Monday, April 30th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.
Today, in accordance with time-table, I finished my novel "The Roll Call" at 4 p.m. 114,000 words. It is goodish I think, but that is it for the Clayhangers, unless I go further with my idea of writing an alternative ending to "Clayhanger" itself. It has been in my mind for a few days now and would be interesting to do. I don't think it's been done before and would generate some interest I think. And make a few bob! Probably write to Pinker about it.
I went to the Russian Exhibition today, not for pleasure but to put the sacred autograph into books and to answer questions by Lady Muriel P. and other toffs about how to make these enterprises hum. It is in aid of the Anglo-Russian Hospital. The Russian theatre in the basement of the Grafton Galleries is most excellent. Plays by Tolstoy and Tchekoff. To see a play with ideas in it was like having a bath. It made me want to sit down and write more plays at once. The Russian pictures were terrible. It would have been better to have had none. I haven't tried the Russian restaurant, but I shall.
Monday, 30 April 2018
Sunday, 29 April 2018
New home
Wednesday, April 29th., Villa des Nefliers, Avon.
On Thursday last, the 23rd., we moved into our new house. By Monday morning we were sufficiently straight for me to resume my novel. Tiring but enjoyable to arrange a new home, finding places, establishing systems etc. Not without some loss of temper and disagreement, but nothing significant and I enjoyed the 'making up'. I have a feeling of liberation. Will I write differently out of the city?
Ullman came down yesterday, fresh from the U.S.A. I asked him for his impression: "Is the U.S. a good place to get away from?" He said: "On the whole, yes". Then went on to say that for a visit he thought it would interest me enormously. I think so too. He said that I could form no idea of the amount of drinking that went on there. I disagreed with him on that. No doubt he is exaggerating. I should think that excessive drinking is to be found anywhere except perhaps among the Mohammedans. Probably even there, but more discreetly.
Something I have noticed in myself. A distinct feeling of jealousy on reading yesterday and today accounts of another very successful production of a play by Somerset Maugham - his third now running. Also, in reading an enthusiastic account of a new novelist in the Daily News today, I looked eagerly for any sign to show that he was not after all a really first class artist. It relieved me to find that his principal character was somewhat conventional etc., etc. Curious! I must admit to myself however that I am usually secretly pleased when an acquaintance has some misfortune, and I hate to be told of someone in my social or family circle who has done well. To acknowledge another's achievement with enthusiasm is beyond me.
On Thursday last, the 23rd., we moved into our new house. By Monday morning we were sufficiently straight for me to resume my novel. Tiring but enjoyable to arrange a new home, finding places, establishing systems etc. Not without some loss of temper and disagreement, but nothing significant and I enjoyed the 'making up'. I have a feeling of liberation. Will I write differently out of the city?Ullman came down yesterday, fresh from the U.S.A. I asked him for his impression: "Is the U.S. a good place to get away from?" He said: "On the whole, yes". Then went on to say that for a visit he thought it would interest me enormously. I think so too. He said that I could form no idea of the amount of drinking that went on there. I disagreed with him on that. No doubt he is exaggerating. I should think that excessive drinking is to be found anywhere except perhaps among the Mohammedans. Probably even there, but more discreetly.
Something I have noticed in myself. A distinct feeling of jealousy on reading yesterday and today accounts of another very successful production of a play by Somerset Maugham - his third now running. Also, in reading an enthusiastic account of a new novelist in the Daily News today, I looked eagerly for any sign to show that he was not after all a really first class artist. It relieved me to find that his principal character was somewhat conventional etc., etc. Curious! I must admit to myself however that I am usually secretly pleased when an acquaintance has some misfortune, and I hate to be told of someone in my social or family circle who has done well. To acknowledge another's achievement with enthusiasm is beyond me.
Saturday, 28 April 2018
All at sea
Saturday, April 28th., Flying Cloud R.Y.S., at sea.
I arose at 5.45, not needing any more sleep, and ate two apples and one orange on the poop deck, talking to the officer of the watch. Neither the Captain or the other two officers are really interesting. The Captain is young and energetic but a bit boastful. Having eaten the fruit I returned to my stateroom and wrote up my impressions of the previous day in due form for printing. It is really very easy. Shaving and bathing and so on is a great nuisance and consumer of time. Breakfast at 9.
Rudolf is usually in his dressing gown; so is David Gray, the playwright; so is Kahn sometimes. Of course they have been up later than me playing their infernal cards. I am always dressed. The meal is very plenteous. The difficulty is not to eat too much. Cigarettes are always offered before the end of each meal. There are two or three stewards to look after us. I alone have a cigar after breakfast.
The 'Boss' (as they call him, except me I always call him 'Commodore' and he always calls me 'Vice Commodore') announced the time at which he proposed to leave for an excursion, but he will alter the time if asked. Today we went ashore at Candia. Motor cars were waiting; they always are, and we drove off instantly 3 miles to Knossos, the seat of Minoan civilisation. Three palaces, one above another. Very interesting, but not big enough for my taste. Then we drove back to the museum which is far more interesting artistically than the palaces. That said, when you examine the designs closely it becomes apparent that they are largely conjectural. A lot has been made out of not very much. I feel a bit disturbed by the authenticity issue. I liked the 'Snake Goddesses' - they would cause a 'stir' in Kensington!
We returned to the quay where the launch was waiting; it always is, and we were back on the ship at 12.15. I decided to bathe and then lay on the deck in the sun to dry. It did me good. A steward came round and asked what cocktail I wanted. Kahn won't have one. Then lunch. The talk at meals is very good. It is occasionally obscene startling, and even bawdy, but very intelligent. A good group of travellers (except for the card obsession!). All have been educated by experience.
I had a sleep after lunch and then we went back into the town. Intensely hot. Met Jo Davidson and Paul Dougherty in the port. We were ferried back in instalments for tea on deck. The tea is terrific. Then more card playing. I went down to my cabin to write a bit. Kahn reads a lot and writes in his stateroom. I am reading a book by him. Full of sense.
At 6 p.m. we weighed anchor for Santorini. Lovely dusk and night. I emerge from my cabin at intervals to tease the card players, and sometimes go out on the poop to see how the ship is getting along. Dinner at 8. very plenteous, too plenteous. I didn't eat half of it. I devoted most of my evening to a fine cigar. More cards! Drinks come round, but very little alcohol is drunk. I read a bit and walked around and at 10.30 said goodnight to Kahn and nodded to the others, and settled to write this. I shall probably sleep sometime after 11.
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| Flying Cloud |
Rudolf is usually in his dressing gown; so is David Gray, the playwright; so is Kahn sometimes. Of course they have been up later than me playing their infernal cards. I am always dressed. The meal is very plenteous. The difficulty is not to eat too much. Cigarettes are always offered before the end of each meal. There are two or three stewards to look after us. I alone have a cigar after breakfast.
The 'Boss' (as they call him, except me I always call him 'Commodore' and he always calls me 'Vice Commodore') announced the time at which he proposed to leave for an excursion, but he will alter the time if asked. Today we went ashore at Candia. Motor cars were waiting; they always are, and we drove off instantly 3 miles to Knossos, the seat of Minoan civilisation. Three palaces, one above another. Very interesting, but not big enough for my taste. Then we drove back to the museum which is far more interesting artistically than the palaces. That said, when you examine the designs closely it becomes apparent that they are largely conjectural. A lot has been made out of not very much. I feel a bit disturbed by the authenticity issue. I liked the 'Snake Goddesses' - they would cause a 'stir' in Kensington!We returned to the quay where the launch was waiting; it always is, and we were back on the ship at 12.15. I decided to bathe and then lay on the deck in the sun to dry. It did me good. A steward came round and asked what cocktail I wanted. Kahn won't have one. Then lunch. The talk at meals is very good. It is occasionally obscene startling, and even bawdy, but very intelligent. A good group of travellers (except for the card obsession!). All have been educated by experience.
 |
| Jo Davidson |
At 6 p.m. we weighed anchor for Santorini. Lovely dusk and night. I emerge from my cabin at intervals to tease the card players, and sometimes go out on the poop to see how the ship is getting along. Dinner at 8. very plenteous, too plenteous. I didn't eat half of it. I devoted most of my evening to a fine cigar. More cards! Drinks come round, but very little alcohol is drunk. I read a bit and walked around and at 10.30 said goodnight to Kahn and nodded to the others, and settled to write this. I shall probably sleep sometime after 11.
Friday, 27 April 2018
Alternative ending
Wednesday, April 27th., 12B George Street, London.
By the last post last night I received the proofs of the first instalment in the Delineator of "Mr. Prohack". To my intense disgust I saw at once that they had cut it. Considering that the number of instalments and the precise length had been agreed by me in accordance with the editor's own suggestion, this absolutely disgusted me, and I have written to Pinker that I don't want to correct any more proofs.
Last evening I finished re-reading "Hilda Lessways" and made a start on "These Twain". H.L. isn't as good as "Clayhanger". I don't think that Hilda is quite sufficiently 'realised' to stand as the central character. Perhaps it was too bold of me to try to put myself inside the head of a woman. Of course I have my experience from editing Woman, and I have often bragged to friends (both sexes) that I know women well. I do! But too superficially for the purpose of effective fiction I now think. Still it was a good attempt. In many ways the most interesting character in the book is George Cannon. I know that I will enjoy T.T. more.
The other thing that occured to me during the night was that I could have made all the books 'better', and more credible, by a plot change. There is a scene where Edwin and Janet Orgreave are playing tennis together. Edwin has been told that Janet is 'waiting' for him, and is tempted by the idea of marriage to her. Given the way I developed Edwin's character I now think he would not have held out. I think that I should have allowed him to propose. He would have been happy for a while, then simply content but, at the back of his mind, would be the thought of Hilda. Then, when Hilda re-emerged with her son, there would have been tremendous potential for emotional conflict, misgiving and angst. Perhaps resolved eventually by Janet dying?
By the last post last night I received the proofs of the first instalment in the Delineator of "Mr. Prohack". To my intense disgust I saw at once that they had cut it. Considering that the number of instalments and the precise length had been agreed by me in accordance with the editor's own suggestion, this absolutely disgusted me, and I have written to Pinker that I don't want to correct any more proofs.Last evening I finished re-reading "Hilda Lessways" and made a start on "These Twain". H.L. isn't as good as "Clayhanger". I don't think that Hilda is quite sufficiently 'realised' to stand as the central character. Perhaps it was too bold of me to try to put myself inside the head of a woman. Of course I have my experience from editing Woman, and I have often bragged to friends (both sexes) that I know women well. I do! But too superficially for the purpose of effective fiction I now think. Still it was a good attempt. In many ways the most interesting character in the book is George Cannon. I know that I will enjoy T.T. more.
The other thing that occured to me during the night was that I could have made all the books 'better', and more credible, by a plot change. There is a scene where Edwin and Janet Orgreave are playing tennis together. Edwin has been told that Janet is 'waiting' for him, and is tempted by the idea of marriage to her. Given the way I developed Edwin's character I now think he would not have held out. I think that I should have allowed him to propose. He would have been happy for a while, then simply content but, at the back of his mind, would be the thought of Hilda. Then, when Hilda re-emerged with her son, there would have been tremendous potential for emotional conflict, misgiving and angst. Perhaps resolved eventually by Janet dying?
Thursday, 26 April 2018
Exhausted
Wednesday, April 26th., Rue de Calais, Paris.
Paris life is exhausting me, but it is inexhaustible. I know so many people, see so much and talk so much that I cannot concentrate on anything. At bottom is the sex question which I must resolve. I have sworn to marry by the time I am forty and that deadline is approaching. I meet many attractive, intelligent and interesting young women but how to make progress?
Today for example I met Miss Thomasson at the Salon. She is American, an artist. Small, slim, dark. An effective woman with large bright eyes and dark eyebrows in striking contrast to a tower of prematurely silver hair. I have known her for more than a year now and speak to her freely on subjects which are more usually discussed in male company. I cannot deny that she raises my heart rate, and she seems interested in me. Almost I think she invites a deepening of our relationship, yet I have felt inhibited from making a move. She is a free-thinker. Perhaps that is what intimidates me due to my conventional upbringing? I have even imagined being married to her!
I cannot think sensibly. I really need the help of a male friend who I can rely upon to give me genuine and sincere advice, but there is no-one. I know what Wells's advice would be: make love to her first and then decide what to do! But I am not Wells.
Paris life is exhausting me, but it is inexhaustible. I know so many people, see so much and talk so much that I cannot concentrate on anything. At bottom is the sex question which I must resolve. I have sworn to marry by the time I am forty and that deadline is approaching. I meet many attractive, intelligent and interesting young women but how to make progress?
Today for example I met Miss Thomasson at the Salon. She is American, an artist. Small, slim, dark. An effective woman with large bright eyes and dark eyebrows in striking contrast to a tower of prematurely silver hair. I have known her for more than a year now and speak to her freely on subjects which are more usually discussed in male company. I cannot deny that she raises my heart rate, and she seems interested in me. Almost I think she invites a deepening of our relationship, yet I have felt inhibited from making a move. She is a free-thinker. Perhaps that is what intimidates me due to my conventional upbringing? I have even imagined being married to her!
I cannot think sensibly. I really need the help of a male friend who I can rely upon to give me genuine and sincere advice, but there is no-one. I know what Wells's advice would be: make love to her first and then decide what to do! But I am not Wells.
Wednesday, 25 April 2018
In Greece
Monday, April 25th., at Nauplia, on board Flying Cloud, R.Y.S.
First glimpses of Greece yesterday at 7.30 a.m. Grey day, overcast, no sun. Lovely coastline: medieval castles on it, and snow-topped mountains in the distance. At noon we had turned into the Marathon Gulf, and dropped anchor off Getheon. As soon as lunch was over we went ashore and saw the town. Crowds and crowds gathered to inspect us. The Chief of Police came to greet us on the quay. We must seem very alien to them. Lovely landscpaes and seascapes all dominated by Mount Taygetus, apparently the place where the Spartans exposed children they wanted to die.
I must say that Kahn is a man of terrific energy, also highly nervous. I suppose the two things go together. He is by far the best-dressed man on board. I am not in it. He has brought fifty two suits and six overcoats. He has six pairs of the most chic yachting shoes and appears daily in a fresh uniform with stock to match. But he hasn't got a gilt-buttoned blue blazer like mine, and much regrets the sad fact. I reckon his income at about £1,000,000 a year, so of course expenditure is nothing at all to him. Good job because the hire of the yacht is £1,000 a week, and the miscellaneous expenses must come to at least £100 a day.
Social relations are perfect so far. Kommer and Kahn pretend to quarrel at bridge. Kommer is easily the best player on board. He is a very idle man who wouldn't come with us to Epidauros this morning; he would stay on the yacht and play bridge all day if left to himself.
He missed a treat because Epidauros is simply the best-preserved theatre in Greece. In fact it strikes me as a perfection in theatres. We calculated that it can hold 12,000 people. You can hear perfectly words spoken in an ordinary tone in the centre of the 'stage'. I was quietly calculating in my head the potential revenue from a performance. I could see something in that!
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| Flying Cloud R.Y.S. |
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| Otto Kahn |
Social relations are perfect so far. Kommer and Kahn pretend to quarrel at bridge. Kommer is easily the best player on board. He is a very idle man who wouldn't come with us to Epidauros this morning; he would stay on the yacht and play bridge all day if left to himself.
He missed a treat because Epidauros is simply the best-preserved theatre in Greece. In fact it strikes me as a perfection in theatres. We calculated that it can hold 12,000 people. You can hear perfectly words spoken in an ordinary tone in the centre of the 'stage'. I was quietly calculating in my head the potential revenue from a performance. I could see something in that!
Tuesday, 24 April 2018
Perils of success
Thursday, April 24th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.
Finished "War and Peace" on Tuesday. The last part of the Epilogue is full of good ideas the johnny can't work out. The first part is as good as anything. All that domesticity is superbly rendered, with a natural and yet ruthless veracity. It has inspired me to a good basic theme for the third "Clayhanger". I shall give an account of the marriage between Edwin and Hilda which will shock because it is so true to real life, and touch the nerves of anyone who has experienced the conjugal battlefield. "War and Peace" is simply terrific. The battle of Borodino is fine. So is the Rostov family. And so are many of the 'set' descriptions of Russian life, such as the wolf-hunting on the Rostov estate. I wanted to write one of the same dimensions, and hope to yet.
I am just finishing instalment three of the Harper serial. It is sound but not brilliant. It is an infernal nuisance writing scenes which you know all through are only sound and not fine. Therein lies one important difference between myself and Tolstoy - I have to write all sorts of things just to make my living. Or at least the life we have grown used to living! Returns of "Great Adventure" at Kingsway going up. Over £150 a night now. Could scarcely be better. But current success is no guarantee for the future.
Yacht Velsa arrived at Brightlingsea from Ostend on Wednesday, and yesterday we went over to see her lying in the Creek. Lovely weather but barometer falling quickly and wind from the South East. She looked superb in every way except inside the engine case. Entirely Dutch crew, of whom two cannot speak English at all. I liked the aspect of the cook, but it was impossible to communicate any ideas to him direct. We got home at six o'clock. So excited that we forgot the dog absolutely but he was collected by the harbour master and saved for us.
I now notice one or two devoted heads amongst critics who lose no opportunity of going for me both tooth and nail. And it is astonishing how this small minority of criticism, convinced that one may be that it is obviously wrong-headed, and perhaps malicious or prejudiced, has a capacity for annoying the successful person surfeited with money and laudation.
Finished "War and Peace" on Tuesday. The last part of the Epilogue is full of good ideas the johnny can't work out. The first part is as good as anything. All that domesticity is superbly rendered, with a natural and yet ruthless veracity. It has inspired me to a good basic theme for the third "Clayhanger". I shall give an account of the marriage between Edwin and Hilda which will shock because it is so true to real life, and touch the nerves of anyone who has experienced the conjugal battlefield. "War and Peace" is simply terrific. The battle of Borodino is fine. So is the Rostov family. And so are many of the 'set' descriptions of Russian life, such as the wolf-hunting on the Rostov estate. I wanted to write one of the same dimensions, and hope to yet.
I am just finishing instalment three of the Harper serial. It is sound but not brilliant. It is an infernal nuisance writing scenes which you know all through are only sound and not fine. Therein lies one important difference between myself and Tolstoy - I have to write all sorts of things just to make my living. Or at least the life we have grown used to living! Returns of "Great Adventure" at Kingsway going up. Over £150 a night now. Could scarcely be better. But current success is no guarantee for the future.
I now notice one or two devoted heads amongst critics who lose no opportunity of going for me both tooth and nail. And it is astonishing how this small minority of criticism, convinced that one may be that it is obviously wrong-headed, and perhaps malicious or prejudiced, has a capacity for annoying the successful person surfeited with money and laudation.
Monday, 23 April 2018
Florentine scenes
Saturday, April 23rd., Pension White, Florence.
Marguerite went to "Chanticler" at the Pergola on Thursday night. Crammed, fashionable. Students making a great noise the whole time - it's what they do in the absence of a formed identity. Second performance last night and, according to the papers, scarcely anybody there. And of those who were present, many left after the second act. Curious! However there is no doubt that the first performance stirred the hotels to their depths. Eight or ten people went from this hotel alone. None of them stayed after the third acty I think. On that night I just strolled about, in search of anything I could see, and saw nothing. Often the case I find.
Yesterday, Marguerite and I went to the Bargello in the morning. On the previous morning I went into the Pitti and the Boboli Gardens. I was unaware that a ticket was required for the one, and that the other was not open 'til the afternoon. In each case I was corrected after I had got a long way, with the utmost politeness. My opinion of the Pitti is going up. The courtyard is magnificent. I have been into S. Spirito again. It is the exterior of this ('purest baroque', as an expert told me whom I met there) that I ought to paint, in sunshine, from the South East corner. It would be a wonderful composition.
Yesterday I tried a mixture of ink on aquarelle, and a mixture of a symbolical figure with Florentine architecture.
I wrote 1,800 good words of "Clayhanger" today.
The most curious new visitors we have are a brother and sister, very fair, she about 27, he about 30. Very much alike, timid, graceful, twisting themselves etc. when addressed. Always together. They go out together, getting up fairly early, with two stools, and sit close together side by side and paint the same view; he in oils, she in watercolour. Ponte Vecchio and hackneyed things like that. She wears linen dresses with white collars. Both virgins I should think. And likely to remain so.
I read G. Biagi's "Private Life of the Renaissance Florentines". Not a bad magazine article.
Marguerite went to "Chanticler" at the Pergola on Thursday night. Crammed, fashionable. Students making a great noise the whole time - it's what they do in the absence of a formed identity. Second performance last night and, according to the papers, scarcely anybody there. And of those who were present, many left after the second act. Curious! However there is no doubt that the first performance stirred the hotels to their depths. Eight or ten people went from this hotel alone. None of them stayed after the third acty I think. On that night I just strolled about, in search of anything I could see, and saw nothing. Often the case I find.
Yesterday, Marguerite and I went to the Bargello in the morning. On the previous morning I went into the Pitti and the Boboli Gardens. I was unaware that a ticket was required for the one, and that the other was not open 'til the afternoon. In each case I was corrected after I had got a long way, with the utmost politeness. My opinion of the Pitti is going up. The courtyard is magnificent. I have been into S. Spirito again. It is the exterior of this ('purest baroque', as an expert told me whom I met there) that I ought to paint, in sunshine, from the South East corner. It would be a wonderful composition.Yesterday I tried a mixture of ink on aquarelle, and a mixture of a symbolical figure with Florentine architecture.
I wrote 1,800 good words of "Clayhanger" today.
The most curious new visitors we have are a brother and sister, very fair, she about 27, he about 30. Very much alike, timid, graceful, twisting themselves etc. when addressed. Always together. They go out together, getting up fairly early, with two stools, and sit close together side by side and paint the same view; he in oils, she in watercolour. Ponte Vecchio and hackneyed things like that. She wears linen dresses with white collars. Both virgins I should think. And likely to remain so.
I read G. Biagi's "Private Life of the Renaissance Florentines". Not a bad magazine article.
Sunday, 22 April 2018
Artists
Thursday, April 22nd., Cadogan Square, London.
Headache all day, chiefly owing I think to the one and a half glasses of Pomeroy and Grenot 1906 champagne that Beaverbrook gave me. At first I thought that I could think (novel), but I couldn't. I meant to go out for an aimless walk, and then I saw that it was the Private View of the Seurat pictures at the Lefebre Galleries, so I went there. The Seurat pictures want a lot of seeing to appreciate. In the big picture "Poseuses", one thing that strikes you is the loving patience of the execution - equalling Memlin's, e.g., the pictures were badly framed but according to Seurat's own ideas. Then I walked down Piccadilly, criticising new architecture, to the Yacht Club, where Eric Pinker lunched with me, and gave me news about myself and my market. He had hopes of a play or so being sold.
Then I went to the New Gallery to see the new Jannings film, "Vaudeville". It is very fine despite a simple and rather crude story. All the pictures make 'designed pictures'. I should say the prisoners' exercise was inspired by Van Gogh. Even the empty interiors are like Cezanne. The close-ups are wonderful in design. This is where Charlie Chaplin is utterly beaten by the German film. Jannings is an exceedingly fine actor too, and puts Jack Barrymore right under. The film lasted 90 minutes without a break. I should have liked a break.
Headache all day, chiefly owing I think to the one and a half glasses of Pomeroy and Grenot 1906 champagne that Beaverbrook gave me. At first I thought that I could think (novel), but I couldn't. I meant to go out for an aimless walk, and then I saw that it was the Private View of the Seurat pictures at the Lefebre Galleries, so I went there. The Seurat pictures want a lot of seeing to appreciate. In the big picture "Poseuses", one thing that strikes you is the loving patience of the execution - equalling Memlin's, e.g., the pictures were badly framed but according to Seurat's own ideas. Then I walked down Piccadilly, criticising new architecture, to the Yacht Club, where Eric Pinker lunched with me, and gave me news about myself and my market. He had hopes of a play or so being sold.Then I went to the New Gallery to see the new Jannings film, "Vaudeville". It is very fine despite a simple and rather crude story. All the pictures make 'designed pictures'. I should say the prisoners' exercise was inspired by Van Gogh. Even the empty interiors are like Cezanne. The close-ups are wonderful in design. This is where Charlie Chaplin is utterly beaten by the German film. Jannings is an exceedingly fine actor too, and puts Jack Barrymore right under. The film lasted 90 minutes without a break. I should have liked a break.
Saturday, 21 April 2018
Walking
Saturday, April 21st., Cadogan Square, London.
Excellent short break in North Wales. Weather marvellous. As my mother always used to tell me: "The Devil looks after his own!" Unusually warm for April and, apparently, more so in London than where I was. Glad of that. I lodged in Menai Bridge which is a most pleasant little town, picturesquely situated on the straits which separate Anglesey from the mainland. Dominated by Telford's suspension bridge. I was reading about Telford. Remarkable man - son of a poor shepherd in Scotland and rose to become one of the pre-eminent Victorian engineers. I doubt it could be done now.
Plenty of healthy exercise and I am definitely leg-weary. Walked around the Penmon area, along the coast between Moelfre and Lligwy Bay, to Llanddwyn Island through the Newborough Forest, around Geironydd and Crafnant Lakes in Snowdonia, and around Llyn Padarn at Llanberis. Lots of Welsh spoken. Couldn't understand a word! People friendly though, at least those few I spoke to. Mostly I kept to myself and thoroughly enjoyed being able to please myself - nobody to consult, consider or compromise with!
I made a start on re-reading "Hilda Lessways" last evening. Disappointed. At this early stage I don't feel that the book has the energy of "Clayhanger", and Hilda herself is not convincing as a character. I shall of course persevere and hope for greater engagement as the plot develops.
Excellent short break in North Wales. Weather marvellous. As my mother always used to tell me: "The Devil looks after his own!" Unusually warm for April and, apparently, more so in London than where I was. Glad of that. I lodged in Menai Bridge which is a most pleasant little town, picturesquely situated on the straits which separate Anglesey from the mainland. Dominated by Telford's suspension bridge. I was reading about Telford. Remarkable man - son of a poor shepherd in Scotland and rose to become one of the pre-eminent Victorian engineers. I doubt it could be done now.Plenty of healthy exercise and I am definitely leg-weary. Walked around the Penmon area, along the coast between Moelfre and Lligwy Bay, to Llanddwyn Island through the Newborough Forest, around Geironydd and Crafnant Lakes in Snowdonia, and around Llyn Padarn at Llanberis. Lots of Welsh spoken. Couldn't understand a word! People friendly though, at least those few I spoke to. Mostly I kept to myself and thoroughly enjoyed being able to please myself - nobody to consult, consider or compromise with!
I made a start on re-reading "Hilda Lessways" last evening. Disappointed. At this early stage I don't feel that the book has the energy of "Clayhanger", and Hilda herself is not convincing as a character. I shall of course persevere and hope for greater engagement as the plot develops.
Friday, 20 April 2018
Temporary absence - day 6
April 15th to 20th. inclusive
AB is away in North wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
AB is away in North wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
Thursday, 19 April 2018
Temporary absence - day 5
April 15th to 20th. inclusive
AB is away in North wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
AB is away in North wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
Wednesday, 18 April 2018
Temporary absence - day 4
April 15th to 20th. inclusive
AB is away in North wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
AB is away in North wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
Tuesday, 17 April 2018
Temporary absence - day 3
April 15th to 20th. inclusive
AB is away in North wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
AB is away in North wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
Monday, 16 April 2018
Temporary absence - day 2
April 15th to 20th. inclusive
AB is away in North Wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing. He will return!
AB is away in North Wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing. He will return!
Sunday, 15 April 2018
Temporary absence
April 15th. to 20th. inclusive
AB is away in North Wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
AB is away in North Wales for a short walking holiday and is taking a well-deserved break from writing.
He will return!
Friday, 13 April 2018
Death of Darius
Friday, April 13th., Cadogan Square, London.
Bit under the weather today. Nothing very specific. Usual gastric symptoms. Just felt a little off-colour. Still, I had a decent walk this afternoon and got a few ideas.
I have been wondering if I should have handled the death of Darius in "Clayhanger" differently. I could have had him die whilst in Edwin's care, during the night. Would that have improved the scene and thus the book? Perhaps not. It might have been an indulgence by myself in Edwin as the central character - I think realism demanded that the death occur quietly, and almost unobserved. The other thing that struck me whilst re-reading yesterday was that I make much of Darius' invocations of the name of Clara, but I don't acknowledge through the other characters that he was in fact crying out for his sister-in-law, not his daughter. I can envisage now how Darius might have called out for Clara whilst Edwin and Maggie were both present, their realisation of his meaning, and the exchange of shared understanding by a look.
Come to think of it, if I were writing the book now I would be less circumspect about sex. There is a good deal of hinting at sexual feeling in the book but it stops short of realism in that regard. Times change.
Bit under the weather today. Nothing very specific. Usual gastric symptoms. Just felt a little off-colour. Still, I had a decent walk this afternoon and got a few ideas.
I have been wondering if I should have handled the death of Darius in "Clayhanger" differently. I could have had him die whilst in Edwin's care, during the night. Would that have improved the scene and thus the book? Perhaps not. It might have been an indulgence by myself in Edwin as the central character - I think realism demanded that the death occur quietly, and almost unobserved. The other thing that struck me whilst re-reading yesterday was that I make much of Darius' invocations of the name of Clara, but I don't acknowledge through the other characters that he was in fact crying out for his sister-in-law, not his daughter. I can envisage now how Darius might have called out for Clara whilst Edwin and Maggie were both present, their realisation of his meaning, and the exchange of shared understanding by a look.
Come to think of it, if I were writing the book now I would be less circumspect about sex. There is a good deal of hinting at sexual feeling in the book but it stops short of realism in that regard. Times change.
Thursday, 12 April 2018
Damn England
Tuesday, April 12th., Pension White, Florence.
Recital of Monteverdi's "Orfeo" in the Salone della Pergola this afternoon. I shall write an article on it for the Nation. Astonishing that such a beautiful and obviously attractive thing is not given oftener.
Then I took Mrs. Mock and a young woman from Chicago to have aperitifs at a cafe in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. Much movement and great joy of the women in the sensation of sitting outside a cafe after all these days of rain. This is much better, and more amusing, and incidentally cheaper than having tea in one of those damned English tea houses.
Walking home you could appreciate the calm and easy life of the people: eg. saddlers in their shops, and all the tradesmen, work girls coming out of ateliers etc. No hurry. Very little ambition. Very few conveniences. Many conditions that would be hardships if they were perceived as such. And certainly a great deal more apparent happiness than in England, even if happiness in misery. You are apt to think that Italians don't care about the disadvantages of their condition, and then you see a sign 'Camera di Lavoro' and a number of working men hanging about. I suppose it is the equivalent of the Bourse de Travail.
Flaubert's correspondence is certainly very fine indeed; it is even sensationally fine. I got the first volume from the library, and much prefer it to Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence". Ruskin is just too serious! I don't think the great man would recognise a joke if one fell at his feet and cried to be noticed. No wonder Effie went elsewhere for some joy in life!
I was wondering today whether Florence is in fact a beautiful place, or if we have just come to regard it as such? Is it the association with all things Renaissance that pre-prepares one to 'see' beauty. Of course there are marvellous things to see, statues and such, but is there more intrinsic beauty here than in say London, or even the Five Towns? I am inclined to think that we see beauty where we expect to see it. Some artists of course have the gift of 'seeing' things as they are but most of us do not. I certainly don't most of the time.
Recital of Monteverdi's "Orfeo" in the Salone della Pergola this afternoon. I shall write an article on it for the Nation. Astonishing that such a beautiful and obviously attractive thing is not given oftener.
Then I took Mrs. Mock and a young woman from Chicago to have aperitifs at a cafe in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. Much movement and great joy of the women in the sensation of sitting outside a cafe after all these days of rain. This is much better, and more amusing, and incidentally cheaper than having tea in one of those damned English tea houses.
Walking home you could appreciate the calm and easy life of the people: eg. saddlers in their shops, and all the tradesmen, work girls coming out of ateliers etc. No hurry. Very little ambition. Very few conveniences. Many conditions that would be hardships if they were perceived as such. And certainly a great deal more apparent happiness than in England, even if happiness in misery. You are apt to think that Italians don't care about the disadvantages of their condition, and then you see a sign 'Camera di Lavoro' and a number of working men hanging about. I suppose it is the equivalent of the Bourse de Travail.
Flaubert's correspondence is certainly very fine indeed; it is even sensationally fine. I got the first volume from the library, and much prefer it to Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence". Ruskin is just too serious! I don't think the great man would recognise a joke if one fell at his feet and cried to be noticed. No wonder Effie went elsewhere for some joy in life!
I was wondering today whether Florence is in fact a beautiful place, or if we have just come to regard it as such? Is it the association with all things Renaissance that pre-prepares one to 'see' beauty. Of course there are marvellous things to see, statues and such, but is there more intrinsic beauty here than in say London, or even the Five Towns? I am inclined to think that we see beauty where we expect to see it. Some artists of course have the gift of 'seeing' things as they are but most of us do not. I certainly don't most of the time.
Wednesday, 11 April 2018
Winding down
Wednesday, April 11th., Cadogan Square, London.
Another dull, rainy day. The question on the lips of everyone at the moment is: "Will it ever stop raining?" Last weekend it was quite bright and we had three days without rain, but people generally do not let facts interfere with their preconceived notion of things. I suppose I have the same tendency myself, but am too intimately involved with the principal to notice it! What I do notice is that the weather has a significant effect on the mood of people. I think I have hinted at this from time to time in my books but I might have made more of it.
I have been re-reading "Clayhanger". I feel that I have Edwin just right. That said, I suspect that only a reader who is himself rather of the diffident, melancholy, self-critical inclination is likely to fully appreciate how well-realised as a character Edwin is. Last might I read the scene between Edwin and Hilda in the cubicle/office of the shop. I don't think I could have improved on it. The dialogue seems to me to be authentic, and Edwin's emotional state is perfectly captured - it is a 'Goldilocks' scene! Most people think that "The Old Wives' Tale" is my best book but "Clayhanger" touches me more deply because there is so much more of me in it.
As regards work, I have finished reading Sullivan on Relativity, and I also read Montmorency's new little book "From Kant to Einstein". Those under my belt I have completed my article on Relativity for the Evening Standard. I find that I have five of these artciles in hand and may do another tomorrow. This is a reassuring situation. I feel as if the work I have to do before I go away is drawing to a close. I shall be in North Wales for a few days next week, quite by myself. Looking forward to it.
Another dull, rainy day. The question on the lips of everyone at the moment is: "Will it ever stop raining?" Last weekend it was quite bright and we had three days without rain, but people generally do not let facts interfere with their preconceived notion of things. I suppose I have the same tendency myself, but am too intimately involved with the principal to notice it! What I do notice is that the weather has a significant effect on the mood of people. I think I have hinted at this from time to time in my books but I might have made more of it.
I have been re-reading "Clayhanger". I feel that I have Edwin just right. That said, I suspect that only a reader who is himself rather of the diffident, melancholy, self-critical inclination is likely to fully appreciate how well-realised as a character Edwin is. Last might I read the scene between Edwin and Hilda in the cubicle/office of the shop. I don't think I could have improved on it. The dialogue seems to me to be authentic, and Edwin's emotional state is perfectly captured - it is a 'Goldilocks' scene! Most people think that "The Old Wives' Tale" is my best book but "Clayhanger" touches me more deply because there is so much more of me in it.
As regards work, I have finished reading Sullivan on Relativity, and I also read Montmorency's new little book "From Kant to Einstein". Those under my belt I have completed my article on Relativity for the Evening Standard. I find that I have five of these artciles in hand and may do another tomorrow. This is a reassuring situation. I feel as if the work I have to do before I go away is drawing to a close. I shall be in North Wales for a few days next week, quite by myself. Looking forward to it.
Tuesday, 10 April 2018
Wartime worries
Wednesday, April 10th., Yacht Club, London.
Too much occupied and preoccupied with the British defeats, the government proposals for increasing the army, the publication of "The Pretty Lady", political journalism, the gardening and household difficulties, chill on the entrails, neuralgia, insomnia, Marguerite's illness, the nightly rehearsals in the small drawing-room of a play for the Red Cross performance at Clacton, and my new play - to be bothered with this journal or notes of any kind. However, I did at last, in spite of all distractions, get my play going, and it is going.
Meeting of British War Memorial Committee this afternoon. Beaverbrook arrived. He told me that he liked "The Pretty Lady" better than any other book of mine, and better than any other modern book. Needless to say, I took his praises with a pinch of salt but praise is praise. As regards sales, I hear it is 'doing very nicely'. With Beaverbrook I am trying to ensure that young artists, including those seen as modernist or avant garde, are commissioned by the Committee over older artists with nothing original to say.
Maurice Baring and Frank Swinnerton dined with me tonight at the Yacht Club. After F.S. had gone Maurice grew communicative about the war. Knows Haig. Thinks him a real personality with grit, decision, and power of command. Never rattled, a good soldier, but not a genius. No reserves in France. Depots empty. Lloyd George always refused to look at facts, but liked ideas, grandiose etc. for a new stunt. Cabinet did not believe in German offensive. Soldiers did. Haig told Cabinet long ago facts as to inferiority of manpower, and expected them to be frightened out of their lives. They were not as they did not believe in the possibility of an offensive. Maurice expects an attack on Haig next. He didn't think we should lose the war - we could hold on and Germans would crack. He said that Haig had no desire to conceal the facts as to lack of troops, and spoke freely of them and permitted others to do so. Unfortunately of course one can't print the facts; although the Germans probably know them pretty well.
Too much occupied and preoccupied with the British defeats, the government proposals for increasing the army, the publication of "The Pretty Lady", political journalism, the gardening and household difficulties, chill on the entrails, neuralgia, insomnia, Marguerite's illness, the nightly rehearsals in the small drawing-room of a play for the Red Cross performance at Clacton, and my new play - to be bothered with this journal or notes of any kind. However, I did at last, in spite of all distractions, get my play going, and it is going.
Meeting of British War Memorial Committee this afternoon. Beaverbrook arrived. He told me that he liked "The Pretty Lady" better than any other book of mine, and better than any other modern book. Needless to say, I took his praises with a pinch of salt but praise is praise. As regards sales, I hear it is 'doing very nicely'. With Beaverbrook I am trying to ensure that young artists, including those seen as modernist or avant garde, are commissioned by the Committee over older artists with nothing original to say. |
| Maurice Baring |
Monday, 9 April 2018
Rain in Florence
Saturday, April 9th., Pension White, Florence.
It has been raining for days. Yesterday, to get out of the rain I walked about in the church of S. Croce to collect my ideas for the third part of "Clayhanger". For this purpose I found it to be a very good, spacious church. Funny to be immersed mentally in the doings of the Five Towns in a place like this which couldn't be much more different. I bought a copy of Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence" today. Weather too wet and me too buried in writing for any excursions.
There is a professor from Toronto University staying here. Came into the smoking room last evening. Lounge suit, dirty brown boots, small piercing eyes. Took no notice of me though the room was not twelve foot square until he found he hadn't a match, when he said abruptly, and in a tone which expected only one answer: "Can I trouble you for a match?" This casualness was geberal with him. You could trace it in the way he sat on a chair. Seemed an impatient sort. Then began to talk of Egyptian tombs in a very sensible, interesting and friendly way. When he is not interested it does not occur to him to pretend to be. If a remark does not strike him as fruitful he quite naturally says nothing at all. It is brusqueness, but has a good foundation. I admire it in a way; a sort of intellectual honesty. I am probably similar myself by nature but have had 'good manners' drummed into me over the years. Similar age to me I should think. Somebody told me he is a professor of English literature; but I don't know.
I put on my largest overcoat and walked to the Cascine this morning and this afternoon I went to inspect the Palazzo Strozzi for my article "Night and Morning in Florence", of which I wrote 2,200 words today. I also went into the church of S. Annunziata. We should have been going to the opera this evening but Grierson and Mock are both indisposed.
It has been raining for days. Yesterday, to get out of the rain I walked about in the church of S. Croce to collect my ideas for the third part of "Clayhanger". For this purpose I found it to be a very good, spacious church. Funny to be immersed mentally in the doings of the Five Towns in a place like this which couldn't be much more different. I bought a copy of Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence" today. Weather too wet and me too buried in writing for any excursions.
There is a professor from Toronto University staying here. Came into the smoking room last evening. Lounge suit, dirty brown boots, small piercing eyes. Took no notice of me though the room was not twelve foot square until he found he hadn't a match, when he said abruptly, and in a tone which expected only one answer: "Can I trouble you for a match?" This casualness was geberal with him. You could trace it in the way he sat on a chair. Seemed an impatient sort. Then began to talk of Egyptian tombs in a very sensible, interesting and friendly way. When he is not interested it does not occur to him to pretend to be. If a remark does not strike him as fruitful he quite naturally says nothing at all. It is brusqueness, but has a good foundation. I admire it in a way; a sort of intellectual honesty. I am probably similar myself by nature but have had 'good manners' drummed into me over the years. Similar age to me I should think. Somebody told me he is a professor of English literature; but I don't know.
I put on my largest overcoat and walked to the Cascine this morning and this afternoon I went to inspect the Palazzo Strozzi for my article "Night and Morning in Florence", of which I wrote 2,200 words today. I also went into the church of S. Annunziata. We should have been going to the opera this evening but Grierson and Mock are both indisposed.
Sunday, 8 April 2018
An indulgence
Thursday, April 8th., Cadogan Square, London.
I finished Christopher Morley's book "Thunder on the Left" yesterday. Much boomed. 70,000 copies very quickly. He even says that it will 'literally' make your hair stand on end. Why, I don't know. It didn't make mine. Some clever bits in it. But it's obscure, ill-combined, and unevenly written, and it bored me. I don't know why I bothered to finish it. Suggests to me that 'fashion' has more to do with the success of a book than the quality of the writing. Of course I knew that already, and it's not confined just to literature either.
A more interesting book for me is de Burgh's "Legacy of the Ancient World". It is not very clearly written, and not partciularly easy to read, but it is packed with stuff. Though the fellow's writing is a bit ordinary his ideas and generalisations are pretty good and sometimes rather distinguished. I am endeavouring at the moment to have two 'main' books on the go at any one time - one fiction and one non-fiction. Presently my idea is to read the non-fiction before I settle to sleep giving me a chance to digest and think about what I have read. Also when I wake up in the night I try to go over what I remember. I am woefully ignorant and hope to make some progress by this method.
An indulgence the other day. I was out early and went into Selfridge's which ought not to have been open. I bought a pencil that writes in four colours and a combination magnifying glass, inch rule and letter-opener. All very attractive, indeed irresistible.
Last evening I decided, on a whim, to re-read some of "Clayhanger". Fixed on the scene where Edwin goes to the 'free and easy' at The Dragon. I think it might just be the best bit of writing I have done so far. I was gripped by the emotional power of the scene. Of course I put a lot of myself into Edwin, but even so I think the whole picture is perfectly realised. It is strange to re-read things one has written because, if it well-written, powerful, then it stands by itself. In a way it becomes a work of art which has its own life, and is independent of the creator. That must be also how painters feel about their best works, or composers when they hear their music performed.
A more interesting book for me is de Burgh's "Legacy of the Ancient World". It is not very clearly written, and not partciularly easy to read, but it is packed with stuff. Though the fellow's writing is a bit ordinary his ideas and generalisations are pretty good and sometimes rather distinguished. I am endeavouring at the moment to have two 'main' books on the go at any one time - one fiction and one non-fiction. Presently my idea is to read the non-fiction before I settle to sleep giving me a chance to digest and think about what I have read. Also when I wake up in the night I try to go over what I remember. I am woefully ignorant and hope to make some progress by this method.
An indulgence the other day. I was out early and went into Selfridge's which ought not to have been open. I bought a pencil that writes in four colours and a combination magnifying glass, inch rule and letter-opener. All very attractive, indeed irresistible.
Last evening I decided, on a whim, to re-read some of "Clayhanger". Fixed on the scene where Edwin goes to the 'free and easy' at The Dragon. I think it might just be the best bit of writing I have done so far. I was gripped by the emotional power of the scene. Of course I put a lot of myself into Edwin, but even so I think the whole picture is perfectly realised. It is strange to re-read things one has written because, if it well-written, powerful, then it stands by itself. In a way it becomes a work of art which has its own life, and is independent of the creator. That must be also how painters feel about their best works, or composers when they hear their music performed.
Saturday, 7 April 2018
Other ways
Monday, April 7th., Comarques, Thrope-le-Soken.
Last week being in need of an inspirational bucking up, I dropped "War and Peace" and read Balzac's "Cure de Tours" and "Pierrette". Latter better than Saintsbury says it is. Balzac was an ignorant and crude man, often childish in his philosophising. But if he had been properly educated and influenced he would have been a great social philosopher. His apercus are often astounding. And his vitality is terrific. He is full of inspiring and agreeable ornament.
Nothing of the kind in Tolstoy. All a flat recital. Often dull, unless you give yourself to it. But if you do, he is never dull. Some of Tolstoy's long descriptions (such as of the wolf-hunt on Count Izla's estate) are extremely beautiful. Natasha is the most beautiful character - anyway up to page 700 or so, where I am now.
I think of the contrast between life on an estate in Russia and my estate here in Thorpe. It's not just the scale, but the whole aspect of things, physically and socially. Tolstoy makes Russia seem untamed and exciting - not words one would use in describing Essex! And the women! How it must be to be loved and desired by a Russian woman. Makes my blood flow faster just thinking about it. I thought I was doing something exotic by marrying a Frenchwoman, but to think if she had been Russian. No prospect of peace and tranquility of course, but the passion!
Last week being in need of an inspirational bucking up, I dropped "War and Peace" and read Balzac's "Cure de Tours" and "Pierrette". Latter better than Saintsbury says it is. Balzac was an ignorant and crude man, often childish in his philosophising. But if he had been properly educated and influenced he would have been a great social philosopher. His apercus are often astounding. And his vitality is terrific. He is full of inspiring and agreeable ornament.
Nothing of the kind in Tolstoy. All a flat recital. Often dull, unless you give yourself to it. But if you do, he is never dull. Some of Tolstoy's long descriptions (such as of the wolf-hunt on Count Izla's estate) are extremely beautiful. Natasha is the most beautiful character - anyway up to page 700 or so, where I am now.
I think of the contrast between life on an estate in Russia and my estate here in Thorpe. It's not just the scale, but the whole aspect of things, physically and socially. Tolstoy makes Russia seem untamed and exciting - not words one would use in describing Essex! And the women! How it must be to be loved and desired by a Russian woman. Makes my blood flow faster just thinking about it. I thought I was doing something exotic by marrying a Frenchwoman, but to think if she had been Russian. No prospect of peace and tranquility of course, but the passion!
Friday, 6 April 2018
Self medication
Monday, April 6th., Cadogan Square, London.
Some weeks ago Mrs. S.M. recommended to me some anti-fat pills mad and sold by a chemist at Nice. The course was six boxes. I got the six boxes from Nice and began. She positively assured me that they were quite harmless and very effective. After I had taken a little more than two boxes I began to notice that I perspired very freely and also was short-winded after any exertion. Also that my heart made a too loud noise and was rather irregular. So much so that I could not sleep on my left side on account of the thumping row! Fjellsted, my masseur, told me my heart had been affected by something, but he didn't know what, or why. I haven't told him about the anti-fat pills as he is strongly against pills of all kinds.
I then sent for Dr. Griffin. He examined me and said that organically my heart was quite all right, but that it had been upset by the pills and I must cease to take them at once. There has been some improvement but I still have to walk upstairs very slowly and avoid physical strain. Dr. Griffin had the pills analysed. The ingredients listed on the box, in accordance with French law, are iodothyrine, hypophyse, surenales and genesiques. But it seems that the quantity of thyroid is in fact greater than in the formula, and the other things less. He said that I oughtn't to take medicines without consulting him. And of course he is quite right. It is perfectly staggering the idiotic things even a wise man will do.
All my life it seems I have sought 'miracle cures' for health problems. I am remarkably credulous in this respect, and I puzzle to understand why. It seems that a part of the nature of humans is to have a belief in the irrational. If not, why should religions persist? And think about things like superstitions, lucky charms, and betting systems. Reason has done a great deal to improve the world since the Enlightenment, but it hasn't made a scrap of difference to man's fundamental nature.
Some weeks ago Mrs. S.M. recommended to me some anti-fat pills mad and sold by a chemist at Nice. The course was six boxes. I got the six boxes from Nice and began. She positively assured me that they were quite harmless and very effective. After I had taken a little more than two boxes I began to notice that I perspired very freely and also was short-winded after any exertion. Also that my heart made a too loud noise and was rather irregular. So much so that I could not sleep on my left side on account of the thumping row! Fjellsted, my masseur, told me my heart had been affected by something, but he didn't know what, or why. I haven't told him about the anti-fat pills as he is strongly against pills of all kinds.
I then sent for Dr. Griffin. He examined me and said that organically my heart was quite all right, but that it had been upset by the pills and I must cease to take them at once. There has been some improvement but I still have to walk upstairs very slowly and avoid physical strain. Dr. Griffin had the pills analysed. The ingredients listed on the box, in accordance with French law, are iodothyrine, hypophyse, surenales and genesiques. But it seems that the quantity of thyroid is in fact greater than in the formula, and the other things less. He said that I oughtn't to take medicines without consulting him. And of course he is quite right. It is perfectly staggering the idiotic things even a wise man will do.
All my life it seems I have sought 'miracle cures' for health problems. I am remarkably credulous in this respect, and I puzzle to understand why. It seems that a part of the nature of humans is to have a belief in the irrational. If not, why should religions persist? And think about things like superstitions, lucky charms, and betting systems. Reason has done a great deal to improve the world since the Enlightenment, but it hasn't made a scrap of difference to man's fundamental nature.
Thursday, 5 April 2018
Addicted to words
Sunday, April 5th., Rue de Calais, Paris.
I finished this morning, at 8.30 am., "The Snake Charmer", melodrama in one act. It is intended as a music-hall sketch. I have no real expectation of it ever being played. I make £25 down out of it, and that is all I am sure of.
The habit of work is growing on me. I could get into the way of going to my desk as a man goes to whisky, or rather to chloral. Now that I have finished all my odd jobs and have nothing to do but 10,000 words of novel a week, and two articles a week, I feel quite lost, and at once begin to think, without effort, of ideas for a new novel. My instinct is to multiply books and articles and plays. I constantly gloat over the number of words I have written in a period.
All I want now is about 5,000 francs extra to fix us in the Fontainebleau house. When there I shall walk every day, come rain or shine, getting my ideas in the open air and restoring my soul as well as exercising my body.
I finished this morning, at 8.30 am., "The Snake Charmer", melodrama in one act. It is intended as a music-hall sketch. I have no real expectation of it ever being played. I make £25 down out of it, and that is all I am sure of.
The habit of work is growing on me. I could get into the way of going to my desk as a man goes to whisky, or rather to chloral. Now that I have finished all my odd jobs and have nothing to do but 10,000 words of novel a week, and two articles a week, I feel quite lost, and at once begin to think, without effort, of ideas for a new novel. My instinct is to multiply books and articles and plays. I constantly gloat over the number of words I have written in a period.
All I want now is about 5,000 francs extra to fix us in the Fontainebleau house. When there I shall walk every day, come rain or shine, getting my ideas in the open air and restoring my soul as well as exercising my body.
Wednesday, 4 April 2018
Thoughts and fancies
Saturday, April 4th., Villa des Nefliers.
Yesterday I wrote 1,700 words in two and a half hours.
Also, I received Tauchnitz' "Swinburne". I came across "England: an Ode." I would not write such a thing called "Englnad: an Ode." This patriotism seems so cheap and conceited. It leaves me cold. I would as soon write "Burslem: an Ode" or "The Bennetts: an Ode." I would treat such a theme ironically, or realistically. But loud, sounding praise, ecstacy -No!
Every morning just now I say to myself: Today, not tomorrow, is the day you have to live, to be happy in. Just as complete materials for being happy today as you will ever have. Live as though this day your last of joy. "How obvious, if thought about" - yet it is just what we forget. Sheer Marcus Aurelius of course.
Each day, thrice, I expect romantically interesting, fate-making letters. Always disappointed. Astonishing how I have kept this up for two years.
Eyesight going wrong again. Ought to go to an optician at once. But can't put myself out to go to Paris, hate the idea of explaining to an optician etc. Yet I know I run risks. Yesterday I decided to go and felt easier; today my eyes are better and I put it off.
Yesterday I wrote 1,700 words in two and a half hours.
Also, I received Tauchnitz' "Swinburne". I came across "England: an Ode." I would not write such a thing called "Englnad: an Ode." This patriotism seems so cheap and conceited. It leaves me cold. I would as soon write "Burslem: an Ode" or "The Bennetts: an Ode." I would treat such a theme ironically, or realistically. But loud, sounding praise, ecstacy -No!
Every morning just now I say to myself: Today, not tomorrow, is the day you have to live, to be happy in. Just as complete materials for being happy today as you will ever have. Live as though this day your last of joy. "How obvious, if thought about" - yet it is just what we forget. Sheer Marcus Aurelius of course.
Each day, thrice, I expect romantically interesting, fate-making letters. Always disappointed. Astonishing how I have kept this up for two years.
Eyesight going wrong again. Ought to go to an optician at once. But can't put myself out to go to Paris, hate the idea of explaining to an optician etc. Yet I know I run risks. Yesterday I decided to go and felt easier; today my eyes are better and I put it off.
Tuesday, 3 April 2018
In Florence
Sunday, April 3rd., Pension White, Piazza Cavalleggieri, Florence.
Wet morning. Uffizi. Great struggling crowd at the vestiaire. I only went in to get a first impression of the gallery, not of the pictures. Immense staircase to climb: it corrects your inadequate notion of the size of the building. A general impression of carelessness and povery in the housing of the collection. Irregularity of rooms etc. One feels that such a collection ought to be housed if not with grandeur and splendour, at any rate with a conventional distinction. But those are my conventions, not the Italian.
Irregularity of the rooms is confusing. And the climax is reached in the section of painters' portraits of themselves. The portrait of some supreme artist with an elaborately worked shirt made me understand the desire that every artist has to be a dandy in something. How rotten and vulgar the portraits of Tadema, Herkomer etc. Holman Hunt and Watts pretty good. Also Sargent. Some of the rooms in this section are really ridiculously proportioned and small. The two pictures that most diverted and interested me this morning were a Virgin immensely enceinte and a big, badly lighted 'Prima Notte', with a waiting husband, that was charming. Some of the pictures are simply not lighted at all. Great crowds in the principal rooms. In this house of pictures, all turns and corners, some of the pictures are absolutely in the dark.
I took the covered gallery to the Pitti. Too tired, when I reached there, to look at anything. I went out into the rain. Called at S. Trinita during a Mass, made a sketch, and walked home in the rain. There is only one word for the courtyards of the palazzi - noble.
This pension shows that it is run exclusively by women. Little tickets in each bedroom stating day of the week when the room is 'cleaned'. Little bookshelves about, in any case hung in the worst place in the room - just over the wash-stand so the books can be well splashed. Embroidered or chintz covers for things. Everything little and neat in the arrangements. No provision of writing material. No spectacular quality at all anywhere. The Italian manageress has almost become English in her very soul. The great quality of the place is the meals. A really A1 dinner last night when we came home at 11pm. The whole place was shut up. A female servant opened. The bonnes are dressed in English fashion, but better. All white in the morning; black and white in the evening. All sorts of details I shall put direct into my article for English Review.
Wet morning. Uffizi. Great struggling crowd at the vestiaire. I only went in to get a first impression of the gallery, not of the pictures. Immense staircase to climb: it corrects your inadequate notion of the size of the building. A general impression of carelessness and povery in the housing of the collection. Irregularity of rooms etc. One feels that such a collection ought to be housed if not with grandeur and splendour, at any rate with a conventional distinction. But those are my conventions, not the Italian.Irregularity of the rooms is confusing. And the climax is reached in the section of painters' portraits of themselves. The portrait of some supreme artist with an elaborately worked shirt made me understand the desire that every artist has to be a dandy in something. How rotten and vulgar the portraits of Tadema, Herkomer etc. Holman Hunt and Watts pretty good. Also Sargent. Some of the rooms in this section are really ridiculously proportioned and small. The two pictures that most diverted and interested me this morning were a Virgin immensely enceinte and a big, badly lighted 'Prima Notte', with a waiting husband, that was charming. Some of the pictures are simply not lighted at all. Great crowds in the principal rooms. In this house of pictures, all turns and corners, some of the pictures are absolutely in the dark.
I took the covered gallery to the Pitti. Too tired, when I reached there, to look at anything. I went out into the rain. Called at S. Trinita during a Mass, made a sketch, and walked home in the rain. There is only one word for the courtyards of the palazzi - noble.
This pension shows that it is run exclusively by women. Little tickets in each bedroom stating day of the week when the room is 'cleaned'. Little bookshelves about, in any case hung in the worst place in the room - just over the wash-stand so the books can be well splashed. Embroidered or chintz covers for things. Everything little and neat in the arrangements. No provision of writing material. No spectacular quality at all anywhere. The Italian manageress has almost become English in her very soul. The great quality of the place is the meals. A really A1 dinner last night when we came home at 11pm. The whole place was shut up. A female servant opened. The bonnes are dressed in English fashion, but better. All white in the morning; black and white in the evening. All sorts of details I shall put direct into my article for English Review.
Monday, 2 April 2018
An agreeable day
Saturday, April 2nd., Hotel Bellini, Milan.
We left the Hotel Belvedere on Easter Sunday. I wrote 3 articles and 11,000 words of my novel during our seven clear days in Switzerland.
We found the Rhone valley less tedious than we had expected and the Simplon shorter. And the customs quite harmless. It was very hot as soon as we got fairly into Italy, really hot. The views of the Italian lakes came up to our hopes. This hotel is a good staging post, dominated by Germans, not agreeable fellow-travellers and it's no use pretending that they are. There is also a school group of young girls in the hotel, chiefly Germans seeing cities during the Easter holidays. Their laughter, heard occasionally from the interior of bedrooms was very agreeable, in fact rather erotic if I am honest. For a man of vivid imagination a party of young girls, just on the edge of womanhood, is stirring.
National characters. Are they real, or are they observed because we look out for examples to reinforce our preconceptions. I think the latter.
After tea Marguerite and I went into the town. Took a tram. Quite an adventure taking a tram in an absolutely strange town where you can't speak the language. The cathedral is impressive though you can see at once that it is meretricious in many respects. We saw it in a grand afternoon light that really did 'flood' it. Almost tangible, as if you could roll it around in your hands. The place is prodigious and iot seemed to be on fire with orange yellow streams of light. We couldn't see any chairs. The whole floor space lookd empty. Then after a time we saw a squad of 500 or 1,000 chairs which we had missed in the vast arena. The Victor Emmanuel gallery and Arcade also pleased us.
Marguerite was ravished, enchanted by everything; said all the women were very pretty etc., all this because the atmosphere reminded her of her midi. We walked about until she was nearly dead. But the stimulating effect persisted as I discovered when we got back to our room in the hotel. I shall have to seek out such stimulation more often!
Auguste Foa, my translator, came to see me after dinner. Young man, 32, dark, slim, hat on one side, very sympathetic and agreeable. He told me some depressing things about Italian literature. He said all his literary articles only brought him in £40 a year. I shall put some of his facts into the New Age.
We left the Hotel Belvedere on Easter Sunday. I wrote 3 articles and 11,000 words of my novel during our seven clear days in Switzerland.
We found the Rhone valley less tedious than we had expected and the Simplon shorter. And the customs quite harmless. It was very hot as soon as we got fairly into Italy, really hot. The views of the Italian lakes came up to our hopes. This hotel is a good staging post, dominated by Germans, not agreeable fellow-travellers and it's no use pretending that they are. There is also a school group of young girls in the hotel, chiefly Germans seeing cities during the Easter holidays. Their laughter, heard occasionally from the interior of bedrooms was very agreeable, in fact rather erotic if I am honest. For a man of vivid imagination a party of young girls, just on the edge of womanhood, is stirring.
National characters. Are they real, or are they observed because we look out for examples to reinforce our preconceptions. I think the latter.
After tea Marguerite and I went into the town. Took a tram. Quite an adventure taking a tram in an absolutely strange town where you can't speak the language. The cathedral is impressive though you can see at once that it is meretricious in many respects. We saw it in a grand afternoon light that really did 'flood' it. Almost tangible, as if you could roll it around in your hands. The place is prodigious and iot seemed to be on fire with orange yellow streams of light. We couldn't see any chairs. The whole floor space lookd empty. Then after a time we saw a squad of 500 or 1,000 chairs which we had missed in the vast arena. The Victor Emmanuel gallery and Arcade also pleased us. Marguerite was ravished, enchanted by everything; said all the women were very pretty etc., all this because the atmosphere reminded her of her midi. We walked about until she was nearly dead. But the stimulating effect persisted as I discovered when we got back to our room in the hotel. I shall have to seek out such stimulation more often!
Auguste Foa, my translator, came to see me after dinner. Young man, 32, dark, slim, hat on one side, very sympathetic and agreeable. He told me some depressing things about Italian literature. He said all his literary articles only brought him in £40 a year. I shall put some of his facts into the New Age.
Sunday, 1 April 2018
Children
Sunday, April 1st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.
The problem of Richard has reared its head again. It seems now that there will be an interval between the end of his O.T.C. camp and resumption of school. I have decided that he should spend the time here with me. Marguerite will in any case be away in France but she has so set her face against Richard that she does not want him in the house even when she is not there. Well, she will have to not want. I will do what I think right. I have spent too much time and mental energy on trying to accommodate her moods and whims.
The irony of the whole business is that it was Marguerite who wanted to adopt Richard in the first place. As in everything, once she had the idea in her head she went to the extreme and would see no sense. I gave way. I regret it now. I told her at the time it was a mistake, that he was too old, too sensitive, and obstinate. I could not say I was surprised when the final split between them occured. Only a trivial matter superficially but the temperamental clash is deep. Of course Richard could smooth things over, but why should he? He has no interest or investment in the relationship. I don't blame him.
I think a lot of the problem is cultural. I remember when Marguerite first met my sisters she found them to be 'stand-offish'. But that is the way in the Potteries, the people there don't make a habit of hugging and kissing each other. Marguerite understands this intellectually, but emotionally it is an affront and in any contest between intellect and emotion for a Frenchwoman there is no doubt which will be victorious. She thought that Richard would fall into the role of loving son, but he has not, and there was never any prospect that he would.
I wonder if childlessness has soured Marguerite? She is 46 now and seemingly reconciled but I know she would have liked children of her own. I have always been against it, and that is perhaps the only aspect of our lives together where my wishes have consistently prevailed. Apart from the demands of parenthood I felt anxious about our heredity. There are examples of insanity in her family, and 'softening of the brain' in mine. What sort of children would we have made? I feel it was the right course to take and to stick to, but I cannot ignore the effect it has had on Marguerite's personality.
The problem of Richard has reared its head again. It seems now that there will be an interval between the end of his O.T.C. camp and resumption of school. I have decided that he should spend the time here with me. Marguerite will in any case be away in France but she has so set her face against Richard that she does not want him in the house even when she is not there. Well, she will have to not want. I will do what I think right. I have spent too much time and mental energy on trying to accommodate her moods and whims.
The irony of the whole business is that it was Marguerite who wanted to adopt Richard in the first place. As in everything, once she had the idea in her head she went to the extreme and would see no sense. I gave way. I regret it now. I told her at the time it was a mistake, that he was too old, too sensitive, and obstinate. I could not say I was surprised when the final split between them occured. Only a trivial matter superficially but the temperamental clash is deep. Of course Richard could smooth things over, but why should he? He has no interest or investment in the relationship. I don't blame him.
I think a lot of the problem is cultural. I remember when Marguerite first met my sisters she found them to be 'stand-offish'. But that is the way in the Potteries, the people there don't make a habit of hugging and kissing each other. Marguerite understands this intellectually, but emotionally it is an affront and in any contest between intellect and emotion for a Frenchwoman there is no doubt which will be victorious. She thought that Richard would fall into the role of loving son, but he has not, and there was never any prospect that he would.
I wonder if childlessness has soured Marguerite? She is 46 now and seemingly reconciled but I know she would have liked children of her own. I have always been against it, and that is perhaps the only aspect of our lives together where my wishes have consistently prevailed. Apart from the demands of parenthood I felt anxious about our heredity. There are examples of insanity in her family, and 'softening of the brain' in mine. What sort of children would we have made? I feel it was the right course to take and to stick to, but I cannot ignore the effect it has had on Marguerite's personality.
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