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!

Simple pleasure

Monday, July 18th., Brittany.

My sister Tertia told me once that my mother, on seeing "Carmen" at Hanley Theatre said: "I don't like that woman at all". Just the sort of thing she might say!

It rained all day yesterday, and was raining heavily when we went to bed. Rain appalling. The employes du Louvre discovered the gramophone at night and danced to it.

By the way, the chief point about the gramophone performance was the intense and simple pleasure of the people in it. The two men bent over the instrument smiling as they might have done at a baby that was crooning. How I envy people who are able to immerse themselves without self-consciousness in the moment. For myself I find that I cannot get beyond thoughts of my own dignity, and appearance, which of course I know rationally is of no interest to anyone but myself. I am afraid that self-consciousness will be a burden to me throughout my life, unless it falls away as I descend, heaven forbid, into senility. Rather dark thoughts for a holiday - must be the effect of the weather!

Additionally for July 18th., see 'A matter of loyalty'

While all this is going on I have more trouble to contend with from my wife. She resents my 'other' life in London and fails to understand that I have an immense amount of work to do and considerable responsibility. Hence she contrives problems to gain my attention. For example, she has conceived a thorough dislike for our gardener Lockyer and is manoeuvring to have him replaced: what a time to become preoccupied with such trivia! I have written to her as follows:

Getting information

Wednesday, December 8th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

Dawson and dentist yesterday morning. I have been spending time with Joseph Dawson this week acquiring stuff for "Clayhanger". I have made real progress in getting information from him. 

After dinner I went to the Grand Theatre, 9.15 p.m. I was profoundly struck by all sorts of things. In particular by the significance of clog-dancing, which had never occurred to me before. I saw a 'short study' for the Nation in this. Towards the end I came across Warwick Savage and walked home with him. this was a pity because I had got into an extraordinary vein of 'second sight'. I perceived whole chapters. Of all the stuff I made sufficient notes.

The Grand Theatre (Trinity Street/Foundry Street) opened on 22 August 1898, at a cost of £25,000: £5,000 for the site, and £20,000 for the building. The building was constructed from brick, with stone facings and ornaments. The ornamental frontage was built in Renaissance style with a dome surmounting the entrance, and verandah of iron and glass. The principal entrance was at the corner of Trinity Street and Foundry Street, with the upper circle and pit entrances in Trinity Street. The vestibule had marble columns and a floor laid with encaustic tiles, the walls tiled shoulder height. The auditorium had three tiers - dress circle with four rows of chairs; upper circle of seven rows; and the gallery with twelve rows and a promenade. The rear of the grand circle was in line with the front of the upper circle, and the gallery was supported on four iron columns. To the sides of the balconies were four boxes surmounted with domes. The theatre had a sliding roof, and was lit by electricity. The stage could be converted for use as a circus with the removal of the stage and orchestra pit. There were busts of Shakespeare and Goethe.

Additionally for December 8th., see 'Heavyweight literature' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/thursday-december-8th.html

The Bradenham edition is handsome and imposing. It is too imposing. It is almost exactly the size of a volume of the Dictionary of National Biography. Why should a novel be as unwieldy as a work of reference? This book cannot be held in one hand for reading. It could not be read in bed without employing a system of cranes. Why do publishers insist on ignoring the important fact that a book exists to be read in comfort, not merely to be beheld with pride on a shelf?