I am an author

Wednesday, February 16th., Fulham Park Road, London.

As I opened the front door this morning to leave for the office, the postman put a parcel in my hand. It was from John Lane, and it contained the first copy of my first book, "A Man from the North". Imagine that. I could hardly believe I was not dreaming. As a fact my heart was beating like the clappers and my breathing became shallow. I untied it hastily and after glancing at the cover gave it to Tertia to read. All day at the office I have been saying to myself: "I am an author". 

Tonight, with some ceremony, I picked the book up and indulged myself in the feel and smell of the thing. Then I looked through the tale, picking out my favourite bits. The style seemed better than I had hoped for. I am still pinching myself, but there it is, a tangible product of my heart and mind.I hope, trust and believe it is only the first of many.

Confidences

Friday, January 4th., Trinity Hall Farm, Hockliffe, Bedfordshire.

As we drove through Battlesden Park on a misty moist morning yesterday, Kennerley and Tertia in front, and Sharpe and I cramped and pinched behind, I had a sense of a constantly unrolling panorama of large rounded meadows, studded with immense bare cedars, also of a formal and balanced shape; bulls and sheep, all of fine breeds, wandered vaguely about; sometimes a house; often a gate to be opened, and Spot gallivanting tirelessly around the trap; in one distant clump of trees we saw a rook perched on an invisible twig on the top of a high elm; in the mist he seemed enormous, an incredible motionless fowl; at length he sretched his wings slowly, sank gently forward, and beat heavily away into the distance. Everything was a vague green and dark grey in the fog - everything except the red hips and the staring white of Spot's coat. 

On the way home we called for a dead snipe that had been given to us: the first snipe that I had ever seen; I was naively astonished at its small proportions, and the impossible length of its thin bill. 

In the afternoon Tertia began, at my request, to teach me to bake. I have very few practical skills but felt I could take to baking, and do it well. Here it seems very appropriate, in the same way that it would be appropriate to tend a vegetable garden, or shoot game. I enjoyed it and produced a very creditable mincemeat tart which was much admired at supper. There is a a real satisfaction in making things well. I expect William Morris tried his hand at baking. Tertia and I had quite a talk whilst alone in the kitchen. It seemed conducive to confidences. I told her about some of my experiences and misadventures in Paris and she confessed that she was not a virgin; it seems that she and Willie Boulton had anticipated their conjugal state. She said she didn't regret doing so, and was just glad that there had been no consequence. She is quite 'over' Willie's tragic death now, and has hopes of the relationship with Kennerley.

Trouble in paradise

Saturday, February 27th., Winter Palace, Menton.

Reflected in garden for 40 minutes after I was dressed. I sat in the sun without moving and yet I perspired. Lot to think about at the moment. There is the business of Richard's engagement for a start. I have written to his 'intended' and invited her to stay at Cadogan Square. Haven't met her yet. Looks pretty. Mostly on my mind though is Sep's illness. Latest from Tertia gives me the impression it is just a matter of time. Here am I, literally sunning myself on the Riviera, and he is dying in a nursing home in North Wales. But I can't simply abandon Dorothy in her condition, and what could I do if I went there? I could write to Sep, but it seems so impersonal, and what could I say? Some admission for me to be lost for words!

At noon we started to drive over to La Turbie to lunch with Max and Gladys Beaverbrook. Magnificent drive along the Grande Corniche. It was a good luncheon party in strong sunshine with a tang in the air. As well as the Beaverbrooks there was William Gerhardi and a fellow named Mayhew (with a most singular overcoat) on the staff of the Chicago Tribune. Max was restless, but that is normal. Gladys was delightful. Gerhardi in better form than usual. Gerhardi had met Rothermere last night at dinner for the first time. Max asked him what he thought of him. Gerhardi side-splittingly replied: "I think he has a sweet nature". Max roared himself red in the face.

Max asked me how much I would take for the film rights of "The Pretty Lady". I said I had got £2000  for "Sacred and Profane Love". He said he would pay this if he produced the film. I hope to god he will as I could do with the money!

Septembers (2)

September 2nd., 1897

Received a letter from my mother today (dated August 30th.) informing me of the death by drowning of my sister Tertia's fiance, Willie Boulton.They are holidaying at Barmouth and it seems he was swept out to sea by a strong current. The body has not yet been recovered.

I threw the letter over to Kennerley to read, and walked away to the lock.
In a few minutes it occurred to me that of course I was going by the Newhaven steamer that night. Nothing else was possible.

As the time approached for the appearance of the steamer, little groups of people collected round the darkness of the lock, in which small craft had already encamped. At some distance on the other side of the channel, were a few electric lights where some earthworks had begun to be thrown up. Save for these and one or two other scattered lamps, all was mysterious gloom. At last the hoot of the steamer came eerily down the canal, and as the vessel rounded the last corner, its electric headlight, like a great eye dropping a tear in the still water, illuminated the vista of the canal, and though it was yet a mile away, threw a deep black shadow behind our figures.
Then suddenly I felt that this passage of a channel steamer through the Ouistreham lock was going to be an impressive transaction.
I was filled with the presence of an inexorable power. With tremendous majesty the great ship crept gradually forward to the accompaniment of hoarse calls and hoots, and so at last into the lock. It was an hour before the water of the lock had subsided and her bulwarks were level with the sides of the lock. She moved out silently, save for the pilot's call, and with the same dignity as she appeared, disappeared with us into the blackness of the sea.
Such scenes as this are the poetic apotheosis of machinery. The spectacle accorded with and soothed my feelings.

September 2nd., 1910

On Tuesday I went to Paris. Lunch at Martin's (his cousin Eugene was there). I met Lee Mathews at Hotel St. James at 6.10. We discussed plays and his projects till 7.20. Caught 7.55 home, for  bread and milk at 9 p.m. I bought nothing.
See also, 'French excursion' - 
September 24th., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/friday-september-24th.html

Couldn't work next day or yesterday. Not sure why. Sometimes one is oppressed by a sense of pointlessness; why make another effort, or even exert oneself to be pleasant? Fortunately, with experience comes the knowledge that the feeling will pass and life will resume its normal optimistic course. In the meantime go through the motions.
So, I resumed "Seeing Life in Paris" this morning, and did 1,200 words.
Yesterday afternoon I just did a New Age article. 

By first post I received news that Pinker could sell serial use of "The Honeymoon" to McClure's Magazine for £200. I cabled to accept, provided dramatic rights not jeopardised.

September 2nd., 1919

At the Midland Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool.
I came here from Dublin yesterday. Pouring rain. Packed steamer. Couldn't move on it except with the greatest difficulty. People placidly getting soaked through while being ill. I felt sure my luggage would reach Liverpool with me. It didn't. Great melancholy. Fruitless expeditions by hotel people to lost luggage office. At 9 p.m. I strolled up there myself and the trunk came in at that identical moment. It was like a miracle. How dependant our moods are on our particular circumstances - from dejected to delighted as the result of the arrival of an inanimate object!

On Sunday we drove over Wicklow mountains and things to Glendalough; ancient ecclesiastic city. Much of the scenery was superb. I drank one and a half bottles of stout which gravely incommoded me. 

Yesterday I sat in wet boots after leaving the boat, 12.30 a.m. to 9.30 p.m. No alternative. Yet did not catch cold.  

September 2nd., 1927

At 75 Cadogan Square, London.
I wrote 1,100 words of "Under the Hammer" in one and a half hours. Great going.
Considering that I only slept two hours last night I was in astonishing creative form today

Family tragedy

Friday, September 3rd., Waterloo Road, Cobridge.

Tertia Bennett

I went into the breakfast room at home, scene of a thousand love-makings. Tertia, dressed in black, sat in an easy chair in front of the fire. It was cold. She got up.
"Poor old girl!" I said as I kissed her. She cried a moment. Then we others began to talk of common affairs. Tertia sat silent.

See also 'Death by drowning' - 
September 2nd., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/death-by-drowning.html

Septimus Bennett

Afterwards, in the dining room, Pater recounted his version of the accident; how Sep had struggled out of the water, and running towards him had shouted something which the high wind had carried away. "Pa, if you don't get a boat quick you'll never see our Frank again"; Pater's run of over 500 yards of loose sand to the nearest boat, and the long-drawn delay of launching; the appearance of Tertia and Florrie on the beach, and the altercation between him and Tertia as to whether it was Frank or Willie who was in danger - an altercation of dreadful pathos; how all the boys had remained cool throughout, and how Willie had struck out strongly, after our Frank had told the others to leave him to float on the current till a boat could overtake him; how Frank had somehow contrived to reach land, and how he thought till long afterwards that Willie was safe, taking it for granted ...

Additionally for September 3rd., see 'Writing for victory' - http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/writing-for-victory.html

Conference at Wellington House of 'eminent authors'. Hall Caine, Zangwill, Parker among them. Masterman in chair.