Mixed emotions

Sunday, December 31st., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

Very cold. Hard frost overnight. Out early this morning. Walked along the river and through Bishop's Park. Ice under Putney Bridge. Glad to get in for a warm by the fire, a mince pie and some tea.

This year I have written 335,340 words, grand total. 228 articles and stories have actually been published. Quite satisfactory. One book of plays - "Polite Farces". I have written six or eight short stories not yet published or sold. Also the greater part of a 55,000 word serial - "Love and Life" - for Tillotsons, which begins publication about April next year. Also the whole draft (80,000 words) of my Staffordshire novel "Anna Tellwright" which I think to be my best writing so far.

My total earnings were £592 3s. 1d., of which sum I have yet to receive £72 10s.

Much of December has been spent with the Phillpotts' in Torquay. I correspond regularly with Emily who I like very much. A wife like her would suit me admirably, but such women are few and far between. Apparently Eden is not very well and I must admit to fantasising the other night, whilst lying awake, about how I would court and win Emily if she were 'free'. I think she would have me. But it is unlikely. They are soon to move to a large house in Torquay and I have no doubt that she will have it a picture in no time. I enjoy spending time with them, but sometimes it is a strain, emotionally.

The joy of books

Wednesday, December 30th., Chiltern Court, London.

This period between Xmas and New Year is perfect for attending to one's books. So today, returning from some shopping I went into my too-small library and began to arrange my books. They were in need of arrangement. They always are. I blew on some of the pathetic neglected things; I dusted others and I moved some scores of them to and fro in the room. Time passed - delightfully!

A few of the books I came upon I could not remember having bought. Imagine forgetting the exact circumstances in which one has come to own a book! One or two I did not even know that I possessed; and their inexplicable forlorn presence on my shelves shocked me with surprised joy, but also with shame. And so I tended them as I might have tended a lost dog, and tried to convince them that they were not masterless, that they aroused my warm interest, and that they had a genuine mission in my life. I went so far as to read pages of some of them, here and there. How exciting! How disturbing to think that those now printed words emerged from the mind of some earnest, bursting author, two thousand years ago, five hundred years ago, fifty years ago. Immortal in our sense of that term. Giving glimpses into wonderful minds long since passed away.

The majority of books in the majority of libraries lie utterly idle, like railway wagons in sidings. They await the reader and the man who ought to read them never glances at them. What is the remedy for this deplorable state of affairs? Surely no man can read all his books all of the time. Of course not. But every bookman can allot a certain regular amount of leisure to cultivating at least an acquaintance with books which he has not read and probably will never be able to read through. A lot of knowledge can be very pleasurably obtained by an hours miscellaneous browsing twice or thrice a week. Go to your books; pick one out at random, look into it ... and so on. The process is rather like consciously opening one's eyes and mind to the sights and sounds of a familiar walk, which normally pass unnoticed. No higher praise of it is necessary. After an hour, or even half an hour of the exercise you will be conscious of stimulation.

I was summoned back to the world by a call to eat, not to be denied. But tomorrow I shall attend again to my books.

Musical encounter

Tuesday, December 29th., Chiltern Court, London.

I recently attended a chamber concert. After a Beethoven quartet I leaned over to a lady in front of me who was sitting by herself. A careful study of the back of her head ( she wore a rather fetching hat) was all that had kept me going during the performance. I asked her: "What are you here for?" She said she had come to "hear some music". I asked if she was bored and she replied: "Horribly!" "Don't you feel as if you would rather be at the Palladium?" I asked. "I certainly do", she said with enthusiasm. The third and final item on the programme was another classical quartet. We left before it started. We had to. We just had to leave, or we should have begun to recite Dante's "Purgatorio" aloud!

We went to the Palladium. No sign there on the faces of the audience that they imagined that they were doing a duty to art, or proving themselves the favoured of Heaven! But there was every sign of a good night out. We heard Ella Shields sing her celebrated song "Burlington Bertie" (who rose at eight thirty). It was a distinguished performance. I would rank Ella Shields as an artist appreciably above 95 percent of the artists whom I have heard at 'serious' concerts in the last ten years. 

Music hall is one thing; chamber concerts are another. After sober reflection, based on lengthy experience, I know which I prefer and I am now sufficiently secure in my identity to say so. It is a wide world, and I wish the shepherds of the musical valley would realise this.

As regards the rather pleasant, if a little past her prime, lady I escorted to the Palladium .... I shall keep the details of a very enjoyable evening to myself.

War efforts

Friday, December 28th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

What a way to run a war!

Captain Hill told me how after a long period (several weeks) of 'special vigilance' he was sleeping in a blanket on the floor of the gardener's cottage at Thorpe Hall when a despatch rider burst in, just like a stage despatch rider, at 3 a.m. The despatch contained one word which for Hill had no meaning. The rider couldn't tell him anything and only insisted on a signature in receipt, which of course Hill gave. Hill then got up and went to see another O.C. nearby. This O.C. had received the same message, and also had not the least idea what it meant. Other O.C.'s were afterwards found to be in the same case.

Hill asked another O.C. to ring up the staff but he was afraid to do so, so Hill did it himself. He asked the telephone clerk what the message meant. The clerk replied that he knew but he daren't tell. Hill then told him to summon the Brigade Major. The clerk said he positively dare not. Hill insisted and took the responsibility on himself. The Brigade Major came to the phone using terrible language. It then appeared that the incomprehensible word was a code word signifying that the period of vigilance was over. Only no O.C. of unit had been previously informed of the significance of the word. The whole episode with its middle-of-the-night busness, absurd secrecy etc., was thoroughly characteristic. I would have put it down as a tall story had I not experienced similar imbecilities myself.

 

My own war effort is to try to organise a high-class concert at the Haymarket on behalf of the Wounded Allies Relief Committee. I am aiming for some time in February. I have recently written to Max Beerbohm to ask if he will design a cartoonish sort of cover for the programme. He has a great gift for that sort of thing. I think we are doing some good. I hope so.

Pestered

Sunday, December 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

 

Another Xmas more or less over with. Thank goodness! But today was another fine, clear winter day and I had a good walk before lunch. I am deep in "Imperial Palace" and got some ideas for the next chapter, which I am now keen to get on with.

 

Eugene Goossens is pestering me for a libretto for "Don Juan". I have had to tell him that, though I would like to oblige, I cannot turn aside from my novel to do anything else creative. I said that I hope to finish the novel in April, but frankly I think the summer is more likely. He tells me that an opera is not the same as a play! I think I knew that the convention of an opera is quite different from the convention of a play, but I didn't say anything, not wishing to alienate him. Also he wishes to change quite a lot and I am perfectly willing to adopt all his suggestions, but I must have time. For example he wants the opera to end with the death of Don Juan. There is no reason why it shouldn't, though I am personally not sure that it would be a good thing, but he knows better than I what is what. So I await his formal response. I hope he will be patient.

I am sleeping better at the moment which is surprising considering that my diet comprises mainly oatcakes and mince pies.

Milk of paradise

Saturday, December 26th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

Yesterday I read "Falk" in Conrad's "Typhoon", and then several stories by Wells. I went to bed at 1.30 and was kept awake until 4.30 by a barking dog. Then at 7.15 my mother knocked on the wall. She was in the middle of a bilious crisis caused by overnight hare and bilberries, but I think she thought she was having a heart attack. She stays in bed. Hence the whole atmosphere of the house becomes special, and 'sick-roomy', and I can't proceed with my novel today as I had meant.

Last Wednesday I went with Frank to the Grand Theatre in Hanley. I entered with curiosity and not a little trepidation for, though it is the business of my life to keep an eye on the enthralling social phenomena of the Potteries, I had never been there before. Now I saw an immense carved and gilded interior, not as large as the Paris Opera, but assuredly capable of seating as many persons. I was impressed. My first thought was: "Why, it's just like a real Music Hall!"

I was so accustomed to regard Hanley as a place where the great visible people went into work at 7a.m. and emerged from public houses at 11p.m., or stood movelessly in mournful packed tramcars, or bitterly partisan on chill football grounds, that I could scarcely credit their presence here, lolling on velvet amid gold Cupids, and smoking at ease, with plentiful ash-trays to encourage them. I was offered chocolates and what-not at reasonable prices by a boy whose dress indicated that his education was proceeding at Eton. 

I was glad to see the vast gallery filled with persons who had paid their twopences and intended to have their monies worth. In nearly all public places of pleasure, the pleasure is spoiled for me by the obsession that I owe it, at last, to the underpaid labour of people who aren't there. It is a regrettable residual awareness of social injustice which I admit does me no credit in this age of capitalism. But I did not feel it here. Even the newspaper-lad and the match-girl might visit this Music Hall and, sitting together, drink the milk of paradise. Wonderful discoverers these new Music Hall directors all up and down the Kingdom. They have discovered the folk!

Stepping out

 Christmas Day, Hotel Belvedere, Vevey.

Xmas dinner. Forty people. Two strangers came in for dinner. I don't know where they came from considering that we are 6,000 feet up a mountain and, as far as I know, the funicular isn't running. They had to have a table in the middle of the room. Lights turned out for entry of blue-burning Xmas pudding. Admirable dinner.

By way of preparation, knowing that I would inevitably be expected to overeat, I went for a good walk this morning. A crisp and clear Christmas morning. Not many people about. Light frost on the ground which was good for walking. A satisfying crunch underfoot as the boot sank into the top surface of what would have been mud had the temperature been a few degrees higher. Deep lungfulls of cold mountain air. Remarkably clear air. Very invigorating and a success in terms of appetite cultivation. 

Is a hotel a good place to spend Xmas? Well, the main benefit is that one has no need to engage in the ritual effort to be pleasant and welcoming to relatives; far easier to be pleasant to people one does not know, and will not see again post festive season. Also, hardly any of the always embarrassing present business, just a small gift for and from Marguerite. I suppose this tradition has arisen from the alleged visit of the 'three wise men' to the newly delivered parents in Bethlehem, bearing gifts. In my opinion they would have been a lot wiser to have left the gifts at home for someone who could appreciate them. I ask you, what was the infant meant to do with gold, frankincense and myrrh? What is myrrh anyway? Incidentally I bet Joseph was looking closely at the infant to see if any resemblances came to mind. Nobody ever tells us what he thought about it all! Finally, the food is much better than at home. That I can vouch for. Most of the people here are British so it is hard to believe that one is abroad without stepping outside.

So, I shall need another stroll this evening, especially if, as seems likely, there will be additional temptations on the culinary front. I must gird my loins.