A character

Sunday, March 14th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Disturbed night. Five or six hours in total. Felt discontented this morning so I went for a walk first thing after breakfast. Blustery sort of day, and had obviously rained in the night so I stuck to the roads and made-up paths. Quiet. Nobody about except that as I was passing the gate to one of the local estates a rough looking man appeared and engaged me in conversation. Turns out that he is some sort of gamekeeper, but not paid; rather he receives benefit in kind. At least that was the impression he gave me.

Interesting character. About sixty I should say but well preserved, ruddy complexion, strongly built though not especially tall. Looks as if he has seen something of life. Enjoys a good scrap he said. Wanted to talk about himself and his ideas and I let him. Obviously not an educated man, but naturally bright I should say and completely at home in the countryside. His talk ranged widely. Told me about, and showed me, some fossils he had found nearby eroding out from the bank of a stream. Wouldn't say where. Also the trouble he has with trespassers to whom he gives short shrift. "See that hedge", he said at one point, "If I am after a trespasser I don't go round a hedge, I go through it. That surprises 'em". I think he was serious. In fact he seemed a serious man in general. Believes in omens and 'wise women' who have powers that humanity generally has lost. Says he has seen some things that are inexplicable by science. Told me that he has shot over 100 squirrels on the estate just this year because they predate on birds eggs. Fascinating character. In fact I felt quite fascinated, in the literal sense, by his talk. Like someone from Yeats 'Faerie' book. Worth turning out for.

I felt better when I got back and did some good work after my afternoon sleep.

Laughing matters

Friday, March 14th., Cadogan Square, London.

Yesterday, Reform lunch. Talking about gambling. It was defended by James Currie and even by Lord Buckmaster. Stated to be the one distraction of the people! There is, however, fornication. I felt quite cross to listen to all these well fed and self-satisfied Tories taking about 'the people' as if they have any idea about the lives of ordinary men and women. They do not. Nor do I, but I don't go about the world pretending that I do. They also take it as read that their lives are necessarily 'better' and more important than those of the working classes. I doubt it. I should think there is more genuine feeling and life in the streets of Hammersmith than in any of the genteel homes the toffs return to when they leave their clubs. 

I say Hammersmith because, apropos of all this, when I was coming home from there in the Tube yesterday evening, two workmen got in, one about 35 and the other 18 or 20.They might have been father and son I suppose. It was a pleasure to watch them.

Hammersmith Broadway, 1910 - Tube Station on the right

They carried paint pots and 'turps' pots wrapped in paper and covered at the  top (paint pots, i.e.) with paper with a hole for brush handle to poke through. Dirty. Shabby. Dirty hands. Dirty caps with big peaks. The young one wore black leggings. They pushed the cans as far as possible under seats. The young man was smoking a cigarette. He carried a coil of rope within his buttoned jacket. It stuck up towards his neck. As soon as they sat down each of them pulled a new packet of chewing-gum from his pocket, stripped off the paper, broke the packet in half and put one half into his mouth. I didn't notice any actual jaw motion of chewing. The young man kept on smoking. The chewing-gum business was obviously a regular thing, and much looked forward to. Obvious satisfaction on their faces as they opened the packets. After a few minutes the young man pulled a novelette from his pocket and went on reading it. The elder just sat, contented and relaxed after a hard day's work. So here were some minor distractions of the people: cigarettes, chewing-gum, novelettes. And they probably called in for a pint or two on their way home. 

I think I have lost my sense of humour. I say this because the other evening, browsing on my book shelves, I came upon Stevenson's "Travels with a Donkey". It must be twenty years, if not more, since I read it last and I recalled how much pleasure it had given me. Not now. I doubt I even managed a smile and after three chapters I gave up. On its own this would be no evidence but I have noticed my failure to be amused in several contexts lately, and I feel sad about it. When did I last have a good 'belly laugh'? I would like to bet that there is plenty of laughter in Hammersmith of an evening.

 

Confident femininity

Saturday, March 12th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

On my way to seeing Mrs. L. I called at a bread shop in Holborn. To judge from the exterior one could desire no place of refreshment more fastidiously neat and dainty. But when I was inside I found the shop and the room at the back occupied by women and girls in various conditions of deshabille. The place was being cleaned, and the hour being only 11 a.m. customers were clearly not expected. The girls all looked up surprised, and with a show of indifference I picked my way amongst kneeling figures into the inner room. When I had sat down, I heard a rummaging noise under the table, and presently a fat young girl appeared therefrom. She hurried away laughing, but came back shortly and produced from under the table a tin bowl of dirty water which she carried away, with a giggle. I ordered a glass of milk and a sandwich, and then waited. A girl, tall, thin and vacuous, ran upstairs and came down soon afterwards pinning on an apron at the back. She brought me my food. I ate it, while looking at a dirty newspaper placed to protect the newly washed floor, and at the crimson petticoat showing through the placket-hole of a girl who was washing the floor behind the counter. I could feel about me an atmosphere of confident femininity. I discovered that there were two of me present: one recoiling from the dirt and untidiness which spoilt the taste of my food; the other calculating how to become better acquainted with the crimson petticoat. I came away thinking: "This is a bad omen for the result of my interview with Mrs. L."

The room into which I was shown in Gower Street was, I think, the ugliest, the most banal I have seen. From the twisted columns of the furniture to the green rep of the upholstering, everything expressed Bloomsbury in its highest power. This was a boarding house. My hopes sank and they were not raised by the appearance of Mrs. L. who combines the profession of a landlady with that of a "mental healer". She looks the typical landlady, shabbily dressed, middle-aged, and with that hardened, permanently soured expression of eyes and lips which all landladies seem to acquire. She fitted with and completed the room. I put on my bravest face and surrendered to the situation.

She asked me about my stammering and my health generally, talking in a quiet, firm, authoritative voice. I noticed the fatigue of her drooping eyelids and the terrific firmness of her thin lips. She told me how she had been cured of nervousness by Dr. Patterson of America, and gave a number of instances of his success and her own in "mentally treating" nervous and physical disorders. Some of them were so incredible that I asked myself what I, notorious as a sane level-headed man, was doing in that galley. However as Mrs L. talked I was rather impressed by her sincerity, her strong quietude, and her sagacity. I was given to understand that she was a "Christian Scientist". I asked what the patient had to do. "Nothing", she said. I explained my attitude towards "mental healing" - that I neither believed nor disbelieved in it, that certainly I could not promise her the assistance of my 'faith'. "Can you cure me of my stammering?" "I am quite sure that I can," she answered with quiet assurance, "but it will take some time. This is a case of a lifelong habit, not of a passing ailment." "Shall you want to see me often?" "I shall not want to see you at all: but if you feel that you want to see me, of course you can do so. I shall look after your general health too. If you have a bad headache, or a liver attack, send me a word and I will help you."

I nodded acquiescence but I was nearly laughing aloud. At least I told myself that was what I was doing. I also told her, in my head, that I preferred to dispense with these mysterious services, but had not the moral courage to carry it through. So I arranged terms with her and as I did so I marvelled that I should be assisting at such an interview. And yet - supposing there were after all something in it! I was not without hope. She had distinctly impressed me, especially by odd phrases here and there which seemed to indicate a certain depth of character in her. I went away smiling - half believing that the whole thing was a clever fraud, and half-expecting some happy result.

Tonight I sent her a cheque. I wondered, as I wrote it out, whether twelve months hence I should be wanting to burn these pages which recorded my credulity, or whether with all the enthusiasm of my nature I should be spreading abroad the report of Mrs. L's powers.

Strolling about

Wednesday, March 11th., Cadogan Square, London.

Sloane Street up from Pond Street to the bottom; a shade under half a mile I suppose. Curious fact; they are laying a pipe, or rather six pipes, earthenware, all in one, and I have never had enough curiosity to ask what the pipe is, and why it should be in six divisions. I think it must be water, as I often see an official 'turncock' whilst strolling about. The street is being repaired very rapidly and very well and very noisily. The noise of about a dozen drills for boring and breaking up the concrete is awful. Men live in it all day, and those who use the drills have their hands vibrated all day. Must damage the nerves in the hands and arms I should think. And hearing as well. What a way to earn a crust. The whole thing is a 'perfect hive' and a wonderful scene. Might be worth an article.

 Put me in mind of the painting titled "Work" by Ford Madox Brown which I saw some time ago; I forget where. If I remember rightly that focussed on workmen digging a road. Hampstead? Excellent piece of work in the Pre-Rapaelite manner. Detailed. Beautifully painted but also socially relevant. I remember being genuinely impressed by it at the time. Must find out where it is and have another look. I wouldn't mind having a reproduction to look at if I could get one. Interesting chap by all accounts, Madox Brown. As I recall, in the painting Carlyle was depicted watching the work; can't remember what the point was but I smile to think that I could have been observed today in similar pose!

Part of the street was totally up and repaved about two years ago or less. Why this so soon duplication of work? Another instance of the amateurishness and 'loose-limbedness' of London government.

Plenty of material

Saturday, March 10th., Cadogan Square, London.

George Doran came to lunch, and after lunch, in my study, he began talking about the idea he had given me last year for a novel based on the tragic life of Ernest Hodder-Williams. I said I liked it but couldn't handle it yet, as I was more attracted by a scheme for a realistic novel about a big luxury hotel. I have had this scheme in mind for years now and it is a ghost I must lay before I am much older. All the material is in my head. I shall probably begin it as soon as I have finished my play. Doran was disappointed but accepted the inevitability of my decision.

An interesting novel by a young Irish (Northern) writer has come into my hands. Nick Laird. I think we will be hearing more from him. The book's title is "Modern Gods". Essentially the story concerns two sisters, one of whom is an academic anthropologist but has rather 'lost her way' professionally and emotionally, and the other has married a man who turns out to have an unfortunate past. Very unfortunate - he has killed several people in a sectarian act and served a sentence. The first sister, Elizabeth, has, and takes, the opportunity to go off to New Guinea to investigate and report on a new cult that has arisen there. The second, Alison, has to cope with being bound to a man she feels she no longer recognises. Tribalism is at the centre of the narrative. Also the chronic hypocrisy of religion and professedly religious people. Also elements of a daughter's relationship with her mother, misunderstandings and betrayals. Laird is good at dialogue which is very authentic to my ear, and he handles the juxtaposition of the parallel stories well. Good also at creating a sense of menace which unsettles the reader. The ending is poor. In fact it seems to just stop as if the author had run out of time. I also felt that there was so much material that Laird had failed to write the much longer and more interesting book that was available to him. Definitely a writer to watch out for.

I was at a big dinner at the Savoy last evening, given to Capt. George Nicholls ('Quex' of the Evening News). He insisted that I sit next to him, for moral support, which I thought a great compliment. Birkenhead was in the chair and made a most brilliant and impudent speech. Champagne was bad and so I have a slight headache today. But I have spent time with Virginia and have taught her to negotiate the stairs with only minimal help. Dorothy will be surprised when she returns.

Wondering and wandering

Tuesday, March 9th., Chiltern Court, London.

A sunny morning and I walked out to get ideas. Regents Park. I haven't spent much time there since the move, but I like its informality. Strolled along the Broad Walk and almost felt as if I were on holiday. Mainly young women pushing perambulators, nannies in the main I suppose. So what are the mothers doing who would otherwise be out here with their children? Difficult job being a nanny I should think. Not the work as such, but the social relationships, getting the balance right with family and other servants. Increasingly difficult with the way society is changing. Servants are rapidly becoming a thing of the past.

I noticed today that I am talking to myself more. I don't mean the internal dialogue which I suppose everybody has, but actually talking out loud. Is this a sign of ageing? Probably. I think I do it most frequently in my study, when something is on my mind and I pace about from one side of the room to the other. It is not quite a 'real' conversation because it seems most often to be a case of seeking confirmation of a point of view or a decision taken. I find myself saying things like "What do you think AB?" and hearing myself reply "Absolutely right, just what I think". It seems perfectly natural at the time but is a bit odd set down in writing. I wouldn't mind asking other men of my age if they do it, but perhaps they would think me peculiar. Rivers would be the very man for this. I could ask him without any embarrassment.

When I think of it I don't really have any intimate friends now, and sometimes feel quite lonely, which is strange for a person who spends most of his spare time 'going out'. No point trying to talk to Dorothy about it. She would listen of course but wouldn't be able to imagine herself as me and would respond superficially. Would Marguerite have understood had we still been together? I don't know. 

Internal dialogue. That is an interesting phenomenon it seems to me. Personally, I can't imagine how I would think at all without language, and yet I must have done so I suppose before I learned to speak. And what about our distant ancestors? It increasingly appears that the evolution of man has taken place over many millions of years, but language is relatively recent as far as I have understood things. So how did men think before they had language? In the same way that animals do now I suppose. I cannot imagine what that would be like. It seems that once the bridge has been crossed into speech then there is no going back.

Censorship

Thursday, March 8th., Cadogan Square, London.

John Buchan came for tea yesterday. He was invited for 4.30 and arrived at 4.27. I expect he had been 'hanging about' nearby to be sure of his time; I would have been. He had a committee meeting nearby for 5.30, and at 5.15 he simply got up and left. He is a thoroughly organised man who I have known for decades and I admire him greatly.

We spoke about censorship, amongst other things. Am I in favour of censorship? Of course I am, and so is he. No country can exist without some form of censorship. I was asked the other day whether I would permit in Britain the unrestricted circulation of one of the most wonderful and original of modern novels, James Joyce's "Ulysses". My plain reply was that I would not. It simply would not do. A censorship there must be. But I maintain that any form of censorship does some harm; it must do. The question is whether it does more harm than good. I think that our present censorship does do more harm than good and ought, if anything, to be weakened, not strengthened. But not eliminated altogether.

In fact I am not in favour of any alteration to the law at the present time because it might, despite excellent motives, be too easily altered for the worse. We have to keep in mind that laws are enacted by politicians and often miss their targets. Best to leave the law alone and entrust liberty to its sane administration and to the tendency for all excessively drastic laws to fall into desuetude through their own inherent absurdity. As a fact the present law on censorship fell into partial desuetude from the moment it came into operation for the reason that to apply it strictly would have meant its instant death from ridicule.

I felt fatigued somehow after Buchan left. Not by him as he is most brisk and has a tonic effect generally. So I rested for a while and, feeling better, took up the play again and reeled it off with strange ease.