Into the void

Thursday, January 14th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

Well, here I am at last. A dream fulfilled. A reality still to experience.

I left the Rue de Calais yesterday, depressed, at 5 pm. after having lunched with Chichi. Was my depression due to leaving her behind? Or to do with the fact that she was quite evidently not so concerned that I was leaving her behind; perhaps I had hoped to be missed? I think our relationship has now run its course and I am grateful for it; my intimate knowledge of the ways of women having been increased immeasurably.

The drive to the Gare de Lyon along the interminable length of the Rue de Rivoli got on my nerves. And I was decidedly excited and 'wrought up' when the train de luxe came up and I saw Phillpotts. Much talking and mutual satisfaction, continued on the train. I have a sore throat now! The train left sharp at 6 pm. and arrived here at Menton sharp at 9.56 this morning. On the whole a really good sound train. It would be almost perfect if it had a drawing-room car, as it certainly ought to have. The ceaseless noise and jolting did not noticeably affect me much. I took a sedative and slept very well, though mostly conscious of the action and the din.

Coming along the coast I had my first glimpse of Monte Carlo and the salons thereof. I was duly impressed by the beauty of the coast, and of Menton in particular. But my thoughts were chiefly occupied with the idea of the train, that luxurious complete entity - running through a country and ignoring it. I seldom had the least idea where the train was. Space, as a notion, had vanished for me. I might have been in the void.

And now four weeks of new impressions, new people, and new air to look forward to. Of course we have a good deal of work to do, but there will be time enough, I am determined. I can hardly believe I am here.

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.

Making a change

Sunday, December 20th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Yesterday I finished the second chapter of "A Great Man".

I went to Cook's in the morning and began the business of departing to England by drawing out all the money I could and getting my ticket. The clerk asked me if I was going home for Christmas and I said I was, but am I? He wished me a happy Christmas.

At night I didn't feel very hungry so I had to tempt myself with a 'nice little dinner' at Sylvain's, which cost me 6 francs. Then I came home (there's that word again!), played Beethoven's two Sonatas op. 49, perfectly charming, finished reading Le Temps all through, and went to bed at 10.30. Read in bed for half an hour or so - Golding's sea trilogy; I have just started the third part; not quite sure about it. I slept until 8.10 this morning, which is good.  

I have seen a lot of Chichi lately. We dined at the Hippo. Restaurant on Friday and then to Bostocks. The restaurant seemed to be full of dancers and ex-dancers. C. doesn't seem distressed about my going back to England. No doubt she will have other 'company' in prospect while I am away. Not sure how I feel about that. In a way I will be glad to make a change, even if only temporary. I am one of those people who, whatever their situation, are always inclined to think that they would like to move on to something else. Perhaps most people are like that, at least men, but we can't admit it.

A Paris education

Saturday, November 14th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Last night "Le Sire de Vergy" Varieties, with the 'artistes' Brasseur, Anna Tariol, Claudius, Max Dearly etc. I was extremely disappointed with the whole thing. I found this fashionable theatre (like most of the rest) dirty, dingy, uncomfortable, dear, and badly managed. The first row of the balcony is 12 francs, exclusive of booking fee. Everything began late and the thing was not over until 12.15. Our seats (second row of balcony, 10 francs) were very badly stuffed and very uncomfortable, and there was no room. A boulevard swindle. The orchestra was vile, but for opera bouffe, I found the music really rather good - certainly fresh and clever. It was less the piece than the whole thing I objected to, the general sans gene and brazenness of the swindle.

So, my Paris education continues. Chichi told me that this was quite a theatre apart, a genre of its own, where there was no discipline except for the chorus-girls. She has performed there. The chorus-girls, at rehearsals, have to wait one or two hours for the 'artistes' but if they are five minutes late - a fine! In the green room drinks are ordered ad lib. Speaking of the lateness of everything, and the long entr'actes, Chichi said: "Ici on se moque du public. On travaille quand on a le temps."  And she referred me to Zola's "Nana" and the various places where the public is kept waiting for Nana's pleasure. She said that Zola had given an exact description of the green room of the Vaudeville, and that he must have studied his scenes from this theatre. How true this is I don't know. But I certainly came away with the impression that I had seen the worst side of soi-disant high-class theatrical entertainment in Paris.

Fortunately my personal Parisian education, courtesy of Chichi, is anything but disappointing. She is a very experienced young woman wise in aspects of Parisian life of which I am both imaginatively and practically ignorant. Yesterday we got to talking about sexual perversions. She recounted several of her experiences. I attempted to appear as if they were nothing out of the ordinary from my point of view. I don't think she was deceived. What would they think in Burslem!

While I was asleep after lunch Henri Davray called. I told him I wanted to buy some books, so we went off by omnibus to the quays to get a Casanova, a dictionary, and other things. I hope to get some ideas from the Casanova to set alongside Chichi's experience! We went first to the shop of Honore Champion. It was like a bookshop in a story by Anatole France, exactly. We were greeted first by a young man who spoke well and vivaciously, and then in a corner at a desk I saw a venerable and beaming white-haired man in a skull-cap. This was the father. He said little but smiled affectionately at all of us. The understanding between father and son was rather fine. The large shop was full of books that no-one but a bibliophile would buy.

Then we went to another shop nearby where the booseller was a little pinched man, not distinguished - walled in with books. Then we went across to the quay (Voltaire) and had a learned conversation with one of the stall keepers, who grasped exactly what we wanted and said we couldn't get it second hand.

After this Davray lost the scent of books, though it remained in my nostrils, and remembered that he had some shopping to do for his wife. We had tea at Foyot's. Being close to the bookshops at the Odeon we ran across and I bought Casanova, two de Maupassants and an Anatole France, and Davray carried off the parcel to have it despatched from the office of the Mercure de France. I found this periodical established in an old hotel. Fine large rooms and good woodwork. I was introduced to the Directeur (who was not sitting in his own chair because the cat had taken it) as 'the hope of English fiction'. That is something to live up to!

Bachelor arrangements

Friday, December 4th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Last night "Pelleas et Melisande", at the Opera Comique. This time I thought Debussy's music very good. Sometimes really powerful.

The Opéra Comique was founded in 1714 under the reign of Louis XIV. It is among the oldest French dramatic and musical institutions. Its history was alternately turbulent and prestigious until it was listed on the register of national theaters in 2005. Since then a new era has begun renewing with its history, it set itself the task of spreading its unique repertoire and securing the production and dissemination of operatic works to the widest audience.

The day before yesterday or a bit earlier two children were born in the streets of Paris the same day. Chichi explained to me that the thing occurred not infrequently. Accouchement in a 'maison' was an expensive affair, comparatively. hence women, at the very last moment, went to the poste de police and demanded the assistance that the law binds itself to give.

It is extraordinary how the leading cafes of Montmartre are absolutely crammed at midnight. Till a day or two ago I had scarcely known of the existence of the Cafe Graff. I was in there last night and at 12.15 there was not a seat empty. I came home and found my stove gone out. I lighted it at 1 p.m. but it would not 'take'. This trifling thing annoyed me wonderfully. It got on my nerves. I could not sleep and was extremely depressed about everything. The cold continues, and this morning it is even more severe.

Yesterday afternoon I very suddenly decided to alter the entire arrangement of the flat, making the bedroom the study, the study the cabinette de toilette, and the cabinette de toilette the bedroom. I called in the concierge to assist, and also the carpenter's young son to shave pieces off the bottoms of the doors. It took over two hours, and the young son received 75 centimes and the concierge 2 francs' worth of coke which I had no use for, as my infernal new stove doesn't burn coke. I can now work in the same room as the stove.

Yesterday I tackled the Phillpotts play for about 4 hours and got into it considerably.

Additionally for December 4th., see 'A patriotic concert' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/a-patriotic-concert.html

Patriotic concert last night in the village schoolroom. Full. All the toffs of the village were there. Rev. Mathews and family dined with us before it. Most of the programme was given by soldiers, except one pro. It was far more amusing than one could have expected. Corporal Snell, with a really superb bass voice, sang two very patriotic, sentimental songs, sound in sentiment but extremely bad in expression. They would have been excruciating in an ordinary voice; but he was thrilling in them.

La vie parisien

Monday, June 13th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Lunched with Rickards chez Chichi. She had taken pains to have a lunch more than usually nice. If anyone had told her that she was nervous before this young man whom she regards as an absolute infant in all really interesting matters, she would have laughed. But she was. She had bought a large new hat, and it was nothing but nervousness that made her suddenly try it on me as I sat balanced on the edge of a couch. After discussing the really interesting matters for two hours, Rickards left to get shaved, or to get a second shave or something.

I was introduced to Chichi, a young woman of the theatre, by a newspaper friend and she is often here. What a name she has! It is redolent of the very spirit of la vie de Boheme. She is wise in aspects of  Parisian life (really interesting matters!) about which I have been both imaginatively and practically ignorant. She has recounted to me several of her experiences of 'sexual perversions'. Apparently they always wept afterwards! Yet she said to me: 'Mais tous est naturel.' The force of this observation struck me. She tells me that she and her colleagues of the theatre smoke cigarettes in the dressing room though there is now a decree against it. This follows the disaster in the Rue Jean Goujon when a hundred aristocratic dead were left in the flames started by the overturning of a cinematographic projector lamp. "Everyone does it," she says, "but there is an official search of all dressing rooms, etc., once a month by the firemen, and before that an attendant comes round and says to the artists: 'Kindly hide your matches, etc., as the pompiers will be here directly.' " The extraordinary humour of this does not seem to occur to her. I said: "C'est bien Parisien, ca!" She cynically and bitterly agreed that it was.

We went down to Miss Thomasson's for tea, and sundry most interesting persons came in. However, in about an hour Rickards had arranged to spend the following day with Miss Thomasson in a river excursion. I find myself somewhat perturbed by this, though I can think of no sound reason why I should be. We were late for dinner because the dullest of the visitors failed to perceive, until he was told, that he ought to go.