Provincial event

Sunday, October 31st., Villa des Nefliers.

Last night we went to see "Le Roi" in the Cinematograph salle of the town. Full House.
Quel monde province! My little doctor - I forget his name - sat behind me, and was anxious for us to walk in the forest together in the evening. Unhappily he seems to be entirely uninteresting. My plumber, my house-painter, my bicycle dealer, and my house agent, were there with their wives. This seemed to be practically the only 'world' - that of commercants. It seemed much more provincial than Burslem for instance. It is from such an audience that one may see how small Fontainebleau is. Doubtless the society that considers itself haute kept away. And the theatre is in their minds designated for the tradesmen.

A plain interior with a too-low arching roof, ugly with pitch-pine, green hangings, and very badly disposed electric lights. Hard seats with an appearance of chic. very hard seats after two hours! 
 
This afternoon and tonight I read "Suzette" of Brieux, which is now a demi-four at the Vaudeville. Very workmanlike and good first act. The other two acts no good at all. It is simply astounding that a man so imperfectly endowed as Brieux can make such a deuce of a reputation among intelligent people. He is alleged to have said that "we [the dramatists] must have an idea in our plays ... taken from the life about us, from among the sufferings of our fellow-beings." Perhaps he has run out of fresh ideas about social issues, hence the lack of essential vitality in this latest work.

Accident

Saturday, October 30th., Cadogan Square, London.

I began more seriously to think about the plan of my new novel. I had already got the moral background for it: the dissatisfaction of a rich and successful man with his own secret state of discontent and with the evils of the age.. I wanted a frame. I walked about three miles this morning and a mile after tea, without getting a really satisfactory idea. Then, as I was  lolling in my 'easy' about 6.30, I suddenly thought that I would extend the role of the train de luxe, which I had thought of as the scene for the opening of the story, to be the scene of the whole novel - so that the entire time-space of the novel will only be about thirty hours or so. I shall call the book simply "Accident".

It is fifteen years or so now since I was involved in the train accident which provides my background material. I have often thought of pressing it into service in a novel, but have not, until now, found the right context. I was on my way back from a visit to Wells in France when, just after we had passes Mantes station, there was a really terrific jolting. I knew after four or five jolts that one coach at any rate had left the metals. The windows broke, the corridor door sailed into the compartment. I clung hard to the arms of my seat, but fell against an armchair in front of me. There was a noise of splintering, and various other noises. Extreme tension of waiting for the final stoppage. Equilibrium at last and I was unhurt! When I got out two wounded women were already lying out on the grass at the side of the track. two coaches lay on their sides. One of them was unwheeled and partly sticking in the ground.. We had apparently shaved a short goods train standing on the next line. I got away as quickly as I could and rented a car to get to Paris. 

Just think if I had been in one of the other coaches that was overturned! Lives turn on such things, but also on many much less dramatic events.  Anyway, I had made enough progress with the book for one day, so I spent most of the evening reading Ludwig on the Kaiser. This seems to me to be rather a great book

A humiliation

Thursday, October 29th., Rue de Calais, Paris

I have had awful difficulties with the French language since I came here. Somehow, very illogically, I thought that the mere fact of residence in Paris  would mysteriously increase my knowledge of the French tongue to a respectable degree. I remember that I was advised to haunt the theatre if I wished to perfect my French. The first play I saw was Edmond See's "L'Indiscret" at the Theatre Antoine. I entered the theatre hoping for the best. I had read the play in advance. I did not however succeed in comprehending a single word - not one. 

I am to be seen three or four nights a week in the front row of the stalls (so as to hear well) of the little theatre de quartier round about Montmartre. Last night for example I went to see the new 'revue' at La Cigale. I was really astonished by the breadth of some of the double-meanings that were explained to me. On the whole it was not as good as the last one I saw there. But the mounting and stage management and, especially, the figures of the women of this little Montmartre theatre are not surpassed anywhere in Paris, and the 'revues' are certainly better than any others I have seen.

So, after studying French for twenty six years, the man in me who had written scores of authoritative articles on French literature has been deeply humiliated. I have been taking lessons as well as attending the theatres and, enchantingly, I have begun to understand bits of phrases heard in the street. A corner has been turned! I am almost pleased with myself.

A different world

Thursday, October 28th., Cadogan Square, London.

I read half of Carl van Vechten's "Nigger Heaven". A short book. Quite good and interesting in its exoticism. It has generated a storm of controversy because of its scandalous title and fed an insatiable hunger on the part of the reading public for material relating to the black culture of Harlem's jazz clubs, cabarets, and social events. The book centres on two young people--a quiet, serious librarian and a volatile aspiring writer--struggling to love each other as their dreams are slowly suffocated by racism. Its style, language and subject matter are problematic for me if I am honest and I fear that when I finish it I shall say there is nothing in it, really. The fact is that my literary notions are rather fixed. Probably twenty years ago I would have relished it.

We have been away for last weekend to a relation in Hampshire. Quite a sudden cold snap of weather, but glorious blue sky on Saturday and we went down to the sea at Mudeford, near Christchurch. Very pleasant stroll along the promenade. Beach huts. A few children playing on the beach. Plenty of people walking about, enjoying the bracing air. Across the water the Needles at the western end of the Isle of Wight were sharp and clear. A commendably refreshing experience. I wonder sometimes why I don't live by the sea.

Social activity

Wednesday, October 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

At 6 o'clock Lewis Mannering came, to ask me to open the new establishment of Foyle the bookseller. He then asked me for a play for the Q Theatre, and then we talked about religion and books. He is a great collector of folk-lore books. He got 20,000, was bored, and sold 'every leaf' and then he began again and has now reached 5 or 6,000. He is a firm rationalist. Not a bad sort.

Andre Maurois

We had Andre Maurois, Ethel Sands, Jeanne de Casalis, Ruby Lindsay, Alfie Mason and Arthur Waley to dinner, and it was a very good party. Maurois showed extraordinary charm. He spoke once more about doing a French very free adaptation of "Milestones". I encouraged him. He said that he thought "The Old Wives' Tale" was one of the finest works in English literature. I was quite pleased!

Richard is envious that I lead what appears to him to be an exciting social life. Well I do, but I didn't at his age. I have paid for my festivities during a long course of years. When I was his age I worked in an office 9.45 to 6 (stealing an hour or so in the middle of the day to go to the British Museum), and I worked, chiefly on bibliography and articles, at night. I scarcely ever went to a party, never to a retaurant (except ABCs for lunch), never to a dance. And so on, and so on. I don't think he will be convinced!

A fine letter

Tuesday, October 26th., Cadogan Square, London.

Went to Tchekoff's "Three Sisters" at the Barnes Theatre. Well, I was bored frequently. Did I enjoy myself? No, not on the whole. Was I uplifted as I had been by an even gloomier play "Rosmersholm"? No. It seemed to me that often the author was wilfully pessimistic. He is certainly very monotonous, and all his plays that I have seen have the same tone. A decent Philistine man seated just behind us was more satisfied - thought it improved as it went forward. On the whole Tchekoff had succeeded with him.

I was rather cross with myself this morning because (again) I caught myself trying to make Dorothy fit into my way of doing and seeing things. This is a fault with me which I have become increasingly aware of, and am trying to do something about. It is really about the exercise of power. I suppose it is human nature to want to assert oneself and thus maintain one's 'position' in the pecking order; or at least it is man's nature! Anyway it is not something I like about myself. By my time of life I should be secure enough to accept with equanimity  that others do things their own way, even though I think I know better.

When I got home I found a great letter from Wells about (1) "Raingo", (2) Dorothy, (3) my 'renewed' home, (4) my improved health. Incidentally H.G. attributes the latter to a more active sex life - he would! It was a fine letter.

Being creative

Monday, October 25th., Villa des Nefliers.

After two days dyspepsia I felt much better this morning and began to work at a quarter to eight, and at 11 o'clock I had been out for a walk in the rain and read the newspapers and written a complete draft of Act II. I hated doing it. This afternnon after painting I walked to Les Platreries and arranged the whole scheme, and most of the characters, of my next novel - the first of the "Clayhanger" trilogy. Assuredly a great day. After that I did a bit of muy Landor dictionary and then it was dinner time.

Weather colder; but still mainly bright. Magnificent moonlight night. What I am always wanting to do is a few landscape sketches, in words, just as material for use. And I never seem to have the power, or really the energy, to concentrate sufficiently for useful observation. But yesterday and Saturday, in my dyspeptic idleness, I had several ideas for new books. I feel that at the age of 42 I am in the most productive period of my life, from a creative point of view. I have noticed how creativity tends to decline with age and I must make the most of the juices as they are flowing.