Provincial event

Sunday, October 31st., Villa des Nefliers.

Last night we went to see "Le Roi" in the Cinematograph salle of the town. Full House.
Quel monde province! My little doctor - I forget his name - sat behind me, and was anxious for us to walk in the forest together in the evening. Unhappily he seems to be entirely uninteresting. My plumber, my house-painter, my bicycle dealer, and my house agent, were there with their wives. This seemed to be practically the only 'world' - that of commercants. It seemed much more provincial than Burslem for instance. It is from such an audience that one may see how small Fontainebleau is. Doubtless the society that considers itself haute kept away. And the theatre is in their minds designated for the tradesmen.

A plain interior with a too-low arching roof, ugly with pitch-pine, green hangings, and very badly disposed electric lights. Hard seats with an appearance of chic. very hard seats after two hours! 
 
This afternoon and tonight I read "Suzette" of Brieux, which is now a demi-four at the Vaudeville. Very workmanlike and good first act. The other two acts no good at all. It is simply astounding that a man so imperfectly endowed as Brieux can make such a deuce of a reputation among intelligent people. He is alleged to have said that "we [the dramatists] must have an idea in our plays ... taken from the life about us, from among the sufferings of our fellow-beings." Perhaps he has run out of fresh ideas about social issues, hence the lack of essential vitality in this latest work.

Accident

Saturday, October 30th., Cadogan Square, London.

I began more seriously to think about the plan of my new novel. I had already got the moral background for it: the dissatisfaction of a rich and successful man with his own secret state of discontent and with the evils of the age.. I wanted a frame. I walked about three miles this morning and a mile after tea, without getting a really satisfactory idea. Then, as I was  lolling in my 'easy' about 6.30, I suddenly thought that I would extend the role of the train de luxe, which I had thought of as the scene for the opening of the story, to be the scene of the whole novel - so that the entire time-space of the novel will only be about thirty hours or so. I shall call the book simply "Accident".

It is fifteen years or so now since I was involved in the train accident which provides my background material. I have often thought of pressing it into service in a novel, but have not, until now, found the right context. I was on my way back from a visit to Wells in France when, just after we had passes Mantes station, there was a really terrific jolting. I knew after four or five jolts that one coach at any rate had left the metals. The windows broke, the corridor door sailed into the compartment. I clung hard to the arms of my seat, but fell against an armchair in front of me. There was a noise of splintering, and various other noises. Extreme tension of waiting for the final stoppage. Equilibrium at last and I was unhurt! When I got out two wounded women were already lying out on the grass at the side of the track. two coaches lay on their sides. One of them was unwheeled and partly sticking in the ground.. We had apparently shaved a short goods train standing on the next line. I got away as quickly as I could and rented a car to get to Paris. 

Just think if I had been in one of the other coaches that was overturned! Lives turn on such things, but also on many much less dramatic events.  Anyway, I had made enough progress with the book for one day, so I spent most of the evening reading Ludwig on the Kaiser. This seems to me to be rather a great book

A humiliation

Thursday, October 29th., Rue de Calais, Paris

I have had awful difficulties with the French language since I came here. Somehow, very illogically, I thought that the mere fact of residence in Paris  would mysteriously increase my knowledge of the French tongue to a respectable degree. I remember that I was advised to haunt the theatre if I wished to perfect my French. The first play I saw was Edmond See's "L'Indiscret" at the Theatre Antoine. I entered the theatre hoping for the best. I had read the play in advance. I did not however succeed in comprehending a single word - not one. 

I am to be seen three or four nights a week in the front row of the stalls (so as to hear well) of the little theatre de quartier round about Montmartre. Last night for example I went to see the new 'revue' at La Cigale. I was really astonished by the breadth of some of the double-meanings that were explained to me. On the whole it was not as good as the last one I saw there. But the mounting and stage management and, especially, the figures of the women of this little Montmartre theatre are not surpassed anywhere in Paris, and the 'revues' are certainly better than any others I have seen.

So, after studying French for twenty six years, the man in me who had written scores of authoritative articles on French literature has been deeply humiliated. I have been taking lessons as well as attending the theatres and, enchantingly, I have begun to understand bits of phrases heard in the street. A corner has been turned! I am almost pleased with myself.

A different world

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

I read half of Carl van Vechten's "Nigger Heaven". A short book. Quite good and interesting in its exoticism. It has generated a storm of controversy because of its scandalous title and fed an insatiable hunger on the part of the reading public for material relating to the black culture of Harlem's jazz clubs, cabarets, and social events. The book centres on two young people--a quiet, serious librarian and a volatile aspiring writer--struggling to love each other as their dreams are slowly suffocated by racism. Its style, language and subject matter are problematic for me if I am honest and I fear that when I finish it I shall say there is nothing in it, really. The fact is that my literary notions are rather fixed. Probably twenty years ago I would have relished it.

We have been away for last weekend to a relation in Hampshire. Quite a sudden cold snap of weather, but glorious blue sky on Saturday and we went down to the sea at Mudeford, near Christchurch. Very pleasant stroll along the promenade. Beach huts. A few children playing on the beach. Plenty of people walking about, enjoying the bracing air. Across the water the Needles at the western end of the Isle of Wight were sharp and clear. A commendably refreshing experience. I wonder sometimes why I don't live by the sea.

Social activity

Wednesday, October 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

At 6 o'clock Lewis Mannering came, to ask me to open the new establishment of Foyle the bookseller. He then asked me for a play for the Q Theatre, and then we talked about religion and books. He is a great collector of folk-lore books. He got 20,000, was bored, and sold 'every leaf' and then he began again and has now reached 5 or 6,000. He is a firm rationalist. Not a bad sort.

Andre Maurois

We had Andre Maurois, Ethel Sands, Jeanne de Casalis, Ruby Lindsay, Alfie Mason and Arthur Waley to dinner, and it was a very good party. Maurois showed extraordinary charm. He spoke once more about doing a French very free adaptation of "Milestones". I encouraged him. He said that he thought "The Old Wives' Tale" was one of the finest works in English literature. I was quite pleased!

Richard is envious that I lead what appears to him to be an exciting social life. Well I do, but I didn't at his age. I have paid for my festivities during a long course of years. When I was his age I worked in an office 9.45 to 6 (stealing an hour or so in the middle of the day to go to the British Museum), and I worked, chiefly on bibliography and articles, at night. I scarcely ever went to a party, never to a retaurant (except ABCs for lunch), never to a dance. And so on, and so on. I don't think he will be convinced!

A fine letter

Tuesday, October 26th., Cadogan Square, London.

Went to Tchekoff's "Three Sisters" at the Barnes Theatre. Well, I was bored frequently. Did I enjoy myself? No, not on the whole. Was I uplifted as I had been by an even gloomier play "Rosmersholm"? No. It seemed to me that often the author was wilfully pessimistic. He is certainly very monotonous, and all his plays that I have seen have the same tone. A decent Philistine man seated just behind us was more satisfied - thought it improved as it went forward. On the whole Tchekoff had succeeded with him.

I was rather cross with myself this morning because (again) I caught myself trying to make Dorothy fit into my way of doing and seeing things. This is a fault with me which I have become increasingly aware of, and am trying to do something about. It is really about the exercise of power. I suppose it is human nature to want to assert oneself and thus maintain one's 'position' in the pecking order; or at least it is man's nature! Anyway it is not something I like about myself. By my time of life I should be secure enough to accept with equanimity  that others do things their own way, even though I think I know better.

When I got home I found a great letter from Wells about (1) "Raingo", (2) Dorothy, (3) my 'renewed' home, (4) my improved health. Incidentally H.G. attributes the latter to a more active sex life - he would! It was a fine letter.

Being creative

Monday, October 25th., Villa des Nefliers.

After two days dyspepsia I felt much better this morning and began to work at a quarter to eight, and at 11 o'clock I had been out for a walk in the rain and read the newspapers and written a complete draft of Act II. I hated doing it. This afternnon after painting I walked to Les Platreries and arranged the whole scheme, and most of the characters, of my next novel - the first of the "Clayhanger" trilogy. Assuredly a great day. After that I did a bit of muy Landor dictionary and then it was dinner time.

Weather colder; but still mainly bright. Magnificent moonlight night. What I am always wanting to do is a few landscape sketches, in words, just as material for use. And I never seem to have the power, or really the energy, to concentrate sufficiently for useful observation. But yesterday and Saturday, in my dyspeptic idleness, I had several ideas for new books. I feel that at the age of 42 I am in the most productive period of my life, from a creative point of view. I have noticed how creativity tends to decline with age and I must make the most of the juices as they are flowing.

Hyde Park Sunday

Sunday, October 24th., George Street, London.

Four orators in Hyde Park. One: a sort of imitation working man, old, on political themes. Good crowd. Extremely dull. Two: an oriental preaching Islamism in fluent English with exaggerated Rs. Extremely dull. Three: a young manpreaching I don't know what, though I listened several times. Monotonous gestures. Extremely dull. Four: an evangelistic scene. A little man with a big nose, and a group of attendants including five or six dull women. Bad singing of bad hymns. Extremely dull. Still, he did say: "When I lived in the country and worked on my farm the girl came out and shouted (very loudly) "Mr Way" "What" "Dinner". "Ah! That was a good moment. But God's dinner is better than that. On the farm I wanted a fresh dinner every day. God's dinner lasts for ever ......" etc. How on earth do these people get to be the way they are?

Someone once said to me, or I may have read it somewhere, that speaking extempore from a soapbox in Hyde Park is one of those things every man should do at least once in his lifetime. I suppose I can see what he meant. Some of the other things were: sex with a prostitute, commit a murder and sleep rough. I seem to remember that I was quite impressed at the time!

A rich vein

Wednesday, October 23rd., Villa des Nefliers.

In reading Stendhal's unpublished journal in the Mercure de France, it seemed to me that in my journal I waste a great deal of time in the proper construction of sentences. Quite unnecessary to do this in the recording of impressions. On the other hand, suppose my journals were to be published at some time in the future? Am I content, with this possibility (though slight) in mind that my writing should be merely impressionistic? It depends on the purpose of the journal, and that is something I have not, as yet, grappled with effectively. Certainly impressions were my original idea but as my reputation grows why not think that even these writings may be of interest? Better impressions than nothing at all, but well-constructed sentences are a pleasure to the writer as well as the reader; so if I have the time why do a thing less well than is in my power?

Still much rain here. A perfect baptism of damp this morning in the forest, though not actually raining. The forest all yellow and brown. Good fungus weather. A lot of those large toadstools with a bright red cap which I believe are poisonous. No idea what they are called. Leaves falling continuously. Horse chestnuts quite yellow. Sound of water occasionally dislodged from trees by the wind. I feel like an intruder when walking alone in the forest in this weather.

I have written over 2000 words of the third chapter of "The Old Wives' Tale" yesterday and today. I planned the chapter perfectly yesterday morning in the forest. There is no doubt that I am established in a routine of excellent work at present. If I continue in this vein the book will be my best yet, and my journal may start to seem more significant!

Coming to an end

Tuesday, October 22nd., Yacht Club, London.

The war is drawing to a close, thank god! In fact last week there was a very strong rumour, apparently emanating from the Foreign Office, that Germany had capitulated to all Wilson's terms and that the Kaiser had abdicated. Proved not to be true, so a few more soldiers will die whilst the politicians pontificate and delay. Surely they could call a truce whilst the preliminary negotiations take place? Too simple an idea for the political mind!

Not surprisingly there is a deep-seated resentment towards Germany and an overt desire to inflict punishment. What those who advocate this miss of course is that it will not be the political classes in Germany who suffer but the ordinary people. It is always the way. For myself I have no resentment towards the German people, though I would be happy to see the Kaiser hung from a lamp-post. My magnanimity in this respect surprises me somewhat as I am, by nature, a person who bears a grudge. If someone gets on the wrong side of me then, as a rule, there is no getting back. There are people who I have not spoken to for years, and who have probably forgotten what precipitated my hostility; but I do not forget, or forgive! Not a pleasant aspect of my personality as I freely admit, but it is my way and I don't expect to change now; indeed I don't intend to.

I have slept at the flat since the end of last week. Very exciting and rather uncomfortable with a mad servant aged 70 in the place. Of course, once this is over, I will have to resume 'normal' life which means returning to the rigours of marriage. I dread the prospect. Unless Marguerite moderates her behaviour (which is less likely than me abandoning a grudge) I see no alternative to a further deterioration in our relationship culminating in a separation. The only question is how long it will take.

Saturday night: "AsYou Were" at the Pavilion. A few fair jokes (verbal). As a whole, terribly mediocre. Every scene turned on adultery, or mere copulation. Even in a primeval forest scene, and adultery among gorillas was shown. This revue is the greatest success in London at present, and is taking about £3000 a week. So much for popular taste.

In bed all day Sunday with neuralgia. Pored with rain all day. It now appears that Beaverbrook, more and more ill, will resign. Conflabs daily in the Ministry which is steadily being restructured.

Almost ideal

Saturday, October 21st., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

This morning, leisurely reading up for a 3000 word article with which I am to celebrate for the Academy the approaching completion of Mrs. Garnett's translation of the works of Turgenev, I spent four hours in what seemed to me almost an ideal way. I was not hurreid. I had books heaped about me. I allowed ideas slowly to germinate in my head. It was calmer, less exciting than creative composition.

Tonight, for a change, I composed the crudest funny song which Marriott is to sing at  Christmas to make us laugh at Burslem - a lyric about Sissie's baby.

I woke at about 4 this morning and found that I was thinking about Richard Powers' latest novel "The Overstory", which I finished reading a couple of weeks ago. It has been in my head from time to time since then. To me, that is the mark of a good book! Impressive how he imagines a range of characters, makes them all 'real', and then weaves their lives together. A deeply pessimistic book about the impact of humans on the planet, focussing on trees, but just as relevant in terms of almost all other forms of life. My only criticism is that I found the ending just a little vague. It seemed apparent, and appropriate, to me that the culmination of the novel would be an acknowledgement that humans are the problem and will never be the solution, but my sense was that he drew back from this just a little. I really need to re-read so as to make sure I had the right end of the stick. 

I must write to May Beardmore whose birthday it must soon be, though I have never been able to get the exact date clear in my head. She will be interested to hear that the life of a professional novelist suits me very well. Though sometimes a strain, it has its advantages, not least short hours!

Almost idyllic

Saturday, October 20th., Villa des Nefliers.

It has seemed to me these days that I am living, as distinguished from preparing to live. 

Villa des Nefliers

In autumn weather; plenty of heavy continuous rain, which is pleasant to hear when you are safe in the house and busy in the house, and the ground floor and the bedroom floor are both warmed. Work in the morning on the play, which goes pretty easily. Sleep, reading, and journal after lunch. New books coming in every day. Grand piano. Discovery of playable Schubert. "Clayhanger" in its third English edition. Agreeable tension of anxiety of waiting for news of this book's reception in America. Journey to Paris now and then. Miscellaneous browsy reading in the evening. Good appetite. Regular, varied and pleasurable "love" as the husband of a Frenchwoman!

The drawbacks to this idyll are - no progress in drawing, fairly bad sleeping, and some neuralgia. But then it must never be forgotten that since the end of May last, thanks to evening bread and milk, I have never had more than one hour's continuous stomachic headache ..... It cannot be long before some infernal nuisance supervenes. Such a state of content will not be allowed by destiny to last much longer!

I have been re-reading Haggard's "Allan Quatermain". Whatever one may say about Haggard (and a good deal has been said), he can tell a story. No matter how preposterous the material he completely engages the reader. Ideal for the sort of quiet, escapist sort of read we all need from time to time but never admit to. "Allan Quartermain" is a bit didactic at times. I suppose that, having achieved success, Haggard felt able to 'let himself go' with opinions about modern life. Still those parts are easily skipped. For me, Umslopogaas is the central character in the novel, easily eclipsing the rather pallid English gentlemen Curtis and Goode. Haggard had a real affection for the Zulu people and almost escapes the racism endemic in the English upper classes. I may re-read "Nada the Lily" next to get a really good dose of bloodshed and death!