Something wrong with the world

Saturday, March 31st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I came home yesterday morning. Beautiful day. Snowfall and a lot of rain in the morning. As soon as the rain ceased at noon, the whole landscape began to steam, even before the sun had got fairly out. I find myself admiring the natural world, and then it comes back to me that only just across the sea, men are crouching in trenches, exposed to the elements I am admiring, and being shot at. There is something wrong with the world! I have read accounts of people with mental disorder who have a sort of 'split' in their personality, and that is how the world is at present, from my point of view anyway.

For example we were at the theatre in London the other night laughing and enjoying ourselves. It was the best evening I have had at the theatre for I don't know how long. Then you come out with nothing on your mind except the play you have seen, and maybe there is an air raid; immediately you must switch to a different state of mind. All this must be having a tremendous impact on the nerves of the public. 

The play was Pierre Veber's "Gonzague", a common farce of intrigue, but ingeniously constructed. There is nobody in England (whether or not as bereft of genius as Veber is) who could construct a little farce so well. Nothing to it but very agreeable to witness. Excellently produced and excellently played.

As regards the war, Donald said that the Russians would make no offensive this year, and that had it not been for the Revolution they would have made peace. He also said that he was getting some men to write messages to Russia for cabling, but that he had to obtain Lloyd George's approval first. During the afternoon he sent me up a note to say that he had obtained the approval and would I send in 500 word message quickly.

New ideas

Thursday, March 29th., Cadogan Square, London.

Dorothy is now more or less recovered from her operation and life is returning to normal. I have been doing a good deal of walking about, and bus riding, to get ideas. And I have got some! Weather is still rather cool and rain intermittently, but spring flowers in the parks and I feel my spirits rising. Only a couple of weeks until I start my Mediterranean cruise with Otto Kahn et al.

Vere Gordon Childe

Tea with the Webbs a couple of days ago. I sat next to an interesting man by the name of Gordon Childe. Australian. An archaeologist. Bit of an odd looking chap. Linked to the Webbs by a devotion to socialism and tells me he had to leave Australia because his political views prevented him getting a decent academic post. Currently Librarian at the Royal Anthropological Institute and has published a book about how civilisation arose from the Middle East. Fascinating talker once you get used to the accent. 

His idea is that farming started in the Middle East, the Fertile Crescent, and then spread westwards, eventually arriving in Britain. Until then people had been wanderers, hunting and gathering food where they could, no settled base. So it was becoming settled in stable communities that led to structured societies, religion, and eventually 'civilisation'. Not something I had thought about before. Must get a copy of his book and go into it more. I should think somebody with the right sort of imagination could set a novel with the transition to farming as the background. Must have been the women behind it! You can imagine the scene: Man - "We must go hunting as our fathers have done from time immemorial." Woman - "Well you can go without me and the children. I have heard about farming. This is a good place and I'm going to plant some crops and make a hut which will be our home. See you when you get back." 

Nothing much has changed since!

 

Room of one's own

Wednesday, March 28th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I only keep this journal sufficiently to prove that I am still not keeping it. Sometimes it just seems to be too much of an effort. I ask myself who I am writing it for? But at others the words flow and I find that writing down what I have done, and especially how I feel about people and places, helps me get my mind in order. I will persevere.

I finished the seventeenth instalment of "The Sinews of War" today. Three more to do. This evening on my return to Paris from Moret I received in a letter from Phillpotts an adumbration of the plot for our next serial in collaboration. I am not at all sure that I can face another one. Not that it is hard, but I don't feel it is the sort of work I should be associated with. I am concerned that if I get a reputation as an author of 'potboilers' then my serious novels will not be taken seriously.

Lately, besides having the influenza, I have been occupied in putting my Moret flat into an artistically habitable condition. It is an activity I truly enjoy. How wonderful to have rooms of one's own! Growing up as I did in a large family, privacy was more or less unknown which is why, I think, that I value it so much now. Even when I marry I will insist on an inviolate study where I can arrange my books and furniture just as I like.

Yesterday morning in a second-hand shop in Moret I found a Louis XV commode in carved oak in excellent condition, and bought it for 45 fr. without bargaining. I also bought a rather worn Empire bookcase for 20 fr. Impossible to keep my journal while I am so preoccupied with the serial and with questions of cretonnes, carpets, and the arrangement of old furniture and purchasing of fresh.

War gloom.

Wednesday, March 27th., Yacht Club, London.

Sydney and Beatrice Webb

Lunch at Webb's. Webb said his wife couldn't sleep on account of the war news, and he had to exaggerate his usual tranquil optimism in order to keep the household together. It was one of the rare human touches I have noticed in the said household. It is hard to imagine any tenderness between the two, let alone passion! Yet Beatrice is an attractive woman. Surely there must be times when the intellect gives way to normal animal instincts? Anyway, they were soon off into the misdeeds of the Reconstruction Committee. I was told that certain of the staff of the Department of Information (Webb termed it 'Propaganda') had resigned when Beaverbrook was appointed Minister over them, refusing to serve under 'that ignorant man'. They won and were transferred to the Foreign Office. One more instance of the hand-to-mouthism of Lloyd George according to Webb. I thought they would be pleased to hear of the abdictaion of the Czar, and the progress of the revolution in Russia. But no sign.

Went from there to the Reform to see the papers. Massingham was so gloomy he could hardly speak. The brothers McKenna came in intensely pessimistic. I was rather ashamed of them. Spender's two articles in the Westminster were A1 for fortitude and wisdom. I think more and more highly of this man. Then to flat to dine. Electricity not working there. Gloom of candles. Marguerite very gloomy about the war. This sort of thing always makes me cheerful. There is a perverse side to my nature which has often been pointed out to me which makes me take a tack opposite to the general mood.

Sybil Colefax gave a very good description of the All Clear Signal in a few words at dinner. She said she was walking with her husband in the streets towards the end of a raid. Everything was quite silent. Then the search Lights began winking the All Clear all about the sky. Then the sound of the All Clear bugles was heard. Then the footsteps of a man. Then the footsteps of ten people, of twenty, of a hundred. The town was alive again!

Bits of news

Sunday, March 27th., Berkeley Street, London.

The 285th and last performance of "The Title" occured on Saturday at the Royalty. A good house. The provincial tour which began some weeks ago was a failure for the first fortnight. I am not optimistic that things will improve.

Sir Henry Norman

While I was being shaved at the Reform on Tuesday Henry Norman came in and waited. He read me a letter from his wife who is inspecting the Fronts to make a record for the Imperial War Museum. He told me other things not in the letter. As that English women are still looking after French 'permissionaires' at the railway stations and that French women do nothing in this line and even try to prevent these women from getting lodgings in the towns. I regard the Englishwomen as silly for doing it, and can understand the French resentment. It seems to me that they are ineffectual 'do-gooders' motivated by some perverted sense of caring; in fact it is all self-interest. I continue to maintain that there is no true altruism in the world.

Lillah McCarthy

It seems that the French soldier is very rough when drunk or half drunk. That does not come as a surprise to me. I would have thought it was characteristic of soldiers everywhere! One woman apparently had coffee thrown in her face three times. Another was stabbed and killed. The English psychology is very queer in these things.

Rehearsals of "Judith" going along fairly well. Lillah McCarthy and Frederick Keeble are to be married. This news was something of a surprise to me. Keeble must be 50. Fortunately Lillah is a consummate professional so the play will not be affected. In spite of distractions I have written one complete 'woman' article at home each weekend for 3 weeks.

Writing to death

Good Friday, March 25th., Hotel Belvedere, Switzerland.

Six days of perfect weather, with a N. and N.W. wind and nothing visible all day in the strong sunshine. I was able to begin the final chapters of the second part of "Clayhanger" without much difficulty on Tuesday, and I have averaged over 2,000 words a day of it. I finish tomorrow. The second part will be 50,000 instead of the estimated 40,000 words.

It is surprising that, a fortnight ago at Brighton,I could have thought it possible to finish the second part there. I had only allowed 2,000 words for the most important series of scenes - love scenes - in that part. On the whole I think it is fair. Anyhow it is honest and conscientious. I wrote 3,200 words yesterday, and pretty near killed myself, and was accordingly very depressed at night. This morning I went for a long walk and wrote 1,000 words in an hour this afternoon.

What I am led to wonder is, whether the context in which something is written has much impact on the finished product. So, would the version of this part of "Clayhanger" I have written here be the same if I had in fact written it at Brighton? I think not. Obviously the general development of the novel would have stayed the same but surely the 'tone' would be different. Here I am writing surrounded by mountains with sunshine and clean, fresh air, rather than by the sea in gloom and rain. Interesting to think about.

Reviews of "Helen with the High Hand" strangely kind. William Morton Payne in the Dial of Chicago describes it as: ".... capital fooling, humorously charming from start to finish,and we are glad to have it as a pendant to Mr. Bennett's gloomy large-scale depiction of the Five Towns." I could ask for no more.

Class distinctions

Friday, March 24th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

London yesterday. Pamela McKenna handed over a book which Birrell had given me in exchange for "The Golden Remains of the Ever Memorable John Hales", which he bought from me about 24 years ago when I was doing a few experiments in book selling - and never paid for.

On Wednesday night a Welsh vet. officer came here to sleep. 60. Very provincial and polite and talkative. All about Lloyd George and North Wales and Stanley Weyman. Just like middle-class provincials in the Potteries, except for the accent. Speaking of billeting in Manningtree, he said that billetees had to cook for soldiers, while not finding the food. "Now, many of them didn't like it," he said with sympathy and conviction, as middle-class speaking of and understanding middle-class. It was absolute Five Towns. No member of upper middle-class would have said it like that. A member of upper middle-class might have laughed, or said it indulgently, or said it comprehendingly, but not with the same unconscious sympathy.

Made me think about what effect this war will have on the class system. As far as I can tell it is still pretty well maintained in the trenches, but surely close proximity and shared hardships and danger must have some effect? And then at home when it is all over. Will the returning 'common' soldiers be content to revert to the situation as before? I doubt it, and in fact hope not. I think we have seen the end of an era.

Purple Cloud

Friday, March 23rd., Cadogan Square, London.

Much kerfuffle about "Punch and Judy". Having written the story, which took some time and for which I was inadequately  recompensed, I am now being asked to provide dialogue for a 'talkie'. Had I known it was to be a 'talkie' I would have approached it differently from the outset. I have asserted, and mean it, that I will not take the task on for less than £2,000. It is in Wicken's hands. I had lunch with Thorpe and Dupont the other day and sensed that they may give way. I hope so. I could do with the money, especially as we are off to Antibes next week for a holiday which is certain to cost a great deal.

For light relief yesterday I read a new edition of "The Purple Cloud" by M.P.Shiel. In fact I read the original nearly 30 years ago when it was first published. This new edition has been severely edited which doesn't surprise me. What did surprise me was that the original was allowed to pass - setting aside its general 'blasphemous' character it also included a clear allusion to necrophilia which startled me at the time. How it got past the publisher I don't know! Just to make sure my memory wasn't deceiving me I looked out the original in my library and found the relevant passage: "I have taken a dead girl with wild huggings to my bosom, and I have touched the corrupted lip, and spat upon her face." Seems clear enough to me!

M P Shiel

What interested me in the original publication was that I had happened to meet Shiel in Paris in 1898. Forget who introduced us. A strongly built, though not tall, man of dark complexion and deep-set eyes. Probably a 'touch of the tarbrush' in his background I should think. An engaging manner. Very talkative and remarkably willing to reveal all sorts of things about himself. To me for example, in the course of conversation, he said that he had been seduced by an older girl at the age of 5 (five!) and had been in the way of regular sexual intercourse with almost any willing young woman or girl ever since. He regarded the sexual act as as natural as breathing and saw no reason to limit his indulgence. I thought he was simply boasting at the time but have since heard that he is a renowned seducer (particularly of girls and young women) and has fathered numerous illegitimate children. A remarkable character! His literary career however has not been a success.

As regards the book, it is the story of the only survivor of a world-catastrophe who travels all over the face of the globe burning cities and generally going insane. Eventually he finds another survivor, of the female sex (a young girl!) and domesticity sets in, not too soon. I read the novel with much admiration 28 years ago and find that it has worn exceedingly well in spite of the editing. The affair is stupendous in conception, and rather more than adequately executed. I call it grandiose, fearsome, and truly distinguished. No doubt Shiel was much influenced by the work of Poe, and I think he may himself have had an influence on the contemporary American 'horror' novelist, H.P.Lovecraft. I don't know that for a fact but the excesses of imagination and wild writing style invite comparison.
 

Socialising

Friday, March 21st., Cadogan Square, London.

Ethel Sands

At Ethel Sands in Chelsea at tea yesterday - Norman Leslie, brother of Shane, sat next to me on the sofa. The brothers are from a wealthy Anglo-Irish land-owning family, and are first cousins to Winston Churchill. In a sense they are renegade to their class having converted to Roman Catholicism and embraced Irish home rule. Interesting. After a time Leslie said to me, "Are you interested in Russia at all?" After my reply he went on to say that he had been there last autumn, and I must say that he replied very intelligently and carefully to all my questions. But what struck me was the crudity of his gambit. He wanted to talk about Russia. He was full of Russia, and he opened in that way. Not much subtlety for a man with a public school education, Eton at that!

He left and Cynthia Noble took his place. A very fashionable young woman. Apparently she is the great grand-daughter of I.K.Brunel, engineer. She is probably only about 21 or 22, with a perfectly made-up face etc. I almost immediately began with her on my subjects of late hours, drugs (aspirin chiefly), cocktails, liqueurs, and salts; all of which I cursed. I was glad to find that she was prepared to talk about salts. She agreed with me as to cocktails, but not in much else. However what struck me a long time afterwards was that I had opened on my subject just as young Leslie had opened on his. What an old bore I must have seemed to her! I feel embarrassed to think about it.

Speaking of young women, I am trying to get Pauline Smith's short stories published and have written to Jonathan Cape recommending her. I am optimistic, given my personal celebrity, that they will give the go-ahead. Particularly if I offer to write an introduction. Pauline is a gifted writer, and is working on a novel at the moment. Sadly her work is not such as would be likely to catch the attention of publishers in the absence of a sponsor such as myself. She is rather ill at the moment. In fact her health is not good generally. I would like to do something for her.

Trouble and strife

Monday, March 21st., Cadogan Square, London.

Dorothy has had an operation under ether for haemorrhoids and is recovering in bed with a nurse in charge of her. So I had to order meals and struggle with the French cook this morning. I was up early and had a calm pre-prandial two hours, but then a letter from my brother Frank upset me, and by 10.30 I was beginning to get a headache and felt out of sorts. I went out for an idea-finding walk, and got to the South Kensington Museum and sat down in a corner, and immediately four workmen came to disturb me by moving trestles. No sooner had they gone than the ideas came to me in a vague but satisfactory rush; and I walked straight out again and came home. I have been in several times to see Dorothy but didn't stay long.

I have written 12,000 words in the last twelve days. It seems as if nothing can stop me working at the moment, though I have a lot to think about. Cars for example. To find one we both like and which is suitable for our purpose is very difficult. I liked a Delancey Belleville that we saw, but Dorothy thought it clumsy so we passed it up. We have now settled on a Rolls Royce. It is 6 years old but went through RR works for reconditioning only two months ago and is now in perfect order except the all-weather top which remains to be done. Total price £650. One of the complicating factors is the height of our chauffeur, Atkinson, who is 6 ft. tall. We could have had a nice Fiat cabriolet but there wasn't room for him to drive it!

As for Frank, he has some mad-cap idea of moving to London and taking a practice. It will never work. I shall meet him of course if he comes to look into it, but I won't give him anything which is probably what he hopes for. To be honest I would find it difficult even if I trusted him not to throw the money away. Our household expenses are enormous and yet another source of worry for me. I feel that I have to keep working just to make ends meet. Dorothy is a woman with expensive tastes and very little self-control. Of course I knew that more or less from the beginning of our relationship, but went ahead anyway. What fools we are sometimes! Frank has been deceiving himself, and others for years now. He is alcoholic and no change of location will cure that. The fact is that he will never be able to hold down any sort of responsible job.

All Russian!

Tuesday, March 20th., Cadogan Square, London.

The twelve finest novels in the world are all Russian!

First, Dostoevsky. Whenever my mind dwells on the greatest achievements in fiction I think, before any other novel, of "The Brothers Karamazov". I implacably affirm that no greater novel has yet been written. It will be written, I doubt not - for I have a dogmatic belief in progress. Further I rate "The Idiot" little lower than "The Brothers". On the same level is "The House of the Dead" which is lovely, and shorter. It is, in my opinion, the most celestial restorative of damaged faith in human nature that any artist ever produced; the most successful and touching demonstration of the truth that man is not altogether vile. Then fourth is "Crime and Punishment" which cannot possibly be omitted from the dozen.

Now Tolstoy. He wrote three terrific novels which must be included: "Anna Karenina", "War and Peace" and "Resurrection". All three took Europe and America by the neck, and they have never in the slightest degree relaxed their hold on the imagination of the Western literary world. You cannot get away from these books! They force themselves instantly into any general discussion of the novel. Everybody who has read them remembers them, and those who haven't read them must pretend to have done so to avoid ignominy.

I have now already mentioned seven books. Exclude any one of them from the twelve and what would you put in its place? Would you dare oust any of them in favour of Dickens, or Austen, or even Hardy?

Then Turgenev. He cannot quite so powerfully move me as Dostoevsky or Tolstoy, but he was certainly a more finished artist than either of them. Everything that he did shows a superb perfection of writing style, even translated into English. What form, what control of the vehicle, what grace, what tenderness! "Virgin Soil", "Fathers and Sons", and "On the Eve" must be included in the dozen. Together they mark an epoch in the sociological development of the novel.

Finally Gogol. He wrote one novel, "Dead Souls". Despite the indignities it has suffered in various translations, and at the hands of misguided individuals who had the impudence to 'finish' it, "Dead Souls" has taken its place in Europe as a comic, ironic masterpiece of the first order. "Dead Souls" is gorgeous reading. It is the greatest lark imaginable, and withal deadly.

That makes twelve.

 

Military mis-manoeuvres

Sunday, March 19th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

If the standard of military organisation in France is anything like it is here then I don't see how we will ever win this war!

The Ammunition Column received an order to depart on Friday night at 10.30 - to leave on Saturday. The O.C. spent Saturday morning in trying to get the order rescinded, because, he maintained, the Weeley position is too far back for a battery at Frinton, especially with a R.A.M.C. and an A.S.C. in between. He failed. Do senior officers always query their orders I wonder? I'm sure they think they know best, but where does that leave discipline? Anyway, the actual departure, which we witnessed between 5.30 and 6.30 pm., was a striking proof of the vast inferiority of horse and mule traction to motor traction.

One mule wagon had to be unloaded twice as the mules wouldn't or couldn't draw it. General mix-up and dinting of gate posts. Part of confusion may be the fact that the O.C. had lost both his subalterns and had to do everything himself. However he had an excellent sergeant-major, a career soldier of vast experience. Probably, had he been given the whole thing to organise, it would have run like clockwork. On one wagon was perched the O.C.'s servant holding his dog under one arm and a parcel of a large photo under the other. The departure had the air of a circus departure badly managed. Then of course on arrival at Weeley (2 miles) they had to take everything to pieces again.

Meantime new units were coming in, and it was getting dusk, and an officers' mess was being fixed up roughly at Culver House. Obviously a high priority this! The melancholy of evening rain over it all; but at least it was a warm evening. Few drops of rain. Then in darkening village you saw groups of men with piles of kit bags lying in front of them waiting to get, or trying to get, into the Workmen's Club where a lot of them were billeted. I don't imagine they mind any amount of discomfort though when the alternative might be a trench in France.

Lovely night. bright moon. Trot of a horse occasionally 'til late.

 

Visiting Brighton

Sunday, March 18th., Cadogan Square, London.

I returned from Brighton yesterday and developed an entirely new kind of neuralgia, the fourth kind since my influenza. I had been down to Brighton to rid myself of the obstinate neuralgic sequelae of a quite mild attack of influenza. Also for the purpose of getting an idea for a short story. Despite entertaining, and being entertained, and free indulgence in the most agreeable and (to me) most pernicious of all alcoholic liquids, champagne, I attained both objectives in three days. At least I thought I had, but the neuralgic 'victory' proved to be more of a 'cease fire'.

Of all the 'circle' in which I move I think I am the only person who likes Brighton, or at least admits to doing so. The sole thing I object to in Brighton is the penny-in-the-slot machines on the piers. Brighton has character, as the man who made its fame had character - but his character was evil. 

The Lanes

I have spent months and months in Brighton and I thought I knew the place, especially the 'Lanes'. But today I found a second-hand bookshop previously unknown to me. I went in there immediately. I have never knowingly walked past a second-hand bookshop! And I discovered some plays of Labiche, an author of whom the bookseller had never heard, so that I got the plays cheap! I bought twelve books for £1 15s. This episode gave me no idea for my short story, but it certainly did something to cure my neuralgia. Doctors still all begin their treatment at the wrong end, dealing first with the body instead of with the mind. It is quite apparent to me that much of my neuralgia, like my speech impediment, has a psychological basis. But that knowledge doesn't make it any less debilitating.

Later I went for a ride along the shore on the Electric Railway. Years ago the proprietor of this railway gave me a season ticket for it because he liked one of my books. An example which might advantageously be followed by the G.W.R., the L.M.S., the L.N.E.R., and other railway systems.

This afternoon a man came by invitation to tea, and brought his niece. I don't know why he brought his niece except for her to have the opportunity to tell her friends that she had met yours truly. I rather object thus to be 'viewed' by strangers. he was witless enough to tell me that I looked tired. I will not be inviting him again.

Interesting people

Sunday, March 17th., Hotel Californie, Cannes.

Marguerite went to see her mother at Toulouse last Thursday but one, and returned last Wednesday. She has some idea of buying a house in Toulouse for her mother to live in, by which she means me buying a house as she has very little money of her own. I have carefully explained to her the reasons I have against the idea, but of course she is not interested in reason, being motivated, as most women are, by emotion. During her absence I was entertained by, and I entertained, Sydney Pawling, the cricketer, Julia Frankau, Marie Van Vorst, and Valery Larbaud. Marie is an American, now resident in France. A prolific writer and an interesting woman. Rather attractive. Probably the sort of woman I should have married. Larbaud is something of a dandy. From a wealthy family he has been able to indulge in a luxurious lifestyle. A ladies man, flirts with women as a matter of course. I think Marie sees through him pretty well. I hope so!

Julia Frankau

"Milestones" produced at Royalty on March 5th. Enormous success. Lee Mathews telegraphed "Unparalleled success!" We laughed at this characteristic telegram, but it almost seems justified. I am still coming to terms with the idea of being a successful playwright. If the early wave of enthusiasm is maintained I may be in a position to review my lifestyle. Shall we return to England to live? This will make the Toulouse house matter even more tricky.

Mrs. Frankau went back to England yesterday owing to a death. Quite what the point of reurning after someone has died is I don't know, but it seems to be the conventional thing to do. Showing respect they call it. She is Jewish, older than me and, I think, wiser. Her career has been varied and tinged with notoriety. Nobody's fool.

I finished over half of "The Regent" yesterday; that is in one month and one day.

Hidden London

Sunday, March 16th., Cadogan Square, London.

Looking out this afternoon and evening through window of back room 2nd floor at 21a Sloane Street. The whole of the old garden or back yard space between Sloane Street and Pavilion Road is built over with annexes to houses, low, chiefly covered with lead, and probably workshops or additional offices. There is no open ground at all, so that the houses might as well be 'back to back' houses. I wonder what goes on in them? There may be brothels or opium dens for all I know. Quite possibly there are interconnections - perfect for the criminal! I suppose that ultimately all the open ground in central London will be built over.

Quiet at the back though, in contrast to the front where the thunder of traffic is nearly continuous even on a Sunday. However you get used to even that. 'Musicians' play in Sloane Street practically all day weekdays. No use trying to get them to go away. The Sloane Street musician is of course the result of the Sloane Street shoppers' (largely women) generosity to itinerant beggars in the form of bad musicians. What a life they must lead. Where do they go at night? Perhaps into hidden corners of the annexes that cover what were open spaces behind the houses!

Ugly Duckling

Thursday, March 15th., Cadogan Square, London.

The first thing I can honestly remember reading, when I was six or so, was "The Ugly Duckling". It aroused in me the melancholy of life, gave me to see the deep sadness which pervades all romance, beauty and adventure. Might our first strong imaginative experience set a 'tone' which persists? I know not. It may be coincidence. I laughed heartily at the old hen-bird's wise remark that the world extended beyond the next field and much further. I could perceive the humour of that. But when the ugly duckling at last flew away on his strong pinions, and when he met the swans and was accepted as an equal, then I felt sorrowful, agreeably sorrowful. It seemed to me that nothing could undo, atone for, the grief and humiliations of the false duckling's early youth. I brooded over the injustice of his misfortunes for days. I was told: "It's only a story!" But what sort of response is that to a young mind with an imaginative predisposition? Of course it's only a story, but so is almost everything. 

i have never read "the Ugly Duckling" again. It survives in my memory as a long and complex narrative, crowded with vague and mysterious allusions, and wet with the tears of things. What is the central message? Know your place? Fit in or else? And childhood is crammed full of these 'moral' stories. What harm are we doing to children unintentionally? I start to think that most education is in fact a form of child abuse, but can offer no alternative. It may be the time of year. I am experiencing a certain lassitude and an inclination to be more than usually cynical.

Going ahead

Monday, March 14th., Cadogan Square, London.

Lunch with Richmond Temple in a private room at the Savoy. Temple is a director and in charge of publicity for the hotel. I had asked him to the Reform, but he suggested the Savoy because we would be quieter. I wanted to get from him a few general ideas about hotel management here and on the continent, so that I could decide whether it would be practicable, artistically or otherwise, for me to write a 'big' novel with a hotel organism, or two hotel organisms, and probably a hotel manager as the hero. It is a project I have had in mind for some time and I feel I must do it soon, or never.

Temple has imagination and he abounds in ideas. A very cultivated man he has a wide circle of friends, some of whom are known to me. I wonder if he is a homosexual? He may be. Not that it matters. He told me that two or three years ago he 'gave' a car to Siegfried Sassoon to help him to "get more fresh air", which he did. What he didn't say, but which I knew from elsewhere (Wells, I think), was that Sassoon was depressed at the time having been 'chucked' by an American he was having an affair with. Temple is also friendly with Osbert Sitwell and has had something to do with the Savoy Orpheans. He told me lots more interesting things. I make no mention here of them. They are in my head only, and the impression they left is the only important thing to me.

In ninety minutes or less he gave me all the ideas I wanted, and I practically decided to write the book. In truth I had already decided to go ahead, but wanted somebody to tell me it was a good idea. Temple certainly did that. I think he will be disappointed if I don't get it done. A good meeting, but on balance I would rather we had not met in private. I didn't feel entirely comfortable.

Self belief

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

Pleasant spring sunshine. Strolled about this morning and spent some time talking to a longtime resident of the Square. He told me that it was built between 1877 and 1888. The west side has the greatest variety of houses, all variations on the same Flemish-influenced theme. 54-58 were designed by William Young in 1877 for Lord Cadogan himself, and the architect J J Stevenson was largely responsible for the south side, built in 1879-85. The east side was built in 1879. The Square is formed of a garden (restricted to residents) surrounded by red-brick houses, the majority of which have been converted into flats or apartments. It is a very fashionable location and so expensive, but it suits me well. Marguerite would have liked it, but I would not have liked it so well with her.
I had been feeling rather gloomy but the sunshine cheered me. Struggling to get good ideas. Neuralgia has been bothering me, and of course I am dyspeptic as usual. Feeling my age. Somebody asked me the other day, during dinner, what I believed in. Sets one back a bit that sort of direct question. I think they meant from a religious point of view and I passed it off with a jocular remark, but it has been on my mind. What do I believe in? I am an atheist, though I don't go around saying so in public. I am amoral but I doubt if anybody would use that term in describing me. I believe in the value of art, but I would be hard-pressed to say what exactly I understood by 'art'. Mostly I believe in myself. I have always had a sort of inner confidence in my ability to cope with things and essentially I think that is what life comes down to. I suppose most people must have self-belief or else what do they have?

Poetry and prose

Thursday, March 12th., Les Sablons.

I have tried for two days to find the rhythms for two poems that I found ideas for - one elegiac and the other Aristophanic, and can't. I am starting to feel, but perhaps not yet quite accepting, that poetry is not my medium. There is a sort of disconnection between my original conception and what appears when I write. Of course there are not many writers who have equal facility at poetry and prose. Hardy springs to mind, and Kipling. I may be wasting my time. When I have shown poems to a select few friends they are kind of course, but hardly enthused. Time to focus on what I can do well!

Speaking of which, I have read through the first part of "Old Wives Tale", and am deeply persuaded of its excellence. Also I feel ready to make a start on the second part on Saturday. The ideas have come quite easily. I am looking forward to getting on.

Today I had a notion for a more or less regular column of literary notes - title 'Books and Persons' - for the New Age, and I wrote and sent off the first column at once. I began to work this morning in bed at 6 a.m.

Yesterday I cycled in showers and through mud to Fontainebleau to meet the architect at the new house. Found it damp, but the works more advanced than I had expected.

Been reading Lord Acton. I am driven to the conclusion that his essays are too learned in their allusiveness for the plain man. I should say that for a man who specialised in the history of the world during the last 2,500 years they would make quite first class reading. I am not that man.

Time off

Sunday, March 11th., Cadogan Square, London.

Returned from my short 'break' in Hampshire this morning in time to attend my dancing lesson. Enjoyed my visit, especially Stonehenge on Friday. 

Most people think of Stonehenge as the great stone circle, which it is, but it is more than that as well. I walked all about the surrounding landscape with the intention of trying to think myself into the minds of the people for whom it was a sacred space. I can't honestly say I succeeded - rather too great a feat of imagination for me, but I felt as if I made some progress. For example the 'Avenue' which went from the river to the stones, but not directly. I found a spot on Coneybury hill which commands a view of the whole landscape and felt sure that people must have positioned themselves there to watch the processions unfolding 'below'. And there is a barrow on the hill which suggests to me that at least somebody of importance wanted to continue oversight after death. Very atmospheric to follow the route of the Avenue, which is still discernible, and to see the stones appear as one climbs a slope from lower ground. I'm sure this must have been an intentional moment of drama for the participants.

Otherwise I was generally strolling about, reading a bit, doing some word puzzles and having good conversation. Main thing - not working! 

As for the dancing, I was keen not to miss my lesson. Perhaps it is strange to be learning to dance at the age of 58, but it is good exercise, I am enjoying it (some very pretty young dancing partners), and I want to be able to keep up with Dorothy, at least to some extent. The head of the little dancing school where I am being taught came to watch me today. He said to me: "What you want is courage, decision. Don't be afraid of 'em (women). Remember that they have to do what you want. You've got 'em. And it's the only time you have got 'em."

Away from home

Thursday, March 8th., Mulberry House, Hampshire

AB is presently indulging in a short break in Hampshire.
He hopes to venture as far as Stonehenge in Wiltshire tomorrow or the next day to explore the ritual landscape, and may report on persons and places encountered.

Small things

Saturday, March 7th., Les Sablons.

Je me plais infiniment dans ce pays.  A walk yesterday afternoon, five miles in the rain in the forest, after a day spent in writing a feeble forcible article on Wells's "New Worlds for Old" for the New Age. A superb book this. At least I think it is, though it may be that my judgement is clouded by my relationship with Wells. Since I first came across his work, and then ventured to write to him, he has been something of a 'heroic' figure to me. But perfect objectivity is impossible in my view. The important thing is for a reviewer to make clear that he has a preconceived attitude where this is the case.

Six miles this morning in the forest, in fitful sunshine. Whe I looked about me in the forest I wondered that I could have endured three months in a city. Large spaces of sky. River rapid, and in flood, isolating many trees. Excellent food; attentive, simple-minded cook. Grocer's wife had a baby. Local youths drawing their subscription numbers. News of a Freemasons' banquet, and of failure of a girls' school. Such are the events. I have time to think of writing another poem - subject in my head for just a year. I resume the piano, read newspapers more leisurely, and get excited about posts and about the sins of omission of local tradesmen.

Is this the life? Well, it is for now! But I must remember that I got tired of my former 'rural idyll' at Trinity Hall Farm in Bedfordshire. I am over forty now but still unsure about the sort of life which suits me best.
 

Punch-and-Judy Man

Tuesday, March 6th., Cadogan Square, London.

Serendipity. Just now and then a book falls into your hands which surprises and pleases you. Such is "Vagabonds and Puppets" by Walter Wilkinson. A slight and endearing volume to turn one's mind away from the mundanities of everyday existence. I liked it, and felt I would like the author. I found it very succulent. 

Walter Wilkinson and friends

Wilkinson is a puppeteer, and these are some of his reminiscences. I wouldn't be surprised to find he has more. I know a little about theatre, and when I think about it, Punch-and-Judy is theatre, and perhaps the best. For myself I would sooner watch Punch-and-Judy for a quarter of an hour for twopence than a West End drawing room comedy for two hours and a half for twelve shillings. It has one immense advantage. I can hear every word of the dialogue of Punch-and-Judy; of a drawing room comedy I catch merely a phrase or two here and there. Punch-and-Judy has other advantages - clear plots, swift action, satisfactory murders, farce as broad as the Mall, and a total absence of love scenes.

Wilkinson is a vagabond with the puppets which he made himself. He started off, short of fifteen shillings, in the garden city of Letchworth, and ended in a residential hotel, where his takings amounted to three pounds for a single performance. And what a romantic style of life. I envy him. He is a good sound writer, with a communicative 'sense' of the country, of roads, and of small towns. And he is vagabondishly cheerful, as becomes a Punch-and-Judy man. Though, for rest on a chilly night I prefer the roof of even a residential hotel to any star-studded firmament. Mr Wilkinson is different. he can perceive the humour of discomfort and hardship. I can't.

Secret service

Wednesday, March 5th., Yacht Club, London.

We came to London yesterday, then Marguerite went to Newcastle by train to stay with the Shufflebothams. I don't know what she will make of Newcastle. Just about the most backwards looking and provincial place I can think of. And of course I haven't said anything good about it in my books, so if she lets it be known who she is married to then there may be some fun. I wonder if they will ever have seen a Frenchwoman in Newcastle before?

A E W Mason

Swinnerton, Playfair and A.E.W. Mason dined with me at the Garrick. Mason told us some of his secret service adventures in Mexico. He was very good as a raconteur, and evidently had a great gift for secret service, though he says he began as an amateur. Needless to say I don't take all he says at face value, but he is certainly entertaining. In fact a lot like his books.

One of the things he told us was that practically all German spies and many of the Zeppelin men carried a packet of obscene photographs on their persons. Why, remains a mystery to me. Perhaps to entertain themselves during periods of secretive inactivity? I fully expected that he would laugh at the reputation of the German Secret Service for efficiency, and he did. I felt sure the German temperament is not a good secret service temperament. Too gullible and talkative. Mason said their secret service was merely expensive. Money chucked away idiotically. However, it must be admitted that he is one of those people who think that the British are best at everything, even in the face of evidence to the contrary.

Something of a dog

Friday, March 4th., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

Alphonse Courlander

Going along the Strand on Wednesday afternoon I met Alphonse Courlander. Just the same. Wanting to know what kind of book the 'book of the future' would be so that he might write in that style. Very disappointed because, at the age of 28, he had not made a name. "The worst of me is that I am so imitative" he said. "Every good writer I read strongly influences me." Pathetic, wistful figure. He never will make a name.
 
Tea at Rumpelmayers. Marie Belloc Lowndes at lunch. We talked mainly about Wells's scandals and Barrie's scandals. I always feel a little awkward with her because years ago, on a whim, I told her I kept a notebook of my 'amorous' liaisons. In fact I showed her a small pocket book I happened to have with me. So she got the impression, erroneously, that I am something of a 'dog'. The good thing about it is that we talk quite frankly about sexual matters when we meet. I am sure she thinks I am a little in Wells's way, but more discreet. I wonder what she tells Marguerite? Met a young novelist named Walpole. Stayed there fighting with the band until 6.15.

Dined with Webster, Dolly Smith, and poet Wayle at Treviglios. Both Dolly and I had forgotten our tickets, so we had to drive to Golden Cross Hotel, and to Bayswater to get them. Reached Albert Hall and costume ball of the Chelsea Arts Club at 11.15. Left at 4.15. Got into bed at 5 and was up at 8.30. No China tea at Golden Cross Hotel.

Feeling old

Thursday, March 3rd., Hotel Bristol, Paris.

I drove down to the Institut de France along the quays, and then walked slowly back as far as the Rue du Bac, looking at the book boxes. I only bought one book, "Les Moments Perdu de John Shag" by Gilbert Voisins, which Gide had specially recommended me. It was 8 frs instead of 12, and its transparent paper envelope had not been violated at all. Good word, violated. There were a few other books I might have bought, but I didn't want to carry them, or I knew I shouldn't read them, or something. Good to be out alone in Paris again. Quite took me back to my younger days here. Glad to be away from Dorothy for a while to be honest. I feel as if we are involved in an intermittent war to be 'in charge' and I'm not winning.

I then walked on to the Restaurant Lucas, where Maurice Baring gave a very good lunch to Dorothy and me and a Russian exile named Dimitrieff Momonoff, a sharp-nosed man with a good grey beard, speaking good English. Unfortunately he had not been reading the new Russian authors. He said that "The Death of Simon Fuge" was in the Tchekoff style, though probably written before I had read Tchekoff. There is something in this. Maurice said I had never written the sort of plays I ought to write and could write. Something in this too. Easy to think of things we might have done when we were younger, not so easy to do them now. It's all about choices it seems to me, and I expect that, given my time again, I would make the same ones.

We entertained the whole five Godebski-Blaque Bellair crew to dinner. We had a most agreeable and chattering evening. Dorothy was at bottom very exhausted, yet she plotted with the others to force me to go the Grand Ecart on Friday night, and stay until one or two in the morning. I am too old for this, and she knows it. It will certainly upset my health, and she knows that too. Another choice I made - getting involved with a younger woman!

Social injustices

Wednesday, March 2nd., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

Snow overnight which had drifted and was unexpectedly knee deep in places. A 'dry' powdery sort of snow, more like sand than the snow we are used to. Easy to imagine that the drifts in a desert must be similar in their shapes and outlines. Hard work to wade through but enjoyable in a way because out of the ordinary experience in a familiar place.


Dunn brought to lunch Charles Robinson who has designed the cover of "Journalism for Women": a very young, unkempt pale nervous man, with tremulous eyes. One could see that not long since he had been more nervous than he is today. Contact with the world was making him less like a startled faun. He told me that his design for my book had been so much liked that it had resulted in orders for twenty other covers. He showed me some examples of his art which is in the pre-Raphaelite style. Excellent of its kind I thought and I have no doubt that he will be successful as an illustrator. Apparently he was unable to take up a place at the Royal Academy due to lack of finance - seemingly only the wealthy have a place in art!  Phillpotts was extremely enthusiastic about the merits of "A Man from the North". It seemed strange and unreal to be treated by this finely serious novelist as an artist of the same calibre as himself. I wonder if I seem to him a bit like Robinson seems to me?

Between my lofty dwelling and the river is a large and beautiful garden. Not so beautiful today of course because it is deep in snow,  but in summer its lawns are wondrous, its parterres are full of flowers, and its statues are cleansed perhaps more thoroughly than the children of the poor. It is tended by several County Council gardeners, who spend comfortable lives in it, and doubtless thereby support their families in dignity. This garden is, as a rule, almost empty. I use it a geat deal and sometimes I am the only person in it. Its principal occupants are well-dressed men of affairs who apparently employ it, as I do, as a ground for reflection. The children of the poor are not to be seen in it - they might impair the lawns or commit the horrible sin of picking the blossoms. During the only hours when the poor could frequent it, it is thoughtfully closed. The poor pay and the rich enjoy. My pleasure is being paid for by all manner of side-streets! At least in Burslem the park is open to, and used by, all. Democracy is there at work.

War stories

Thursday, March 1st., Yacht Club, London.

Clifford Sharp, editor of the New Statesman, lunched with me at Reform Club. I seemed to be wandering about all day in search of ideas for novel. Went into the R.C. cathedral. Also Lanchester's Bond Street shop, clubs etc. By about 6.30 I had got them all. Whether they will prove to be good ideas is another matter. A Lieutenant Bayne (Gordon Highlanders, lost his left arm) dined with me and Shufflebotham at Cafe Royal - very well. I wanted to ask Bayne about the loss of his arm, how he felt about the war, loss of life, injuries, that sort of thing - but it didn't seem appropriate. 

Shuff told me that when he went into factory for lachrymatory shells at Walthamstow, the water poured out of his eyes and filled a jug. He does tend to exaggerate a bit.

Bayne told the tale of an Irish Company Sergeant-Major in the Gordon Highlanders, with a strong Irish accent, who said to him in the midst of the Loos affair (in reply to his question as to how he was getting on) - with enthusiasm, "Man, it's grand to be a Scotchman!" 

Marguerite has some daft idea in her head about 'closing up' Comarques. The problem is she hasn't got enough to do and she wants to be interfering in my business. She doesn't seem to realise that I cannot carry on my work without my books and without an office, and that to close Comarques would cause me grave inconvenience, quite apart from my health. Anyway, it will not be closed as long as I can afford to keep it open. I wonder what she will turn her mind to next? Somebody should warn you about this sort of thing before you marry!