The Yellow Book

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

A few years ago I met, and entertained for an evening, a typical respectable Clerk and his wife. They were an engaging pair, in their mid thirties I should think. She the stronger character but nonetheless deferring to his male precedence. Thy had some literary pretensions, in a small way, and he said to me "What is this Yellow Book Mr. Bennett?" I was put in mind of this today when looking through my set of The Yellow Book in my library. Of course it achieved a notoriety it didn't deserve at the time but I liked it, and thought it a genuine attempt to distill important elements of the contemporary arts. I still enjoy a browse in its pages every now and then, not forgetting my own first published short story in Volume VI.

 


Looking around at my books I started to reflect on the fact that many, if not all, would survive me and would pass into new ownership. In a way a book has a life of its own. All my books have my personal bookplate at the front and I wonder if future owners will recognise my name, perhaps even have an affection for my work. Take The Yellow Book for example. Will the thirteen volumes be kept together? How many hands will they pass through and how many years sit dusty and forgotten on the shelves of a second hand bookshop awaiting an interested new owner. I like to imagine that someone will one day buy the set, take it home and place the volumes conspiculousy on their shelves. There are few finer experiences in life than arranging one's books!

Authorial interchange

Wednesday, September 27th., Les Sablons.

I finished another short story today, "The Long Lost Uncle", and sent it off to the typists.

I went to Paris on Monday and returned yesterday, and again felt very strongly that a few months of Paris would suit me.

I read Philpotts's new book of stories "Knock at a Venture", and wrote to him about it today, and today I received a long letter from him about my book, "Sacred and Profane Love". Excellent reciprocity! His praise is very simple and detailed and notable, but on the whole I am inclined to think he doesn't like the book as well as "Leonora".


Altogether I must have written 4,000 words today.

Woman scorned?

Friday, September 26th., Cadogan Square, London

Lord Dewar made a speech at the anniversary of the Savoy Orpheans Jazz Orchestra on Wednesday night. It had a lot of wit. He said, for example "It is fortunate that our jazz bands only use blank cartridges."


Max Beaverbrook rang me up last night and said "Arnold, I want to tell you that the Daily Express has been offered a biography of you written by Mrs. A.B. They wanted to make it a condition that we should treat the offer as confidential, secret; but I absolutely refused to do any such thing. So I'm telling you. Our man has read it all through and likes it. Says he wouldn't mind anyone saying of him in his lifetime what is said of you in the book. If you have any objection I won't buy it; but if you haven't I'd like to."

I reasoned that if the Express or any other paper refused it, M. would put the refusal down to me, and would be accordingly resentful. She would never understand the awful bad taste of the whole thing, whether accurate or inaccurate, praising or blaming, etc. It is bound to be published somewhere; it is bound to make people think that I am partner in the bad taste. But if it is to be published I would sooner it be published by someone who is very friendly and who will take care that nothing offensive appears in it.

And today I have been to see my consultant about a long standing problem (it was diagnosed 5 years ago). I have been advised that although treatment is possible the side effects may be as bad as the condition itself, perhaps even worse. There is a good chance that there will be no deterioration and that I will die with the condition, not from it. The term used is "active surveillance" and it means I get checked out every few months to see if there has been any change. So far so good. Apparently a lot of men find it impossible to live with the uncertainty, and demand treatment as soon as possible. It doesn't seem to be bothering me, which I am pleased about. Perhaps my avowed stoicism has some basis after all! On the positive side I think that the knowledge that I have a potentially life threatening condition has made me appreciate the time I have more. I don't see life as a cumulative affair - the longer you live the "better"; what is important is how you live today.

At Moret

 Saturday, September 25th., Villa des Nefliers

I went to Moret again this afternoon with the others. Exactly the same weather and conditions as on Thursday. I searched all the river from St Mammes to Moret for a subject, and couldn't settle on a good one. Then I began to sketch an old man in a punt fishing. Blackish brown rats (not very big) kept coming up out of the bank to drag away at a large crust of bread that someone had tied to a string by a chain. Half tame. Not being able to carry off the bread they would nibble and eat off it insitu.

 We saw a wedding procession preceded by three musicians - a fiddler, a silver instrument and another. Working people. men in silk hats and short semi-frock-coats. the men had obviously drunk about as much as they could manage. Only one or two girls in white - the bride and another. perhaps 30 people altogether, including quite young ones, aged 15 or so. Bride about 25 or 26, certainly not a virgin - so much was obvious!

  As the procession approached the town the musicians began to play, and some of the people danced along. One couple stayed lingering behind, the man ran behind a tree while his girl waited for him; then he rejoined her and they walked on slowly after the procession - call of nature I expect; the French are rather more relaxed about theses things! nearly all the people had a brutish and very stupid look. In towns only as big as Fontainebleau, these marriage processions have ceased to occur, but they continue in villages.

Bad sleeping for a week or two. I waste 2 or 3 hours a night in useless bed. So I am trying to stay up later. This morning I didn't sleep after 4.30. I got up at 6.15. i went out at 8 to think about my play, and returned at 10, having done two hours walking in hot sunshine, and two hours thinking. And I was exhausted for the day. I could easily have gone to sleep before lunch. I notice that I almost always sleep more soundly when I have had a good, brisk walk during the day.

Ideologies

Monday, September 24th., Yacht Club, London.

I worked till 3.30 pm and then, seeing I could do more writing, and could reflect just as well in the train, I came up to town so as to save half a day tomorrow. I was unwell and without energy all day. Nevertheless, I worked satisfactorily in the train. Then air raid. How phlegmatic we have become about them!

I had a great subject for a watercolour on Saturday. I put my enceinte French-renaissance virgin (white) and the black juju that Molly Green brought from Nigeria for Marguerite, side by side, and called the picture "The Gods". A fine composition and a real subject. I started the sketch but couldn't finish it in time. However the subject will keep and I definitely will finish it. I might think of another title.

Marguerite also came to town this afternoon, but we travelled separately. We are barely on speaking terms at the moment, all to do with her ridiculous idea to have Richard change his name to mine. I told her plainly in writing that it was an outrage to desire the boy to do a public act which she knew, if she took the time and trouble to think, would cause him and me intense pain and annoyance. I have tried hard to be a decent husband and have, I think, put up with a lot of bother that other men would not have stood for. I wonder if the war has had an effect in the sense that she has been thrown more on her own devices, has had time to brood, and has become fixated on silly ideas of one sort or another. Only a week ago she altered the arrangements for the announcement of dinner without consulting me at all; needless to say they are now altered back. I will not have my routines disturbed to accommodate her whims. We may end in the divorce courts!

Fluctuating feelings

Thursday, September 22nd., Villa des Nefliers

Finished draft of play.

Day of mild unpleasantness. The review of "Clayhanger" in the Manchester Guardian, though good, was not as good as I had expected. I expected the eager sympathy of G.H.Mair and Co.! The review was signed by strange initials ending in Y. Moreover it was placed after a review of M. Hewlett by Dixon Scott. Now if they had given my book to Dixon Scott. Further the johnny deprived me almost utterly of the sense of humour and of the sense of beauty - especially in comparison with de Morgan and Wells. I try to be phlegmatic about the reception of my novels but it is hard. I imagine it must be similar if you have a child - you love them and are proud of them, which you tell yourself is all that matters, but really you want them to be appreciated and praised by others; it's a sort of external validation of identity.

En voila une affaire!

A couple of years ago I said enthusiastically that if "Cupid and Commonsense" was produced in Hanley it would play to £500 a week. Today I got the figures for the three performances in Hanley. Total £75 13s. 10d.

Also I made a mess of another watercolour. Hence depression, though my affairs are prospering as they never prospered before. Which shows how little content has to do with prosperity. That said, I think it undoubtedly true that for most people financial security is an essential foundation for contentment. I think back to earlier times when I was living more or less hand to mouth and remember the disturbed sleep and gnawing anxiety.

Mixed feelings

Tuesday, September 21st., Eltham, Torquay.

I have been at Cherkley Court, Beaverbrook's home, for a few days. Enjoyed myself in a general way. Got on well with Noel Coward though he has difficulty behaving "normally"; in fact I'm not sure that he really knows what his real self is. Maybe that is true of all of us in company, but some extrovert characters demonstrate it more than others. Am I myself in company? I would like to think so, particularly as I get older. What on earth is to be gained from pretence? Certainly not the admiration of others - if there is one thing most people are good at it is seeing through pretention.

So today I left home at 11.30 and caught the noon express to Torquay. Not sorry to get away - home can be a very trying place when one has to share it with others. Looking back I think that I have been at my most contented when living alone. Should I go back to it now? Probably not. Largely because I can't face the furore, but also because I have made my bed and should lie in it. And there are benefits to sharing one's life, though it is easy to lose sight of them when nerves are strained.

Shared a compartment with two middle-aged gentlemen with outdoor faces, about which I propose to write an article. I had been rather gloomy and preoccupied before, but as soon as I had written down the notes for the short article I felt better.

It was Emily Philpotts who met me at the station to my great surprise. Adelaide was rather quieter than usual, but had little bursts of talking. I sometimes wonder about the relationship between her and her father. Eden is very possessive of her, often to the exclusion of Emily. Adelaide is 30 now and unmarried. Some hints from Emily suggest to me that Eden has discouraged suitors, and is very jealous of men who take a personal interest in Adelaide. I can't say that there is anything inappropriate to my knowledge but we authors tend to observe things, and attach meaning, which others would miss. In any case we had a tremendous literary and social pow-wow, just as usual, interrupted by a view of the garden. This pow-wow went on from 4 to 7 without a break, and it will certainly be continued tonight.

Absences

Thursday, September 20th., Cadogan Square, London.

Dorothy and I went to see my play, "The Return Journey", at the St. James's. Full house. An ordeal. The play seemed to me to be very harrowing. Now that it is in performance I feel disconnected from it, which is rather strange - why didn't I think it was harrowing when I was writing the blessed thing? I suppose what this means is that the author only contributes so much, and so much more is brought to the production by the director and the actors; so whose play is it eventually? Cynically I think it will be mine if it is unsuccessful, which I suspect will be the case!

The upper circle and the dress circle liked it better than the stalls, or showed their liking more; probably they are simply less polite. We talked to Gerald duMaurier afterwards in his dressing room and didn't get to bed until 12.30. Exhausted. Goodish might though.

I was thinking today about absent-mindedness. It has only struck me as I have gottten older just how apposite this descriptive phrase is. For example two days ago I was out walking and took a spectacle case with me in my bag should I need to put my reading glasses away. Yesterday, I was wanting to put my glasses in their case but couldn't find it. Searched around but no sign. Then I thought about my bag, and there, sure enough was the case which I put my glasses in. Later in the day I needed my glasses but couldn't find them anywhere. Where could they be? Searched about again, getting increasingly frustrated. Surely I couldn't have put the case back in my bag - yes indeed. I told myself off and swore always to put the case (and the glasses) in their designated home. This morning, walking through the house what should I chance upon lying on a side table but my glasses case! How is it possible that I should have become so absent minded? The thing is that, so far as I recall, there was nothing particular distracting me - I was simply and unaccountably absent. This sort of thing seems to be happening to me more and more frequently.