Introspection

Sunday, July 17th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Yesterday at 7 p.m., after a week of slogging, I finished "Hugo" which I think is my eighth novel. I have got that off my mind and now this morning I lose a front tooth, just to be supplied with a new worry. 

Five years ago I would have looked on my life, as I am living it now, as the ne plus ultra of paradisiacal bliss, but I am no more content than I ever was. In fact life is a devilish odd thing. I think I have learned more about it in the last three years than ever I knew before. I have books planned that will keep me employed till the end of 1906. But if I am any happier than when I used to cycle down to Farnham & Witley after a week of rottenness in Fleet Street, I do not know it. My belief is that some people are born happy and some aren't. 

I like Paris tremendously. Indeed I can't imagine myself living in any other city. It has spoilt me for London. What I secretly desire is a fine house in the seaside country near Folkestone for the summers, and this flat (which suits me excellently) for the rest of the year. And these things I must have and will have!

Additionally for July 17th., see 'Adrift in Austria'

I went out and bought some cigars. About 4.30 went up to Hoher Salzburg. A very Margate-ish crowd; indeed the same sort of crowds everywhere. They stream into the town daily. Coming home, I met Kommer; or rather he stopped me and offered me a piece of paper. For a second I didn't know him. He had inquired at all the hotels for me (including this one) without success. He had then gone to the police, who informed him at once thatE.A.B. was staying at the Oesterreichischer, and gave him a bit of paper to that effect; this was the paper he was exhibiting to me in the street.

Out of sorts

Thursday, June 2nd., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Neither yesterday nor today have I been quite sufficiently bursting with health to think seriously of the plot of the second part of "Hugo". However I have got the plan and the 'feel' of it, and also one or two detached episodic notions. The weather has been thoroughly wet and rotten.

I walked down to the Louvre in it yesterday, and had a desire to commission copies of the Botticelli frescoes on the Daru staircase - in watercolours. It was a great day for copyists. I saw scores. One old man, who was copying a Raphael head, struck me particularly. He had leaned back against the rail to rest for a few minutes. He was old and poor, shabby, rather dirty, with shaggy thin grey hair. And he seemed absolutely disgusted, hopeless, and feebly bitter. I could not help feeling shocked by the sight, for of course this man had started out in life with the idea that he was going to succeed as a painter. Was I perhaps so shocked because I could see an alternative reality for myself in his experience?

Art students and copyists in the Louvre -
Winslow Homer

Ever since the Louvre museum opened its treasures to public view in November 1793 (one of the indisputable benefits of the French Revolution), it has allowed, even encouraged, artists to hone their skills by copying the masterpieces in its collections. Thousands have done so, including great classical painters from Turner to Ingres, Impressionists from Manet to Degas, and modernists like Chagall and Giacometti. “You have to copy and recopy the masters,” Degas insisted, “and it’s only after having proved oneself as a good copyist that you can reasonably try to do a still life of a radish.” The Louvre’s attraction is profound. When 23-year-old Marc Chagall arrived in Paris in 1910 from Russia, he went there directly from the train station, suitcase in hand. “Going to the Louvre is like reading the Bible or Shakespeare,” he later said. Paul Cézanne regularly trekked there to copy Michelangelo, Rubens and classical Greek and Roman statues. “The Louvre is the book where we learn to read,” he declared.

Afterwards I went on to my 'Empire' shop and bought two occasional tables, a candlestick and a flower glass, all strictly Empire. I have now done buying furniture. I only want bibelots and things.

I bade goodbye to my stupid femme de menage this morning. She told me a few days ago that her husband had returned to her, and that they were both going to their native district of Auvergne. This origin I am told explains her singular and astonishing stupidity. On Tuesday she achieved a miracle of stupidity in the way of trying to keep milk cool under a jug of cold water - no doubt to crown her career. It would have been an excellent idea for milk-cooling if the water had not got into the milk. She has been here for eight months and we have never exchanged 'general' ideas - not once.

Additionally for June 2nd., see 'Feeling poorly'

Up till noon I still hoped, in spite of millions of experiences, that I might be able to work in the afternoon. I glanced through all the newspapers, and made my head worse just as it was easing. I took nothing but milkless tea until the evening, and then a morsel of arrowroot. To starve and to lie flat - this is my only treatment.