Almost ideal

Saturday, October 21st., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

This morning, leisurely reading up for a 3000 word article with which I am to celebrate for the Academy the approaching completion of Mrs. Garnett's translation of the works of Turgenev, I spent four hours in what seemed to me almost an ideal way. I was not hurreid. I had books heaped about me. I allowed ideas slowly to germinate in my head. It was calmer, less exciting than creative composition.

Tonight, for a change, I composed the crudest funny song which Marriott is to sing at  Christmas to make us laugh at Burslem - a lyric about Sissie's baby.

I woke at about 4 this morning and found that I was thinking about Richard Powers' latest novel "The Overstory", which I finished reading a couple of weeks ago. It has been in my head from time to time since then. To me, that is the mark of a good book! Impressive how he imagines a range of characters, makes them all 'real', and then weaves their lives together. A deeply pessimistic book about the impact of humans on the planet, focussing on trees, but just as relevant in terms of almost all other forms of life. My only criticism is that I found the ending just a little vague. It seemed apparent, and appropriate, to me that the culmination of the novel would be an acknowledgement that humans are the problem and will never be the solution, but my sense was that he drew back from this just a little. I really need to re-read so as to make sure I had the right end of the stick. 

I must write to May Beardmore whose birthday it must soon be, though I have never been able to get the exact date clear in my head. She will be interested to hear that the life of a professional novelist suits me very well. Though sometimes a strain, it has its advantages, not least short hours!

A bit upset

Tuesday, October 31st., Fulham Park Gardens, London.


Mr. and Mrs. Phillpotts and I walked down into Torquay. Mild, with flowers blooming everywhere. It seemed to me to be a place of retired military officers, rich and stiff dowagers, and spoiled overfed dogs led about by servant maids. Phillpotts said that for its size, it was the second richest place in England, and I can believe it. Tunbridge Wells is first. There were scarcely any poor. Nearly every house stood in its own garden. There were very few children as the inhabitants were mainly retired and old. Also, but few young men. I felt quite a youth again! If a young man above the tradesman's class grew up in Torquay, he could not stay there, because there was nothing for him to do. The whole town consisted of rich households and the people who fed them and waited on them.

I left Torquay in the afternoon for London. At Exeter I heard of the British defeat in the Transvaal. It was at a place called Nicholson's Nek (sic), somewhere near Ladysmith. Strange effect as if I personally had been defeated, a real emotional response, and yet I can see no sense in this war with the Boers at all. Why are we fighting the Boers? I have no idea. Cynically I presume that there are financial interests at stake and that soldiers on both sides are being sacrificed for the enrichment of persons in positions of power/influence in the colony. Same applies in India and elsewhere. What is the point of this Imperial project? Beats me. And yet I felt diminished by the news.

I must say that I am glad to be back home. I have written belatedly to May Beardmore at Porthill to congratulate her on her 21st birthday. Now I will settle back down to my work, and writing and playing music with Dr. Farrar. Speaking of work, I am consumed with a fever just now to chuck up women's journalism utterly, and go in for fiction and criticism only. No doubt the spell with Phillpotts, who is doing very well for himself, has had its effect. I could do it if I had the pluck of a louse; but having got used to a comparatively expensive way of living I haven't the courage to make the necessary sacrifice. Nevertheless I swear that I will get out of that damned office inside two years or shoot myself. I always keep my oaths!