A cogitating day

Sunday, December 13th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

After buying papers and tea yesterday I lunched at the little creamery in the Place de la Trinite. Then I came home and read various papers and periodicals and "Casanova", and fell asleep, sleeping uncomfortably. Then I tried seriously to find ideas for Chapter II of my new novel; I had been more or less asking for them all morning; no success. Then I went out for a walk and felt tired even in starting.

I walked through the St. Lazare quarter to the Madeleine and turned along the Grand Boulevard to the Grand Cafe. I like the interior of this cafe. It is as much like the respectable ugliness of an English club as anything in Paris. I must be a little homesick I think. I ordered a cup of chocolate because I felt empty.

I thought steadily for an hour over this chocolate and I seemed to leave the cafe with one or two germs of ideas. I walked home cogitating. When I arrived there was a telegram from Whitten requiring my weekly article two days earlier than usual. This upset my plans somewhat. I felt so tired - I had taken a chill - that I lay down under the eiderdown on the bed and went to sleep again, reading "Casanova". 

When I awoke it was dark though only late afternoon. I made tea and felt better. A leading notion for the chapter had now formed itself. I went out to the Comedie Mondaine to book a seat for Brieux's "Berceau" and then to the Duval to dine, where I read Le Temps all the way through. Then I bought a cigar and had coffee in the Place Clichy. I cogitated at the cafe for an hour, and then I had the whole chapter clearly outlined in my head. This is a fair specimen of one of my cogitating days.

A good friend

Friday, November 18th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I spent Wednesday evening with Emile Martin. I should say he is the best friend I have made in Paris. We seem to get on well together, chatting amiably about life and, in particular, women. Emile is older than me and rather experienced. He has put me in the way of several 'obliging' young women, thereby advancing my education considerably. I think that at first he thought I was atypical in my naivety, but I have convinced him that most young middle-class provincial Englishmen (and probably Londoners as well) are just as ignorant and bumbling as myself. He shrugs gallicly.

He explained to me pretty fully the financial working of his club, the Cercle de la Rue Volnay. It had 1,800 members who pay 150 francs each. But the expenses are 600,000 francs a year; the rent is 100,000. The deficit is chiefly made up by the club's profits on baccarat. he seems to be au courant of everything. I hope one day to have the same casual confidence of manner.

Last night Brieux's "La Petite Amie", in 3 acts at the Comedie Mondaine. It wa astonishing to me how this play 'got hold' of the crowded audience. Tears and violent applause were plentiful. It is not a good play, in my opinion, but it is tremendously effective, and sometimes extremely true.