La vie parisien

Monday, June 13th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Lunched with Rickards chez Chichi. She had taken pains to have a lunch more than usually nice. If anyone had told her that she was nervous before this young man whom she regards as an absolute infant in all really interesting matters, she would have laughed. But she was. She had bought a large new hat, and it was nothing but nervousness that made her suddenly try it on me as I sat balanced on the edge of a couch. After discussing the really interesting matters for two hours, Rickards left to get shaved, or to get a second shave or something.

I was introduced to Chichi, a young woman of the theatre, by a newspaper friend and she is often here. What a name she has! It is redolent of the very spirit of la vie de Boheme. She is wise in aspects of  Parisian life (really interesting matters!) about which I have been both imaginatively and practically ignorant. She has recounted to me several of her experiences of 'sexual perversions'. Apparently they always wept afterwards! Yet she said to me: 'Mais tous est naturel.' The force of this observation struck me. She tells me that she and her colleagues of the theatre smoke cigarettes in the dressing room though there is now a decree against it. This follows the disaster in the Rue Jean Goujon when a hundred aristocratic dead were left in the flames started by the overturning of a cinematographic projector lamp. "Everyone does it," she says, "but there is an official search of all dressing rooms, etc., once a month by the firemen, and before that an attendant comes round and says to the artists: 'Kindly hide your matches, etc., as the pompiers will be here directly.' " The extraordinary humour of this does not seem to occur to her. I said: "C'est bien Parisien, ca!" She cynically and bitterly agreed that it was.

We went down to Miss Thomasson's for tea, and sundry most interesting persons came in. However, in about an hour Rickards had arranged to spend the following day with Miss Thomasson in a river excursion. I find myself somewhat perturbed by this, though I can think of no sound reason why I should be. We were late for dinner because the dullest of the visitors failed to perceive, until he was told, that he ought to go.

Is "Clayhanger" any good?

Sunday, June 12th., Villa des Nefliers, Fontainebleau.

There is certainly a rosse pleasure to be got from reading a thoroughly mediocre thing by a writer generally esteemed great but whom you don't happen to admire. I am reading a portion of Tennyson every morning just now, and I have got to the play "The Promise of May". It is a masterpiece of tedious conventionality - of no value whatsoever. I should say it shows every kind of Tennyson at its worst. No realism of any kind. All the old tags and notions; and what notions of philosophy as shown in the hero! I really enjoy reading this exquisitely rotten work.

On the other hand, I began "Le Crime et le Chatiment" yesterday, which I have been wanting to read again for about a fortnight. The scene in the cafe and Marmeladoff's confession, seems even finer than it did when I read it at Hockliffe. It is certainly one of the very greatest things in fiction. Absolutely full of the most perfect detail. It really disgusted and depressed me about my own work, which seemed artificial and forced by the side of it. I expect that in most of my work there is too much forcing of the effect. An inability to do a thing and leave it alone. I wrote nearly 4,000 words of "Clayhanger" on Thursday and Friday.

Forest of Fontainebleau by Henri Joseph Constant Dutilleux

Yesterday, walking in the forest, I thought of all the life in it, humming, flying, crawling, jumping etc., the tiniest insects that you can scarcely see, the ants, all sorts of flies, worms, beetles, bees, snails, lizards, and the gigantic birds. As for the rabbits, squirrels, and deer, they are simply monstrously gigantic compared to the mass of life in the forest.




I didn't seem to be getting near the personality of Hilda in my novel. You scarcely ever do get near a personality. There is a tremendous lot to do in fiction that no one has yet done. When Marguerite comes downstairs from the attic, in the midst of some house arrangement, and asks me if such and such a thing will do and runs up again excited - why? And the mood of the servant as, first thing in the morning, she goes placidly round the house opening the shutters! The fact is, the novelist seldom really penetrates.

Yesterday, wrote complete chapter of "Clayhanger", 2,400 words. But I had to work at the thing practically all day. I finished about 5.30, after twelve hours off and on. I really doubt whether as a whole, this book is good. It assuredly isn't within ten miles of Dostoevsky.

Continuous bad weather.

Originality in fiction

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

Robert Bion told me yesterday that he had had considerable difficulty in getting into England. He had no difficulty in getting to Dover, but there he was stopped, and the people in charge told him he must go back, he could not be permitted to enter: - unemployment problem, - law that no foreigner must be allowed to take a job that an Englishman could do. Robert, who is no fool, pointed out that no system of warning people was in force, that he would have all his expenses for nothing, that Wembley was being advertised and pushed abroad, and people were being urged to come and see it, but apparently when they reached England they were turned back. The underling in charge listened, and was decent in manner and attitude, and then said he would ask his chief. The chief came and heard, and then said laconically: "Let him in." And that is how things are done. No official reason for "letting him in".

I have come across an odd book called "A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder", by James De Mille. It is a fantasy novel presented as a 'real' account, somewhat in the style of Haggard, or Conan Doyle, or even Wells in playful mood, though not so well written as it would have been by any of these. I assumed it to be derivative, but on investigation found that it was first published in 1888, and that the author, a Canadian, had died in 1880. He may of course have got his idea from Verne's "Journey to the Centre of the Earth" which was written in 1863 and translated to English in the 1870s. In any case it is interesting stylistically as it moves between straightforward narration of the 'discovered' manuscript, and detailed scientific discussions of the content by the finders, including one avowed sceptic who asserts that it is certainly a hoax perpetrated by a fantasy author eager to attract an audience! There is additionally an element of what I take to be satire in that the unfortunate writer of the manuscript finds himself cast away in a society where death is the greatest good, wealth is frowned upon, and love is to be avoided at all cost; The greatest crime is to force others to take ones possessions!


Writing about books in the Evening Standard, having recently attended the presentation of  the Hawthornden Prize, I was reflecting on the ability of literary panels to reward originality. My revolutionary thoughts on this matter run thus. No selection committee of nice-minded authors and bookish persons can choose a really original work. Their intentions are excellent. They have a genuine desire to serve the Lord. But in their humanity and their righteousness they are apt to forget the warning of the writer of Ecclesiasticus: "My son, if thou come to serve the lord, prepare thy soul for temptation."

The Hawthornden Prize is a British literary award. It was established in 1919 by Alice Warrender, a contemporary patron of the letters, and named after William Drummond of Hawthornden. Along with the James Tait Black Award, which was established the same year, the Hawthornden is one of the UK's oldest literary prizes. It has been given annually since 1919, with a few gaps.

There is no set category of literature: the specification is for the "best work of imaginative literature". There is no implied restriction to fiction and poetry. Those, with drama, but also biography, travel writing and other types of non-fiction, have been recognised over the years. The current value of the prize is £10,000; young writers are especially encouraged.

Their temptations are frightful. The temptation to be correct; the temptation to stand well with a pernickety public; the temptation to favour an author whose ideals coincide with their own; the temptation to compromise in order not to have a hades of a row in committee; the general temptation to avoid friction and, above all, shock. The truth is that no book by a young author is or can be really original and strong unless it shocks nine people out of ten, and herein is the reason why no really original book has the least chance of acceptance by any properly constituted committee. Sad it is that this should be so. But it is so, and will be ever. The fault is human nature's and incurable.

On the Downs

Thursday, June 10th., Amberley, Sussex.

Yesterday, after a little hesitation, I set to work on a new chapter of "The Vanguard" and wrote 1,800 words in just three hours (3 o'c to 6 o'c). It meant ten words a minute throughout, and really more than that, because at 4.15 I made my own tea (or rather my own verveine) and partook of the same in a leisurely manner with brown bread and butter. And all this after a rotten bad night. Pride! Vainglory!
I have now worked myself into a spell (which may prove short) of mass-production in"The Vanguard". I wrote 1,100 words before tea today in less than 90 minutes, and another 500 words after tea in about 30 minutes. All this, for me, is very quick work, though Trollope beat it practically the whole time, and so did Scott.

Last evening (when it rained tremendously) we paddled down to Mrs. Glenister's bungalow. At the end of the evening, she turned on the loudspeaker wireless, "Valkyrie" in the room. I don't seem to be able to get over the amazing magic of this wireless device. The music seems to come to you from nowhere, and you wonder where it has been hiding while waiting for you to want it.

Before my writing today I went for a walk to North Stoke in rotten, very windy weather, and got caught in only one shower, from which I protected myself under a hedge. About four miles I suppose. Then after work I went out with Dorothy up to the Downs, and I reckon by the large scale map that we walked at least four miles and a half. It was all very splendid, with skies full of disasters and great distance-effects. This makes the longest walking I have done in a day for years.
See also, 'A rural retreat' - May 31st., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/a-rural-retreat.html

I read about half "The Ghost" yesterday. I sent to London for it specially so that I could see what it was really like. It begins brilliantly, but is not so good later on. But it is all fairly good and an excellent performance for a first book (as I believe it was). I am still puzzled by La Nouvelle Revue Francaise  beginning their publication of my novels with this book, but I am less puzzled than I was before. I happened to see "Le Spectre" by Arnold Bennett advertised in the N.R.F. a few days ago." I expect I wrote it about 27 years ago. Nobody thought anything of it, and I didn't. And yet the very highbrow N.R.F. chooses it to begin its campaign for "imposing me on the French public"; (according to the words of Gaston Gallimard, who has now written to me twice). All of which is very strange. The Vanguard" is better than "The Ghost" in truth to nature and in skill of handling material, but that it is fundamentally better in creativeness and verve, I doubt. Neither of them is more than a fantastic lark, nor pretends to be more.

Lunch with 'Mad Jack'

Saturday, June 9th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Siegfried Sassoon lunched with me at the Reform yesterday. He expected some decoration for admittedly fine bombing work. Colonel had applied for it three times, but was finally told that as that particular push was a failure it could not be granted. Sassoon was uncertain about accepting a home billet if he got the offer of one. I advised him to accept it. He is evidently one of the reckless ones. He said his pals said he always gave the Germans every chance to pot him. He said he would like to go out once more and give them another chance to get him, and come home unscathed. He seemed jealous for the military reputation of poets. He said most of war was a tedious nuisance, but there were great moments and he would like them again.

Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) was born at Weirleigh, in Kent. After Marlborough College he went to Clare College, Cambridge, but left without a degree. For the next eight years lived the life of a country gentleman. He spent his time hunting, playing sports and writing poetry. Published privately, Sassoon's poetry made very little impact on the critics or the book buying public. On the outbreak of the First World War Sassoon enlisted as a cavalry trooper in the Sussex Yeomanry. In May 1915 he became an officer in the Royal Fusiliers, and was posted to the Western Front. Considered to be recklessly brave, he soon obtained the nickname 'Mad Jack'. In June 1916 he was awarded the Military Cross for bringing a wounded man back to the British lines while under heavy fire. After being wounded in April 1917, Sassoon was sent back to England. He had grown increasingly angry about the tactics being employed by the British Army and in July 1917 published a Soldier's Declaration, which announced that "I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of military authority, because I believe that the war is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it." Sassoon's hostility to war was also reflected in his poetry; he developed a harshly satirical style that he used to attack the incompetence and inhumanity of senior military officers. Despite his public attacks on the way the war was being managed, Sassoon, like Wilfred Owen and Robert Graves, agreed to continue to fight. Sassoon was sent to Palestine and France before further injuries forced him to return to England. Over the next thirty years Sassoon wrote three semi-autobiographical works, Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man(1928), Memoirs of an Infantry Officer (1930) and Sherston's Progress (1936). 

Ideas on women

Wednesday, June 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I got one or two really admirable ideas for "Hugo" yesterday, just as I was recovering from another attack of liver.

Miss Thomasson came in the afternoon. She had been here on Sunday to paint a still-life of some corner of this room for me to give to my mother. She talked more than painted, but made a good start. She did more painting this time and, by arrangement, I left her here alone for a couple of hours. I went into the Parc Monceau to write, and was much preoccupied by the spectacle of two English governesses (or nursery-governesses) with two small French children, who were both doing everything that ought not to be done in the management of a child. Still, I expect most children of that class have to struggle through the same stupidities and lack of imagination. It is chiefly lack of imagination that makes governesses worse than futile.

Parc Monceau is a public park situated in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, France, at the junction of Boulevard de Courcelles, Rue de Prony and Rue Georges Berger. At the main entrance is a rotunda. The park covers an area of 8.2 hectares (20.3 acres).

Miss Thomasson is a small, slim, dark, effective woman, with large bright eyes and dark eyebrows in striking contrast to a tower of prematurely silver hair. On Sunday, after dinner, we took coffee in the Place Blanche, and talked there till just eleven o'clock, me getting worse and worse. However, I talked all the time, explaining at great length my ideas on women, sometimes making her laugh at what she considered my naive absurdities and then making her suspect that perhaps my absurdities were not so absurd after all. I recently said to Miss Ruck, a very young art student friend of Miss Thomasson's: "Women, my dear girl? I know women inside and outside. I know women as well as I know my own pocket." I wonder what they think of me?

Last evening Miss Thomasson and I went to drive in the Bois, and then we dined at Lavenue's, Montparnasse. A mediocre good restaurant. At her studio, later, two Americans came in, waistcoatless, and talking very Americanish, "bully-time" and so on. I thought "What terrible people these young American painters are!" It is a pity that the American accent is absolutely ugly, and not merely strange to our ears.

The smell of success

Sunday, June 7th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Frank Vernon came for lunch Tuesday and had no progress to report.

The Edgar Selwyn's came for lunch and tea on Friday.
See also, 'Sailing for home' - November 30th., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/sailing-for-home.html
Edgar told us about Alf. Woods, once a cheap-theatre manager, thence out of that by cinemas, and now one of the chief N.Y. producers. It was he who said after 1st Act of "Milestones", "Who is this guy Bennett?" ; after second, "No, you couldn't give it me!" and after 3rd, "He's got me. It'll never stop running in N.Y."

Albert Herman Woods (1870 – 1951), born Aladár Herman, was an American theatrical producer who sometimes worked with Sam H. Harris. Born in Hungary, Woods emigrated to the United States where he produced over one hundred of the most successful shows on Broadway during the 1910s and 1920s, sometimes under the name of the production company Al Woods Ltd. or A. H. Woods. Woods also built the Eltinge Theatre, named for one of his most successful and profitable stars, Julian Eltinge. 

Woods initially made his success with unpretentious melodramas, like "Nellie the Beautiful Cloak Model" and "Bowery After Dark", that appealed to common people. His modus operandi was to come up with a catchy title and an eye-catching poster, then have a writer pen the play to fit. Woods had a stable of favourite playwrights, including Theodore Kremer, Owen Davis and Hal Reid. At this time Woods earned the sobriquet 'King of Melodramania'.

He says he smells a good or bad play. Showing MS. of an accepted play to Edgar he said: "Smell that. Smell it. Doesn't it smell good?" Once, when listening to an idea for a play, he sniffed all the time - sniff, sniff, sniff - and at the end said: "No, that doesn't seem to me to smell very good." Once Michael Morton intruded on him; he refused to listen, but Michael made him. Michael said: "My idea is for a little Russian girl who wants to study, and she can't get away unless she takes the prostitute's ticket - the yellow ticket as it is called. That's what they have to do you know." Said Woods, startled: "It is? It is? I'll buy your play." Morton said it wasn't finished. "Never mind, I'll buy," and he bought it on the spot. He always thus makes up his mind at once, and won't wait. The legend is that he never makes a mistake. But it can't be so.

Yesterday I finished 1st chapter of "These Twain", 5,900 words, and I think it fairly good.