Feeling better

Saturday, July 2nd., Cadogan Square, London.

I wrote 400 words of "Accident" before going out; then forty minutes' activity in the streets of London; then another 300 words. Then lunch with Dorothy. Then a sleep - not deep or reposeful. Then another 400 words, finishing another chapter.

I was then in a state of nerves. But having the scheme of the prefatory note which Bertie Sullivan and Newman Flower  desired me to write for their biography of Arthur Sullivan, I decided to write it at once, and I did so, getting it off my chest. 400 words.




Sprightly. I then went out for a walk in the fair but unsatisfactory weather. Returned by bus. Dined alone with Dorothy. We played the greater part of Schubert's Octet - pianoforte 4 mains. Great noise and fun, which did me much good, for I had been depressed.

Inexcusably late

Friday, July 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

Appointment for 6 o'clock with Edward Newton, the American bibliophile, apropos of a suggested introduction by him to the reproduced MS. of "The Old Wives' Tale". I was 25 minutes late. A shameful position and inexcusable. Newton and I agreed that a preface by him seemed neither practical nor useful, and we gave up the idea, especially as I had already written an introduction myself and the sheets were already printed and signed by me.

Alfred Edward Newton (1864—1940) was an American author, publisher, and avid book collector. He is best known for his book "Amenities of Book Collecting" (1918) which sold over 25,000 copies. At the time of his death, it was estimated that he had approximately 10,000 books in his collection, focusing on English and American literary works, the major part of which were auctioned by Parke-Bernet Galleries, New York in April, May, and October 1941. Highlights of the sale included the autograph manuscripts of Thomas Hardy's novel "Far From the Madding Crowd" and Charles Lamb's essay "Dream Children".

Dined at home with Dorothy and we went to Playroom Six, 6 New Compton Street, to see d'Annunzio's "The Honeysuckle". The play had form, interest, and power in a voluptuous way, but the performance was simply terrible. The theatre only holds about 100 people. It has a nice atmosphere, and the bar, etc., is sympathique, especially the gas ring lodged on a chair.

The Players'Theatre was a London theatre club that opened in 1927 as Playroom Six at No. 6, New Compton Street, with the aim of presenting a wide range of entertainment.However, in 1936 it moved into the former Evans's Supper Room (also known as Evans's (late Joy's)) in Covent Garden and soon began to concentrate on recreating the type of music hall entertainment originally seen on these premises.

Prize fighting

Thursday, June 30th., Cadogan Square, London.

We left in the car for Easton Glebe at 10.47, 17 minutes late, and got there at 12.40. Jane Wells was in an easy chair and then walking about and she ate lunch with us. Said to be better. But when I asked H.G. privately: "Is she better?" he said "No". We sat in a summer house after lunch, and had tea there at 3.20 and left at 4.5.
See also, 'Thinking of H.G.' - September 25th., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/sunday-september-25th.html

Harry Preston gave a dinner at the Green Park Hotel for the Walker-Milligan prize fight. About 22 covers. I had one end of a long table. Grant Morden was very interesting about James White's suicide. He said that James lost his head in the end. The matter of finding money to take up the shares had been arranged; it then fell through; but it was picked up again, and X.Y. undertook to 'find the difference'. X.Y.'s secretary sat up all night waiting for White to come, but White had gone down to his house at Swindon and fixed everything up for his suicide.

James White (17 May 1877 – 29 June 1927) was an English financier, property developer and speculator. From a working-class family in Lancashire, he worked at a number of jobs before becoming well known in the years before the First World War as a boxing promoter. From that, he moved into property and other transactions, making large sums of money in major deals. He became a racehorse owner and theatre proprietor. White finally overreached himself financially, and being unable to meet his huge liabilities, committed suicide at the age of 50.

Desolate sight at Olympia. Thousands of empty seats. The world-championship fight - Walker v. Milligan - was the most exciting I ever saw. Milligan was soon done in. Walker won tremendously. And yet he got scarcely a hand (being American) whereas Milligan, smashed to bits and tottering (with stitches in his lip), was terrifically cheered. This because of Milligan's mad pluck. Walker crossed himself before fighting.

Mickey Walker, aka the Toy Bulldog, had a very aggressive style. He liked to swarm all over his opponents, always boring in, never letting up. He had heavy hands, and given the opportunity could flatten his opponents at any time.The Toy Bulldog fought five times in 1927, defending his belt just once against European middleweight champion Tommy Milligan in London on June 30th.

The Associated Press followed the action. “Walker floored Milligan in the seventh round, the European champion was down for a count of seven the first time and needed nine after the second knockdown before he was able to regain his feet. He managed to get by the round, however…Milligan came back strong enough in the eighth to hold Walker off and make a contest of it…A right to the jaw was the deciding blow… Milligan went down for the fifth and last time.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3gsJHihch34

Michael Arlen drove me home and came in for a drink. He said his new book had been a great frost.

Michael Arlen (1895 – 1956), original name Dikran Kouyoumdjian, was an Armenian essayist, short story writer, novelist, playwright, and scriptwriter, who had his greatest successes in the 1920s while living and writing in England. Although Arlen is most famous for his satirical romances set in English smart society, he also wrote gothic horror and psychological thrillers. Very much a 1920s society figure resembling the characters he portrayed in his novels, and a man who might be referred to as a dandy, Arlen invariably impressed everyone with his immaculate manners. He was always impeccably dressed and groomed and was seen driving around London in a fashionable yellow Rolls Royce and engaging in all kinds of luxurious activities. 

Acute pleasure and problem

Tuesday, June 29th., Victoria Grove, Chelsea.

I wonder if women realise the acute pleasure which men derive from the sight of them in their fresh, cool, clean, summer toilettes - openwork stockings, diaphanous sleeves, and general impression of musliness.

I must admit in myself a tendency to idealise women, particularly young women, and I would like to be more natural and at ease in their company. Of course my stammer is a problem, but I am not naturally one of these men who 'charm'. How easy some of them make it seem. I am put in mind of an incident which still burns in the memory from when I was a solicitor's clerk, not long arrived in London. A zestful colleague, one of the 'charmers', inflamed my imagination with stories of the allurements of a young woman he knew in lodgings at Camberwell Green. We arranged to visit her on Saturday afternoon, but the adventure had a Restoration comedy anti-climax with jeering profanity from her at my expense; the details of the incident are too painful to recount. Inevitably incidents like this undermine ones confidence.

More pleasant to recall, but troubling in its own way, was an incident last year when Brown and I rowed up the river from Richmond to Kingston with two little girls, Daisy and Georgie, whom Brown in a moment of inspiration had invited to complete the party. Tall little girls for their twelve or thirteen years, with wide straw hats, white blouses and long foal-like legs showing below their short blue skirts; shy at first but gradually expanding and unfolding before our efforts to be utterly, absurdly foolish, and laughing loyally at far-fetched allusive jokes which they could not possibly have understood; always in doubt whether or not to believe what we said and in any case accepting or rejecting it with cautious reservations. Georgie, the eldest, was a spoilt girl, and both spoke with an alarming cockney accent, yet the unique charm characteristic of just their age made their worst sins of behaviour delightful. They rowed till they were tired, labouring hard and willingly, anxious to do their best, and when questioned admitted without shame that they were tired - 'a bit'. We camped and brewed tea on an island and Georgie ate so many sardines and strawberries that she was sick on the way home and had to lie quiet in the bows till the colour came back to her cheeks. In the evening at the corner of the street Brown kissed them and I shook hands with a profound bow, before they made off sedately to their home a few yards away. A quite new and tickling sensation, this intimate companionship with very young girls.

What a mystery is the female sex!

Instruments of war

Monday, June 28th., Chateau Thierry, Picardy, France.

Arrived here last night at 7.20. We took drinks at Headquarters of a Commandant of whom I didn't catch the name. This drink (lemon and water and sugar) restored me more than any drink I ever had. We did a great deal of rough walking yesterday. Much marching up and down hills and among woods, gazing at horses and hot-water douches, baths and barbers shops, and deep dugouts called 'Tipperary', and guns of various calibre.  Estimated 20 miles. I put it at 12.

We inspected hills of coils of the most formidable barbed wire, far surpassing that of farmers, well contrived to tear to pieces any human being who, having got into its entanglement, should try to get out again. Also the four-pointed contraptions called chevaux de frise which, however you throw them, will always stick a fatal point upwards, to impale the horse or man who cannot or will not look where he is going. Everything in this parc du genie (engineers park) in unimagined quantities.



Close by, a few German prisoners performing sanitary duties under a guard. They were men in God's image, and they went about on the assumption that all the rest of the war lay before them and that there was a lot of it. A General told us that he had mentioned to them the possibility of an exchange of prisoners, whereupon they had gloomily and pathetically protested. They very sincerely did not want to go back whence they had come, preferring captivity, humiliation, and the basest tasks to a share in the great glory of German arms. To me they had a brutalised air, no doubt one minor consequence of military ambition in high places.

Not many minutes away was a hospital, what the French call an ambulance de premiere ligne, contrived out of a factory. This was the hospital nearest the trenches in that region, and the wounded came to it directly from the dressing stations which lie immediately behind the trenches. There were few patients when we were there, yet the worn face of the doctor in charge showed that vast labours must have been accomplished in those sombre chambers. In the very large courtyard a tent operating-hospital was established. Ether smell. Some cases operated on here in an hour after wound.

Another short ride and we were in an aviation park, likewise tented, in the midst of an immense wheatfield on the lofty side of a hill. There were six hangars of canvas, each containing an aeroplane. A young non-commissioned officer with a marked Southern accent explained to us the secret nature of things. He was wearing both the Military Cross and the Legion of Honour, for he had done wondrous feats in the way of shooting the occupants of Taube in mid-air. Naturally after this we visited some auto-cannons expressly constructed for bringing down aeroplanes. In front of these marvels it was suggested to us that we should neither take photographs nor write down exact descriptions. The high-priest of these guns was a middle-aged artillery Captain who explained their operation in an esoteric yet quite comprehensible language. The demoniac ingenuity of these guns was impressive to a high degree.

We inspected a "seventy-five", a very sympathetic creature, in blue-grey with metallic hints. We beheld the working of the gun by two men, and we beheld the different sorts of shells in their delved compartments. But this was not enough for us. We ventured to suggest that it would be proper to try to kill a few Germans for our amusement. The request was instantly granted. It was done. It was done with disconcerting rapidity. The shell was put in its place. A soldier pulled a string. Bang! A neat, clean, not too loud bang! The messenger had gone instantly forth. The "seventy-five" was enthusiastically praised by every officer present. He is beloved like a favourite sporting dog, and with cause.

Gloomy in Paris

Monday, June 27th., Rue de Calais.

Hind, returned from his European tour, dined with me last night at the Hippodrome. He said that he had not talked to anyone since he saw me last, and that when the tour was about two-thirds through he felt very stale. He had stopped in eighteen towns, and was very much struck with Buda Pesth, as I expected.

Afterwards we went to the Moulin de la Galette (see also, 'Parisian views' - October 4th., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/parisian-views.html), and made observations to each other about Youth, Desire and so on. Nearly all  Hind's ideas are sentimental and wrong, and his judgements on literature are quite impossible nearly every time; but he has charm. Perhaps it is his naivete - a rare enough quality.

Another instance of the sans-gene of Montmartre. On Thursday last, at the Restaurant Boulant, a young cocotte came in with two young men and her 'bonne a tout faire'. The bonne was not neat or clean and was in her working dress. They dined all together and laughed and talked much. Perhaps it was because the domestic cuisine had gone wrong. But more probably the cocotte had only just arrived at the dignity of a bonne and wanted to show her off.

I had a letter from M. Berquand asking me to go and see him at the Hotel Terminus. His room was No. 465. I found it with the aid of a boy. M. Berquand is getting old. He struck me as a man of sincere character, and trustworthy. He said he had been mute till the age of 8, and then to the age of 26 had stammered so badly that he was practically incapable of speech, and entirely incapable of earning a living. He had to be kept by his family. He then studied all the systems, maintained a strict silence for 6 months and cured himself in a year. He has travelled all over Europe on tours of curing and has 'orders' from most European sovereigns. I arranged to go to Aberdeen on 1st of August. He asked me a lot of questions, and said he was quite certain of success in a month or five weeks. In spite of the interview with him I felt rather depressed than otherwise. This is my second concerted attempt to tackle my stammer. See also, 'Triumph of hope over reason' - March 12th., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/triumph-of-hope-over-reason.html

For some time past Professor Berquand, in the employ of the French Government, has been conducting a free class in Edinburgh for the cure of stammering. A large and representative public committee, who have been watching the progress of the class, have just expressed their unanimous opinion through the Very Rev. Dr. Mairthat that the cure of the ten pupils under treatment had been marvellously and entirely successful. Their cases had all seemed to the committee very grave, but now every member of the class could read, aloud, re-cite, and converse with perfect ease. In a perfectly, delivered little speech the other night a member of the class moved a heartfelt vote of "thanks to Professor Berquand",which was enthusiastically awarded and applauded. 

Adelaide Advertiser, 16 Jan. 1904

Corner of the Boulevard Montparnasse
by G.F. Kelly

I went to Kelly's studio, a very large one, and he showed me a lot of his work which interested me very much. He made some good remarks about the present condition of painting. He said painters were afraid of making mistakes, afraid of being vulgar, and that they never used their eyes in search of material. They all painted the same things. He said some artist had said to him: "We paint like governesses". I certainly thought Kelly was doing good and original work, both in landscape and in portraiture. Afterwards he took me to dine at the Chat Blanc.

Sir Gerald Festus Kelly (1879-1972) Painter in oil of portraits and landscapes. Born in London, he was educated at Cambridge University, later living and studying art in Paris. Whistler was an early influence. Kelly was an enthusiastic traveler, visiting among other countries Spain, America, South Africa and Burma, where he painted some of his most characteristic and charming figure studies. He became known as a sound academic painter of attractive children and elegant women. His sitters included Somerset Maugham, whom he painted several times. He was elected RA in 1930, was the Academy's keeper 1943-45 and President, 1949-54, and was knighted in 1945. Between 1909 and 1970 Kelly exhibited over 300 works at the RA. During his lifetime his work became well known through popular prints. Since his death however - and in spite of his technical brilliance and colourful, wide-ranging subject matter - his reputation has stagnated.

Stanlaws, the "creator" of the 'Stanlaws girl', was there, a terrible American, and also a girl I had previously seen at Kelly's. The girl and Stanlaws, and the man who was the girl's host, threw bread at each other, and sang American songs very loudly. It was terrible at times. I could not stand such manners and customs for long. It is these things which spoil Montparnasse. We finished up at the Cafe de Versailles.

Penrhyn Stanlaws (1877-1957) was born in Dundee Scotland as Stanley Adamson. Stanlaws' art could be found on several magazine covers throughout the 1910's and 20's, including the Saturday Evening Post , The American Magazine, Collier's , Life, Judge, The Metropolitan Magazine and Hearst's International. He was best known for cover-art depicting beautiful women. His "Stanlaws Girl" rivalled the "Gibson Girl" and was modelled on silent star Anna Q. Nilsson . In Hollywood Penrhyn Stanlaws directed seven films including "Pink Gods" (1922), which also featured the "Stanlaws Girl. 

Penrhyn Stanlaws died in Los Angeles in a fire said to have started when he fell asleep in a chair while smoking.

In sight of the front

Saturday, June 26th., Rheims.

Mair and I dined at Meaux last evening. Lord Esher came in, wearing a fancy military costume - perhaps that of Constable of Windsor Castle. A star was depending from his neck. As soon as he saw my eye on it he tucked it inside his double-breasted khaki coat.

Reginald Baliol Brett, 2nd Viscount Esher GCVO, KCB, PC, DL (1852 – 1930) was a historian and Liberal politician in the United Kingdom, although his greatest influence over military and foreign affairs was as a courtier, member of public committees and behind-the-scenes "fixer". During the First World War Esher was, in one writer’s description, de facto head of British Intelligence in France, reporting on the French domestic and political situation. He reportedly told his son he preferred not to have a formal position where he would have to take orders.

Chateau Pommery

Today we were met at a poste de commandement by the officers in charge, who were waiting for us. After the rites of greeting, we walked up to the high terrace of Chateau Pommary, a considerable chateau close by. France lay before us in a shimmering vast semicircle. In the distance a low range of hills, irregularly wooded; then a river; then woods and spinneys; then vineyards - boundless vineyards which climbed in varying slopes out of the valley almost to our feet. The champagne proprietor didn't want me to drink water! Far to the left was a town with lofty factory chimneys, smokeless. Peasant women were stooping in the vineyards; the whole of the earth seemed to be cultivated and to be yielding bounteously. It was a magnificent summer afternoon. The sun was high and a few huge purple shadows moved with august deliberation across the brilliant greens. An impression of peace, majesty, grandeur; and of the mild, splendid richness of the soil of France.

"You see that white line on the hills opposite," said an officer, opening a large scale map. I guessed it was a level road. "That is the German trenches," said he. "They are five miles away. Their gun positions are in the woods. Our own trenches are invisible from here."

It constituted a great moment, this first vision of the German trenches. With the thrill came the lancinating thought: "All of France that lies beyond that line, land just like the land on which I am standing, inhabited by people just like the people who are talking to me, is under the insulting tyranny of the invader." And I also thought, as the sense of distance quickened my imagination to realise that these trenches stretched from Ostend to Switzerland, and that the creators of them were prosecuting similar enterprises as far north-east as Riga, and as far south-east as the confines of Roumania: "The brigands are mad, but they are mad in the grand manner."

We were at the front. We had driven for twenty miles along a very busy road which was closed to civilians. The civil life of the district was in abeyance, proceeding precariously from meal to meal. Aeroplanes woke the sleep. No letter could leave a post office without a precautionary delay of three days. Telegrams were suspect. To get into a railway station was almost as difficult as to get into paradise. And yet nowhere did I see a frown or hear a complaint. Everybody comprehended that the exigencies of the terrific military machine were necessary exigencies. Everybody waited, waited, in confidence and with tranquil smiles.
We were veritably at the front. There was however not a whisper of war, nor anything visible except the thin pale line like a striation on the distant hills. Then a far-off sound of thunder is heard. It is a gun. A faint puff of smoke is pointed out to us. Neither the rumble nor the transient cloudlet makes any apparent impression on the placid and wide dignity of the scene. nevertheless, this is war. And war seems a very vague, casual, and negligible thing. We are led about fifty feet to the left, where in a previous phase a shell has indented a huge hole in the earth. The sight of the hole renders war rather less vague and rather less negligible.

"There are 80,000 men in front of us," says an officer, indicating the benign shimmering, empty landscape.
"But where?"
"Interred - in the trenches."
It is incredible.
"And the other interred - the dead?" I ask.
"We never speak of them. But we think of them a good deal."