Nice chaps

Friday, March 5th., Cadogan Square, London.

I have had an acutish liver attack for two days but it is over now.

I didn't get into bed this morning until 1.20 and was up at 7. I dined at Diana Cooper's last night. I have never been to her Gower Street house before. It is fine, a complete house. Next door is a converted block of flats and they have knocked a hole through the wall and added one of the flats to their own home. An ingenious scheme. Amazing what can be accomplished when one has pots of money. The house does look beautiful though, and I feel quite envious. One curious thing is that Duff Cooper doesn't smoke, therefore there were no cigars, which pained me. Not because I can't do without cigars, but because I disliked the argument which ensued. Yet Duff is a most delightful man. 

I am dining with the Duke of Marlborough on Thursday and I hope, and expect, that things will be better there. I have known him for twelve years but at the Other Club last Thursday we became more intimate and he requested me to dinner. He is of course the head of the Churchill family and the grand grand grandson of the greatest soldier in English history, to whom a greatful country presented Blenheim. Also he is a very nice ignorant chap, and an ardent Roman Catholic. That is about all I know of him.

Our new servants are now installed. But when I wanted a bath last night (1.10 a.m.) the water was cold. This annoys Fred even more than it does me. His views on women (or rather girls) are gradually being soured. Wells and Shaw are coming to lunch on Friday next. The top of the house has been painted and papered as part of our preparations to move out later this year. I wish to God that we could stay! We still have no idea where we will move to and the cost of the whole operation will be fantastic. Which means that the unrelenting round of work continues. I increasingly wonder if it is all worthwhile, but feel entirely trapped.

Tomorrow I am off to the first night of "The Lady of the Camellias" with Duff Tayler. It is at the Garrick and features Tallulah Bankhead.

Strange feelings

Monday, March 1st., Winter Palace Hotel, Menton.

I wrote 700 words this morning, and 700 this afternoon, of my new novel which I think I shall call "The Vanguard". Dorothy worked on her scenario of my short story "Death, Fire and Life", and so was not ready to go out until 12.22.  We sat in the garden of the hotel for a bit, and began to lunch fairly early. After a snooze we went out at 3 and walked down to the level ground, about six minutes, and then Dorothy did not want to walk any more, and we took a victoria and went about town shopping. I think that pregnancy is starting to make her lazy, and warned her that she will get fat if not careful. She laughed.

I have been reading more of Yeats's "Celtic Twilight". It is an engaging little book. Simple but elegantly written. I particularly like the way Yeats tells the reader, without frills or comment, what he has himself been told about supernatural experiences. Their matter-of-fact delivery makes them more credible. Yeats describes a couple of weird experiences of his own but shrinks from saying that he believes in 'faeries'; intimates that he may have fallen under some sort of enchanting influence. But I think he does believe. A part I was reading today about the feeling one can get in isolated places, especially woods, rang a bell with me. I have sometimes felt that sense of heightened awareness, a sort of anticipation that something strange is going to happen, even on one occasion in Bradwell Woods when I was a boy. I can remember that just in the act of taking one step I felt as if I had crossed some sort of line, things were quieter, I became wary, and wanted to look round as if I was being watched. Not scared exactly, but conscious that there was more around me than I had been aware of previously. This must have been forty odd years ago, and yet I can resurrect the feeling now, and the hair on my neck rises.

We have had an invitation to visit the Wells's for one of their 'weekends' but won't be back in England in time. Our intention is to leave here next Sunday and travel by easy stages to Paris, then on to Calais and home.

Settling down

Saturday, February 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

I am a little concerned about my niece Margaret who, judging by her most recent letter, has formed anti-semitic views. She is young and has apparently decided that Jews in general are 'beastly' on the evidence of some unpleasant Jews she has met. I have written to counsel her not to get up in herself any general prejudice against a whole race of people for such flimsy reasons. I told her that I know a considerable number of excellent Jews and I have not noticed that gentiles are superior in any respect. Strange how anti-semitism has persisted for so long and so widely. I have invited her to visit after Easter and hope to have a good influence on her attitude then.

Things may be coming to a head in my burgeoning relationship with Dorothy Cheston. She was here for a dinner tete-a-tete the other evening, a very intimate occasion as I intended it to be. Various things were said by both of us which, taken at face value, would indicate an inclination to 'formalise' our relationship. I sense that her mind is not made up and I do not want to swing her one way or another by direct persuasion. She must decide for herself and accept the responsibility of that decision. Though I feel clear in my own mind there is a part of me, typically, which fears commitment. It cannot be denied. But if she says "Yes", then I will do the honourable thing.

I am feeling quite well settled here now. Wells and wife are coming to dinner tonight and will give their verdict on the place. My health has been much better of late, as everyone remarks. I am trying to get to bed regularly at 12.30 and starting work at 8 a.m. That said, I was at a musical party at Harriet Cohen's last evening and didn't get to bed until 1 a.m. But I have worked well today.

Bad nights

Friday, February 26th., Cadogan Square, London.

A bad few nights. More than usually bad. Some sort of cold on the kidneys I think, affecting the bladder. Very uncomfortable at times, but things improving now. From experience I have learned that the best thing to do with this sort of internal irritation is to have 'a good flush out'. So yesterday I drank nothing but water, and lots of it. Seems to be working. Tonight should be better - only usually disturbed! I wonder if I will ever sleep through a night again? I doubt it.

Not feeling like doing any work, I have been reading Wells's "The Invisible Man". I read it when it first came out but enjoyed it more this second time. In fact I was quite gripped by it. Wells has an ability to construct a vivid scene in the reader's imagination in very few words and once engaged it is hard not to continue to the end. In fact I did continue to the end in spite of some minor inconveniences to the rest of the household. Griffin, the Invisible Man, is a great creation and it is hard not to feel sorry for him in spite of his amorality; one feels that his character is a product of cumulative prejudices and that his behaviour is beyond his conscious control. I wonder if Wells intended the story to be allegorical? It feels to me as if it is - the alienation which may arise for an intelligent and active man in a society which has no niche for him. I must ask Wells about this when I see him next. He will probably laugh and say that I am over-intellectualising.

Peace needed

Monday, February 5th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Lunch at the Reform with Wells and Gardiner yesterday. They were in favour of communal feeding in case of starvation, as most efficient, starting in schools. Hard to believe that such a possibility is even being considered here. What a pretty pass! Wells took the submarine menace, like me, very calmly. On the other hand, Donald and McKenna who joined the conversation were much upset by it and gave dramatic figures. They are closer to the centre than we are, so should know what they are talking about.

The announcement that U.S.A. had severed diplomatic relations with Germany caused really very little discussion here. It was discussed a little at lunch. Already the intensely misunderstanding and unjust attitude of Marguerite and the officers (some of them) to the U.S.A. is changing. It is some sort of cognitive adjustment which allows people to 'fit in' with a different way of looking at things when that way becomes the accepted one. Within a week they will have forgotten that they ever thought differently.

At tea , when Lieut. and Mrs. Tracy came, it was discussed a little, and Mrs.Tracy well formulated for me the advantages of an 'American Peace', that is an unbiased peace, which was received with silence not altogether hostile. The fact is that unless something happens soon, both 'sides' will suffer and nothing will be gained except the salving of some misplaced pride. Afterwards Clegg agreed with me as to the advantages of the 'American Peace'. During the remainder of the evening nothing was said as to America, but the cognitive wheels were imperceptibly turning.

Some discomfort

Wednesday, February 4th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

It seems that the Bookman magazine is preparing an article about me, to be written by Bettany. I have had a letter from them asking for an up-to-date photograph. I don't have such a thing. In fact I don't much like to be photographed, but I sent them a few things I have on hand, including a couple of Rickards' caricatures. They also asked about photographs of the Potteries. Why I should be a source of these I know not.

Interestingly they refer throughout the letter not to the Potteries, but to the Five Towns. Seemingly my invented name for the district has now become common usage. It is used as if it were the real name, even in the district itself, and also by other novelists sometimes. For example Wells, in "The New Machiavelli", lays a number of important scenes in the Potteries, which he calls the Five Towns. The town of Burslem he sometimes calls by its proper name and sometimes by my adaptation of it - Bursley. I suppose I should be flattered by this, and I am, but I know that there is a fair amount of ill-feeling about it in the Potteries. They are a proud people, and easily offended, especially about trivial matters.

I wonder if Hardy gets any trouble arising from his invention of Wessex? I have seen the term used as a description for the south-west in general in the press. But I have never seen Dorchester referred to as Casterbridge, or Weymouth as Budmouth, etc. And then there is Trollope. I don't think that his Barsetshire is in fact based on a particular locality, so it's not the same. Overall I am glad to have been sufficiently successful in my creation to have influenced popular perception. But I doubt if I shall ever be welcome in Fenton!

I am getting on well with "Hilda Lessways" (in Turnhill). Nearly 20,000 words in three weeks. But now and then I get an uncomfortable sensation all over the top of my head and I have to go out for a very quick sweating walk of half an hour to clear it off. Unfortunately concentrated effort like this leads to neuralgia of fatigue and insomnia and so on, and I have to build myself up again with foods.

Censorship

Sunday, January 24th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

Attempts at censorship in England have been annoying me for some time and I have been waging a small campaign of my own, against censorship, in the New Age. Now the English Review have asked me to do an article on the subject for them. I said I would. To that end I wrote to John Lane because I understood that he had had trouble in connection with publication of "The Song of Songs" and "The New Machiavelli". I have now had his reply.

As I suspected, Lane tells me that Scotland Yard informed him of a complaint alleging obscenity in "the Song of Songs" as translated by Sudermann. I should like to know who inspired the police, not believing that Scotland Yard, in the intervals of its preoccupation with the Sidney Street brigands, had found time to make a study of current fiction in the interests of London morals. No doubt it is some self-appointed moral guardian, probably a fundamentalist Christian; they are the worst in my experience.

Lane has written to several authors to get a view about the alleged obscenity of the work. For myself I read it carefully and could see nothing to censure on grounds of obscenity, though much on grounds of aesthetics. Eden Phillpotts hit the nail on the head by saying that "the only things obscene therein were the Americanisms". Thomas Hardy apparently thought the book should be withdrawn because the translation is so poor. I agree entirely.

As regards "The New Machiavelli", I think it magnificent and in no way obscene. Conrad has called it "a master work". I have seen a review by Hubert Bland in the Daily Chronicle which describes it as "clever, but unpleasant and smug". The fact that they commissioned Bland to write the review shows that they had a preconceived antipathy to the book. Where is the Society of Authors in all this? Keeping quiet, that's where. If the Society of Authors and the Publishers' Association got together they could, in my view, kill library censorship very easily, but neither group seem willing. It seems to me that they are more by way of dining clubs than active literary organisations.

"Hilda" is progressing well. Over 16,000 words in three weeks. Good words too!

Imaginings

Saturday, January 23rd., Hotel Russie, Rome.

I didn't begin work until 6 p.m. Lunch at the hotel. Then we went for a drive, Dorothy's idea. Right down the right bank of the Tiber to the place where I moored the Velsa before the war. Much interested to see this again. It was a good spot.

In conversation Dorothy asked me an interesting question: "If you could go back in time for one day, in Wells's time machine say, where would you choose to go?" I found this difficult to answer because there are so many things to consider. To gain time I asked a few clarifying questions: observing or participating, visible or not, all day or just daylight hours? Then I settled on Athens during the Greek 'Golden Age' with the Parthenon just built and philosophers aplenty. She opted for Rome at the time of Augustus. Predictable choices.

But since then I have been thinking it over, and have changed my mind. Of course I would love to see Athens in its glory, and Rome. And I would like to visit Elizabethan England, and Florence during the Renaissance. But I know quite a lot about these places and times, and they would, in a sense, be familiar. So, if asked now I would settle instead on one of the Mayan cities in Central America, Palenque or Copan. I well remember reading, and being enthralled by, John Lloyd Stephens' account of his travels in that region, especially the arrival at Copan. It seems to me that to spend a day in one of those places would be quite alien, exciting and unlike anything I could imagine. I salivate, metaphorically, at the prospect!

Of course Haggard, and similar 'romantic' writers imagined such places and peopled them, but generally it seems to me the people were really modern day people transposed. I don't think any author has successfully imagined himself into a different way of seeing and living in the world; perhaps it is not possible to do so. Certainly I could not do it.

 

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.

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 ....

Enough of Monte

Saturday, February 6th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

Yesterday being wet I went over to Monte Carlo, and lost money, and was depressed by that and the weather, and more particularly by my lack of sense in playing with insufficient capital. That sentence is a lie. I went over to Monte Carlo in spite of the weather because I wanted to gamble and I thought I would win. Idiot. If there were a way of beating the system then somebody would have thought of it by now. Supremely arrogant of me to think that I have some special insight. No more!

Early this morning, still in a fairly savage mood, I composed a limerick on that infernal and un-vanquishable bore Mrs. Miller:

     There was an old woman named Miller
     Whose acquaintances wanted to kill her,
     When they put her in ice,
     She sniggered, "How nice!"
     For nothing could possibly chill her.

I sent it off to Eden Phillpotts by special messenger, and instantly felt better.

Phillpotts and I should have finished our play in the next few days and I must then go to England to pay a duty call on my mother who is still quite ill. Then back to Paris. I am trying to persuade Wells to visit me there. I have read the first instalment of his "The Food of the Gods" in Pearson's and thought it extremely good apart from a few minor verbal infelicities. Wells's reputation is high in Paris and I am sure he would be suitably feted there. Anyway, I would like to see him. I am starting to think that I have been here long enough. The place has interested me but one can have too much of a good thing.

Reflecting

Wednesday, January 22nd., Cadogan Square, London.

Out of sorts today. Bit of a chill on the liver. Didn't sleep well last night; not even as well as usual. And I couldn't settle to my nap this afternoon, so I am now lethargic, mildly irritable and generally dejected. We are all more or less slaves to our internal organs, especially the digestion. Wells described it nicely in the first part of "Mr. Polly". He was aiming for humour of course, but truth was there.

I was at the British Museum on Monday, just getting ideas, though I didn't get any. Went in to look at the Elgin marbles. I hear that the Greek government want them to be returned and put on display in Athens. Not back in place on the Parthenon, but in a specially constructed museum. I was in Athens a couple of years ago and ascended to view the Parthenon. Impressive, and moving. My overall feeling was sadness that the place had been more or less destroyed as part of a minor skirmish in a stupid war, after thousands of years of standing proud above the city. Having been brought to England by Elgin has probably saved the sculptures from damage and perhaps destruction, and I am glad they are in London to be seen by people like me whenever we wish. But I would be hard pressed to mount a moral defence for their retention now.

I look about London and wonder if there is anything here that would excite people in two thousand years time if it were still in place? Plenty of monumental architecture of course but nothing original that stands out. The Tower probably. Perhaps Greenwich Naval College? The Reading Room at the B.M.? What would most reflect our age and genius in my opinion would be one of the great stations - St. Pancras or Paddington. I don't expect people will still be using trains in two thousand years but I think they would admire the 'spirit' of the station in the way we admire the Parthenon.

Large ideas

Monday, January 20th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Returned yesterday from a short trip to Thorpeness in Suffolk. A remarkable place recommended to me by Barrie who is a good friend of Ogilvie the developer. I was told, and I don't know how true this is, that there were severe storms in 1910 which flooded land around Ogilvie's mansion. He had the idea of turning the flooded land into a lake, now called the Meare, and developing the land around as a holday village. The houses etc. are in a sort of Arts and Crafts, mock-Tudor style. Better than it sounds.

Anyway we had a good weekend, staying with the Morrells. Weather excellent. Cold during the day but not a cloud in the sky. Frosty first thing. Good walking area and plenty of wildlife to see - otters, red deer, marsh harriers, more ducks than you could shake a stick at. Strolled along the beach to Aldeburgh which is a pretty little town about two miles distant. Good appetite from fresh sea air. 

I have been reading in Wells' "The Outline of History". Fairly staggered by it. It is about the most useful thing of the kind ever done. And it is jolly well done. Full of imagination, and the facts assembled and handled in a masterly manner. My only fault to find is with the proof-reading, which is sloppy. Quite apart from various verbal inelegancies (which Wells is prone to, and I have told him so) there are positive mistakes which diminish the pleasure of reading for those pedants amongst us. I shake my head though. How the fellow did the book in the time fair passes me. I can't get over it. It's a life work.

Travels

Saturday, December 31st., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

I left Paris last Wednesday week, and stayed two nights with Wells. I read the typescript of the first part of his new novel "The Comet". What an imagination he has. His skill seems to lie in making the improbable seem possible, if not likely. He said that his financial position was becoming more and more secure. Not boasting but obviously pleased with himself. I was somewhat envious.

I went to Burslem on Friday for Xmas. Same as ever. One day I walked through the town and saw two childs' funerals exactly of the same kind: a procession of five or six pairs of women in black with white trimmings; two pairs carried the small oak coffin which was covered with wreaths and which they held by white cords over their shoulders. Immediately behind the coffin, the chief mourners, in one case a man and a woman. The coffin occurred about the middle of the procession. These little forlorn, smug processions ambling towards the cemetery from the Wesleyan Chapel were very curious.

Glad to be here with the Phillpotts'. Eden and I have worked on "An Angel Unawares", and soon it will be finished. 

During the year I wrote 282,100 words which is a low number for me. I made no particular advance commercially. I had several grave disappointments including my visit to Scotland to be cured of stammering. The artistic success of "A Great Man" was a genuine surprise to me. I firmly decided to marry. Now I just need to find a suitable person!
 

Bearing up

Friday, March 15th., Cadogan Square, London.

I have given up on "The Count of Monte Cristo". It started well and I was fully engaged for about three bed-reading sessions, but it has become too wordy, not enough action. I got as far as Rome; that was far enough!

My nephew Richard writes that he has a cold. In fact the greatest cold in Great Britain. Good for him say I. I never have colds - or perhaps one every three or four years - but I have plenty of other ailments. It occurs to me that perhaps the body can only accommodate one or two ailments at a time. So, if you have chronic neuralgia, as I do, then you are somehow immunised against other things. I may be wrong. It has happened.

Chiltern Court and Baker St. Station

 

 

Everything is subordinate to our intended move at the moment. I have decided that I am not going to buy any more Empire furniture. In fact I am going to sell some. When we move there will be much less Empire stuff in the domestic nest. I propose to have for myself a purely modern study, designed by McKnight Kauffer. A change will be as good as a rest, as my mother was fond of saying. It looks as if we are settled on Chiltern Court, over Baker Street Station, or rather to the side of it. This block contains the best flats we have seen. Nearly as good practical arrangements as in a house. They are sworn to be sound proof and they have the advantage of being within three minutes of Regent's Park. In fact I think we will take two flats and have them 'merged' together.

Wells has taken a flat there. So have the Kauffers, and I hear that Shaw is 'thinking'. When I went there the other day for another viewing the architect, the estate agent, and two underlings were all waiting on the pavement to receive me. It was like a royal visit. So to clear the solemn atmosphere I had to make a few jokes. The two flats together are about as long as a street. The rent would almost pay the interest on the National Debt.

Hence, I have done nothing but work and once the deal is complete it seems I will do nothing but work for the rest of my life simply to keep pace with domestic expenditure. This week I hope to finish the second part of "Imperial Palace". 140,000 words so far. There are four parts but the other two will be shorter. Nevertheless it will be my longest novel. I have now worked daily, including Sundays, for 23 days. Bearing up well so far. In fact when I awoke from my afternoon nap today I was feeling decidedly frisky, but there will be a reckoning.

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'.

Getting together

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

Bad night. Enfeebled. Forty minutes talk with Dorothy about the fortunes of "Mr. Prohack". Then I walked in snowy Battersea Park, which cleared my head. Family gathering with a sort of running buffet this afternoon. Fortunately I managed a short sleep, or rather a doze, in my chair before evryone arrived so was able to enjoy it. Plenty of light-hearted banter interspersed with personal observations and some sentimental recollections. Noisy and tiring but good. Essential for family cohesion to have a get-together now and then, and what better time than Christmas.

Later I sat down to draft a letter to authors urging them to subscribe to the National Book Council. It is suggested that this appeal should be signed by Hardy, Shaw, Wells, me and two or three others. I shall send it tomorrow to Willie Maxwell for his consideration.

 

Hare and bilberries

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

Yesterday, Christmas Day, I was reading "Falk" in Conrad's "Typhoon", and then several stories by Wells. Also Merimee's famous "Mateo Falcone", which is nothing special except in the extraordinary cruelty of the plot. Conrad though is by himself as a creator of characters; I feel that they almost come alive off the page as I read. This book of short stories is a triumph.

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. 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. In any case I feel so tired that I could not have done justice to it. 

Various people came in during the day to extend Christmas wishes, gossip a little, eat and drink. All pleasant enough. I was asked by a boy of ten or so, son of one of the visitors, to play a game of chess. He only has a moderate grasp of the rules, but seemed genuinely interested in the game. If I had a spare chess set by me I would have given it to him. Good to encourage some cerebral activity in the young. I enjoyed the game.

Resolutions

Friday, November 30th., 12b George Street, London.

I have been lecturing my nephew Richard, by letter, on the evils of drink. His father is an alcoholic and I noticed on a recent visit that Richard is drinking more than is good for him. There is a tendency to alcoholism in the family. No doubt he will simply consign my suggestion to the waste paper basket but I felt impelled to try. I used the example of my old friend Shufflebotham, who Richard has met. He comes here sometimes to see me and I press him to swear that he will henceforth abstain, but within an hour he is creeping out to get a drink somewhere thinking I am deceived. I am not deceived. It is pathetic, tragic. No victim of alcohol ever suspects that he is a victim until it is too late.

I have now definitely commited  myself to take 75 Cadogan Square. It is rather large for a 'single' man but stylish and comfortable, and I can afford it.  It is not so central as this but it is the best I could get. There were no flats that would suit me.  It is a large house and I am subletting the top floor (four small rooms) to my secretary Miss Nerney and her mother. It is an immense advantage to have your secretary on the spot. There are two staircases. I shall still have three floors and a basement to myself. I shall leave here at or about Christmas, but Christmas itself I am spending with the Wells's.

I have embarked on a new morning regime in anticipation of this change of life. I do all my serious toil first, ie. I put on my jaeger suit and do nothing else. I do not wash, shave, clean teeth, bathe, dress or anything! By 11.30 (three and a half hours) my serious toil is accomplished, and I am free for oddments for the rest of the day. I can do more like this, and easier and better. true, I am not really dressed until 12.30 but I see no correspondence nor receive any messages until work is done.

A fine letter

Tuesday, October 26th., Cadogan Square, London.

Went to Tchekoff's "Three Sisters" at the Barnes Theatre. Well, I was bored frequently. Did I enjoy myself? No, not on the whole. Was I uplifted as I had been by an even gloomier play "Rosmersholm"? No. It seemed to me that often the author was wilfully pessimistic. He is certainly very monotonous, and all his plays that I have seen have the same tone. A decent Philistine man seated just behind us was more satisfied - thought it improved as it went forward. On the whole Tchekoff had succeeded with him.

I was rather cross with myself this morning because (again) I caught myself trying to make Dorothy fit into my way of doing and seeing things. This is a fault with me which I have become increasingly aware of, and am trying to do something about. It is really about the exercise of power. I suppose it is human nature to want to assert oneself and thus maintain one's 'position' in the pecking order; or at least it is man's nature! Anyway it is not something I like about myself. By my time of life I should be secure enough to accept with equanimity  that others do things their own way, even though I think I know better.

When I got home I found a great letter from Wells about (1) "Raingo", (2) Dorothy, (3) my 'renewed' home, (4) my improved health. Incidentally H.G. attributes the latter to a more active sex life - he would! It was a fine letter.