently to my memory.
Violet, the 'heroine', is a woman of late middle age, still physically attractive we gather but recovering from the recent death of her husband and on a transatlantic voyage to New York to renew acquaintance with an old friend. I'm not sure that Violet is quite plausible - isn't she too intelligent and experienced to be quite so ready to accommodate herself to other people? Still she is decidedly likeable and seems to have a gift for drawing out other people. During the course of the voyage she reflects on the events of her early years which have significantly contributed to her becoming the person she is now, and gradually comes to realise where and why things went wrong. She also takes up dancing which is clearly a metaphor for her self-emancipation.
The novel is populated with a cast of interesting, if rather two-dimensional, characters who interact in ways to reinforce the message that we must be honest with and about ourselves, and that if we are unhappy we only have ourselves to blame. It put me in mind of "The History of Mr Polly" - if you don't like your life then you can change it! Vickers is clearly erudite but never pretentious. I particularly like Violet's occasional literary references which are generally not picked up by her interlocutors.
This is an easy and rewarding book to read - it made me smile, and it made me think. No small feat!
Wednesday 2 January 2019
Adventurous
Wednesday, January 2nd., Great Western Hotel, Tiverton.
Not many people would see me as a spontaneous person, let alone an impulsive one. And yet, today, I had the idea over breakfast to get away for a few days, and here I am! Not only to get away, but to set off without a destination in mind - doubly surprising. The thing is that however much you like your home, and I like mine a lot, the stimulus of a change of scene is good for the system. I will admit to being a victim of inertia; a willing victim, but a victim nonetheless. Already I feel more alive.
We visited Burnham-on-Sea on the way here. Why? Because it was handy, and we hadn't been there before. I liked it, which was a surprise. Of course, no seaside resort can look its best on a grey day in January, but there is a pleasant promenade which leads onto an estuaryside path, and the sea is incontrovertibly the sea. The town has seen better days and yet seems cared for, a place with some civic pride. And in the late afternoon the sky cleared somewhat, the sun exerted itself, and the sunset over the coastal hills of North Devon was worth seeing. Cold of course, but invigoratingly so.
Not many people would see me as a spontaneous person, let alone an impulsive one. And yet, today, I had the idea over breakfast to get away for a few days, and here I am! Not only to get away, but to set off without a destination in mind - doubly surprising. The thing is that however much you like your home, and I like mine a lot, the stimulus of a change of scene is good for the system. I will admit to being a victim of inertia; a willing victim, but a victim nonetheless. Already I feel more alive.
We visited Burnham-on-Sea on the way here. Why? Because it was handy, and we hadn't been there before. I liked it, which was a surprise. Of course, no seaside resort can look its best on a grey day in January, but there is a pleasant promenade which leads onto an estuaryside path, and the sea is incontrovertibly the sea. The town has seen better days and yet seems cared for, a place with some civic pride. And in the late afternoon the sky cleared somewhat, the sun exerted itself, and the sunset over the coastal hills of North Devon was worth seeing. Cold of course, but invigoratingly so.
Tuesday 1 January 2019
New life?
Tuesday, January 1st., Trinity Hall Farm, Hockliffe, Beds.
Taking stock at age thirty three. I am told that today, technically, starts the new century. And a hundred years from now will start the new millennium. So much for my short span!
Last year I wrote three plays, a serial of 70,000 words ("The Grand Babylon Hotel"), the draft of my Staffordshire novel ("Anna Tellwright") and part of the final writing, and half a dozen short stories. I also wrote and published 196 articles of various lengths. I collected, revised, and wrote a preface for a series of my articles from the Academy, to be called "Fame and Fiction". It is to be published later this year.
And I edited Woman magaxine until 30th. September when I resigned and came to live here in the country with my father, mother, and sister Tertia. I also advised Pearsons on 50 MSS books.
From April to the third week in December I was working almost continually at very high pressure, and had no energy to spare for this journal. I am taking it up again today in hope to incorporate it once more into my routine. There is a definite saving of time in dispensing with regular journal entries, but I find it is a useful activity to focus on my achievements, and it is pleasurable now and then to glance back. Though sometimes it is difficult to recall the person behind the words.
Since I came here, on top of work, I have been very much preoccupied and fretted in the superintendence of the repairs to this house. I consistently tell myself that I will never again work so hard, but in future will find time to read poetry regularly, to gather materials for a work on the fiction of the nineteenth century, and - ? - to study Latin.
I made £620 last year; more than ever I made in any previous year. This year, unless something goes wrong with my play "The Chancellor", I hope to make much more.
Today we were out earlyish for a walk. Few people about; probably in bed sleeping off the effects of over-indulgence in New Year celebrations. It was grey and quite cold. A sort of fine mist in the air, enough to feel on the skin, but not enough to make one wet. Everywhere very still. I liked to stop now and then just to enjoy the stillness, as if an invisible blanket had been laid over the world attenuating sound. Amusing incident when we passed through a dispersed flock of sheep whilst walking along a minor road. For some reason they gathered together and began to follow, right on our heels. An odd sensation. Presumably we were mistaken for farmers bringing food. Back home I have been browsing in old journals and imagining a successful future. Happy New Year!
Taking stock at age thirty three. I am told that today, technically, starts the new century. And a hundred years from now will start the new millennium. So much for my short span!
Last year I wrote three plays, a serial of 70,000 words ("The Grand Babylon Hotel"), the draft of my Staffordshire novel ("Anna Tellwright") and part of the final writing, and half a dozen short stories. I also wrote and published 196 articles of various lengths. I collected, revised, and wrote a preface for a series of my articles from the Academy, to be called "Fame and Fiction". It is to be published later this year.
And I edited Woman magaxine until 30th. September when I resigned and came to live here in the country with my father, mother, and sister Tertia. I also advised Pearsons on 50 MSS books.
From April to the third week in December I was working almost continually at very high pressure, and had no energy to spare for this journal. I am taking it up again today in hope to incorporate it once more into my routine. There is a definite saving of time in dispensing with regular journal entries, but I find it is a useful activity to focus on my achievements, and it is pleasurable now and then to glance back. Though sometimes it is difficult to recall the person behind the words.
Since I came here, on top of work, I have been very much preoccupied and fretted in the superintendence of the repairs to this house. I consistently tell myself that I will never again work so hard, but in future will find time to read poetry regularly, to gather materials for a work on the fiction of the nineteenth century, and - ? - to study Latin.
I made £620 last year; more than ever I made in any previous year. This year, unless something goes wrong with my play "The Chancellor", I hope to make much more.
Today we were out earlyish for a walk. Few people about; probably in bed sleeping off the effects of over-indulgence in New Year celebrations. It was grey and quite cold. A sort of fine mist in the air, enough to feel on the skin, but not enough to make one wet. Everywhere very still. I liked to stop now and then just to enjoy the stillness, as if an invisible blanket had been laid over the world attenuating sound. Amusing incident when we passed through a dispersed flock of sheep whilst walking along a minor road. For some reason they gathered together and began to follow, right on our heels. An odd sensation. Presumably we were mistaken for farmers bringing food. Back home I have been browsing in old journals and imagining a successful future. Happy New Year!
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