I rest my case

Friday, December 7th., Cadogan Square, London.

I have been thinking about books. Well no surprise there; my wife alleges that I think of little else! In particular I have been thinking about whether the government might usefully subsidise books. On balance I think so, but within limits. I do not mean novels, or verse, or essays, or biographies, or treatises on the loves of Napoleon, or the social eccentricities of deceased elder statesmen or living notorieties. I mean solid books of reference and research and collected learning for the advantage of scholars, autodidacts and other earnest persons.

In fairness H.M.S.O has published a few excellent books, but nothing, to my knowledge, on a large scale of general utility. Such as, for example, a Dictionary of National Biography. Now, there is a D.N.B. and it counts amongst the greatest and most interesting works of reference in the world. And yet what young man or woman of today has heard of George Murray Smith? His name is not to be found in the conciser encyclopaedias and yet he was one of the supreme benefactors of scholars and British bookmen, and through them of the British public.

George Murray Smith

When he was nearing 50 he thought of the idea of a D.N.B. and he thought it into existence. It was not then remunerative, though it may be today - I know not. At least it is indispensable. Can any bookman conceive a book-world without the D.N.B.? He cannot. George Murray Smith, who was a publisher, paid for the D.N.B., but not by publishing. It was made chiefly by the exploitation of a mineral water which Smith rendered famous. An excellent mineral water; I still drink it in cistern quantities. So that we owe our D.N.B. not to governmental action to remedy an obvious deficiency, but chiefly to a table-water! That is what I term romance.

A government with a really large view of things might reorganise and enlarge the scope of H.M.S.O. which has already done, and is doing, good work. A relatively small investment would perform wonders, and thereby earn a tremendous prestige. Such an enterprise would arouse less opposition than almost any enterprise which this or any other government ever undertook. And it would have a better chance of success. It would be the sort of subsidy which gives subsidies a good name. I rest my case.

Writers

Tuesday, December 6th., Cadogan Square, London.

I attended the dinner of the P.E.N. Club to Lion Feuchtwanger, and sat next to him, and was pleased with his personality. He is evidently well-used to publicity. He said that his Berlin secretary said that he spent one hour in writing and the rest of the day in business, making contracts and seeing people. Rebecca West was in the chair and she didn't say enough. Feuchtwanger spoke very satisfactorily in very bad English. I went over and talked to May Sinclair, whom I hadn't seen for sixteen or seventeen years. I also went over to Mrs. Aria. She said: "You haven't kissed me." So I kissed her, for the first time. 

The P.E.N. Club started in London in 1921, but now there are apparently twenty five centres throughout Europe. It is on the way to becoming the first world-wide association of writers, and has aspirations to promote literature and freedom of thought everywhere, especially when they are under threat. Presently grappling with a Charter. Inevitably an organisation made up of writers is going to have some difficulty formulating a written manifesto! P.E.N. is an acronym - Poets, Essayists, Novelists. Galsworthy is the President. It was originally the idea of an English poet, Catharine Amy Dawson-Scott. Dinners are totally apolitical.

Dismal day. Not cold, but a constant threat of rain. I walked out to get ideas, but didn't get any. Back is still sore and I think the walking has made it worse, though my expectation was the reverse. One would have thought that when 'God' was designing human backs he could have made a better job of them.

Sea air

Sunday, December 5th., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

Down here for a few days to get a change and some sea air. I like Brighton, though most of my friends seem to think I am peculiar to do so. Good walking. Good bookshops. Comfortable hotel. Of course it was here that I started to write "Clayhanger" so many years ago now, and it doesn't seem to have changed much in the meantime.

Walter Sickert and wife (Therese Lessore) and Cobb and Schuster and Wylde dined with us here. Sickert, now aged 66, was in great form, especially towards the end of the dinner and later when we came up to our sitting room. His wife was very quiet and dark and sweet, but far less quiet than when I sat next to her at dinner at Ethel Sands' a year or two ago. I mentioned “Clayhanger” to her, and she asked why I had stopped writing Five Towns novels. I told her that I had said all I wanted to say, that the well had run dry. She said it was a shame.

Sickert said some fine sopund things. He explained to us exactly why he liked Leader's pictures. But his pose is increasing of admiring the public as a judge of art. I said that what he said was only half true, and he said: "Yes, but there is a great deal in it."

Uplifted

Tuesday, December 4th., Cadogan Square, London.

Bad night. Somehow or other I have strained my back and it seems to be having some sort of sympathetic effect in my legs when I lie down. Must have pinched a nerve or something. So when I returned to bed at about three this morning I could not get comfortable enough to get back to sleep. Tossed and turned for an hour or so and then gave it up, and got up, and stayed up. Sat in my study (standing up periodically to stretch) browsing. I read my story "The Matador of the Five Towns". It is good, but not as good as "Simon Fugue" which is, I think, the best I have written. "Matador" hasn't quite got the balance or cohesiveness, though it is full of good things; perhaps I put too much in it? Interesting that I used the epithet 'matador' because I have been reading some of Hemingway's stories recently, and Jos Myatt is just the sort of taciturn, declining, complex sort of character that Hemingway might have put in a bull ring.

To liven myself up after my nap I walked by roundabout ways to the Garrick Club. En route I met and was stopped by four people, including one who didn't know me but thought he would like to be sure that I was I, and an old lady whom I had met once at Monte Carlo about seven years ago, just for a few minutes. Met Geoffrey Russell at the Club and he suggested I should go with him to Bach's B Minor Mass at St. Margaret's. I did. I ate oysters with him at the Reform hastily first. Church full. The whole thing marvellous. 

It seems that the Mass was not performed for many years after it was written and delivered, and Bach delivered it mainly as proof to his sovereign that he was fitted for post of capellmeister! Good performance. The effect was terrific; also uplifting, despite dowdiness of every woman in the congregation

Therapeutic fiction

Sunday, December 3rd., Lusitania, at sea.

Still rough sea and following gale, and creaking noises all night. Not yet one good night's rest on this steamer.

Mr. and Mrs. Compton Mackenzie had tea with me. She is a beautiful young woman. Both lively and interesting characters. Inevitably we talked about writing. She said, memorably, that in an increasingly secular age fiction is one of the few remaining paths to transcendence. Wants some thinking about. Also we got on to talking about different 'sorts' of fiction and how it may be that some readers seek out books which have a therapeutic impact - a sort of literary self-medication. I think that the setting of this discussion, taking place on a wild sea, made us freer in out thinking than would otherwise have been the case.

Concert in aid of Seamen's Charities last night. Half of it done by Harry Lauder.

I read most of Artzybacheff's "Sanine", skipping. Mostly clever, naif, and dull. Some of the salacious parts are pretty good. I am in the mood for all things salacious at the moment - too long away from home. But how infantile those Russians!
 

To the Other Club

Thursday, December 2nd., Cadogan Square, London.

As I had not got my ideas clear for the next chapter of the novel, I went out for a walk after finishing correspondence and oddments, and walked to the XXI Gallery in Durham House Street, Strand. I found my idea all right. The gallery is very dark, appropriately in the circumstances as it has an exhibition of Cosmo Clark's pictures of the Black Country. I wasn't awfully pleased with them, but I bought one because I had known Cosmo as a baby and was an old friend of his father's.

I walked all the way to the Savoy Hotel for the dinner of the Other Club. Birkenhead came in, and we were very affable to one another, and everybody laughed about the just-finished scrap between us in the Daily Mail. Afterwards he was most friendly and asked me to lunch with him alone. Reading was in the chair and the dinner was the most agreeable that I remember of this Club. I sat next to Charles Masterman and opposite Alf Mason, and we had a great time. Afterwards I went and sat next to Jim Garvin. He talked exceedingly well, and is full of knowledge and ideas. Churchill and Jack Seely came in very late, long after dinner. Churchill said to me: "Receive the congratulations of Tom Hogarth" (over my row with Birkenhead). There was a great deal of "Raingo" throughout the evening.

Looking back

Wednesday, December 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

When I opened the Daily Mail this morning I found that Birkenhead had made no further answer to me; so the incident is now, I suppose, closed. The press has been very generally in my favour. I had prepared some heavy artillery to kill him if he had continued to fight.  Woke up with a stiff back this morning and couldn't get comfortable in any sitting position. Fortunately it seems easier following my afternoon nap.

Mary Borden wrote an article in the Standard (as a retort to my criticisms of her) advising the young to take no notice of the work of H.G. Wells and myself. She is a clever woman, and was clever enough to ignore my criticisms of her. 

Five years ago yesterday my mother died and I never thought about it all day, but this morning it came into my mind. I looked back through my journals to find the relevant entry; didn't have much to say. Then I browsed a bit in the journals. They are interesting, I think, and varied. My recurring themes seem to be my health, and going out. I don't write much about the process of creation of my novels which is a pity. It would probably be interesting to anyone reading my journal in the future. Which begs the question, will I leave my journals behind when I 'go'? Who am I writing them for? I suppose I may one day have a biographer - who knows?