In the woods

Tuesday, February 16th., Hotel Belvedere, Vevey.

Up in the woods. Long snow path. Greenish-brown-black colour of wood cut and uncut coming often in the distance, or rather flaming out with a spark or spot of ochreish raw wood - the end of a fresh cut log. Immense amount of wood-cutting on the mountainside. All the upward paths lead up to and stop at either a farm or a wood-cutting place. The paths seldom join each other. They are nearly all blind. But this morning in a snowstorm I found a path that led clear over the top of the mountain to the southern slope; a long way. It stopped at a wood-cutting place, or diminished rather to a track of a dog's feet, which went under a hedge and reappeared on the other side. But the slope was too steep for me to follow. I could see Attalens. So I had to turn back. Clouds broke and then strong sunshine.

Yesterday I finished three quarters of "Denry the Audacious". I think that in book form I shall call it "The Card". Good honest everyday work, vitiated by my constant thought of a magazine public. Is Denry Machin a credible character? My feeling, looking back, is that he has become somewhat more of a caricature as the novel has progressed. In a way the novel has become increasingly plot driven rather than character driven and I feel as if Denry has 'gotten away' from me. Not that it really matters. It's a comic novel, not highbrow literature. Mr. Polly isn't 'real' either - but what a creation! 

Overworking

Wednesday, February 15th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

I got as far as the death of Mrs. Lessways in "Hilda Lessways" on Sunday afternoon, and sent off the stuff as a specimen to Pinker yesterday. 33,000 words. During this time I haven't had sufficient courage to keep a journal. I suspect that I have been working too hard for 5 weeks regularly. I feel it like an uncomfortable physical sensation all over the top of my head. A very quick sweating walk of half an hour will clear it off, but this may lead, and does lead, to the neuralgia of fatigue and insomnia and so on, and I have to build myself up again with foods. And my digestion is unstable. This afternoon I was experiencing sharp pains in the stomach, and couldn't venture far from the toilet. I have decided to eat nothing else today.

Yesterday I signed the contract with Vedrenne and Eadie for "The Honeymoon" at the Royal Theatre.

Feeble

Thursday, February 14th., Trinity Hall Farm, Hockliffe.

I did some work today. When I say work, I mean real physical work, not my usual idea of work which is sitting at a desk writing. It nearly killed me. I decided to enlarge a flower bed which involved moving soil to the vegetable garden in a wheel barrow. The vegetable garden is at some distance and I think I only moved about three barrows full, but it was enough. How on earth do people do this sort of thing all day long, every day of the week? I hadn't realised how 'soft' I was and feel quite disappointed in myself. Well, there are only two options for me: carry on as I am, or make an effort to get stronger. As I feel now then I will undertake a strengthening programme by working regularly in the garden, but can I keep it up? There is the question.

Drinking beer

Sunday, February 13th., Hotel Savoy, Cortina.

Idle in the grand manner today. The Huxley's came for lunch shortly after 1 o'clock, and we had a very good lunch, and I drank beer, and it did me no harm. This is the first time I have drunk beer without suffering for it for about 18 years. The last time I drank it was at a restaurant at or near Baia; it made me ill instantly. The time before that was about 16 or 17 or 18 years ago in a cafe in the place where are the theatres Sarah Bernhardt and Porte St. Martin, after seeing Sarah Bernhardt in some rotten play. It made me quite ill for 24 hours. So my metabolism must have changed in the interim, or else the altitude is good for me. I feel disappointed that I might have been able to drink it years ago and never knew; I was too timid to try.

But I was forgetting. I wasn't completely idle. I corrected the last three quarters of the proofs of my 20,000 word short story "The Woman Who Stole Everything". I thought this story one of the best I have ever done. I was so full of this idea that I wrote to Miss Nerney about it, and talked at some length with Dorothy about it, and wrote to Newman Flower about a special jacket for the book which is to come out this Spring.

Dorothy is planning to come here again next Winter, with a larger party. But I don't think this will happen. In fact I intend that it won't. She won't be able to get a larger party - perhaps no party at all. Interesting people aren't free. They have their own plans. However the queer thing is that I simply don't mind where I go for a holiday as long as there is a really good hotel on the spot. I can amuse myself and pass the time agreeably anywhere. I rather fancy the Canary Islands which I hear are like Spring all the time.

Paris life

Monday, February 12th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I called at a bureau de tabac this morning to buy a box of Mexican cigars, and was told that the state was out of stock of them, and would not have any more ready until next month. A good example of State management. The same thing happened with Jupiter matches a few months ago.

I have been having difficulties with the tenants overhead, through the medium of the concierge, apropos of pattering about in boots on uncarpeted floors. The concierge listens attentively, but I don't think she takes any action on my behalf. I imagine that, once out of my sight, she simply shrugs her shoulders in a characteristically gallic way and forgets all about it. I asked what the monsieur was by profession, and was told that he was the manager of a large business office, and that he sang at the Opera (presumably in the chorus) three times a week. This seemed to me to be very Parisian. I suppose I should take the matter up directly but am inhibited by a native diffidence. Also my French, though much improved, degenerates when I am under pressure so I don't think I could carry off an interview satisfactorily should it become a matter of dispute. Nothing is simple.

However, cigars and noise are really minor irritants which I should not allow to bother me. The main thing is to be living in Paris, this 'city of sin', as an independent person rising in his chosen profession. Perhaps I need a regular 'companion' to help improve my French and educate me in a few other things at the same time. Shouldn't be too hard to arrange. I must consult one of my Parisian men-of-the-world friends.

Back home

Monday, February 11th., Chiltern Court, London.

I would like to say how good it is to be back in England, but I hate to tell untruths, especially to myself. It is in fact warmer than it was when we left, but feels much colder. Tenerife was warm, indeed hot at times, and shirt sleeves were in order. The bliss of walking about of an evening in light clothing, enjoying the warm air, and stopping now and then to savour the life al fresco. All went well. Traveling arrangements by Thomas Cook and Co. were efficient and required minimum effort on our part. We may repeat the experience next year, which is something I have not generally inclined towards.

I haven't read much whilst away. In fact I had more or less decided not to read at all, but had a few books with me as insurance. Good job! The most interesting thing I read was an essay on the so-called Kett's Rebellion. This occured during the short reign of Edward VI in Norfolk, almost spontaneously it seems. Robert Kett, the eponymous leader, was a yeoman farmer in Norfolk who harnessed the justified anger of rural people oppressed by wealthy landowners. The 'rebellion' gained a momentum of its own and culminated in the seizure of the city of Norwich, then the second city in England. Inevitably it was put down by the state, with great cruelty, and Kett himself was hung from the walls of Norwich. The 'rebels' it seems wanted no more than to be treated decently, in fact as human beings, but that was too much for the powerful to contemplate. It was ever thus.

My neuralgia has improved considerably whilst away. In fact it has more or less disappeared, and I feel as well as I have done for several years. The warmth seemed also to have a stimulating libidinous effect and hence my time for reading has been much reduced. A very fair trade-off I thought. No doubt the effects will not be long-lasting. They may already be a memory, but a pleasant one.

Health and well-being

Friday, February 1st., El Balcon, Puerto de Santiago, Tenerife.

'A change is as good as a rest' was a favourite saying of my mother, and this is about as significant a change as I could have made. Before we left England it had turned cold and was threatening to snow; here it is dry and sunny - wonderful!

The island is of course volcanic and everywhere there is evidence of the volcanic past. Rocky coast. Great cliffs just a mile or so north of here. Mountainous interior including the great peak of Teide itself. Just across the water, and visible from my balcony, is the island of La Gomera usually shrouded in cloud but quite clearly visible today. We have been doing a lot of walking. Mostly along the coast, but up in the hills yesterday. On the coast everywhere is extremely dry, as if all the moisture has been sucked out by the sun, which I suppose it has. Inland though there is much greenery and a profusion of flowering plants. Quite surprising for me.

I haven't done much, and don't intend to. No work at all. My aim is to eat healthily, walk as much as I can, and relax when I am not walking. I have a selection of books available to read but have barely opened them thus far. I did glance at a book on the Romans, discussing their ideas about health and well-being, some of whch are strange indeed. Perhaps I will get back to it. Perhaps not.