Writing easily

Sunday, February 28th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I finished another section of "A Great Man" yesterday at 3.30 p.m., having written nearly 10,000 words in a week. I ought easily to complete the book by March 20th. It seems amusing enough, and very good in places. But if I treated this as a draft, and really thought out types, and made the book fuller, I could make it much better. However I have a mania for producing a lot just now. And further, this sort of book though I can do it, is scarcely my natural genre. I do not take quite the same interest in it as I take in a serious book, nor do I get quite the same satisfaction out of a passage which I know to be done well. And often I have the greatest difficulty in starting my day's work. I am all right when I have started. But the starting is penible.

Additionally for February 28th., see'Changing perceptions'

We went to the British Museum. Elgin marbles the greatest sensation I have had for a long time. I used to think them cold. Now I see how passionately they were done. The illuminated MS. also made an entirely new appeal to me. And I was more than ever determined to do some decent illumination.

Moving on

Sunday, February 27th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

I have moved from Victoria Grove because I needed room for my sister Tertia who is studying singing in London, and for my youngest brother Septimus who has won a National Scholarship for sculpture and is studying in South Kensington. And today was the house-warming.

When supper was nearly over, and at the third bottle of champagne, Marriott got up and began a speech by pulling out of his sleeve a huge pantomime cuff on which were written the notes of his oration. For 25 minutes he kept me wildly laughing, and wound up with a series of comic couplets setting forth my vices and virtues. I laughed all through, but after it was over I felt horribly self-conscious, and opened a bottle with an air of awful gravity.

My novel "A Man from the North" came out on Wednesday and such of my friends as have read it and whose view is worth a damn, like it heartily in a quiet way. Phillpotts is going to review it for Black & White. He has given me a lot of solid advice about things in general. I hope to introduce him to Sturt when the latter comes to visit.

I am working at a rather serious and long critical article on George Moore, which I hope I may be able to sell. I am enjoying the thing greatly & have already too much to say than there will be room for.. It is rather a big job. I have a good short story in tow for black & White, but it is lying by as the Moore article is rather urgent.

Additionally for February 27th., see 'False alarms'

At home, we learnt that small German raids expected. All local garrisons doubled. two batteries in the village etc. Great excitement. I had heard nothing of this in London.
As regards this 'great invasion scare', two batteries 'stood by' yesterday morning from 4 a.m. till sunrise and today from 5.30 a.m. till sunrise, all ready to move off - except that bits weren't in harness. The reinforcement which came in a hurry from Colchester here consists of convalescent wounded gunners from the front, appointed only to light duty and to extreme emergency duty. In the fatigue of yesterday's field day (which was utterly useless) the wounds of two of the gunners were reopened. It is considered that the early morning standing by is connected with high water, and that some attempt at landing is feared. Only the ammunition column remains in Thorpe. The two batteries have taken with then 100 rounds per gun. the rest is stored in our outbuildings.

A maniaque shop

Friday, February 26th., Hotel Belvedere, Vevey.

Marguerite and Pauline Smith came back from Vevey today with particulars of a maniaque shop there, where, when you had bought an article, it was taken from you and a number given in exchange. You then, after purchasing all you wanted, paid at the desk, and then went to another part of the shop, where were a number of pigeon-holes numbered. Your articles were then taken out of the pigeon-holes corresponding to your numbers and wrapped up. The wrapping-up could not begin till you had paid. At the wrapping-up place were a number of little brown paper bags containing pieces of string. The packer chose a suitable length from the bag containing pieces only of that length. One can imagine the fussiness, indeed mania of the proprietor, and hell of a time that the girls employed in it must have.

I found quite early this morning all the ideas for last chapter of novel. This afternoon I reviewed Barry Pain, Galsworthy, Le Gallienne, and Mrs. Nesbit for the New Age. Quite like old times. I fell at once into my old quiet habits of reviewing; but the stuff written was, I think, much better - certainly had more souplesse.

More and more struck by Tchekoff, and more and more inclined to write a lot of very short stories in the same technique. As a fact, "The Death of Simon Fugue", written long before I had read Tchekoff, is in the same technique, and about as good. Though to say anything is as good as "Ward No. 6" in "The Black Monk", wants a bit of nerve.

Additionally for February 26th., see 'Successes'

Reviews of "The Card" much too kind on the whole. Six on the first day, 6 or 8 on the second. Dixon Scott's in M. Guardian one of the best I ever had, and no effusiveness either.

Night out

Saturday, February 25th., Cadogan Square, London.

I went by bus to Colefaxes; Sam Courtauld and Eliz. Lewis. All of us except Arthur Colefax went to see "The Unknown Warrior" by Raynal at the Little Theatre. First act false and awful, and all the three players, including Maurice Browne, awful. But second and third acts quite good and rather moving, and Maurice was better - much better. 

The Unknown Warrior by Paul Raynal is a French three act play exposing the futility of The First World War through the eyes of a soldier. Bernard Shaw is quoted as saying: "It was almost worth having war to have so fine a play." It was first performed in English at the Arts Theatre Club on February 5th., 1928. It eentres on a soldier's brief leave, taken with his father and fiancee, granted on condition that when he returns to the front he will undertake what is effectively a suicide mission. 

Then Courtauld took us all to the Cafe de Paris, where we stayed until 12.30 and after. Fearfully crowded and noisy. No room to dance. Lady Colefax and Michael ditto drove me home. Bed at 1 a.m.
Also for Sybil Colefax see 'War nerves'

Samuel Courtauld (1876 – 1947) was an English industrialist who is best remembered as an art collector. He founded the Courtauld Institute of Art in London in 1932 and, after a series of gifts during the 1930s, bequeathed his collection to it upon his death. His wealth came from the textile business, but on both sides of his family there were connections with the arts and traditions of patronage going back several generations. Courtauld loved pictures and wrote poems about them. On the advice of Roger Fry and others he bought French Impressionists and Cézannes and took out a lease on the best Robert Adam house in London, Home House, 20 Portman Square, in which to display them - a novel and stunning combination.

Additionally for February 25th., see 'Extreme cold'

Fifteen degrees C. of cold this morning at 7 a.m., 13 degrees at 8.15. I went out yesterday afternoon. Strong north-east wind and very hard frost. I had my face wrapped up but after a mile I could not stand it any longer, and had to come home. It was a terrifying and very painful cold: the keenest I have been in.

Slanged

Tuesday, February 24th., Cadogan Square, London.

I had une espece de grippe all last week and wrote nothing whatsoever. Dorothy returned from Italy. 

The first (of two) performances of "The Bright Island" took place at the Aldwych Theatre on Sunday, 15th. The play was coldly received on both Sunday and Monday. The points were not seen by that portion of the audience which applauds. yet the play had succeeded at rehearsals. many people thought it amusing and true. I think that for one thing the audience was bewildered at the start by the strangeness of the scene, the "Commedia dell' Arte" names of the characters, and the political quality of the plot. Also by the even-handed rigour dealt out to both political parties. The Press, with the sole exception of Truth, who liked it and praised it and said it ought to be revived before a "more intelligent audience", slanged it like anything. Not partially but wholly. Some said that I ought to be stopped from writing such plays, a great mistake, deplorable, and so on. It was the worst Press any play of mine ever had.

My masseur, Fjellsted, told me on Saturday a story of how trouble may be caused by indiscretion. A great tangle of consequential actions deriving from a casual sexual adventure resulted in a horrid mess in two homes. The moral is, don't pick up girls when you are motoring, and, if you see a girl, don't be picked up. Also if you let a man seduce you, get at any rate his name and address. But chiefly, have an absolute rule in your home that your letters are opened by nobody but yourself.

Additionally for February 24th., see 'Exciting times'

Just now, as negotiations about two of my plays are pending, I am in a great state of secret excitement and have postponed going to see friends and asking them to see me and generally organising a social campaign, until something has been decided one way or another. I had a letter from Louis Calvert this morning as to "The Wayward duchess".

Beaverbrook

Tuesday, February 23rd., Hotel Winter Palace, Menton.

Beaverbrook arrived with Morris Woods from Nice. Max talked with us for about an hour, and then Max dashed off again, to Cannes, to meet his mother and Gladys. He said his heart gave an extra beat now and then; but he wouldn't have a big (or a little) doctor for the disease. He had bought James Mackenzie's book on the subject, and stood by that. He said that he was a sure mark for any big and strong-willed doctor, and feared to enter on the career of an invalid. I suggested that he should visit a doctor anonymously; he agreed that that might do. He was playing golf daily. Freddie Lonsdale was with him. Max was going on an Eastern Mediterranean tour in the Mauritania on Saturday night from Villefranche. He had taken five cabins and hadn't yet invited any of his guests. He meant to invite them tonight.

Additionally for February 23rd., see 'Writing for a living'

Today I publish my first book, "A Man from the North". I have seen it mentioned in several papers among "Books Received". Beyond that, I have scarcely thought of it. The fact has not at the moment interested me. But during the last few days I have been several times naively surprised that some of my friends are not more awake and lively to the fact than they seem to be. Perhaps it has interested me more than I thought?

The country life

Wednesday, February 22nd., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

On Friday I went down to Torquay to spend the weekend with Eden Phillpotts.

I found him settled in a decently large house (with several rooms about 20 feet square), with a charming wife, and two children, with whom he must play every evening in the nursery from 6 to 7, inventing new games, etc.

On Saturday Phillpotts and I went for a walk in the February mist. In a country lane, seeing some primrose roots lying in the road, he got suddenly angry with a person unknown, and carefully replanted the roots under a hedge. Both he and his brother ask nothing better than to potter about garden and greenhouse, diagnosing the case of every plant, noting minute changes, and discussing methods of treatment. For two days a rumour that a camellia was growing in the hedge of a certain garden in a certain street excited them until they proved to themselves satisfactorily that the rumour was wrong and the camellia only a rhododendron.

Today Tillotsons offered me £60 for the serial rights of "For Love and Life". I have asked them for £80, but £60 was the price I had myself thought of.

I left Phillpotts full of a desire to live in the country in a large house with plenty of servants, as he does, not working too hard, but working when and how one likes, at good rates. It can only be done by means of fiction. Perhaps the sale of this my first serial may be considered as a step in the right direction.

For more on Phillpotts see 'Eden and I' and 'Writing for a living'

Additionally for February 22nd., see 'A jolly visit'

What he would call a jolly little house. But it wouldn't suit me. Rooms too small, and windows too large, and no tradition behind the design. Still the open-air rooms will be very 'jolly' for eating and sitting about in. Much charm in the situation. We greatly enjoyed this visit. It was very invigorating in every way.

Going grey

Monday, February 21st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Haymarket concert in aid of Wounded Allies Relief Committee at night. I have charge of the money-getting department of the Committee, and it is ageing me. I shall soon have quite grey hair. Greying hair, I am told, suits me. If I could get 75,000 dollars out of the U.S.A. for my fund, my hair would resume its original heavenly brown. The problem is that we are coming to the end of our tether for lack of funds, England being about squeezed dry. I may write to Mrs. Herzog.

For more on the W.A.R.C. see 'Coaching'

Though the concert went off without a hitch, I was very glad when it was over. I had no particular trouble but I will never organise another. The theatrical element, Henry Ainley and Nelson Keys, had a much greater success than the musical element. The latter was naturally jealous, but could not help peeping and hugely enjoying the former. One is more struck than ever by the forced cordiality of all greetings and all praise in this monde. Miss Ada Crossley, the oldest singer there, has very great charm and she got the first encore. After Ainley people began to go, and after Nelson Keys a lot went. These two had each more than one encore, and occupied a great deal of time, so that the concert was not over till 10.25. 

Henry Ainley was born on August 21, 1879 in Morley, Leeds, Yorkshire, England. he started as a bank accountant before becoming one of Britain's more esteemed Shakespearean actors.As an actor, he was known for As You Like It (1936), The Prisoner of Zenda (1915) and Rupert of Hentzau (1915). He was married to Bettina von Hutton, Elaine Titus Fearon and Susanne Sheldon. He died on October 31, 1945 in London, England. he was President of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, 1931-33.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tp5GdGqwz4Y

Nelson Keys was born on April 7, 1886 in London, England as Nelson Waite Keys. He was an actor, known for Knights for a Day (1937), Almost a Divorce (1931) and When Knights Were Bold (1929). He died on April 26, 1939 in London. he appeared in stage revues and musical comedies from 1906.

http://www.britishpathe.com/video/stage-stars-off-stage-nelson-keys-the-famous-chara

Ada Jemima Crossley (1874–1929) was an Australian singer. Born at Tarraville, Gippsland, Victoria, her singing in the country met with so much appreciation that she was sent to Melbourne to be trained, where Sir Frederic Cowen, heard her sing and gave her advice. Her first appearance was with the Philharmonic Society at Melbourne in 1889. She sang frequently in Melbourne at concerts and in oratorio, and in 1894, she went to Europe. Her first appearance in London was at the Queen's Hall on 18 May 1895, when she had an immediate success. For many years she held a leading place at music festivals and on the concert platform, and she gave five command performances before Queen Victoria in two years. She was also successful in America, and on returning to Australia in 1904 her tour was a series of triumphs.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XcnTb5GMXE

I had a rotten night.

Additionally for February 21st., see 'Culture in the provinces'

Audience determined to appreciate high-class music, and applauding the noisiest and most showy. Crass inertia and stupidity of sundry women around me, determined to understand and to enjoy nothing.

In the orchestra

Saturday, February 20th., Victoria Grove, Chelsea.

Another Promenade Wagner concert. At the interval, when the Wagner music was finished, Brown and I tortuously picked our way to the orchestra room, where he has many acquaintances. From a little conversation with Busby, the horn player, I learned a lot about rehearsals, the personnel of the band, and the conductor's popularity.Then we went into the orchestra and sat down by the drums. The serious part of the programme was now over, and both conductor and orchestra were larkish for the "Pinafore" fantasia. The conductor raps, consults each leader of a section in turn with a questioning nod and wink, and then, lifting both arms, he starts the great machine. The mere noise is cosmic! The booming of the tympani shakes the floor, the brass splits your ears, and the heavy, piercing crepitation of the (kettle) drum almost frightens you into running away. It seems as if the unfortunate conductor had created suddenly a monster impossible to control ... Then someone makes an utterly wrong attack, and a loud wave of laughter unsubdued runs across the orchestra. One wonders that the audience isn't shocked, but the audience can't hear it. Even the conductor laughs, winking at the delinquent - this piece is only fun. Yet it won't do to be too slack, and one sees the men bracing their faces to seriousness. They are at work, earning a livelihood. Beneath the mirth of Sullivan's music, there is a perceptible under-effect of solid workaday endeavour by industrious and capable men. When the end came, with a prodigious rattle of kettle drums, a bassoon player said to the kettle drummer, "You enjoy yourself, no mistake." "I do," was the answer, in great broad tones, "and I work hard." "No one seemed to know where anybody was that time!" another player said, passing me to leave the orchestra; he was charging a pipe. 

Additionally for February 20th., see 'A terrific wind'

All secure in the hotel. But terrific wind beating on the S. windows and general shaking. Go out. You then see hotels from outside. Blocks of stone and yellow light, immensely secure. very brilliant in lower stages. Aquarium a cluster of lights with its absurd little tower. Moon in cloudy sky. Little crowds at two points near pier. Vast sea of foam for about 200 yards out. Rows of little people in half-distance silhouetted like a long-toothed saw against this. I find the general look of these groups of people perhaps the most interesting. So small. waves breaking over jetty and over Marine Drive. Waves coming between jetty and pier, running along wall of jetty in a line like the curves of a long rope shaken to imitate waves. Noise of naked shingles. Plenty of suffused light about. Sheet lightning from time to time.

Return to Menton

Friday, February 19th., Hotel Winter Palace, Menton.

I wrote 700 words of "the Vanguard" before leaving Genoa for Menton. A beautiful day, hot. We left by the Pullman at 11.58 and arrived at Menton promptly just after 3 (French time), despite Customs and passports. Train stuffy on account of an oldish gentleman who had just recovered from influenza and was justifiably afraid of draughts.

The atmosphere of the Winter Palace is mainly English. The dinner scene in the large restaurant was markedly English. I haven't yet heard an American accent; which is very odd after Rome.

Admirable breeding

Wednesday, February 18th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I returned home this afternoon having spent a few days in Hampshire, which was extremely wet. Everywhere rivers had burst their banks, fields had become lakes, and some roads had become streams. All the result of weeks of storms and heavy rain in the south of England. Many people it seems are in despair following the inundation of their home. Crossing a bridge, I saw a sign below saying:  "Private Property - do not cross this fence". As a fact, no fence was visible. The sign protruded forlornly from a sheet of water and the property owner presumably was in occupation of the upper floors of his water-lapped house.

I bought "Autobiography of Mark Rutherford" and "Mark Rutherford's Deliverance" in 7d. editions at the station. Started reading the latter which is very impressive and original. Fine style, no scheme of construction. As a continuous narrative extraordinarily amateurish. The man had no notion of fiction. Full of wisdom and high things. For example:
"As I got older I became aware of the folly of this perpetual reaching after the future, and of drawing from to-morrow, and from to-morrow only, a reason for the joyfulness of to-day. I learned, when, alas! it was almost too late, to live in each moment as it passed over my head, believing that the sun as it is now rising is as good as it will ever be, and blinding myself as much as possible to what may follow. But when I was young I was the victim of that illusion, implanted for some purpose or other in us by Nature, which causes us, on the brightest morning in June, to think immediately of a brighter morning which is to come in July." (From "Autobiography of Mark Rutherford")

‘Mark Rutherford‘ was the pseudonym of William Hale White (1831-1913). Rutherford is generally classed as a minor Victorian novelist, and noted for his depiction of provincial dissenting life, and of the ’loss of faith’ of the Victorian period. There is much more to Hale White than this. Despite working for over thirty years as a civil servant, he wrote over a thousand newspaper articles, translated works by Spinoza, and wrote various works of literary criticism. He has never had a wide following, but writers such as Andre Gide, D.H. Lawrence, and Arnold Bennett have all praised his work.

http://www.concentric.net/~djfrench/

Middle-aged couple in our compartment. Well and quietly dressed. Upper class. Restrained. Extremely good natural and trained manners. The woman (35) especially was charming in her admirable breeding. Evidently wealthy. They talked in such a low tone that, although the articulation was perfectly clear, one did not hear unless one listened. After about an hour the woman, reading Daily Mail, said: "What is a tympani solo?" The man made a gesture of non-comprehension. She passed him the paper. He read the passage and made a scarcely perceptible sign of ignorance. "Don't you know?" she asked quietly. He repeated the sign - would not speak (as they were not alone). Her glance seemed to say to him: "Pardon me asking you such an outlandish impossible thing." She took back the Daily Mail.

Additionally for February 18th., see 'Tales of adventure'

At Harold Snagge's yesterday and day before. Basil Lubbock (author of "Round the Horn before the Mast") told various of his adventures in two wars and in Klondyke and as a seaman.

A curious echo

Wednesday, February 17th., Hotel Miramar, Genoa.

Pisa. Duomo in the morning. As Ash Wednesday, service going on. Large audience of choirboys and ecoliers and a few schoolgirls and old people. Many guests of various ranks. The parson began to preach, got up full speed in about twenty seconds, and then never paused or even hesitated for a word for about half an hour. Then he sat down and wiped his face, and then, still sitting, talked to the congregation about a collection. When you were close by he was perfectly audible. twenty yards off you distinctly heard two voices, and still further off you heard three or four voices, a babel of voices, all furiously arguing or wrangling. It was a most curious echo effect.

Hotel Miramar, Genoa

Arrived at Genoa at 6, on time, soon after a stormy sunset. Hotel there far fuller than we had ever seen it before. I finished Macaulay on "The Wars of the Spanish Succession", and began "Pilgrim's Progress", which promises well.

Smitten

Tuesday, February 16th., Victoria Grove, Chelsea.

When I saw Miriam Clements as the Princess of Pannonia in "My Friend the Prince" at the Garrick tonight I realised that the story of Helen of Troy was potentially if not actually true. For the first few moments I was inclined to think the report of her extraordinary beauty somewhat exaggerated. Then I began to appreciate. Then shortly I could think of nothing else but her face and figure. She was dressed in a regal outdoor costume of blue velvet, with a large waving hat. Her dark hair, carried down from the forehead in a slight curve so as to cover most of the ear, half hid the most wonderful woman's face I have ever seen - not a face with regular classic features, but one finely, bafflingly irregular, full of lovely lines and firmly marked character, and the eyes with a strange, sad, imperious expression .... The sight of her gave me an understanding sympathy with the man who 'goes mad' about a woman, dishonours himself to possess her, and continues to worship her, let her be as contemptuous or as vile as she may. Previously, I had only a sneer for such madness.

The Princess, Miss Clements, is the handsomest person I have seen on the stage since Miss Millard acted in , "The Prisoner of Zenda," and looked the part so perfectly that one was not astonished at finding her professing to be a royal personage, except that so few royal personages possess her attractions. It seemed only right that she should wear a tiara of real diamonds and costumes that Empresses might copy.

From a review of  "The Princess of Pannonia" in The Westminster Budget 23/04/97

Morose in Montmartre

Monday, February 15th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I was influenza-ish all day yesterday and on Saturday evening - until last night when it passed off. We dined on Saturday and yesterday at Sylvain's, and last night went into the Casino de Paris for an hour or so.

I heard again the story of the life, death and burial of the mysterious pretty Englishwoman from Liverpool who gave lessons in English to a constant stream of messieurs chic, and expired alone at 7 rue Breda after being robbed by a Spanish male friend.The arrival of the English relatives and all that! It seemed to me I might use up a lot of the stuff in "The History of Two Old Women", which it seems more and more likely will be my next serious book.

I went last night to see "Siegfried" at the Opera, and came away in a mood to swear that nothing should ever induce me to go to the Opera again in search of my own artistic pleasure. A tame performance without any distinction of any kind.  "Siegfried" is an opera which needs the greatest tact in production. I can easily understand now, how at first Wagner's works were merely laughed at. If they were produced new today they would be laughed at. Their beauty seems to exist side-by-side with their Teutonic gawkiness. Some moments I enjoyed extremely despite all the drawbacks: still the Opera is a European scandal. It ought to be at Bucharest or Cairo.

Passage Jouffroy

I went out this afternoon (Mardi Gras) towards the Grand Boulevard. The crowd got thicker and thicker and confetti more and more plentiful. I left the rue Montmartre for the 'passages' and became blocked in the Passage Jouffroy and so returned. The carnival was nothing but an excuse for stupidity and horseplay. It began to rain, and soon rained heavily, and kept on till 8.30. I was morosely glad to see the carnival thus ruined. It may break out again tonight, though I had promised myself a concert of old music tonight, but after trudging in the wet to the hall in the rue d'Athenes, I found the place shut up. I must have mistaken the night. 

So I spent an hour at the Moulin Rouge, picking up trifles and boring myself.

At the Bal

Tuesday, February 14th., Rue de Calais, Paris. 

I went to the new Bal Tabarin last night. I think it is the only ball in Paris that is open every night. I saw the famous "La Gouloue" there perched on a high chair at the bar; a round, vulgar, rather merry face, looking more like a bonne than a dancer and a dompteuse des lions. 

Louise Weber (1866 – 1929) , born in Alsace-Lorraine, was a French can-can dancer who performed under the stage name of La Goulue ("the glutton"). She also was referred to as the Queen of Montmartre. Having achieved both fame and fortune, in 1895 Weber decided to part company with the Moulin Rouge and strike out on her own. She invested a considerable amount of money into a show that travelled the country as part of a large fair; but her fans who had lined up to buy tickets at the Moulin Rouge did not take to the new setting, and her business venture turned into a dismal failure. Following the closure of her show, La Goulue disappeared from the public eye. Suffering from depression, she drank heavily and dissipated the small fortune she had accrued while dancing.

With an expenditure of 7 francs on drinks with another ex-dancer, I learned something about the life of the paid dancers in public balls. They get four francs a night, "et elles peuvent trouver de bons amis", said the ex-dancer, whose younger sister, a fine big girl with a clear complexion, was dancing the quadrille realiste on the floor. This sister I was told made 5,000 francs besides her pay as a dancer during the short season at the Jardin de Paris last year.

For more on the Bal Tabarin see 'A Paris night'

On technique

Wednesday, February 13th., Cadogan Square, London.

J. B. Priestley's article on me in London Mercury for February. 

The London Mercury was a monthly magazine published by Field Press Ltd. It was published first in 1919, one year after the end of the First World War. It sought to fill a gap in the market of literary magazines. According to its founding editor it was unique among other literary journals as it combined the publication of creative writing, reviews of the contemporary literary output, publishing poetry, prose writing and full-length literary essays, and critical surveys of books. Its mission was to foster the teaching of English and the appreciation of the arts.

After quoting from "The Authors Craft":
"With the single exception of Turgenev the great novelists of the world, according to my standards, have either ignored technique or have failed to understand it. What an error to suppose that the finest foreign novels show a better sense of form than the finest English novels!"

He goes on himself:
"What an error indeed! The fact is, of course, that the art of fiction as practised by the great novelists is technique, and any other 'technique' is either some inferior method or a mere catch-phrase of the pontifical critic."

This is a bit thick. It is easy to show where very many of the great novels fail in technique (Anna Karenina", e.g.) and where they could have been improved if the author had had the advantages of Flaubert, de Maupassant, or even Tchekoff. They are great in spite of carelessness, and their carelessness is often notorious. 

I thank heaven I have always gone in for technique. And "The Pretty Lady" and "Riceyman Steps" are both, in my opinion, jolly well constructed and done books.

J. B. Priestley (1894 - 1984) was born in Bradford in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Jack, as he was known to the family, enjoyed the rich cultural and social life of prosperous, cosmopolitan and relatively classless Bradford: music hall, football, classical music concerts and family gatherings. When the Great War broke out, Priestley volunteered, joining the Duke of Wellington’s West Yorkshire Regiment. After a year of training in southern England, he was sent to the Front in 1915. After the War, Priestley studied at Trinity Hall, Cambridge University, thanks to a very small ex-officer’s grant. He excelled academically, but decided to make a career as a writer. In the 1930s, Priestley began a new career as a dramatist, a form of writing many have considered best suited to his great talents. His plays were impeccably crafted, sometimes experimental and are characterised by pre-War settings and various perspectives on time. Priestley’s social conscience was awakened by growing social inequalities in the 1930s, which were unforgettably outlined in “English Journey” (1934), where he raged at the treatment of veterans and the desolation of places like Rusty Lane. In the 1950s, Priestley became increasingly politically disillusioned, as the promise of the Labour success in the 1945 election seemed betrayed. It is difficult to do justice to the size and range of Priestley’s writings. In recent years, there has been a surge in his popularity, thanks among others to the work of the J.B. Priestley Society and to the impact of the astonishingly successful National Theatre production of “An Inspector Calls”.

http://www.jbpriestleysociety.com/biography-3/

Additionally for February 13th., see 'Moved by music'

At the opening bars of "The Flying Dutchman" overture I felt those strange tickling sensations in the back which are the physical signs of aesthetic emotion. The mysterious effects of orchestral colour contrast dazed and dazzled Frank's willing ears till he existed simply as a "receiver" - receiver of a microphone or other phonetic instrument ...
The waves of sound swallowed him up, and at the end he emerged, like a courageous child from the surf of a summer sea, dripping wet, breathless, and enraptured.

Tedious! Ugly!

Thursday, February 12th., Cadogan Square, London.

Tayler and I went into "Mother Goose" pantomime at the Hippodrome last night. A melancholy interior not giving any effect of gaiety. Everything poor and second rate , except the grace of Isobel Elsom perhaps. Tedious! Tedious! Ugly! Yet I suppose this is just the sort of thing we used to admire at Drury lane in the far past. But the worst part of the affair is the drab, dull, or silly, or stupid audience - comprising many provincials. How they laughed at the feeblest jokes, and broke into uncontrollable applause before the end of the most ordinary stunts.

Isobel Elsom (1893 – 11981) was an English screen, stage and television actress. Over the course of three decades she appeared in 17 Broadway productions, beginning with The Ghost Train in 1926. Her best-known stage role was the wealthy murder victim in Ladies in Retirement (1939), a role she repeated in the 1941 film version. Her other theatre credits included The Innocents and Romeo and Juliet. Elsom made her first screen appearance during the silent film era and appeared in nearly 100 films throughout her career.

Additionally for February 12th., see 'Fascination'

Girl with voluptuous laugh, short and frequent. Half Scotch, half English. Age 24. very energetic, obstinate, and 'slow in the uptake'. Red cheeks. Good looking. Athletic. Shy - rather coy. Always the voluptuous laugh being heard, all over the hotel. A wanton laugh, most curious. Her voice also has a strange voluptuous quality. They say the Scotch women are femmes de temperament. This one must be, extremely so. And her athleticism must be an instinctive remede contre l'amour. Manners and deportment quite irreproachable, save for this eternal, rippling, startling laugh. It becomes more and more an obsession. One waits to hear it.

A Paris Sunday

Monday, February 11th., Hotel Matignon, Paris.

When I got up yesterday snow was falling thickly. naturally the snow turned to rain. The chances are ten to one that in a large city the snow will degenerate into rain. I took a young lady friend to lunch at the Tour d'Argent. Of course tradition compelled me to order duck, and of course the waiter gave me a slip with the ordinal number of the duck which was served to us. This piece of ritual seems to be fixed forever in the proceedings of this ancient, good and expensive restaurant. We were the only foreigners in the place. I threw my slip on the floor. The next moment the waiter picked it up and gave it to me again. Out of regard for his emotional loyalty to the restaurant I put it in my pocket.

The Tour d'Argent restaurant claims that it was founded in 1582 and frequented by Henri IV; it does not however offer any documentation for these or other claims about its history. The Quai de Tournelle, where it stands, was not paved until 1650; before that it was "a slope, often flooded and almost always made inaccessible by mud". It does not appear in a list from 1824 of "The principal restaurants, who are distinguished by the elegance of the decoration of their salons and by the number and the care taken with the dishes found there... Duck, especially the pressed duck, is the specialty (Canard à la presse, Caneton à la presse, Caneton Tour d'Argent). The restaurant raises its ducks on its own farm. Diners who order the duck receive a postcard with the bird's serial number, now well over 1 million. The restaurant's wine cellar, guarded around the clock, contains more than 450,000 bottles whose value was estimated in 2009 at 25 million euros (£22.5 million). Some 15,000 wines are offered to diners on a 400-page list. The dining room has an excellent view of the river Seine and Notre Dame.

After the usual trouble over taxis on a wet day in Paris we drove to Notre Dame. The damp cold in the huge and gloomy interior was intense. Hundreds of girls in thin white or half-white sat or stood shivering, waiting for something or other to begin. The mere spectacle of them made me turn up the collar of my overcoat. We went out full of fatal germs.

Later, in search of galoshes, we went up the hill to the Avenue de Clichy, where, at a certain famous restaurant, I had frequently eaten the glorious dish at which Anglo-Saxons turn up their noses: tripe. The Avenue de Clichy was as open as on a week-day. We entered a large busy shop containing millions of pairs of shoes. The first thing we saw was a range of satin shoes. "Oh!" said my friend. "I like the look of those, and how cheap they are! I couldn't get those in London ...." She bought a pair of satin shoes in something less than half an hour. She was about to leave the shop when I said: "Galoshes?" She thought she might as well get a pair, and did get a pair. The entire business did not take more than an hour!

Time for tea. We paid a call, on the chance of a free tea. The hostess was ill in bed. Still, we got a free tea and lots of talk. I then severed myself from mankind and went to my hotel and to bed. I dined later with other friends at that notorious establishment "The Ox on the Roof", where the excessive stridency of the orchestra lifts all conversation to a shout. Thence to a cinema to see "White Shadows", presented by the great French film firm, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer! At 11.20 the show finished. Outside, wind and rain, but not a taxi. I walked to my hotel in the wind and the rain. End of a Paris Sunday.

Le Boeuf sur le Toit (The Ox on the Roof) is the name of a celebrated Parisian cabaret-bar, founded in 1921 by Louis Moysés which was originally located at 28, rue Boissy d'Anglas in the 8th arrondissement of Paris. It was notably the gathering place for the avant garde arts scene during the period between the wars.

White Shadows in the South Seas (1928) is a silent film adventure romance produced by Cosmopolitan Productions in association with MGM and distributed by MGM. The movie was directed by W.S. Van Dyke and starred Monte Blue and Raquel Torres. Based on the novel of the same name by Frederick O'Brien, the film is known for being the first MGM picture to be released with a pre-recordedsoundtrack and having won an Academy Award for Best Cinematography for Clyde De Vinna.

Coaching

Thursday, February 10th., Royal Yacht Club, London.

Came to London yesterday. First good, clear frost of the winter. very sharp. Lunch at the Reform. Pinker came. Methuen joined us about alleged coming 'revolution' in price of novels. It seems that of the Council of the Publishers' Association, who had suggested it, only four published novels at all, and none published novels on any scale. Characteristic. We told him that the scheme of different prices would never work, and coached him as to what he should say at the grand meeting on Monday.

Sir Algernon Methuen Marshall Methuen, 1st Baronet (1856 – 1924), born Algernon Stedman, was an English publisher and teacher of Classics and French. He is best known for founding the publisher Methuen & Co. (later Methuen Publishing Ltd.).

Then to the W.A.R.C. offices. Difficulty with Lord X. as to my having put name of Queen Alexandra on posters for concert. I flatly disagreed with him, whereupon he said that I was logically right, and I drafted a letter for him to write to the Queen.

I hope you will allow me to place before your readers the pressing claims of the Wounded Allies Relief Committee, of which I have the honour to be Chairman. The original object of this Committee, which was inaugurated immediately on the outbreak of the war, was the placing of wounded Belgian soldiers in homes on the English sea-coast. The inevitable developments of this work soon showed themselves in the establishment of a register of the men's names, a post-office for such of their letters as could not be forwarded through ordinary channels, and later by the equipment of homes for the disabled. Nor does the Committee overlook the require- ments of the Belgian Army in the field, in the way of stores, motor-ambulances, and caravans fitted with hot baths and soup-kitchens. Very soon, moreover, it became apparent that Belgium was not the only ally with urgent needs. The sorely taxed medical resources of France and the typhus-ravaged cities of Serbia and Montenegro have in turn demanded attention—and have got it. The Committee now supports three hospitals in France, each treating well over a hundred cases weekly, and the French military authorities pay these institutions the compli- ment of sending to them the most severe cases. A typhoid hospital of a hundred beds is now being established at Kragnjevac, the headquarters of the Serbian Army, and, acting on the report of its own Sanitary Commission, the Committee will shortly despatch a typhus unit to Montenegro. In this rough outline of its activities I have not mentioned numerous and substantial money grants to various institutions for the wounded in Belgium and France and to the Serbian Red Cross. I trust, however, that I have given some notion of the far-reaching work of the Committee and of its interest to all those who regard the welfare of our allies as the natural concern of this, an Allied country which has not suffered invasion.

Letter to The Spectator dated May 15th., 1915

http://archive.spectator.co.uk/page/15th-may-1915/17

Additionally for February 10th., see 'A little licentiousness'

It contains a good idea - that of professional fornication for the love of god - and some excellent scenes. But it is notquite good enough, and much of its attraction depends on its extreme licentiousness. Indeed, you can see the author passing on from scene to scene, each exceeding the previous one in licentiousness, exactly in the manner of a mere bawdy book. I did not read by any means all the middle part of it. Still it is a book to examine.

Book business

Wednesday, February 9th., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

On Monday morning, in the bedroom and in the drawing-room I finished the first part of "Clayhanger", 42,000 words instead of 40,000. I wrote 2,000 words and was nearly going mad at lunchtime, but Webster and Marguerite humoured me.

This morning I walked out and ordered a pair of spectacles, and began to get my ideas in order for the second part of "Clayhanger" and did get them in order, rather well. On Monday I received a belated request from the Manchester Guardian to do a special telegraphic criticism of "Chantecler" for them. Of course I was here instead of in France, and it was too late. Nevertheless, even had everything been favourable, I doubt if I should have faced the unusualness and the worry of the task.
For more on Chantecler see 'Busy in Brighton'

Hubert Bland having based his articles in the Sunday Chronicle of 30 Jan. on the statement that "The Glimpse" and other books were banned by the Libraries, I wrote to Smith's, Mudies, and The Times B.C. to ask if this was so, and if so why? They all replied that it was absolutely untrue. Smith's said they had 500 copies of "The Glimpse" in circulation at the moment.

In 1842, Charles Edward Mudie (1818–90) started to lend books from his stationery shop in Southampton Row, London, and by the end of the century he would be referred to as ‘the King of the librarians’ and credited with revolutionising book reading across the UK. At Mudie’s Select Library, a subscriber could borrow an unlimited number of books (one at a time) for one guinea a year, and a subscriber could have his order sent to his door within a 20-mile radius of London. Branches soon opened in Birmingham and Manchester. Between 1853 and 1862, 960,000 books were added to the library, and in 1864 Mudie’s Select Library was converted into a limited company. By the end of the century Mudie’s Select Library consisted of an estimated 7.5 million books. When Mudie rejected a proposal from William Henry Smith to open libraries at its railway bookstalls in 1858, Smith had no choice but to start his own lending service which lasted until 1961. At W.H. Smith’s, Class B books could be borrowed for 2d for five days and Class A books cost 1d a day. Books could be borrowed from a railway bookstall before getting onto the train and then exchanged at the final destination. In 1898 Jessie Boot also opened their Boot’s Booklovers’ Library which charged borrowers 2d per book, and by 1938 they had one million subscribers who were borrowing 35 million books a year. Books were strategically positioned in stores to encourage subscribers to purchase other Boot’s products. This initiative lasted until 1966.

http://egwestcentre.com/2010/09/21/the-rise-and-fall-of-for-profit-libairies/

Additionally for February 9th., see 'Gathering more material'

We had to wait 5 minutes in Piccadilly for a 19 or 22 bus. (I took a chill here which much impaired my night's rest.) While waiting a very little oldish, spinsterish, thin misshapen, stooping woman came slowly along, carrying two large neat parcels, strapped together, with a string handle. She was neatly dressed, polished shoes, but misshapen and queer - probably about 45. Then in the bus we saw a respectable man kiss a little girl. She got out and left him.
So that we were rewarded for our bus ride.

An experiment in solitude

February 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I half expected O'Connor tonight - kept the evening free for him - but he did not come. So after some hesitation I determined to spend it by myself, just to see how I got through with it. The restaurant was too full, and the service slow, and I didn't enjoy my dinner and I ate too much, and read the Tribune all through. I came home at 9.30, and read a little of Voltaire's "Candide" - I bought a nice edition of his "Contes" yesterday, half-bound, for two francs, and enjoyed it very much.

Then I meditated on the serial and got one or two notions. I was very gloomy at first, but got cheerful about eleven. I think I could accustom myself to reading in longer spells, and to spending evenings alone fairly comfortably if I tried.

I am reading George Moore's "The Lake". It is so smoothly written, and so calm and beautiful that I can enjoy reading it without even taking in the sense. Frequently I have read half a page without grasping the meaning at all, or trying to grasp it. It is a most curious novel, perhaps not really good, but certainly distinguished in a Yeats-y way.

The Lake tells the story of Father Oliver Gogarty, who has spent his whole life around the large Irish lake of the title. Coming to the priesthood at first from a sense of mission, as he comes into his thirties he finds himself in great distress over his treatment of the woman who was his organist and choir mistress. Rumours begin to spread around the small rural parish about the woman – that she has been meeting an unknown man, that she is pregnant with his child. Father Oliver confronts her and she admits it. Mistaking his jealousy for righteous indignation, he condemns her at the next mass, and she is forced to leave the parish. Within a few months, he begins to regret his actions and becomes distraught over the thought of her plight as an unwed mother. Eventually, a priest in London writes to say that she has given the child to be raised by a farm couple and is making her way giving music lessons. The priest chides Father Oliver that his “responsibility is not merely local, and does not end as soon as the woman has passed the boundary of his parish.” The woman, Nora Glynn, is clearly strong and independent, and when Father Oliver writes to beg her forgiveness, she is far more ready to move on than he. He first tries to entice her back to the parish with the offer of a job teaching music at a nearby convent and girls’ school, then stoops to telling her that she must save him from an eternal damnation for allowing her soul to be lost. Nora finds a job as secretary to an agnostic writer working on a book about the historical roots of Christianity, and travels with him around Europe and the Middle East conducting research. Father Oliver continues to torture himself over her situation, long past the point where it’s clear she no longer needs or cares about his anxious attention. In the end, Father Oliver realizes that his feelings for Nora were intimate, not religious, and with that, he comes to accept that he must let her go. But this realization also forces him to confront his reasons for staying in the priesthood, serving a parish he’s known since childhood. He has to decide if he will stay in hopes of someday recovering his faith, or go and risk taking his chances in a larger world without the familiarity and structures of the priesthood and the lake he’s lived beside every day of his life. I leave it to the reader to learn what he decides. Most of The Lake is told through the thoughts of Father Oliver, along with the letters he exchanges with Nora and Father O’Grady, the priest in London. Moore is particularly effective in capturing the changing features of the landscape around the lake, the woods and fields that Father Oliver often walks among to escape from his parishioners. He sees not only the life of the plants and animals around the lake, but also its history–the Welsh castles, an abandoned abbey, a mill town passed over by the Industrial Revolution. The result is a highly effective balance between the exterior and interior worlds, which keeps The Lake from becoming morbidly introverted. The love story is really just the mechanism through which Moore brings about Father Oliver’s awakening, and he never tries to make it anything else. Even though The Lake was written over a hundred years ago, it’s a remarkably fresh and alert narrative, very much to be recommended to any fan of Irish literature. W.B. Yeats considered it, along with A Drama in Muslin, one of Moore’s two masterpieces.

http://neglectedbooks.com/?p=36

Additionally for February 8th., see 'Clairvoyant at work'

He succeeded with my toothpick, in getting me to the Potteries, and into the office of the Staffordshire Knot or Sentinel, and described a man that might be either Goold or the editor of the Sentinel, and said that known or unknown to me, this man had greatly influenced me. He insisted on the word 'Zola'. 'Zola'. He said there was a message to tell me. I hadn't done my best work. I am morally sure he hadn't the least idea who I was. And even if he had, he didn't know the toothpick belonged to me, even if he knew that it was I who had brought it, which he might conceivably have done as it was the last thing he picked up off the tray. I made full notes.

A cry for help.

Thursday, February 7th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I seemed to do nothing this morning except call on Marguerite and write letters, and just reflect for a few minutes on the first article of my second series for the Cosmopolitan. Lunch at the Reform with Ross and Chalmers Mitchell. Mitchell, aged 53, with his grey hairs, stuck to it that he had found a sound definition of poetry. I forget what it was. I told him he ought to know better at his age than to imagine that poetry could be defined. 

Sir Peter Chalmers Mitchell CBE FRS DSc LLD (1864 – 1945), zoologist, was Secretary of the Zoological Society of London from 1903 to 1935. During this time he directed the policy of the London Zoo, and created the world's first open zoological park known as Whipsnade Wild Animal Park.

Hedley Le Bas told me that my amateur article outlining a policy for the Liberal Party had made a deep impression on Gulland, the Chief Whip, who said it was the best article on the subject he had seen for years and he 'should show it to Asquith'. Majestic and impressive phrase, 'Show it to Asquith'.

I think that the war is now drawing to a close & I should be rather surprised if it didn't end this year. When you see the newspapers more occupied with social & political news of the war than with military news of the war, you may bet a great change has come over the scene. The food situation here is grave. In Germany & Austria it is appalling. The United States now have 400,000 men in France & the number is increasing all the time. Up to the present however, the U.S.A. have not displayed much talent for turning men into a coherent fighting machine. They are not conceited and they admit this.

Interesting letter from Pinker about Lawrence. He is Lawrence's agent. 
He sent me a letter he had just received from Lawrence, to whit:

My dear Pinker,
I am sorry to tell you that I am coming to the last end of all my resources, as far as money goes. Do you think that Arnold Bennett or somebody like that, who is quite rich out of literature, would give me something to get along with? It is no use my trying to delude myself that I can make money in this world that is. But there is coming a big smash-up, after which my day will begin. And as the smash-up is not far off, so I am not very far from a walk-in ...
Do try and tempt a little money out of some rich, good-natured author for me will you - or I don't know what I shall do. And really, you know, one can't begin taking one's hat off to money, at this late hour of the day. I'd rather play a tin whistle in the street. What a lively world! ...
D. H. Lawrence

What a characteristic letter and how unpromising for the future. I admire Lawrence as an artist and have tried to promote his work. In 1915 May Sinclair and I were the only two writers who publicly protested against the banning of "The Rainbow". And even this year Galsworthy and I considered supporting a private edition of "Women in Love", which had not found a publisher. I am not prepared to keep Lawrence, nor to give him a lump sum, as I doubt if the latter would help him very much. I would willingly subscribe something towards a regular fund for Lawrence, say £1 a week for at least a year, if Pinker thought this would help, and if he could get other subscribers.

David Herbert Lawrence (1885 – 1930) was an English novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, literary critic and painter who published as D. H. Lawrence. His collected works represent an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. In them, Lawrence confronts issues relating to emotional health and vitality, spontaneity, and instinct. Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile which he called his "savage pilgrimage." At the time of his death, his public reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his considerable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, challenged this widely held view, describing him as, "The greatest imaginative novelist of our generation." Lawrence is now valued by many as a visionary thinker and significant representative of modernism in English literature.

Additionally for February 7th., see 'Marauding Germans' -

On Saturday night great excitement about two men who, challenged by sentry of the ammunition park near the station at 7.15 p.m., had run away.

A limerick

Saturday, February 6th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

Yesterday being wet I went over to Monte Carlo, and lost money, and was depressed by that and the weather, and more particularly by my lack of sense in playing with insufficient capital. 

Early this morning I composed a limerick on that infernal and un-vanquishable bore, Mrs. Miller:

There was an old woman named Miller
Whose acquaintances wanted to kill her
When they put her in ice
She sniggered, "How nice!"
For nothing could possibly chill her.

I sent it to Eden Phillpotts by special messenger.

I wrote to the Wells's today as I would like them to come to see me in Paris. I said that the play I an writing with Phillpotts will be finished within the next few days, and I do not expect to stay here after the end of next week as my mother is disconcertingly ill in England. I hear they have another child. 

I am now writing a humorous novel - I don't know why except that I wanted to. There was a humorous story of mine called "His Worship the Goosedriver" in the January Windsor. Any man who says it is not humorous is a fool & not a gentleman. When I have finished the current novel I have four others waiting their turn. I have instructed them to form a queue and wait quietly!

Additionally for February 6th., see'An impressive personality'

At another table there was a solitary old woman, fat and ugly and distinguished. I cried aloud at the sight of her entrance - she was so queer and so impressive. Afterwards in the lounge she had five men, not all old, in tow. She dominated them, talked like a man and laughed loudly, also like a man. We learned she was from Naples, and an author. I didn't catch the name clearly. Anyhow I had never heard it before. Not often      do you see such an impressive personality.