Prowling round

Monday, March 16th., Villa des Nefliers, Avon S/M.

Worried about the finances of Fontainebleau lately. Still I kept myself in hand very well until the moment arrived last night for me to receive a crucial letter from Pinker. I had given him carte blanche to dispose of "Buried Alive" exactly as he thought best, and had made it clear that my priority was more money! The letter was handed to me in a dark street. I had some difficulty not stopping to read it under a gas lamp. I read it at the station with a commendable show of nonchalance, though nobody there had the least interest in me or my business. Strange the compulsion to 'perform' even when there is no audience. It was alright. No mistake, the constant practice of Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus has had its gradual effect on me.

Have never worked better than these last few days. 4,000 words of "The Old Wives' Tale" in three days plus two articles and some verse. And I have a general scheme of a long article on the London theatrical situation. And ideas for a big play about journalism for the Stage Society, designed to thrill London. Of course I cannot go on at this level or I will be ill. Marguerite is due to return from Paris today and will no doubt make me slow down by deployment of her feminine wiles.

Lovely weather but chilly. Chilblains on hands. Immense pleasure, pretty nearly ecstatic sometimes, in looking at the country, in being in it, particularly by the Seine and in the forest. I said to myself the other morning that the early savage used to prowl about from his cave like that and that I might almost meet one in the forest; whereupon it occurred to me that I was exactly the early savage over again, prowling round his cave, with the same sniffing sensations of instinctive joy in nature. We have lost a great deal in the acquisition of civilisation. Perhaps too much. Of course the life of primitive man was short and beset by hardship and violence, but how much richer it must have been in many respects. Is the worth of a life to be measured by the number of days lived, or by the way one lives today? Very curious this getting down to the bedrock of existence.

 

Regretful

 Saturday, February 19th., Hotel Ruhl, Nice.

I read a lot of the book Robert Nichols specially recommended to me: "Neighbours" by Claude Houghton. I think there may be an idea in it but up to page 100 it is very amateurish. I have also read three acts of "Troilus and Cressida". It is great stuff as regards character and language and 'closeness' of texture; and yet it takes the fellow nearly three acts to come to the real point of the plot.

At the back of my mind has been something Scott Moncrieff said to me when we were in Pisa. He asked me if I would ever commit suicide? Said he thought about it quite often himself. Not because he feels depressed or presently inclined to do it; but he feels that at some point in the future he may want to, and wonders if he would have the means and the determination. I think he said "integrity" but he meant determination I felt. I passed the question off with a joking aside at the time, but regret it now as it was seriously meant. I hope my disinclination to discuss it didn't offend him. I htink he is a rather sensitive chap.

Leaving aside the practical issues, which could be overcome, why has suicide become a reprehensible act? It wasn't for the Greeks or the Romans; nor is it now in Japan and other parts of the world I believe. In fact the ancients saw it as something an honourable man should do in some circumstances. Marcus Aurelius acknowledges the possibility of suicide as a rational act though he clearly favours a will to endure. Seneca says that the important thing is to die nobly, having lived nobly. No problems there!

So the change can only be, it seems to me, because of the ascendancy of the Abrahamic religions. Well, fair enough, if you subscribe to one of those religions then you should not kill yourself. But if you do not, then why should you be bound by their moral constraints? It makes no sense. The situation now is a remnant, like the debris left on a beach when the tide has ebbed, as religion has ebbed. 

Suicidal thoughts have not often come into my mind, though the troubles I had with Marguerite caused me much depression and even now there are times when I feel I am like Sisyphus, constantly pushing a weight uphill, with no prospect of release. But, reflecting on what Scott Moncrieff asked, I feel it would be a comfort to know that if I did want to 'end it all' then I would need no permission beyond my own and the means would be available.

Thoughts and fancies

Saturday, April 4th., Villa des Nefliers.

Yesterday I wrote 1,700 words in two and a half hours. 

Also, I received Tauchnitz' "Swinburne". I came across "England: an Ode." I would not write such a thing called "Englnad: an Ode." This patriotism seems so cheap and conceited. It leaves me cold. I would as soon write "Burslem: an Ode" or "The Bennetts: an Ode." I would treat such a theme ironically, or realistically. But loud, sounding praise, ecstacy -No!

Every morning just now I say to myself: Today, not tomorrow, is the day you have to live, to be happy in. Just as complete materials for being happy today as you will ever have. Live as though this day your last of joy. "How obvious, if thought about" - yet it is just what we forget. Sheer Marcus Aurelius of course.

Each day, thrice, I expect romantically interesting, fate-making letters. Always disappointed. Astonishing how I have kept this up for two years.

Eyesight going wrong again. Ought to go to an optician at once. But can't put myself out to go to Paris, hate the idea of explaining to an optician etc. Yet I know I run risks. Yesterday I decided to go and felt easier; today my eyes are better and I put it off.

Philosophical ideas

Sunday, January 19th., Ilchester Gardens, London.

I have been in correspondence with Pinker regarding money, and asked him to send me £10 if possible. I assured him that my irregular need of money is in no way caused by personal affairs, but is due to my peculiar responsibilities as the head of a large family. Under Marguerite's influence I am now living in the most reasonable way possible. I am spending much less than I used to and the effect of this will soon be apparent. During my absence from Paris I have let the flat there and we live here on £7 a week inclusive. 

Mist yesterday morning; fog this morning. Both days I noticed 'the gigantic ghosts of omnibuses' in the gloom. It is a phrase to use.

I called and saw Vedrenne at the Queen's Theatre yesterday afternoon. Seemed a decent sort of chap, more sincere than the run of them; also he kept his appointment to the minute. He said that in the theatre he thought that "the author was everything". I of course agreed. said he had been paying G. B. Shaw £4,000 a year for four years past. And that he took £1,300 in Dublin in a week with a Shaw play. Also said, speaking generally, that he had lost a lot of money last year. Said he had taken on Waller for five years, and had bought a 'morality' play by Conan Doyle.
Additionally for Vedrenne see 'The writing business' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/the-writing-business.html

Two days after the Queen's opened The Stage newspaper published a review of the building in their 10th of October 1907 edition saying:- 'A two-tier house, the Queen's holds about 1200 persons, representing some £300 in money. The colour scheme of the walls and roof is white and gold, while green is the hue of the carpets, hangings and upholstery, and of the very charming velvet tableau curtain. From a spacious and lofty entrance-hall, with passages leading down into the stalls, one ascends by a handsome marble staircase to the dress circle, which runs out over the pit; and there is a fine and roomy saloon at the top. Mr Vedrenne makes a point that 7/6 will be charged for seats in the first three rows only of the dress circle, while but 5/- will be the price of the remaining eight rows, also unreserved, in which evening dress will be optional. On the second tier of the Queen's, which is in the Old Italian Renaissance style and in the building of which the cantilever principle has been adopted, are the upper circle and the shilling gallery. The auditorium is lighted up agreeably with electric lamps and an electrolier, and ample refreshment room and other accommodation will be found to have been provided.'

http://www.arthurlloyd.co.uk/QueensTheatre.htm

My reading is unsatisfactory. I read a bit of the "Prelude" today. I don't seem to get into either Acton or Creevey. But I stick to Marcus Aurelius. I was moved by this, in "Meditations II.17" (Farquharson trans.): "Of man's life, his time is a point, his existence a flux, his sensation clouded, his body's entire composition corruptible, his vital spirit an eddy of breath, his fortune hard to predict, his fame uncertain. Briefly, all things of the body a river; all things of the spirit dream and delirium; his life a warfare and a sojourn in a strange land; his after-fame oblivion. What then can be his escort through life? One thing, and one thing only, Philosophy." Noble words from a noble mind. Of course, like others who think about these things, I sit comfortably in my chair and aspire to such nobility for myself, but then 'life' intrudes and its 'warfare' gives me little or no space for philosophic reflection. No doubt M.A. himself was largely pre-occupied with practical matters; indeed he must have been. One must be content to return to a core belief as and when possible, like a sailor returning to sheltered anchorage from stormy seas.

Additionally for January 19th., see 'On my balcony' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/from-my-balcony.html

Breakfast on the balcony again yesterday, while the fishing boats went out one by one straight into the dazzle of the sun, with an extraordinary sentimental effect. A highly dandiacal yacht, with fittings all brass and mahogany apparently, had been at anchor since we came; she was moored by two ropes to the jetty, and by two anchors from the stern. I noticed a detail of actualness which might be brought into a scene with great effect. The yacht swung from side to side on the jetty ropes, lifting first the starboard and then the port rope clear of the water, and as each rope came clear of the still water, the drops from it fell into the water in hundreds for a few seconds making a wonderful pretty pattering sound. On first catching this sound I did not perceive how it was caused.