Mixed emotions

Sunday, December 31st., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

Very cold. Hard frost overnight. Out early this morning. Walked along the river and through Bishop's Park. Ice under Putney Bridge. Glad to get in for a warm by the fire, a mince pie and some tea.

This year I have written 335,340 words, grand total. 228 articles and stories have actually been published. Quite satisfactory. One book of plays - "Polite Farces". I have written six or eight short stories not yet published or sold. Also the greater part of a 55,000 word serial - "Love and Life" - for Tillotsons, which begins publication about April next year. Also the whole draft (80,000 words) of my Staffordshire novel "Anna Tellwright" which I think to be my best writing so far.

My total earnings were £592 3s. 1d., of which sum I have yet to receive £72 10s.

Much of December has been spent with the Phillpotts' in Torquay. I correspond regularly with Emily who I like very much. A wife like her would suit me admirably, but such women are few and far between. Apparently Eden is not very well and I must admit to fantasising the other night, whilst lying awake, about how I would court and win Emily if she were 'free'. I think she would have me. But it is unlikely. They are soon to move to a large house in Torquay and I have no doubt that she will have it a picture in no time. I enjoy spending time with them, but sometimes it is a strain, emotionally.

The joy of books

Wednesday, December 30th., Chiltern Court, London.

This period between Xmas and New Year is perfect for attending to one's books. So today, returning from some shopping I went into my too-small library and began to arrange my books. They were in need of arrangement. They always are. I blew on some of the pathetic neglected things; I dusted others and I moved some scores of them to and fro in the room. Time passed - delightfully!

A few of the books I came upon I could not remember having bought. Imagine forgetting the exact circumstances in which one has come to own a book! One or two I did not even know that I possessed; and their inexplicable forlorn presence on my shelves shocked me with surprised joy, but also with shame. And so I tended them as I might have tended a lost dog, and tried to convince them that they were not masterless, that they aroused my warm interest, and that they had a genuine mission in my life. I went so far as to read pages of some of them, here and there. How exciting! How disturbing to think that those now printed words emerged from the mind of some earnest, bursting author, two thousand years ago, five hundred years ago, fifty years ago. Immortal in our sense of that term. Giving glimpses into wonderful minds long since passed away.

The majority of books in the majority of libraries lie utterly idle, like railway wagons in sidings. They await the reader and the man who ought to read them never glances at them. What is the remedy for this deplorable state of affairs? Surely no man can read all his books all of the time. Of course not. But every bookman can allot a certain regular amount of leisure to cultivating at least an acquaintance with books which he has not read and probably will never be able to read through. A lot of knowledge can be very pleasurably obtained by an hours miscellaneous browsing twice or thrice a week. Go to your books; pick one out at random, look into it ... and so on. The process is rather like consciously opening one's eyes and mind to the sights and sounds of a familiar walk, which normally pass unnoticed. No higher praise of it is necessary. After an hour, or even half an hour of the exercise you will be conscious of stimulation.

I was summoned back to the world by a call to eat, not to be denied. But tomorrow I shall attend again to my books.

Musical encounter

Tuesday, December 29th., Chiltern Court, London.

I recently attended a chamber concert. After a Beethoven quartet I leaned over to a lady in front of me who was sitting by herself. A careful study of the back of her head ( she wore a rather fetching hat) was all that had kept me going during the performance. I asked her: "What are you here for?" She said she had come to "hear some music". I asked if she was bored and she replied: "Horribly!" "Don't you feel as if you would rather be at the Palladium?" I asked. "I certainly do", she said with enthusiasm. The third and final item on the programme was another classical quartet. We left before it started. We had to. We just had to leave, or we should have begun to recite Dante's "Purgatorio" aloud!

We went to the Palladium. No sign there on the faces of the audience that they imagined that they were doing a duty to art, or proving themselves the favoured of Heaven! But there was every sign of a good night out. We heard Ella Shields sing her celebrated song "Burlington Bertie" (who rose at eight thirty). It was a distinguished performance. I would rank Ella Shields as an artist appreciably above 95 percent of the artists whom I have heard at 'serious' concerts in the last ten years. 

Music hall is one thing; chamber concerts are another. After sober reflection, based on lengthy experience, I know which I prefer and I am now sufficiently secure in my identity to say so. It is a wide world, and I wish the shepherds of the musical valley would realise this.

As regards the rather pleasant, if a little past her prime, lady I escorted to the Palladium .... I shall keep the details of a very enjoyable evening to myself.

War efforts

Friday, December 28th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

What a way to run a war!

Captain Hill told me how after a long period (several weeks) of 'special vigilance' he was sleeping in a blanket on the floor of the gardener's cottage at Thorpe Hall when a despatch rider burst in, just like a stage despatch rider, at 3 a.m. The despatch contained one word which for Hill had no meaning. The rider couldn't tell him anything and only insisted on a signature in receipt, which of course Hill gave. Hill then got up and went to see another O.C. nearby. This O.C. had received the same message, and also had not the least idea what it meant. Other O.C.'s were afterwards found to be in the same case.

Hill asked another O.C. to ring up the staff but he was afraid to do so, so Hill did it himself. He asked the telephone clerk what the message meant. The clerk replied that he knew but he daren't tell. Hill then told him to summon the Brigade Major. The clerk said he positively dare not. Hill insisted and took the responsibility on himself. The Brigade Major came to the phone using terrible language. It then appeared that the incomprehensible word was a code word signifying that the period of vigilance was over. Only no O.C. of unit had been previously informed of the significance of the word. The whole episode with its middle-of-the-night busness, absurd secrecy etc., was thoroughly characteristic. I would have put it down as a tall story had I not experienced similar imbecilities myself.

 

My own war effort is to try to organise a high-class concert at the Haymarket on behalf of the Wounded Allies Relief Committee. I am aiming for some time in February. I have recently written to Max Beerbohm to ask if he will design a cartoonish sort of cover for the programme. He has a great gift for that sort of thing. I think we are doing some good. I hope so.

Pestered

Sunday, December 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

 

Another Xmas more or less over with. Thank goodness! But today was another fine, clear winter day and I had a good walk before lunch. I am deep in "Imperial Palace" and got some ideas for the next chapter, which I am now keen to get on with.

 

Eugene Goossens is pestering me for a libretto for "Don Juan". I have had to tell him that, though I would like to oblige, I cannot turn aside from my novel to do anything else creative. I said that I hope to finish the novel in April, but frankly I think the summer is more likely. He tells me that an opera is not the same as a play! I think I knew that the convention of an opera is quite different from the convention of a play, but I didn't say anything, not wishing to alienate him. Also he wishes to change quite a lot and I am perfectly willing to adopt all his suggestions, but I must have time. For example he wants the opera to end with the death of Don Juan. There is no reason why it shouldn't, though I am personally not sure that it would be a good thing, but he knows better than I what is what. So I await his formal response. I hope he will be patient.

I am sleeping better at the moment which is surprising considering that my diet comprises mainly oatcakes and mince pies.

Milk of paradise

Saturday, December 26th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

Yesterday I read "Falk" in Conrad's "Typhoon", and then several stories by Wells. I went to bed at 1.30 and was kept awake until 4.30 by a barking dog. Then at 7.15 my mother knocked on the wall. She was in the middle of a bilious crisis caused by overnight hare and bilberries, but I think she thought she was having a heart attack. She stays in bed. Hence the whole atmosphere of the house becomes special, and 'sick-roomy', and I can't proceed with my novel today as I had meant.

Last Wednesday I went with Frank to the Grand Theatre in Hanley. I entered with curiosity and not a little trepidation for, though it is the business of my life to keep an eye on the enthralling social phenomena of the Potteries, I had never been there before. Now I saw an immense carved and gilded interior, not as large as the Paris Opera, but assuredly capable of seating as many persons. I was impressed. My first thought was: "Why, it's just like a real Music Hall!"

I was so accustomed to regard Hanley as a place where the great visible people went into work at 7a.m. and emerged from public houses at 11p.m., or stood movelessly in mournful packed tramcars, or bitterly partisan on chill football grounds, that I could scarcely credit their presence here, lolling on velvet amid gold Cupids, and smoking at ease, with plentiful ash-trays to encourage them. I was offered chocolates and what-not at reasonable prices by a boy whose dress indicated that his education was proceeding at Eton. 

I was glad to see the vast gallery filled with persons who had paid their twopences and intended to have their monies worth. In nearly all public places of pleasure, the pleasure is spoiled for me by the obsession that I owe it, at last, to the underpaid labour of people who aren't there. It is a regrettable residual awareness of social injustice which I admit does me no credit in this age of capitalism. But I did not feel it here. Even the newspaper-lad and the match-girl might visit this Music Hall and, sitting together, drink the milk of paradise. Wonderful discoverers these new Music Hall directors all up and down the Kingdom. They have discovered the folk!

Stepping out

 Christmas Day, Hotel Belvedere, Vevey.

Xmas dinner. Forty people. Two strangers came in for dinner. I don't know where they came from considering that we are 6,000 feet up a mountain and, as far as I know, the funicular isn't running. They had to have a table in the middle of the room. Lights turned out for entry of blue-burning Xmas pudding. Admirable dinner.

By way of preparation, knowing that I would inevitably be expected to overeat, I went for a good walk this morning. A crisp and clear Christmas morning. Not many people about. Light frost on the ground which was good for walking. A satisfying crunch underfoot as the boot sank into the top surface of what would have been mud had the temperature been a few degrees higher. Deep lungfulls of cold mountain air. Remarkably clear air. Very invigorating and a success in terms of appetite cultivation. 

Is a hotel a good place to spend Xmas? Well, the main benefit is that one has no need to engage in the ritual effort to be pleasant and welcoming to relatives; far easier to be pleasant to people one does not know, and will not see again post festive season. Also, hardly any of the always embarrassing present business, just a small gift for and from Marguerite. I suppose this tradition has arisen from the alleged visit of the 'three wise men' to the newly delivered parents in Bethlehem, bearing gifts. In my opinion they would have been a lot wiser to have left the gifts at home for someone who could appreciate them. I ask you, what was the infant meant to do with gold, frankincense and myrrh? What is myrrh anyway? Incidentally I bet Joseph was looking closely at the infant to see if any resemblances came to mind. Nobody ever tells us what he thought about it all! Finally, the food is much better than at home. That I can vouch for. Most of the people here are British so it is hard to believe that one is abroad without stepping outside.

So, I shall need another stroll this evening, especially if, as seems likely, there will be additional temptations on the culinary front. I must gird my loins.

Xmas cheer

Thursday, December 24th., Chiltern Court, London.

 

Another Christmas is upon us, our first here where I am settling nicely. The flat is a great success and I am sleeping better, much better, here than at 75. Regrettably Dorothy is not. She is far from well and needs a change much more than I do. On the second morning here she was awakened by a steam drill (which vanished after a few days of road repairs) and she hasn't got over this for some reason. She has been, and still is, working too hard and acting (in "The Man from Blankley's") has gotten on her nerves through troubles in the theatre. We go to France for a change on Monday next which should do us all good.

Toys, and other presents, for Virginia are thick on the ground. She seems to accept them as a matter of course. I doubt if the little heathen has the least idea that tomorrow is the day on which the alleged Virgin was brought to bed of the Redeemer of us all. And if she had the idea I doubt she would care; so I have had some influence on her!

I try to give as few presents as I can get away with; family only, but that offers a sufficiently large field. Miss Nerney says that this year she is giving between forty and fifty presents. Well, what I say is: "Let her!". The whole business of present-giving is getting out of hand in my opinion. It is a triumph of capitalism. Speaking of which, Sir George Paish who writes on economic matters opines that the depression will be at an end by 1932. He is usually very gloomy but of late has become much less pessimistic. Fortunately we are pretty well isolated from the worst effects, so long as I can keep on working that is.

My Xmas cheer has been improved by the discovery that electricity here costs 3/4 d. per unit as against 6 d. in Cadogan Square. I doubt whether lighting and heating here will cost more than £25 a year, against about £180 at 75, despite the fact that Dorothy adores electricity and has a fearful down on steam heating. Further, the hot water is always very hot. I think she is congenitally incapable of thrift.

I saw the sun (red) here yesterday morning, walked out and in ten minutes was in a thickish fog. But it has been nothing like as bad here as at Hyde Park Corner and other places further off.

Talked at

Thursday, December 23rd., Strand Palace Hotel, London.

Tuesday night Rickards dined with me. We went to "The Blue Bird" at the Haymarket, and then to Gambrinus, where he ate an enormous sandwich and drank stout. He talked about himself the whole time, except when the curtain was up, from 6.40 to 12.15. Of course this exasperated egoism was painful as a disease to witness, but his talk was exceedingly good and original. Artistically and intellectually I don't think he has gone off.

To lunch at Wells's. He and I talked his scandal from 12.15 to lunch time. I think he likes to be able to open himself up in my company, knowing that I will not be censorious. Frankly, I don't know how he finds the energy, and what is it about him that women find so compelling? He believes that he gives off a sort of sexual 'aroma' when he is looking for a conquest which arouses women and in some way lowers their defences. I wish he could gift me with some of it! Saying that, I wouldn't want the complexities of his life. Too much like hard work.

At lunch there was Robert Ross, the Sidney Lows, Mrs. Garnett, Archer, and the young Nesbit girl who was mad on the stage. I got on fairly well with Archer. I liked Ross at once. Archer bluntly asked me why I had said in print that he and Walkley were the upas-trees  of the modern drama. So I told him, less bluntly. I consider that he has no real original ideas of his own. I mean to cultivate Ross and made a point of not mentioning Oscar Wilde as I am sure he is tired to death of being questioned on that subject. If I were homosexual Ross is the sort of man I would be attracted to. He seems quite at ease with his notoriety.

Going down

Tuesday, December 22nd., Chiltern Court, London.

Splendid health at the moment. I have now cut my breakfast down to four or five kinds of fruit (raisins, orange, apple, lemon and prunes) plus two cups of tea and two pieces of rye-bread. And little or no meat for lunch. This regime has been in force for two months now and I feel better for it. Today I had myself weighed and am under twelve stones for the first time in a long time. This is progress indeed! I had made a sort of unofficial vow to be under twelve stones by Christmas. But I don't intend to stop; I still feel too heavy. It was partly feeling heavy, as if anything physical was an effort, that got ne started, but mainly the realisation that I was seen as a fat man. I have been caricatured several times, but most recently the portrayal has been of a rotund, rather pompous and silly figure. Time to do something about it!

Today I had a lengthy conversation with an old friend, a childhood friend, and reminded him of something we did together fifty years ago. It involved consumption of alcohol. Fifty years! Impossible to believe it, but no getting away from the facts. We reminisced about school days and tried to remember the words of the school song, in latin of course. It was one of those provincial schools which unsuccessfully apes the great public schools. He feels warmer about it than I do. I didn't dislike it, but I wouldn't want to repeat my time there.

War story

 Monday, December 21st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

General Heath, Colonel Ryley and a sub called to see me yesterday morning. Heath, still greatly preoccupied with the question of civilian behaviour in an invasion, showed me a proclamation which he was having printed about sniping etc. He also showed me a draft proclamation to coastal population about bombardment. It was clumsy. I offered, with proper diffidence, to re-draft it. He consented. I posted him the new draft last night. Always tricky to know whether to 'improve' other peoples written efforts, but I think he came with improvement in mind.

Two naval officers, Lieutenant Hogg and Assistant Paymaster Simmons on motor bikes for tea. Pretty obvious that they at least are enjoying the war. I suppose there are plenty of young men up and down the country for whom this is the most exciting thing that has happened in their lives. Or probably will happen.  Hogg told me a tale of a cavalry soldier wounded in a charge, who lay on the field with the spear of a lance sticking in him. Another English soldier came along and was asked to remove the spear. Just as he started to do so he was shot through the brain. Then a group of Germans came along and began to loot. Without troubling as to the spear, they took the wristwatch off the cavalryman's wrist, but just then a shell burst among them killing or disabling all of them, but leaving the cavalryman untouched. He was ultimately saved. All told with much relish! I don't believe a word of it, but a good story if well told There must be dozens of similar stories circulating the country. Good for morale I suppose.

 

One of the officers said he thought it must seem like hard luck to me to be too old to join up. I didn't disabuse him. Just mentally shook my head and shrugged my shoulders and reflected that I was young once. However, we must consider what we shall do, being not far from the coast, if there really is an invasion. Stay put I should think and keep our heads well down. 

Book reviewers

 Sunday, December 20th., Cadogan Square, London.

Amongst other things, I am a reviewer of books. I have been reviewing books professionally for the last 30 years, and was an informal reviewer prior to that. The Christmas season is good for book reviewers as fewer books are published, and we deserve a rest.

In my humble opinion reviewers deserve more consideration as well. Their task is terrible. I doubt whether it is not better to be a coal miner than a popular reviewer. The miner's hours are shorter and the work is less deleterious to the mind; and since the body depends on the mind, the mind should count for more than the body; and I wish that the majority of persons could grasp this fact; and they don't. A popular reviewer has little opportunity , or none, to reinvigorate his mind, and to revive and establish his standards by reading masterpieces. The larger part of his day is spent in boredom and in the excruciating and vain effort to be fair. He needs a rest from mediocrity.

Reviewers should not be despised and reviled. The publisher is the midwife of new literature, not the reviewer. He may unwittingly mislead you; he may be cursed with (what seems to you to be) bad taste. he may be cranky, or bitter, or over-kind. But where would you be without him? For at worst he does give you some notion of what a new book is about. He does help you to form a preliminary opinion of your own. For a book buyer, to be without reviewers would be like being a traveller without maps. 

There are two classes of men in society whom I daily venerate: bus-drivers, and book-reviewers. Their tact, their self-possession and good judgement in the bright face of danger, the courageous, indomitable fight against the deadly influences of endless monotony on the soul, inspire me with admiration. Did I say that I am, amongst other things, a reviewer of books?

Sneeped

Sunday, December 19th., George Street, London.

Here's a good story. A Captain Griffin, from Walsall, wounded nine times in the war, and then a prisoner in Germany. Was reported dead. After he returned to life, and came home, his solicitor among other bills forwarded the following: "To Memorial Service (fully choral) 3 guineas."

The last few days, having delivered the film, I have read through the first instalment of "Mr. Prohack", and been inspiring myself for the next instalment. Inspiration is certainly needed. The writing is workmanlike, but lacks a spark. I think that I am simply too tired, mentally, as a result of domestic conflict and too much work. Some sort of break is needed, perhaps a change of scene, or a sabbatical.

George Moore sent me his play, "The Coming of Gabrielle" in the edition de luxe. The idea is very ancient and the plot very clumsy; but there are bright distinguished things in the dialogue; it is readable without being fireworky. Rather like my stuff at the moment. I wrote back in a positive vein and reminded him that I consider him to be the 'father' of my Five Towns novels.

I gave permission to the Everyman Theatre to do "The Honeymoon". They did not consult me in any way about casting, scenery, or production. The first word I had from the theatre was 2 tickets for the first night. I returned them. In the first place I had a curious absence of all desire to go, and in the second place I thought it was a darned cheek to ignore me completely until the first night. The thing has been played in Harrogate and Manchester before the London production tomorrow. I only know of this from the papers. I don't know why this has put me out of sorts. Why should they consult me anyway? If they did, they would feel obliged to follow my advice and I don't feel that is worth much at the moment. I just feel sneeped!

Flaneur

 Monday, December 19th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I sent off the last act of "An Angel Unawares" yesterday morning. In the afternoon I went to have tea with Miss Thomasson. I find that she is disturbing me, so much so that today I could not settle to anything definite. There is an element of sexual frustration in this.

So, this evening I had to go out and walk about. Perhaps I was looking for an 'adventure'? I turned down the steep Rue Blanche and at the foot of it passed by the shadow of the Trinite, the great church of illicit assignations, at whose clock scores of frightened and expectant hearts gaze anxiously every afternnoon. And through the Rue de la Chausee d'Antin, where corsets are masterpieces beyond price and flowers may be sold for a sovereign apiece. Then into the full fever of the grand boulevard with iots maddening restlessness of illuminated signs. This was the city. This was what the race had accomplished after eighteen Louis' and nearly as many revolutions, and when all was said that could be said it remained a prodigious and comforting spectacle. Every doorway shone with invitation; every satisfaction and delight was offered, on terms ridiculously reasonable. So different it seemed from the harsh and awkward timidity, the self-centred egotism and aristocratic hypocrisy of Piccadilly.It seemed strange to be lonely amid multitudes that so candidly accepted human nature as human nature is. Sex was in the air, but I could not grasp it.

So I continued southwards, down the narrow, swarming Rue Richelieu, past the National Library on the left and the Theatre Francais, where nice plain ppeople were waiting to see "L'Aventuriere", and across the arcaded Rue de Rivoli. And then I was in the dark desert of the Place du Carrousel, where the omnibuses are diminished to toy-omnibuses. The wind, heralding winter, blew coldly across the spaces. The artfully arranged vista of the Champs Elysee, rising in flame against the silhouette of Cleopatra's Needle, struck me as a meretricious device, designed to impress tourists and monarchs. Everything seemed meretricious. I could not even strike a match without being reminded that a contented and corrupt inefficiency was corroding this race like a disease. I could not light my cigarette because somebody, somewhere, had not done his job like an honest man.

I wanted to dine but all the restaurants had ceased to invite me. I was beaten down by the overwhelming sadness of one who for the time being has no definite arranged claim to any friendly attention in a huge city. I might have been George Gissing. I re-wrote all his novels for him in an instant! I persisted southwards. The tiny walled river, reflecting with industrious precision surrounding lights, had no attraction, except as a potential solution. The quays where all the bookshops were closed and all the bookstalls locked down, and where there was never a cafe, were as inhospitable and chill as Riga. Mist seemed to heave over the river, and the pavements were oozing with damp. I turned for home.

To think that in three days I shall be in Burslem!

Glorious past

Thursday, December 17th., Cadogan Square, London.

I have a guilty secret. Although I profess to have no interest in sport, and make a point of being unimpressed when some sporting event is brought to my attention, I always turn to the sporting pages of the newspaper when alone and cast my eyes over the football scores. In particular I like to see how Stoke City are doing, though I would never admit to knowledge of their league position. This is because they are my 'home' team and thus I have a tribal affiliation which cannot be shaken. In younger and less self-conscious days I was a regular attender at the Victoria Ground which at that time consisted of three open banks and a small wooden stand. The place was a sea of flat caps. Happy times!

These revelations arise from a walk I took a few days ago along the Fulham Road in Chelsea with a University man, when our way was impeded by the outpourings of thousands of enthusiasts from a certain famous football ground. Said the University man: "It's a pity they don't play football instead of watching it." I said nothing but thought much. First, men over 35 usually can't play football, for good reason. Second, men not past the football age play far more today than ever before. There are more clubs, there is more keenness and there is more skill. True, professionalism flourishes, but all professionals begin as amateurs and only out of the multitude of keen amateurs can professionalism sustain itself.. The huge crowds at big matches judge the game as experts, that is, as men who themselves play or have played.

The fact is, my University man had no case; he merely had prejudice. And this prejudice against the amusements and diversions and even the education of the mass of the people, though absurd, is still rather strong; moreover it finds undue editorial expression in many newspapers. Also the kinema is derided not because it is crude but because it is popular. The papers with vast circulations are derided because a lot of working people read them. Motor coaches are derided. Football is derided - but not golf (despite its professionalism); oh no!

They say that the working man is not what he was. I am glad of it, for he used to spend most of his leisure in being bored. They say he does not work as hard as he did. I say he does not work as long as he did, and a good thing too. When I was young I used to hear before dawn my fellow-citizens tramping in clogs to a beautiful twelve hour day in a factory, and I used to ride in buses whose conductors enjoyed a sixteen hour day. The glorious past!

I will not be taking any further walks with my University Man. 

 

All quiet here - good time to take a look at the sports pages!

Princely

Wednesday, December 16th., Central Station Hotel, Glasgow.

 

Marguerite has written to say that she has now read "These Twain" and finds it "good". It is the most I can expect as she must have recognised at least a little of my depiction of the quarrels between Edwin and Hilda. Would she feel flattered to see herself as Hilda? I don't know. In any case she is not Hilda, though there are aspects of the marital relationship which are drawn from life, as it were. There was a promise of a renewal of tender relations implicit in the letter. That is something to look forward to on my return. Must keep up my strength!

I am being treated very well on my travels. Neil Munro, Scotland's foremost novelist, was waiting for me at the station yesterday evening, with John Richmond. Richmond is an art collector as well as a successful industrialist, a partner in the firm of C. & J. Weir. We have become good friends since our first meeting in 1909, and had a long chat in the evening. We became quite intimate and Richmond confided that he had been made quite uncomfortable when he last came to Comarques by Marguerite's provocation of myself. Said he admired my ability to maintain command of myself, to remain calm and uniformly courteous. More than he could have done he said. I disclosed something of my feelings about the increasing difficulty of living with Marguerite.

Our conversation was at Richmond's house in Glasgow. His wife was not there, She is in the new country house 100 kilometres away. His sister-in-law was there - very Scottish and very intelligent; a fine woman. I thought it a little strange that she was there whilst his wife was not, and sensed some 'tension' in the atmosphere, but he made no revelation. Quite possibly there is nothing to reveal. He is keen to read "These Twain", and may find it interesting!

In general the Scots are much better educated than the English. But they have a terrible accent. I can hardly understand the hotel servants and they can hardly understand me. This hotel is good with big rooms, solid and provincial. The bathroom is perfectly equipped. I slept quite well, and have stood up to the travelling admirably well. Yesterday was an awesome day, visiting factories etc., followed by a party at the Arts Club. Richmond sent his car, with driver, for my use. The greatest advantage of being a novelist whose novels are liked by serious people is that one is treated better than a prince.

Endless brooding

Tuesday, December 15th., Chiltern Court, London.

 

I have a tendency to nostalgia at this time of year. I suppose it is to do with the year nearing its end, and the short days, and the distant hope of Spring. And when I get nostalgic it is usually for France as I experienced it all those years ago. I never feel nostalgic about the Potteries!

 

When I lived in the Rue de Calais I never knew anything about the prodigiously genteel house of which I rented a fragment, except that a retired opera singer lived over my head, and a pianoforte professor at the Conservatoire somewhere under my feet. I never saw either of them, but I knew that the ex-opera singer received about a yard of bread every morning and about one and a half litres of milk. 

 

Every afternoon and sometimes in the evening a distant violin used to play, very badly, six bars - no more - of an air of Verdi's over and over again; never any other tune! The sound was too faint to annoy me, but it was the most melancholy thing I have ever heard. This phenomenon persisted for months, and I never discovered its origin, though I inquired again and again. Some interior, some existence of an infinite monotonous sadness was at hand, and yet hidden away from me, inviolate. Whenever I hear, or imagine I hear, that air now I am instantly in Paris, and as near being sentimental as ever I shall be.

 

My ambition had long been to inhabit the Rue d'Aumale - austere, silent, distinguished, icy and beautiful - and by hazard I did ultimately obtain a flat there, and so left the Rue de Calais. But I missed the undiscoverable and tragic violin of the Rue de Calais. To this day the souvenir of it will invariably fold me in a delicious spleen. The secret life of cities is a matter for endless brooding.

 

It is interesting to me that I deliberately 'broke' from Paris and went to live in the provinces, to see what they were like, to understand a little the fabric of the backbone of France. This coincided with my marriage. But I often desired to be back again in Paris, and of course, in the end, I went back. And then I had the delightful sensation of coming back to the city not as a starnger, but as one versed in its deviousness. I was able to take up at once the threads that I had dropped, or at least those compatible with a married state, without any of the drudgery and tedium incident to one's first social studies of a foreign capital. I was immediately at home, and I never felt more satisfaction in my citizenship of Paris than at this time. It was also at this period that I carried my Parisianism as far as I am ever likely to carry it.

Time to think

Saturday, December 14th., Yacht Club, London.

 

Interview with Lillah McCarthy and Drinkwater at Adelphi Terrace at 12.45. I promised to write "Judith" by the end of January, and they promised to produce "Don Juan" also. In the afternoon Captain Basil Dean came to see me about his London theatrical scheme. He said he could get and control £20,000. I definitely promised to write a play for him too. This, with Goodall's, Vedrenne's, and Lillah's, makes four plays!

We dined at the Galsworthy's, Grove Lodge, Hampstead, and the Masefield's were there. Mrs. M. and I got on excellently. Masefield gloomyish and very precise in diction. Fine voice. Diction of a public speaker. Galsworthy very nice. Ada Galsworthy adorable. 

 

Got into conversation with an American by the name of Wright. Interesting chap. Ascetic appearance. Metal frame glasses. I think he is a professor, but that doesn't mean the same in the U.S. as it does here. Told me he was a convert to buddhism, not as a religion but as a way of life. Asked me if I had tried meditation? I said I had no time to meditate. He said: "You don't have time not to meditate". That made me think. He said he had read some of my self-help books and found them valuable but the key to contentment was in control of one's mind, and that could only be achieved through meditation. Not as onerous as you might imagine apparently. I have been thinking about this since and I suppose I have a sort of meditation when I am walking at times: stepping out, breathing deeply, focussing on the moment, dismissing intrusive thoughts. Wish I had shared that with him.. There may be something in it.

Simpering virgins

Monday, December 13th., Cadogan Square, London.

 

To the Hotel Cecil for the grand political Liberal Party dinner in honour of Vivian Phillipps, Chief Whip and organiser of the said party. Earl Grey in the chair. It was quite lively at our table. Nearly all the white-haired politicians behaved as usual at these things, just like kids - pleased to death at the slightest 'hit', or comedy platitudes. Beaming all the time. I think that it is having attended public schools that does it. They know that they must behave themselves in public life, or at least not get found out, but in private they revert to a sort of posh schoolboy mentality, secure in the knowledge that some menial will clear up after them. It is quite entertaining to observe.

Well, I have come to the conclusion that Christmas is not what it was. Where is the Christmas spirit which sought to send all tradesmen home to their families at least half-drunk? Where are the colour supplements portraying chubby children and hale old port-drinkers, and thick snow, and simpering virgins in long frocks standing with reluctant feet where the brook and the river meet? Terrible maidens those virgins - in my opinion much more devastating than the knee-showing, cocktail-consuming, smoke-inhaling, sham-jewellery wearing, hard-swearing, painted and powdered damsels of our epoch. In the days of the simper those virgins were addressed nightly by the poets of three high-brow London evening papers, and the message of their nine hundred lyrics a year was to the effect that if the virgins smiled in a particular way the poets would be in bliss for ever, and if the virgins frowned in a particular way the poets would be ruined for ever. A somewhat violent conceit; marvellously untrue to life; and where is it now?

Absolutely astounding

 Saturday, December 12th., Hotel Belvedere, Vevey, Switzerland.

Our train for Switzerland was the Paris-Simplon day express. Very English. Chiefly Englishwomen. Their lack of charm was astounding, absolutely astounding. And their aristocratic, self-absorbed voices made me laugh. The English self-consciousness of 'superiority' is sublime in its profound instructiveness. Vevey was quite dry when we arrived. Rain everywhere alse. A different climate, a sort of micro-climate perhaps? I bought a Swiss cigar, and we got into a tiny Swiss tram. Had a Swiss feeling which was much intensified when, in the waiting room of the funicular, we found a vast musical box which I caused to play for 10 centimes. Really a rather good device, especially when you have 45 minutes to wait.

In Dijon, en route, we had an excellent steam-heated room in a hotel which was otherwise not well kept. Rained all the time we were there. I walked about, the town consisting of mainly confectioners and gingerbread makers. Trams floating about rumblingly and ramblingly all the time. I got as far as the portals of an 'Alcazar' music-hall, and then came back to the hotel and tried to read Huxley in bed. Couldn't. It is only at night, when there is little of it, that you appreciate how much light there is when there is supposed to be none. At 3 am. you can discover traces of it everywhere, and it has a very beautiful quality.

Marguerite tells me, a propos a problematic family relationship, that it is a weakness of mine not to admit that I am wrong. She refers to a solemn vow I made with myself never again in this life to have to do with a close relative of hers, a person I have come to loathe and detest. Evidently he would like to 'make friends' with me. Never! She believes that the inability to say "I was wrong", is a sign of weakness; I think the opposite. Most people who say it say it impulsively, and are undoubtedly not only weak but capricious also in their judgements. It has got to be said very rarely, and with complete absence of theatricality. For my part I could never bring myself to reconcile with someone I had with proper consideration cast out of my life. It would be sham and sheer hypocrisy.

A day out

Friday, December 11th., Chiltern Court, London.

 

To Oxford today for a day out. Dorothy is away doing theatrical things and I needed a break from routine to get some fresh ideas. Also some good bookshops in Oxford!

 

Journey was simple and as I stepped out of the station the sun broke through the grey clouds which had shrouded the day until then. Bit milder than of late. Decided to have a walk about to stretch the legs before starting to visit shops. Came upon a stretch of canal in Jericho with numerous moored boats, evidently lived upon. Bit of a damp existence to my mind but I suppose it has some advantage of anonymity. Then I worked my way along a river, not part of the Thames I think, past the prison which is in the old castle. Pretty forbidding, which is as it should be. Finally came out on Folly Bridge and got onto the Thames towpath by Christ Church Common. Watched some rowers who seemed not to notice that they were cold. Then back into the city near to the Botanical Garden, High Street I think. Nice walk. Don't know if I could find it again. There seem to be a lot of waterways in Oxford.

 

Looked in at the Bodleian, but only to take a breath of the bookish atmosphere, and then into Blackwell's for a good browse. Lovely. I didn't buy anything but I enjoyed not buying things. Eggs Florentine for lunch with a good pot of tea and then into the Ashmolean. Bit overwhelming, so I confined myself to the Mediterranean sections: Mesopotamia, Crete, Cyprus, Greece, Rome. Many reminders of my sailing tour of the Med., especially the Minoan exhibits associated with Arthur Evans. Having seen Knossos I was able to make more sense of them. Cuneiform writing is fascinating: aesthetically pleasing as well as functional; as I have always aspired to. There is an excellent Cast Gallery. Makes one think about the Greek and Roman cities filled with all these amazing statues. Apparently many of them were actually painted in bright colours, not the austere marble we are used to.

Felt tired out after about two hours and in any case it was getting dark, so back to the station and home. Very good. Well worth the effort. I didn't get any ideas but I think I may tomorrow.

Touching

 Thursday, December 10th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Just back from Manchester. Successful visit.

I went up by Midland Railway, through the Potteries. No change there as far as I could see. Dark, smoky, like a stain on the land after the green fields of south Staffs. Yet it pulled at my heart. I read somewhere that there is a theory that there is a sort of invisible thread that connects a person to his place of birth. All bosh really, but still ....

Touching scene in Manchester. On arrival at Central Station a young officer who had slept, and in between had made much litter in the train, was met by his family one by one. First father. "Hello Dad," etc. Then little sister running along; then big sister, more reserved, but very welcoming with a touch of sisterly superiority. All this was a very agreeable sight on the worn wooden platform, strangely out of date, of the Central Station. But he will have to go back!

Nostalgic

 Wednesday, December 9th., Cadogan Square, London.

Thinking about Paris as I often do. I was generally happy there and seemed set fair to become a Parisian, but it was not to be. For several years there had been gradually germinating in my mind the conviction that I should be compelled by some obscure instinct to return to England. I had a most disturbing suspicion that I was losing touch with England and that my literary work would soon begin to suffer accordingly. And one day I gave notice to my landlady, and then I began to get estimates for removing my furniture and books. And then I tried to sell to my landlady the fittings of the admirable bathroom which I had installed in her house, and she answered me that she had no desire for a bathroom in her house and would I take the fittings away?

And then I unhooked my pictures and packed my books. And lastly the removers came and turned what had been a home into a litter of dirty straw. And I saw the tail of the last van as it rounded the corner. And I gave up my keys so bright with use and definitely quitted the land where eating and love are understood, where art and learning are honoured, where women well-dressed and without illusions are not rare, where thrift flourishes, where politeness is practised,and where politics are shameful and grotesque.

 

I return merely as a visitor. I should probably have enjoyed myself more in France, only I prefer to live in England and regret France than to live in France and regret England. I think the permanent exile is a pathetic figure. I suppose I have a grim passion for England but I know why France is the darling of nations, and why I will always be thinking of Paris.

Mixed feelings

 Monday, December 8th., Cadogan Square, London.

Dorothy is in Italy. I will be joining her there next week - arriving in Genoa a week today. In the meantime I have a great deal to do and so have had to neglect my journal. Also I had fantastic neuralgia last night from 2 - 5 am. So it would be fair to say that I have felt better than I do at the moment.. I intend to finish my Sunday Pictorial article this afternoon and proceed with my play tomorrow. In between I have four Harpers Magazine people dining here tonight. An arrangement with them should be lucrative.

There is a theme running through literature to the effect that people who are always right and always punctual are unbearable. It is in the letters of Cicero, and also in the moral works of a certain A.B. in various places. The converse is equally true, that people who are never right and never punctual are unbearable. As for myself, I can honestly say that my faculty for being right is often most annoying to me, and I would sooner be oftener in the wrong. But what can one do? On balance, I would rather be unbearably right than unbearably wrong.

What shall we find in Italy? Italians generally are charming but they only understand a small part of life. Their happy-go-lucky methods have resulted in the most appalling trouble several times in every century since Rome fell. Happy-go-luckiness is bound to end in a mess. I prophecy that there will be another big upset in Italy in a year or two. Hutton tells me that nearly all the English in Italy are in favour of Fascism. They would be. English colonies abroad are ever the same, a festering mass of reactionary political opinions. Would they welcome a 'Duce' in England? Some would.

Harriet Cohen honoured me with her company at lunch yesterday. She was, comparatively, humble. Dear Tania, as usual she wanted advice and I gave it to her. I think she considers me her best source of advice about matters of the heart, which pleases me in most respects but is also rather dissatisfactory. Clearly she perceives me as being of no sexual threat to her. Nor am I. But it diminishes the ego somewhat to be taken so much for granted in that way. She is very beautiful and it is hard sometimes to hear details of her various 'liaisons', to appear dispassionate, but at the same time to wish it were me. She would like me to introduce her to H.G. I know where that would end! How is it that some men have a sort of sexual magnetism and others don't. Mostly it doesn't bother me; in fact I think it would be more trouble than it is worth, but now and then ....

Reactionaries

 Monday, December 7th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

I have written to the Nation in protest at a recent letter by Mr. Robert Morley, a painter of landscapes and animals. He refers to the post-impressionist exhibition currently staged at the Grafton Gallery by Roger Fry. He says of the pictures: "It is impossible to take them seriously". What justification can he possibly offer for a statement so contrary to the facts? Hundreds of the most cultivated minds in Europe take them seriously. One thinks at once of Mr. Bernard Berenson whose position as the greatest living art critic is not often challenged. He takes them seriously  and, in particular, has professed a profound admiration for Matisse. Mr. Morley's assessment of the post-impressionists says rather more about him than it does about the artists in the exhibition.

Regrettably Morley is not a lone voice. Mr. Michael Sadler demands: "Did Van Gogh burn with the same passion when he painted his boulevard as Cimabue when he painted his madonna?" The answer is most emphatically "Yes!" Even a cursory examination into the life of Van Gogh reveals passion as its central motif. Sir William Blake Richmond, another reactionary voice, uses the word 'daub'.  This is simply offensive and I said so in my letter. We shall see if they have the spirit to enter into debate with me (and others - I am not alone) on this subject. 

In the meantime I can only congratulate Roger Fry for assembling this exhibition at the Grafton Gallery and bringing these great artists to the attention of the discerning public. For myself, if I have the opportunity to acquire one or two of the paintings in the exhibition I will feel confident in having made a safe investment, but that feeling will be secondary to the satisfaction of having great art in my home.

I had to take a good long walk this morning to cool down and was successful physically and metaphorically. A cold and misty day. But a pleasure to be out when adequately wrapped against the elements. I particularly enjoy seeing figures and vehicles emerging from and fading back into the mist; they have an intangible, dreamlike quality which might be captured by a post-impressionist!

Ordinary people

 Sunday, December 6th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I have learnt more about what are called 'ordinary people' during the war than ever I knew before. By 'ordinary' I simply mean people with the sense of art practically undeveloped, people without any subtlety, who don't understand what you are talking about unless you translate for them. As an experience it is interesting, but really very trying sometimes. For me, part of the war!

Still there were some strange surprises. One officer (medical) stationed near here mentioned the fourth dimension; so I began to talk with him about the fourth dimension. In my opinion the fourth dimension is the most awful rot, save as an intellectual pastime. However he was enchanted. He then got onto spiritualism etc., and enquired if I had thought of it. I gave him a copy of "The Glimpse". He has not yet recovered from "The Glimpse" which I believe he regards as the most brilliant work of genius yet produced by the human mind. Well, he was a very advanced specimen of the military intelligence.

The fact is that many people are simply not used to thinking critically, and accept what they are told, or read, at face value especially if it appears to be from an 'authority'. Like me for instance. My wife says that I am too critical. Indeed my nature is to question everything. There are people who believe that this war for example is the product of some global conspiracy, to what end they are not quite sure. Well, they have more faith in the capacity of 'global conspirators' than I do. I just think that it is an almighty cock-up brought about by a failure to act rationally rather than the reverse. And then there is all this stuff about German atrocities. Well no doubt some German soldiers have taken the opportunity to indulge their baser instincts; soldiers in war apparently do that sort of thing; I don't suppose that all British servicemen maintain high moral standards. But it is lunatic to think that there is some concerted policy of terror reflecting the much-despised 'German character'.

I expect that Theodore Dreiser is of German extraction but he has written a remarkable novel, "The Financier". I have had trouble getting hold of a copy. This book, despite its slovenliness in details of phrase, is excellent. It gave me intense pleasure which is praise indeed. Dreiser is a man who evidently despises style, elegance, clarity, even grammar. He simply does not know how to write. Probably doesn't want to know. He makes no compromises with the reader but once you have fairly yielded to him he rewards you. I wish I knew Dreiser intimately though he would in all likelihood disdain association with a conventional novelist such as myself. I hear that this may be only the first volume of a trilogy. If so, I look forward with eager anticipation to the other two.

In a whirl

Sunday, December 5th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

 

I happened to see Conrad and Hueffer's "Romance" at Frank's at lunch today , and I took it to read. I read about 20 pages after lunch, before the gas stove in the bedroom, but I doubt if I shall get much further in it. I cannot read in Burslem. All I can do is to go about and take notes which is, of course, as it should be. It would be a nonsense to have this opportunity to absorb the atmosphere and not to take it. With the new book growing in my mind I shall need as much information and impression as I can absorb. This absorption is not a conscious process, in fact quite the opposite. It is about opening oneself to impression.

My mind is in whirl all the time. I have only been here for 5 days and yet all Paris and Avon seems years off; I scarcely ever think of these places and my life there. Sometimes, by accident, I speak to myself or one of the children in French. Slept well last night, nearly 7 hours uninterrupted. The sanatogen cure which I began on Wednesday is already working. What a place Burslem is though, so dirty and downright. And self-satisfied. Marguerite is coming on Saturday. How she will cope I don't know - she may not recognise me by then as I revert to type.

Hindsight

 Monday, December 5th., Cadogan Square, London.

Gloomy. I haven't yet got over the funeral of Gladys Beaverbrook on Saturday. These funeral rites in an English winter are absolutely barbaric. And what good do they serve? None that I can see.

Yesterday and again today I went for a long walk in darkness and mist. Suited my mood.

Also, thinking about Marguerite. Perhaps she doesn't know about Gladys' death yet? Would I go to M's funeral if she died before me? Probably not. In any case I wouldn't be invited, and I wouldn't be welcome. Over the course of this last week I have been signing 500 copies of the luxury facsimile deition of "The Old Wives Tale". Of course I was writing it when we were first married and I have been debating with myself the propriety of sending Marguerite a copy of this new edition. Today I decided I would and I have inscribed it with "Best Wishes". What a thing to write to someone you have been married to for 20 years! But I thought about it for a long time, and it was the best I could do. What will her reaction be when she opens the parcel? Tears I should think, then anger, then (hopefully) a sort of resigned acceptance of the spirit intended. We will see.

I find that I increasingly blame myself for the failure of our marriage. The fact is that I am a difficult person to live with. Just ask Dorothy! Of course M. was wrong to get involved with Legros but I should have seen how things were going and done something about it. We were happy with each other for the first few years and perhaps could have been again. To be honest it was a mistake buying the country house in Essex. Marguerite wasn't cut out for that sort of life and was never content there. If I had any sense we should have stayed in France where she had her family and I had the whole Parisian cultural landscape to explore; not like stuffy London! And I could have found an amiable young "friend" quite naturally and without recrimination. Hindsight is wonderful.

Distracted

Sunday, December 3rd., Lusitania, at sea.

 

Still rough sea and following gale, and creaking and noises all night. Not yet one good night's rest on this steamer. If I ever go back to the United States I will make sure to go in the summer when the prospect of a restful voyage is improved. Mr. and Mrs. Compton Mackenzie had tea with me. She is a beautiful young woman. Very distracting. Concert in aid of Seamens Charities last night. Half of it done by Harry Lauder.

To take my mind off the weather I read most of Artzybacheff's "Sanine" in the night, skipping. Mostly clever, naif, and dull, but some of the salacious parts are pretty good. It has certainly caused a stir with its frank treatment of sexual matters and is, I believe, banned in Russia as pornographic. I don't think it is pornographic, but it is ahead of public acceptability, regrettably. What a society we live in when one of the most basic aspects of human existence is deemed "unclean". No wonder there is so much sexual ignorance and consequences thereof. I should think that Artzybacheff is an interesting chap but I wonder if he practices what his character preaches?

Happiness?

Wednesday, December 2nd., Chiltern Court, London.

I find that I have grown used to waking at least once every night. And there are advantages. For example getting into a warm bed and falling to sleep is undeniably a pleasure, so my pleasure is doubled compared to the average sleeper. And I sleep again in the afternoon to catch up, so that is three pleasurable experiences a day guaranteed! Also, it is peaceful in the middle of the night and having had a few hours sleep already one feels relaxed, unhurried, benign, contented. Often I will delay returning to bed to experience the pleasure of being awake when others are asleep. I read somewhere that in earlier times (Middle Ages?) it was common practice for people to rise in the night and then go back for a second sleep. I wonder why this stopped? Probably to do with the invention and adoption of efficient artificial lighting so people went to bed later and slept through. We may have lost something in the process. Additionally, I have some interesting thoughts in the night, especially when I am dropping off for my second sleep which usually takes a little longer than the first time.

Last night for example I was thinking about happiness; specifically as to whether money can buy happiness. The general idea seems to be not, but I am not sure. The instinct of mankind to obtain money, that is to improve his material condition, seems to me to be a sound one. Money is certainly not a handicap. Money will buy nearly everything except a clear conscience and a cheerful temperament. It will buy comfort. It will buy quite a lot of health. If it is used with skill it will buy love, genuine love. Crowds of rich men have been deeply and lastingly loved by gifted and beautiful women who would never have looked twice at them had they been poor men. Which, when you think it over, is quite natural.

If I have learnt anything from life, this is what I have learnt: the man who makes his chief objective the attainment of happiness is bound to fail in his endeavour and to die disillusioned. 

Happiness is a by-product, and there is not a vast deal of it anyway. It is a product of self-fulfillment, which is the most important thing in the world and not to be confused with success. Be content in the pursuit of self-fulfillment and enjoy the occasional experience of happiness when it comes your way.

Learning a lot

Tuesday, December 1st., Rue de Calais, Paris.

 

I have completed my last Tillotson short story, 2000 words. This year I have completed twelve short stories and am glad to have them behind me. I have learnt a lot about the technique of construction while writing them and on the whole have not been bored. But once or twice I have been terribly bored.

 

So this morning, by way of reward, I walked out three miles in the snow to make purchases; among other things the Mercure de France where I found three pages concerning myself by Davray - all that was most amiable and appreciative, and yet sober too. I have spent a good part of the day in staring at my new stove, and dreaming of things to come. Perhaps I will be able to go south for the winter when I am rich and famous, like the birds?

 

 The other evening, after dinner with C. at Antoine's I saw for the first time Henri Becque's famous "La Parisienne". A play perfectly simple, but exquisitely constructed. Only one important character, played really with genius by Mme. Devoyod. Yes, genius. The play is well entitled. This is the Parisienne, even the Woman. And it is human nature with all its sins presented without the slightest ethical or didactic tendency - with an absoloute detachment from morals. It is certainly one of the great plays of the period. I learnt a lot from it, not only in technique, but in the matter of fundamental attitude towards life.

 

 

Praise indeed

 Monday, November 30th., George Street, London.

 

I had a letter from Gide a few days ago, and wrote back to him today.

 

His letter gave me the greatest satisfaction, and I told him so. No appreciation that I have ever received, Conrad's included, has given me greater pleasure than Gide's. He has the idea that I have adopted a new manner of writing. Well, perhaps I have but it is rather that I am older, a little wiser, and rather less constrained by convention; at least that is how I see it. There were definite symptoms in "The Pretty Lady" and it may be that was where he got the idea from. Some younger men are inclined to think it my best novel; it isn't.

 

My film is progressing and I am visiting ateliers. This first film will be nothing but when I have broken down the outer defences of the trade I hope to do something better. I told Gide so, and also mentioned the flurry of activity around my work in Paris at the moment. Probably he already knew. That man Lanoire has translated several of my books and Grasset is to publish them. God knows how they will read in French.

 

 

My women

Sunday, November 29th., Cadogan Square, London.

One of those dismal, grey sort of days which make one long for warmth and sunshine. I went out for a walk first thing to get some ideas; didn't get any; just got cold. 

Domestic problems are on my mind and I found myself thinking about women in general and my women in particular. What I mean is the women in my books. I must have invented dozens, if not hundreds, by now and it has never before occurred to me to wonder if they have a sort of common denominator, a fundamental resemblance. I suppose they must have as they are all the product of a single brain. But then again my attitude to women must have fluctuated over the years; indeed I know it has. Do my female characters in any way reflect the way I am thinking about women in general as i invent them. I suppose so. Perhaps even within a single book, O.W.T. for example, a careful reader who also had some insight into my personality might see interesting variations. If I had time I could look back through my women and discover things about myself. But I never will have time because there is always the need to earn more money to support the current (rather expensive) woman, not to mention my estranged wife. They will be the death of me!

The other worry is about this house because the lease is coming to an end and will not be extended in spite of my best efforts. Where shall we go? I foresee battles ahead. It brings to mind the conflict between Edwin and Hilda in "These Twain" over where to live. Prescience perhaps?

I think my favourite female character was a very minor one - Florence Simcox, the champion female clog dancer. She made a lasting impression on Edwin and on me as well. I have often fantasised about meeting her in real life. What an exciting handful she would have been! I often think of her at night when I can't sleep, and some of my daydreams have been very stimulating. I shoud have resurrected her as a character in a short story.

A Man from the North

 ENOCH ARNOLD BENNETT, 1867 - 1931

Here lies a man, from common clay descended,

Who took the common people of the clay

And from their lives of grime and greatness blended

Created Life that shall not pass away.

 

Here lies a child who penned with childish pleasure

The pageantry before his eyes unfurled,

The pomps and shows, the luxury and leisure, 

The gauds and glitter of the rich man's world.

 

Yet still could sing, with sympathy unblunted,

With understanding welded doubly sure,

The saga of the straitened and the stunted,

The patience and the pathos of the poor.

 

Here lies a sage who saw in things material

No outward workings  of some cosmic plan -

But each day a chapter in some breathless serial

Written by fate for the delight of man.

Here lies a jester with a sense of duty,

A master craftsman in his art engrossed,

A steadfast friend, a worshipper of beauty, 

A kindly critic and a perfect host.

Here lies, in fine, a connoisseur of living

For whom romance inhered in every breath;

Shall not his soul go forth without misgiving

To greet the great adventure which is death?