Truth and beauty

Wednesday, February 28th., Cadogan Square, London.

Ten days ago, walking up Sloane Street, I was suddenly visited by an idea for a play. But as I have sworn that nothing will ever induce me to write another play I dismissed it with thanks. Today that idea for a play re-visited me, again in Sloane Street. It had grown. I dismissed it again. I have this strange feeling it will return. I have broken oaths before!

Of course, for a lot of people who know of me at all, I am thought of as a playwriight, or a newspaper columnist, rather than a novelist. Although I have continued to write novels, my heyday, as it were, was decades ago. I think of myself though as a novelist first and foremost. Interesting the relationship between novels and plays. I have rather walked the tightrope between the two for most of my career.

A few good novels and many bad ones have been turned into bad plays; and one or two good novels have been turned into fair plays. Many bad plays have been turned into worse novels. But a good novel adapted from a good play is a rarity. In the realm of 'goodness', other things being equal, a novel will be more convincing, more truthful, than a play. The medium of the stage is so clumsy, so limited, and so absurdly difficult to control, that it puts authors at a terrible disadvantage in the effective conveyance of truth and beauty, a disadvantage for which no possible compensating advantages can fully atone. If Shakespeare had lived in a novel-writing age he would have written novels far greater than "Hamlet" is great as a play. He was obviously worried by the resrictions of the stage, but though he tried to break through them, they were often too much for him.

All modern authors, myself included, who habitually produce both plays and novels produce better novels than plays. What play of Galsworthy's can rank with "A Man of Property"? Somerset Maugham's "Of Human Bondage" is simply a different class from even the best of his plays. That said, I have been thinking about cinema. I have had some experience myself of writing for the cinema. At the moment it is even more clumsy than the theatre but what if  'talking' pictures progress successfully? It occurs to me that then the producer will have much greater control of the material and thus, potentially, the means to reliably convey truth and beauty. The motion picture may become a real alternative to the novel for those who have not the time or inclination to read.

 

Trouble in paradise

Saturday, February 27th., Winter Palace, Menton.

Reflected in garden for 40 minutes after I was dressed. I sat in the sun without moving and yet I perspired. Lot to think about at the moment. There is the business of Richard's engagement for a start. I have written to his 'intended' and invited her to stay at Cadogan Square. Haven't met her yet. Looks pretty. Mostly on my mind though is Sep's illness. Latest from Tertia gives me the impression it is just a matter of time. Here am I, literally sunning myself on the Riviera, and he is dying in a nursing home in North Wales. But I can't simply abandon Dorothy in her condition, and what could I do if I went there? I could write to Sep, but it seems so impersonal, and what could I say? Some admission for me to be lost for words!

At noon we started to drive over to La Turbie to lunch with Max and Gladys Beaverbrook. Magnificent drive along the Grande Corniche. It was a good luncheon party in strong sunshine with a tang in the air. As well as the Beaverbrooks there was William Gerhardi and a fellow named Mayhew (with a most singular overcoat) on the staff of the Chicago Tribune. Max was restless, but that is normal. Gladys was delightful. Gerhardi in better form than usual. Gerhardi had met Rothermere last night at dinner for the first time. Max asked him what he thought of him. Gerhardi side-splittingly replied: "I think he has a sweet nature". Max roared himself red in the face.

Max asked me how much I would take for the film rights of "The Pretty Lady". I said I had got £2000  for "Sacred and Profane Love". He said he would pay this if he produced the film. I hope to god he will as I could do with the money!

Religious decline

Monday, February 26th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

I read an article this morning which interested me and irritated me in equal measure. It was about the decline of religion and argued that 'religious feeling' or 'spirituality' is natural to the human condition and cannot be denied. Thus, if the traditional religions lose adherents then those persons who would formerly have been Christian or Mohammedan will look round for something else to believe in. In an increasingly secular world this is likely to be some sort of political or cultural '-ism' (perhaps socialism or libertarianism or ...). Or it may be that they will develop a personal obsession which comes to dominate their life. Interesting so far, though no evidence is offered to support the idea that religion is somehow inherent in humans. However, the author then implies that it would be better for society as a whole (and the individual) to embrace traditional religion really because it is traditional and has stood the test of time. What nonsense! Surely the basis of religion is sincere belief? 

I finished Renan's drame philosophique "L'eau de Jouvence". To me it is a new thing in drama, though quite undramatic. The dialogue is often exquisitely beautiful, and some of the philosophic discourses of the various characters are characteristically and delightfully Renanesque. The closing scene with the fine suicide of Prospero makes a great impression. The introduction of the two young nuns, so frankly libertine, produces a most piquant and pretty effect. Perhaps they have strayed from the straight path of traditional religion?

Proustian reflections

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

The other day I went into a large and beautiful bookshop in Paris. Bookshops, like all other kinds of shops, are more artistically arranged in Paris than they are in London. I went out with six or seven volumes which I have since read, or read 'in'. A striking difference between the two countries, from a publishing point of view, is that the freedom of the press to print anything, and any word whatever, is growing in the Republic. Such rich and complete candour as some of these books display I have never before met with in good modern work openly sponsored by publishers of the highest standing. 

One of the volumes was "Souvenirs sur Marcel Proust" by Robert Dreyfus. Personally I am not an out-and-out Proustian. That is to say, I hesitate to believe that Proust was the greatest novelist that ever lived or ever could live. My admiration has got me into trouble with non-Proustians, and my reserves about him have got me into more serious trouble with Proustians.So that I am compelled to live in a sort of Proustian no-man's land. Not that I mind that!

Proust has enchanted me, and he has bored me. I am however convinced that, taken in the mass (and there is indeed mass) he very considerably 'counts'. I was an early admirer and bought a copy of "Du cote de chez Swann" in 1913, a first edition. Now and then I produce it for a Proustian friend - every time the effect has been all that the snob in me could have wished. If I sense the onset of a question as to whether I have actually read all of Proust, I change the subject as adroitly as possible. The fact is that Proust has more often lulled me to sleep than stimulated my receptive powers.

Out strolling about this morning. A fine, crisp, blood-stimulating winters day. Ground frozen hard underfoot and not a cloud to be seen. I doubt if the temperature got much, if at all, above zero. I am noticing a change this year. Usually by the end of February I have had enough of winter and am longing for warm weather but, so far, I have remained content to tog-up and get on. Is this a symptom of ageing that I had not anticipated?

Agitated

Wednesday, February 24th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I walked about Paris most of yesterday, and bought a few reproductions and engravings of pictures. Perhaps one day I will be able to afford to buy originals. I was searching for ideas and have found from experience that the best way is to walk about and let them arise naturally. If I try to force them they either don't come at all or are second rate. Makes me wonder just what is going on in the mind. It's as if, underneath one's conscious experience, there is another level of thought going forward which, every now and then, intrudes into consciousness with an idea. What does this say about human beings?

Towards evening I had collected my ideas. I began to write at 9.15 pm., and finished a short chapter before 12.30.

Just now, as negotiations about two of my plays are pending, I am in a great state of 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. Needless to say this state isn't good for my health. Digestive problems and intermittent neuralgia. 

I had another letter from Louis Calvert this morning as to "The Wayward Duchess".

Being busy

Saturday, February 23rd., Cadogan Square, London.

Last night, Goethe's "Faust" at the Old Vic. Translated by Graham and Tristran Rawson. Nearly in full; only a few scened shortened. 25 scenes. Elaborate. Rough. Orchestra of about 25, choruses off etc. From the start you had an impression of grandeur in the 'spring for flight' of the work. It got a bit tedious in the middle, but was going very strong when I left at 11 pm.

George Hayes

Theatre people came into our box with visitors book for me to sign. We had box 8. Box 7 can only be enetered through box 8. The underground lavatory down ruined steps between ancient walls very picturesque and primitive. Reminiscent of primitive continental lavatories. In fact comic. Large-ish audience. Very quick to laugh at the right points, and not to giggle, which ridiculously and childishly exaggerated sense of the ridiculous is the curse of West End audiences. Ian S. forgot his lines as Faust, but was good. Hayes as the devil very good. Jane Bacon fair as Marguerite. This was the second performance. 

 I am exceptionally busy at the moment. I have written on Proust and corrected all the proofs of "How to Make the Best of Life". Also given two dinner parties in this house and am about to give three more. My health has improved somewhat and my sleep astonishingly by means of exercises. And I am a shade thinner. I have paid my income tax, arranged for next year's yachting and engaged a rather pretty housemaid. The bachelor lifestyle is suiting me well.

Clearing the air

Thursday, February 22nd., Cadogan Square, London.

Marie Belloc Lowndes came to tea this afternoon at my invitation. We have been friends for years, since I lived last in Paris, but recently she has caused me some problems and I wanted to 'clear the air' between us. I have done so.

Marie Belloc Lowndes

All to do with Marguerite of course. It seems that after we separated M. went to see Marie in some distress and asked her to write to me to reconsider. Which she did. It was evident from the letter that she had acted precipitately, with only one side of the story. I wrote back at once and gave her the relevant facts. In particular I made her aware of the affaire between Marguerite and Legros which she seemed not to have known the significance of. I made clear to her that my tolerance of M's aberrant behaviour had been considerable and my friends (and hers) had seriously reproached me for not acting sooner. When I did act I acted under the advice of the best people I know, and of my solicitor and hers. I gave her the alternative of a separation from me or a separation from Legros. I don't think I could have been fairer. 

Marie now understands my position and I have made it clear to her that there is no question of reconciliation. I am sometimes slow to take action but once I have acted I rarely, if ever, change my mind. I will certainly not be changing my mind in this case. I feel as if a weight has been lifted from me. Of course Marie, in her womanly way, pointed out how Marguerite had nursed me through illnesses, and had supported my career. I have never denied that she has sterling qualities. Nobody has ever heard me say anything against her. On the contrary to this day I am standing up for her against her own friends and mine. But it would be absolutely impossible for me to live with her again.

I think Marguerite may have hinted to Marie at problems of a sexual nature between us. Marie didn't say so directly but I got that sense. I think myself that the sexual aspect of a relationship is important and as a man of middle age I am not ready to deny my desires. And I see no reason to seek release outside of marriage. In fact Marguerite has until recently been as willing as myself in this respect though it may be that the 'favours' of a man 16 years her junior have had an effect. 

I am surprised that Marie has made some remarks on this subject in social circles without possession of the full facts. I thought she had more sense. Anyway I have told her that she was wrong and she has apologised, so that is done.

Performances

Sunday, February 21st., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Last night "Nana", drama in five acts drawn by William Busnach from Zola's novel, at the Ambigu. First produced at the Ambigu in 1881. Cassive in the title role. A thoroughly rotten and cruel melodrama, interspersed with 'comic relief' of the most footling sort. Yet it made one think of the book. And my admiration for the book leapt out again into a flame. It is not one of the greatest books, but it is superlatively done, a tremendous achievement of colossal and distinguished labour. I think only another author can appreciate the scale of the achievement. How Zola must have felt when he wrote the last lines.

I drank some tea at midnight. And, reaching home, found a telegram from Harrison of the Haymarket, saying that Lewis Waller wanted a play, and might he see "The Chancellor"? The tea and the telegram prevented me from sleeping. God knows why.

This afternoon, Lamoreux concert to hear, chiefly, Richard Strauss's "Life of a Hero". It came at the end of an exhausting programme, but I was much impressed by its beauty. I heard it under difficulties for the audience became restive, talked and protested. One old man insisted on going out. There is a rule about not entering or leaving during a piece, but this old man cried so loud and shook the doors so that the pompiers were obliged to let him through. Applause and hisses at the end from a full audience. One more exhibition of the betise of an audience when confronted by something fresh, extravagant and powerful. It would be absurd to condemn this or any other particular audience, for all audiences are alike. The sarcastic and bitter opposition must be taken as a tribute to the power of the art. Was not "Tannhauser" simply laughed off the stage at the first performance? I liked the piece better than I thought I should - a great deal. The first thing of Richard Strauss that I have heard.

I am rather solitary at the moment which is good for work but not for my nerves. I could do with a little more society, especially female society. Time spent with a 'sympathetic' woman would do me a lot of good. 12,500 words written this week.

Women!

Tuesday, February 20th., Hotel d'Italie, Mont Estoril.

Grande Hotel d'Italie

I am still in Portugal with Swinnerton. What a relief it is to get away from all the problems at home. I didn't realise just how much they were getting me down until I got away from them. When I say problems, I mean of course the central problem - my wife Marguerite. She was quite beside herself with anger when I announced my intention to get away, even though she had suggested herself that I do so. The problem was that I was following Swinnerton's advice, not hers. The thing is that I still love her, but find her to be increasingly difficult to live with. No doubt she finds me difficult as well. I am! But she knew that when we married; it's not as if she were some inexperienced girl.

This journey has given me back my taste for travel. I would like to travel more, even with Marguerite if she were not so unpredictable during arrivals and departures from main terminuses. What bothers me about travelling is having two unused establishments. It does bother me, no use denying it. It makes life too complicated and it is too expensive. If we didn't have to maintain our establishments it would be as cheap to travel as to stay at home. By my calculations, Comarques, including interest on its capital value, costs us at least £1200 a year, that is £50 a week if we only live in it for 6 months. Sometimes it feels like the proverbial albatross around my neck. I am certain that I would be more content with a simpler style of life, but Marguerite would never understand my motivation.

The climate here is lovely. One can go out in the evening without a coat. One can have a bath with the window wide open. To bathe in a warm room is a great luxury for me as I am the sort of man who likes to let the water drain away before getting out of the bath. I am trying to paint to take my mind off working but the two watercolours I have done so far are quite awful. But, as Swinnerton keeps telling me, it is the process which is important not the end result. The hotel is packed with people for the carnival. But the English are not very carnival-minded. A fancy-dress ball is planned but I doubt it will be a success.

Funny incident with a Scottish lady, a Mrs Bartholomew. Her husband is a celebrated geographer. I understand that it was he who 'named' Antarctica. She has very narrow ideas. She began talkng about "The Pretty Lady" which it appears has shocked all Scotland terribly. It quickly became apparent that she had not in fact read the book or even seen a copy personally. But she knew that it was shocking. I simply slanged this dignified dame. I told her that English hypocrisy was bad enough, but that Scotch hypocrisy was far worse, and that the illegitimate birth rate in Scotland was much higher than in England. I told her that all she and her friends said about "The Pretty Lady" was not only disgraceful, but puerile. Swinnerton was anxious. A significant victory for AB!

A sexual debauchee

Monday, February 19th., Cadogan Square, London.

Interesting weekend. Not much work done but sometimes a rest is needed to get the creative juices flowing again. 

Three family visits, two with young children: boy 9, boy 8, and a girl aged 4. I must admit that I enjoy playing with children, especially boys who are more physical. Very different from each other these three. The older boy is very active, likes nothing better than throwing or kicking a ball, and will play 'catch' all day. The younger boy is quieter, but still enthusiastic and likes to know about things. He was telling me that he was the tallest in his class at school, bragging really. I pointed out to him that there were advantages and disadvantages to being both tall and small - I don't think that had struck him before. I asked him, if he had to choose, would he choose to be tall or to be clever. Deep thought ensued! Eventually he decided for clever, but that may have been more for my benefit I think. The young girl is going to be a handful. Very lively. Likes to be involved, but wants to get her own way and turns on the tears when thwarted. I like her, but I wouldn't want to live with her. She told me that she didn't like me!

I got out some old wooden bricks and we all spent a lot of time making towers, bridges and castles. I think they are the best sort of toy, giving maximum scope for creativity. I have to admit that I threw myself completely into the play and had a thoroughly good time. By the time they left I felt exhausted, but in a very satisfied way. There is a child hidden deep within us all I think - pity we need to have children on hand as an excuse to let it out.

Speaking of hidden children, I have been reading a biography of the poet Byron by Andre Maurois. It is beautifully constructed, composed and done! I sailed through it on a fair wind from start to finish. It reconstituted Byron for me and corrected all sorts of wrong ideas about him which no doubt I share with the man in the literary street. I was surprised to learn for instance that Byron was hostile to drinking and gambling, and that he had a decided preference for regular habits. Left to himself it seems that he would have done the same things at the same time every day - I warmed to him. But it pained me to learn that as a young man he had the low habit of scratching his name on public monuments.

No man of solid good sense is a sexual debauchee. Byron notoriously was. He had many mistresses but, apparently, only one satisfactory one, Lady Oxford, who with Lady Melbourne contrived to carry on the traditional sexual freedoms of the eighteenth century well into the nineteenth. And he soon tired of Lady Oxford and informed her that he was tired. It seems that tedium always impaired his politeness. Maurois handles the affair with his half-sister in terms in which tact and irony exquisitely suffuse plain speaking.

Byron, cursed with a mother whose character was rendered excruciating by her frightful experiences with an ignoble husband, made a mess of his career. I would not cast stones at the unhappy victim, but solid good sense would have prevented the endless disaster. His work remains, and it cannot be doubted that he found pleasurable experiences in the company of women wherever he went. That he was lovable is obvious. That he was a great poet in the big bow-wow style, and a great ironic poet, surely cannot be disputed. The thought of the permanence of his work redeems the melancholy of his history.

Progress

Thursday, February 18th., Hotel Miramare, Genoa.

Hotel Miramare

We didn't go out at all until 3.30 pm., but I had done a lot of thinking about my new novel. I think I shall call it "The Vanguard". We drove along the sea front, and then back into town by the Via XX Settembre. By this time I was dying to write Chapter III, so I continued to drive home while Dorothy walked. I began to write at 5 pm. and at 7.30 had written the chapter - 1200 words. All my chapters are going to be short in future. I was glad to get some time on my own, and probably Dorothy was too. Being a couple is all very well but I start to feel claustrophobic after a few days of close confinement.


I started reading "Pilgrim's Progress" yesterday and thought it promised well, but not so sanguine today. So far it is too full of minute 'similitudes' which are tedious. I doubt whether I shall finish it. What a prig Bunyan must have been - dry and dessicated one would imagine!

The question is: Do children read it all? Or do they skip the morality and theology for the more active parts? I doubt whether the book is holding its own in the public esteem today. How did it get to be such a well-known book in the first place? I can only attribute its prominence to the insidious effect of church propaganda. I don't imagine any child ever 'got' its message directly but it was pressed into the immature intelligence by repitition and adult influence. I think it is an example of abuse of adult power. No child should be exposed to religious propaganda until he or she is old enough (adult) to make a sensible personal assessment of what is being pushed onto them. That would finish all the major religions in fairly short order.

Composers

Monday, February 16th., London.

Schmitt for lunch. Arrived half an hour late. Drank a lot of stout, and thoroughly enjoyed eating and drinking. Clearly a man of appetite. Upstairs in sitting room he objected to having a small table by his side for coffee, as it morally prevented him from getting up and walking about at will. I fancy this was an affectation, but composers can be rather odd characters.

Hertford House, The Wallace Collection

We took him and Rickards, who also came for lunch, to the Wallace Collection. I noted a fine "Music Lesson" of Steen, and a small picture of Leopold Robert. We left Schmitt and his Baedeker in the street to find his  way to Russell Square alone. Then all of us to South Place Institute for concert. Quartet of Ravel and Quintet of Schmitt.

 

Getting older

Tuesday, February 15th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

The preoccupation of moving to a new house is now almost over, and after three days of incessant manual work, arranging books, clothes, furniture and pictures, I have time to recognise that I am a householder for the first time. I find myself wandering without aim through the house, staring at finished rooms, and especially at the terra-cotta effects of my new study, with a vague satisfaction. But stronger, more insistent than this satisfaction, is the feeling of graver and more complicated responsibilities, and a sort of anxiety for the future. I feel as if I am just becoming adult, and I am not sure that I like it.

And I wonder, at the age of thirty  whether the great game is worth the candle. I return with regretful fancy to the time when, with lighter cares and the highest hopes that ignorance could induce, I lived in Cowley Street, and in Raphael Street, on about 15s. a week. And was happy.

Tonight I have set to work on a long criticism of George Moore.

 

No news of war

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

Casino de Paris

I was influenza-ish on Saturday evening and most of today but it seems to have passed now. Probably just a reaction from the anxiety of travelling back from Mentone.We dined at Sylvain's last evening and again tonight, and we went into the Casino de Paris for an hour. I don't know why. I am finding it difficult to get reliable information about the war that has broken out between Russia and Japan. It is when one wants authentic news that the defects of a country's press begin plainly to appear - especially news which is difficult to obtain and easy to imitate.


I have been gathering notes about women for possible use in my latest book, provisionally called "The History of Two Old Women". That won't do as a title of course. Something better will turn up. 

There is 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. Much scope for speculation about why she was in Paris at all.

And recently I had some conversation with a spinster aged perhaps 41. She told me how she hardly spoke to men, didn't feel at ease with them, didn't know how they think. She seemed to have the idea that there are many more women than men, and was disinclined to believe me when I said the difference in numbers isn't great. She was keen to tell me about the importance of having an object in life. She said: "When you have no object in life, when you feel you are useless, not wanted, no good in the world, then I see no good in living." It was not clear to me what her object in life might be, unless to be a warning to others. On the whole a strange mixture of pride (vanity) and self-depreciation, the former instinctive, the latter due to intellectual processes. A haughty, arrogant mien, the sort of mien that, in English people, naturally maddens foreigners.

A prodigious adventure

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

How one changes over time! I was browsing in my old journals and found that 25 years ago I had taken it into my head to live 'in the country'. Specifically at Trinity Hall Farm in Bedfordshire. In fairness it was partly to do with my father's ill health and the need to find somewhere quiet and suitable for him to be looked after. But I had some romantic notion about 'the country' and seized it by the throat. Of course I soon discovered that there is no such thing as 'the country', which is an entity only existing in the brains of an urban population. Still, I was pleased with myself.

I well remember my first day. I, who had never owned an orchard before, stood in my orchard. Behind me were phalanx of fruit trees - my fruit trees. Also a double-greenhouse, and a meadow upon which I discerned the possibility of football or cricket. And visible through a high hedge a very white highway; not just any highway, but Watling Street. I have to admit now, though I would have resisted the admission then, that the idea of living actually on Watling Street, a real Roman road, was a powerful factor in my choice of abode. Who says there is no romance in my soul? Only persons of imagination can enter into my feelings at that moment.

Keep in mind that all this happened before the advent of the nature-book, and the sublime invention of weekending. The motor car was a thing oftener heard of than seen. London seemed not just over the horizon (at the end of Watling Street) but on another continent. I plunged into this unknown, inscrutable and recondite 'country' as I might have plunged fully clothed and unable to swim into the sea. It was a prodigious adventure!"

I called to see friends before the day of exodus. They favoured me with knowing looks. "Goodbye," I said. "Au revoir" they replied with calm vaticinatory assurance "we shall see you back again in a year." They were right of course.

      

Ideas needed

Monday, February 12th., Hotel Savoy, Cortina d'Ampezzo, Italy.

Woke to a clear blue sky and a hard frost. Perfect day for a good walk and I seized the opportunity. Out just after 9 o'clock. Invigorating chill in the air. I noticed the satisfying crunch of the frost-frozen mud as I put my weight into each step. And no adhesion to the sole of the boot. In fact my boots were cleaner when I got back than when I set off. A good long walk is just the thing for someone of a thoughtful disposition. I suppose some would say that it was a waste of valuable working time, and I might myself in my younger days. But not now. There is nothing like a solitary walk in the countryside for getting ideas. And one really good idea is worth any amount of time labouring with second class ideas at the desk.

I wish I had more knowledge about nature and the countryside. Of course it's not important to be able to name birds and animals, the thing is to enjoy them 'in the moment' as it were. But there is a stubborn part of me that wants to know what they are. My knowledge is abysmal! It occurred to me today that I don't even know what the difference is between moss and lichen. Why does one grow where it does and not the other? And birds ... I saw a bird of prey swooping and diving over a field, obviously hunting. I don't think it was a kestrel but what was it? A bit depressed by my ignorance, but content overall. Especially as I had a grand sleep this afternoon.

I want to write one more article for the Evening Standard before we leave here; but I don't seem to be able to get any leading idea for it, except that of slating one or two of my young friends, such as William Gerhardi. I did get the first inkling of an idea this morning, something about the 'reforming' inclinations of our imaginative writers, like Wells and Huxley, but it needs development.

I read a lot more of Castellane's "Memoirs". There are still very good things in it, though some pages are tedious and even absurd. And all the criticisms of his wife are a mistake. After all he lived with her for twelve years and had two children by her. When you have done that you ought to leave a woman alone.

Paris Sunday

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

When I got up the snow was falling thickly. Naturally the snow turned to rain. The chances are ten to one that snow will degenerate into rain in a large city. I took a young friend to lunch at the Tour d'Argent. No need to be coy - a rather pleasant looking young lady friend! I think I may have neglected to tell Dorothy just exactly what my plans were.

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. Though I cannot imagine why a customer should be interested to know how many ducks have been eaten by previous customers, or that his particular duck is the tenth or the hundred thousandth so served! Perhaps the idea is that the ducks acquire greater dignity in not dying anonymously? Does this enhance their flavour?

In any case our duck was very flavoursome though I gave it perhaps less attention than it deserved, being engaged in a mild attempt at verbal seduction. We were the only foreigners in the place. I threw my ordinal 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.

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. Some preposterous religious ritual I should think. The mere spectacle of them made me turn up the collar of my overcoat. We went out full of fatal germs.

Then my young friend told me that she had forgotten to bring her goloshes from London, that she could not possibly cross any more broad wet pavements in her fragile shoes, and that she must buy a pair of goloshes at once. This announcement of course necessitated a close inspection by me of her rather nicely turned ankles and calves. She asked me, as an old resident of Paris with local knowledge, to take her to a shop where she could buy galoshes notwithstanding it being Sunday. It is on such occasions that a man must keep his nerve. I remembered a department store in the Rue d'Amsterdam and we drove there. It was open. They had no galoshes! I was prepared to give up but my young friend was not. She said to the taxi driver: "Where can I buy galoshes?" The driver instantly replied: "Avenue de Clichy."

Off we went up the hill to the Avenue de Clichy where, at a certain famous retaurant, I had frequently eaten the glorious dish at which Anglo-Saxons turn up their noses: tripe. No tripe today though. Instead 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 for that price." Etc... She bought a pair of satin shoes in something less than half an hour. If there isn't a lunatic asylum in Paris for shop assistants, there ought to be. She was about to leave the shop when I said: "Galoshes?" She said: "Yes, I suppose I may as well get a pair as I'm here." She did get a pair, and put them on. My interest in her lower limbs had waned. I don't suppose the entire business took more than an hour. Soon afterwards I felt the need to sever myself from mankind and went to my hotel for a sleep. At my age I really should have known better.

Later, in recovery, I dined with other friends at that notorius 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! This film has pre-recorded sound effects which is interesting. At 11.20 the show finished. Outside, wind and rain, but not a taxi. I walked to the hotel in the wind and rain. End of a Paris Sunday.

Spendthrift of pity

Saturday, February 10th., Maldon, Essex.

Maldon

I am here with my father and my brother Sep. Father has had a very serious nervous breakdown and is staying with me at Fulham Park Gardens for a complete rest. He seems better at the moment but in my opinion (and his own) he will never be the same man again. Fortunately his business can go on in his absence. Frank has taken up the strain. Strange thing to be looking after one's parents rather than being looked after. Even the way we adfdress each other is changing. I am paying close attention to the details of the change as it occurs to me that they may be useful at some time in the future, professionally I mean.

I am very much focused on short stories of the Five Towns at present. There seems to be a rich vein of material which is unexplored by other authors, though some have touched on it. I think I am on to something. The Five Towns is a great place, full of plots. My father's reminiscences have livened me up considerably. I have also been working on a play, in collaboration with Arthur Hooley, called "The Chancellor". I can never tell if a play is going to do well or not; don't think anybody can until it is actually produced somewhere and even then it may not last.

This evening we stood on a bridge over the Blackwater at the bottom of the town. There was snow everywhere, a very keen frost, and a bright moon approaching the full. On either side of the river, the wharves and warehouses were silhouetted in deep tones. The tide was comig in and we could hear a faint continuous crackling, or mysterious rustling as the ice, constantly forming, was crunched and crumbled gently against the projecting piles of the wharves. We stood quite still in this silent town and listened to this strange soft sound. Then we threw tiny pebbles over the bridge and they slid along the surface of the river. The water froze in broad areas as it passed under the bridge.

We saw a very fat and aged woman walking home, very carefully. The road was extremely slippery and a fall would have been serious to one of her age and weight. To me she seemed rather a pathetic figure, balancing herself along ... And yet, if I have learned anything, it is not to be a spendthrift of pity. She would be all right.

 

Agreeable men

 Friday, February 9th., London Yacht Club.

I wrote 1200 words of my London novel yesterday. I am pretty sure that it will be found offensive by some people who perhaps do not want to be reminded that physical relations sometimes occur between consenting adults outside of marriage. We don't seem to have advanced terribly far since Hardy was pilloried for oblique references to the way humans actually behave.

Walter Sickert

Today George Moore and Walter Sickert came to lunch. Sickert had swum in the morning and skated. In fact he had his skates with him and no overcoat though it seems cold to me out there. They talked. I said little. Moore clearly was the man of letters. He is rather detached from the normal world it seems; even the war seems to be of no interest to him. He said that he didn't read the papers now, as they only made him feel depressed and did him no good. Well, he has a point of course but surely an artist ought to have some contact with the real world? He said several very foolish things such as that he could not understand how anyone could read a war book. To read about new war devices he could understand, but not how anyone could read a war book.  

Sickert was much more reserved - he is much more normal. He told us that he cooked his own food, and cooked it very well. I admire him for that. Formerly he used to read between spells of painting during the day, but now he cooked. He goes over to the stove and say: "Ca mijotte". They both used a lot of French and spoke it very well. Moore recited a French ballad which he had written about a maquereau which I thought rather good. The he recited Villon. He is naively and harmlessly vain, and very agreeable. I enjoyed the company of both men very much.

Home to Essex for the weekend. I can admit to myself that I am not looking forward to it. How agreeable it would be to stay here, read, write, walk a little, simply please myself. Conjugal pleasures are well enough, but my balance is tipping in favour of the bachelor lifestyle.

In Inefficienza

Thursday, February 11th., Leixoes, Portugal.

With Swinnerton in Portugal. He is an excellent travelling companion. He tells me, rather guardedly, that the whole trip was 'cooked-up' between him and Knoblock. They have become aware of the growing tension between myself and Marguerite, and Knoblock apparently was of the sincere conviction that if I was not 'got away' for a complete rest I would break down. He may be right. I certainly begin to feel more myself. But of course it will still be there to go back to.

Oporto

Anyway we arrived from Havre yesterday and are off to Lisbon tomorrow. Swinnerton, myself and a Brazilian gent motored into Oporto yesterday afternoon. It is about 6 miles up the River Douro, but big ships can't get up the Douro, or even into it at all. So this port has been built just north of the mouth. Oporto is a great place, on about 40 hills, with towers on top thereof. The principal street is certainly steeper than the Sytch in Burslem. The life of a car here must be about as long as a horse at the Front - the roads are simply appalling, even in fine dry weather as now. I never thought such roads existed, at least near a big city.

It takes two men to do one man's work in Portugal. Thus we had two chauffeurs, the second's duty being solely to wind up when necessary. We had a Fiat - very noisy.

The name of Oporto should be Inefficienza. Still it is very amusing. We had a perfectly smooth passage through the Bay of Biscay, with bright moonlit nights etc. Very pleasant. Today we loaded up a lot of steerage passengers and about a million barrels of wine. The monetary system here is continuously funny. Three of us had a magnificent lunch at a great restaurant called the Crystal Palace. It cost fiftenn thousand three hundred reis. Still, after paying for it I had money left as the equivalent in English is about £1.1.10. We saw rings in jewellers shops marked at three million reis. The Portuguese Dollar has fallen dramatically relative to the Pound, which is very advantageous to us but makes the Portuguese very cross.

Telegrams are terribly expensive. I had to send one of only twenty six words and it cost me nearly as much as the meal! It was interesting to see over what the wireless operators call their Marconi House. They explained the wireless system to me at great length but I am embarrassed to say I understood nothing. Still one of them had a copy of "The Roll Call" and asked me to sign it, so he was pleased. He wanted to know if George Cannon survived the war. I was evasive.

False alarms

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

I was out walking for four hours this morning and into the afternoon. An absolutely glorious day. Very cold but clear pale-blue sky, not much wind, and enough warmth in the sun on my back to make me remember summer. I am so glad that January is over. I feel able to make a start on planning out my year ahead. The ground was frozen when I set off walking but got softer as the day warmed and I ended up with a great burden of mud on my boots. Got home tired but happy and settled down more or less straight away for a nap. Legs aching when I woke up but I felt at peace with the world. It won't last.

Thorpe-le-Soken station

Great excitement last Saturday night about two men who, challenged by the sentry of the ammunition park near the station at 7.15 pm, had run away. Ammunition of all the district is kept there, including 300,000 rounds of rifle, etc. The 'marauders' vanished, though pursued. Clacton was called up by telephone and kept up most of the night. Officers were called from dinner. The missing men were supposed to correspond with two escaped Germans interned from Dorset. The one best seen apparently had a rope and walked noiselessly - hence rubber shoes! Why? etc. etc. No capture yesterday either. The funniest thing is that one of the guard, or perhaps it was the sentry himself, says that they must be German because when challenged one of them distinctly called out "VON"!


This is indicative of the prevailing atmosphere of low-level hysteria and for my money has little or no basis in fact. The German 'invasion' seems to have gripped the public imagination. If I were of German extraction, or had a German sounding name, I would worry about  my safety. Strange business this war. For most of us it seems nearly unreal, and yet crucially important. Out in the countryside as I was this morning it is easy to forget that it is happening at all.

Snow jumps

Sunday, February 6th., Hotel Savoy, Cortina d'Ampezzo. Italy.
 
Didn't get out unitl 11.30 and we had lunch at noon in order to go to the International Ski-jumping competition, two miles off. We took the Huxleys. Frost, overcast. We drove there in a small sleigh, but had to walk at the end up hill about half a mile to get to our tribune, upon which we got excellent seats. The tribunes are built on poles down the 45 degree snow slopes of the jump. It looks terrifying.


The Scandinavians were the best and the Italians the worst, but there were exceptions. Apparently the jump dates from 1923 and was named after the hotel owner and financial supporter of its construction. In 1926 the jump was enlarged and jumps over 50 metres are now possible. We saw some today. The first jump gives you a great thrill but you soon get used to it, when you perceive that the chances of a serious accident are trifling. Mind you, you wouldn't get me doing it for any money. The swiftest of them you can hear hurtling through the air. I tried to watch the faces of the competitors as they flew past us and above me. On the whole they seemed fairly calm and set. Might just be rigid with terror!

I read an article in the Times Literary Supplement on "Re-reading Walter Pater", and found in it no reason why I should re-read Walter Pater. Huxley agrees with me.

For some reason I was struck whilst we were out there in the cold and snow by a new thought about sensory perception; in fact it came to me first when we were in the sleigh and I was looking about. All we really see are shapes and colours more or less in a blur until our eyes focus on something and we then identify it to ourselves. But we have seen it in an immediate sense before we 'know' what it is. So our bodies as it were are on a general look-out but our minds only get involved when something causes our eyes to focus. It's not a conscious process. Really our minds are more or less constructing the world out of a mass of sensory perceptions. I was talking to the Huxleys and Dorothy about this in a general way, though I don't think I conveyed my meaning very well. In fact I'm not too sure what my meaning is. And I made the suggestion that what the abstract painters are trying to do is to get back to the fundamentals of perception, shapes and colours. Aldous seemed interested but the women found it all a bit airy-fairy. In my experience women prefer tangible concepts.

Back home

Sunday, February 5th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I am now settled down again in Paris. I had five days in Putney and London and practically negotiated the sale of plays to Harrison and to Legge, had one talkative evening at the flat, and came over here on Friday. The first thing I noticed on landing in France was the thin and exiguous 'feel' of the folded French newspaper compared to the English.

I went down to see Mme Debraux on Saturday evening and found her if anything rather more fine than before; then I dined at the Chat Blanc with the Montparnasse crowd. I lunched with Kelly on Sunday in his new studio up in the heavens; had tea at the Cornilliers. 

I feel 'at home'. Why is it, I ask myself, that Paris seems so much more agreeable than London. Well of course I have many friends here, not least Schwob who I admire greatly, but I have as many in London. It is I think a matter of the 'culture' of the place. Here the relationship between the sexes is much more relaxed; London is both actually and metaphorically corseted! I find opportunities for a little adventure much easier to find here. A marvellous place for a single man with an artistic disposition and a growing reputation. An analogy might be of coming home from business, divesting oneself of professional garments, donning a lounging suit, and throwing oneself into a favourite armchair for an evening of relaxation. Delicious.

By the way, Schwob is very ill and I fear it may be serious. I regard him as the most learned man in my experience, and my literary Godfather.

Authors are strange people

Sunday, February 4th., 97 Chiltern Court, London.

Authors are strange people. I am one myself, and I probably know as many authors as any living man - except literary agents and income tax inspectors. Authors are ticklish, sensitive people, and, more than most categories of persons, they are victims (generally willing enough) of the astounding, and to me incomprehensible, mania for 'meeting' celebrities, notorieties and infamies. Why do I say so? Because it has been my observation over a long period of years. Why is it so? I don't know!

I regard myself as the exception that proves this particular rule. So far as I am aware I have never had the desire to meet a celebrity because he was a celebrity. On the contrary I have had, and still have, a desire to avoid him. "But you are a great admirer of his books!" said an acquaintance to me once, when I had demurred to an encounter with a genius. "Yes I am," I said. "That's why I don't want to meet him. If I run across him by chance, all right! But deliberately to go out of my way to meet him - No!" And I never did meet him.

Rightly or wrongly one has one's sense of dignity. I have been acused of having an over-developed sense of dignity, and that may be the case. But it is my sense of dignity and I cling to it. In my defence I will assert that my antipathy towards celebrity is by no means uncommon in the Midlands where I grew up. There were men in the Five Towns (and probably still are) who would not cross the street to acknowledge the existence of some local celebrity or other; they would be ashamed to do so. I have introduced them into some of my novels and stories. "The Death of Simon Fugue", which some suggest is my best short story, is a case in point. When I go to the Potteries myself I have no expectation of acknowledgement and I expect that when I die there may be a brief obituary in The Sentinel, but not such as to draw attention away from 'real' news.

Liverish

Wednesday, February 3rd., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

The ideas of the average decently-informed person are so warped, and out of perspective, and ignorant, and entirely perverse and wrong and crude, on nearly every mortal subject, that the task of discussing anything with him seriously and fully and to the end, is simply appalling. This has struck me several times recently in this hotel, and I have recoiled from a discussion. The state of that average person's mind can scarcely be contemplated by me, in certain moods. All of which probably says more about me than it does about the average person! Why indeed should I expect that people would be interested to listen to my ideas, and be persuaded by me? The fact is, and I know this very well, most people who want to 'discuss' something actually just want to give you the benefit of their own thoughts. And if I am honest, so do I!

Most of the time this doesn't bother me, but now and then it does. I have probably been working too hard on this damned play. Why am I doing all the hard work, when Phillpotts will get equal credit for the end product, if there is in fact any credit to be had? It is a footling thing, but marketable. Today for example I wrote 2,000 words of Act III. No wonder I am out of sorts. Also my mother is reportedly very ill in London and I shall have to get back there by the end of next week at the latest. And I am keeping up my correspondence and my regular articles. 

I have found time to read (re-read) some of "Crime and Punishment". The funeral feast given by Catherine Ivanovna is a magnificent piece of work, both as serious accurate observation and as brutal humour. My sense is that the translation isn't very good, but still the power of the novel shines through.

Voting for women

Friday, February 2nd., 59 Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

I like women. And I think that, by and large, I understand them. Certain persons of intelligence and discernment have gone so far as to intimate that this is evident from my books. My time as editor of Woman was invaluable in this respect, but also I find women more interesting than men, less predictable, less arrogant ..... and better looking! Not surprising them that when I was asked today, by a man, what I thought about woman's suffrage, I was able to repond promptly and unequivocally.

The most powerful argument for woman's suffrage is the fact that women want it. There are odd exceptions, but undoubtedly a large majority of women who have studied the question feel a strong desire for woman's suffrage. There is and there can be no answer to this argument. To attempt to answer it is to be, in my opinion, gulity of fatuousness.

Regrettably there is no reasonable prospect of obtaining woman's suffrage in the present Parliament. The Government has no mandate of any kind to deal with it, and its time will be fully occupied by subjects which the (male) electorate considers far more important. Such as how best to prepare to kill people more effectively when war starts. This is of course a circular situation: there will never be a mandate for woman's suffrage delivered by a male electorate.

Hence the need for militant methods which have, in my opinion succeeded so far. They would have succeeded more completely if the women who sought martyrdom had played the game when they found martyrdom. Not only their dignity but their intellectual honesty too often gave way under the strain of martyrdom. Really women are too sensible to become martyrs. At the same time it must be admitted that the organisers were frequently badly advised by their more zealous male supporters who did not always escape the fatuity which masks their opponents. In particular the behaviour of certain husbands of martyrs did much to alienate the sympathies of the lukewarm. No hysterical male antics would in the slightest degree weaken my own support convinced support of woman's suffrage; but then I am not lukewarm, while the (male) electorate is either lukewarm or indifferent.


I can suggest no alternative to militant methods lest it be mass withdrawal of conjugal privileges, as originally envisaged by Aristophanes. That would certainly work, but I doubt that women have the collective will to organise and sustain it! I think that if the organisers of militancy were to make a closer and franker study of human nature as it notoriously is, with a view to avoiding in future the rather silly air of being constantly horrified by the spectacle of human nature in activity, the result might be a shortening of the war. I use the word metaphorically, but it may take a real war to 'shake-up' society sufficiently for woman's suffrage to succeed.