Resolutions

Friday, November 30th., 12b George Street, London.

I have been lecturing my nephew Richard, by letter, on the evils of drink. His father is an alcoholic and I noticed on a recent visit that Richard is drinking more than is good for him. There is a tendency to alcoholism in the family. No doubt he will simply consign my suggestion to the waste paper basket but I felt impelled to try. I used the example of my old friend Shufflebotham, who Richard has met. He comes here sometimes to see me and I press him to swear that he will henceforth abstain, but within an hour he is creeping out to get a drink somewhere thinking I am deceived. I am not deceived. It is pathetic, tragic. No victim of alcohol ever suspects that he is a victim until it is too late.

I have now definitely commited  myself to take 75 Cadogan Square. It is rather large for a 'single' man but stylish and comfortable, and I can afford it.  It is not so central as this but it is the best I could get. There were no flats that would suit me.  It is a large house and I am subletting the top floor (four small rooms) to my secretary Miss Nerney and her mother. It is an immense advantage to have your secretary on the spot. There are two staircases. I shall still have three floors and a basement to myself. I shall leave here at or about Christmas, but Christmas itself I am spending with the Wells's.

I have embarked on a new morning regime in anticipation of this change of life. I do all my serious toil first, ie. I put on my jaeger suit and do nothing else. I do not wash, shave, clean teeth, bathe, dress or anything! By 11.30 (three and a half hours) my serious toil is accomplished, and I am free for oddments for the rest of the day. I can do more like this, and easier and better. true, I am not really dressed until 12.30 but I see no correspondence nor receive any messages until work is done.

On Hemingway

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

Ernest Hemingway is a youngish American whose work, in short stories, began to impress me first about a couple of years ago. He has now published a novel of the war "A Farewell to Arms" which is first rate. It deals with the Italian front. Its detail is as marvellous as any yet given. The description of the wounding of the hero in a bombardment is as tremendously effective as anything current. In fact I seriously question whether this description has been equalled. Its dialogue is masterly in reproductive realism, and its detachment is perfect. No flush and no fever in this novel; but the sane calmness of a spectator who combines deep sympathy with a breadth and impartiality of vision.

The book is hard, almost metallic, glittering, blinding by the reflections of its bright surface, utterly free of any sentimentality. A strange and original book. Whatever it may not do to you, it will convince you of its honesty and veracity. It is a superb performance. For me, Hemingway's greatest gift is to put you, his reader, completely 'inside' his central character. His bullfighting stories, for example, have brought me as near to a bull-ring as I ever wish to be, and I still recall a story about trout fishing (I have never fished) which was so effective that I could 'feel' the cold water swirl around my legs, and the surge as the trout took the bait

Incidentally, Hemingway, while often tactful in his omissions, permits himself a freedom of expression hitherto unexampled in Anglo-Saxon fiction printed for general sale. Some readers will object to it. I don't. I should think we have reached that stage in our cultural development when it is perfectly reasonable for a writer to put into his chacters' mouths words which everyone knows but publishers have dared not print, fearing a backlash from the entrenched and narrow-minded.

This afternoon I awoke from my regular nap, saw that the sun was shining (it had rained all morning), glanced at my watch, and immediately got ready to walk out. Only when I had been out for about twenty minutes did I start to think something was amiss. I looked at my watch again and saw that it was in fact an hour earlier than I thought - I must have slept for only about ten minutes. Still, I felt rested and enjoyed the walk - felt as if I had somehow stolen an hour. 

Doing one's duty

Monday, November 28th., Cadogan Square, London.

Doran, Jules Godby, Ellery Sedgwick and daughter Henrietta, Humbert Wolfe and Mrs. Belloc Lowndes came to tea, and baby. Baby and gramophone do nothing whatever to promote high-brow conversation. 

I dined at the Piccadilly Hotel restaurant with Harry Preston, to meet the Prince of Wales. Very affable. Normally I would go out of my way to avoid any contact with 'royalty' as I regard the institution as an anachronism. I was simply humouring Harry who is an old-fashioned monarchist, and would be deeply wounded (and offended) if I told him my views. I got away with a bare minimum of obsequious behaviour, the merest hint of a bow. To be honest I felt rather sorry for the man who must have been putting on a show since he was first displayed in public. As a public person myself I have some idea of the strain involved. There must be times when he wishes to just throw it all over.

An artist

Saturday, November 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

Two good days work. Very tired last evening and slept particularly well. In fact I was late getting up. Dorothy and I dined at home which was, for me, a welcome and pleasant change. Afterwards came in Eric Kennington and Mrs. ditto, Arthur Waley and Alec Shepeler.

Eric K. is very shy but he is a delightful man. He fought on the Western Front but was badly wounded and sent home in 1915. Eric brought Lawrence's £30 book "The Seven Pillars" to show me. he is the art editor. It is not very good book-making; very fine illustrations in it, many of them coloured, and lots of lovely drawings by Roberts. But most of the illustrations are thoroughly out of place in the book and spoil the look of it. It seems that Lawrence has kept Kennington and Roberts, not to mention Wadsworth, pretty busy on it for several years.

Raining

Tuesday, November 26th., Les Sablons.

Yesterday I walked to Fontainebleau in the pouring rain, and walked in and about the town for over two hours with a house agent looking at possible houses. I saw one small one surrounded by a walled garden that might suit. Distinct pleasure in examining these houses. I fell immediately in love with the one I liked, and at once, in my mind, arranged it as it ought to be. Perhaps a little arrogant to make a bald statement like that but it is how I feel. I have a very strong belief in myself and always tend to think that my way of doing things is the best. It causes problems sometimes between Marguerite and myself as she also is quite strong willed, but not as strong as me!

I lunched at the Cygne, had coffee at a cafe, and walked all the way home - and it never stopped raining! Then after tea I wrote 1,300 words of the "The Old Wives' Tale". This morning while the whole place was being upset with preparations for our departure, I wrote 2 to 300 words more of the novel, and this afternoon I packed my trunk and arranged my papers. That I should have worked so easily at my novel in all this mess shows how it has got hold of me, or I of it.

White hunting

Friday, November 25th., Cadogan Square, London.

I went to the Reform Club to dine. I there met Raymond Mortimer and Francis Birrell. They had with them a chap by the name of Wilson, a retired 'white hunter'; injured in an accident involving a gun, right arm more or less useless. Interesting chap. Very obviously missing his trade and keen to talk about it. Will probably become a bore in time.

Told me that the first 'kill' is the hardest because the hunter doesn't know his own capacity. It is all about controlling fear. Said that some of his clients just couldn't cope with it, for example if they had to come to close quarters with a wounded animal, which often happens. Said he has seen men just turn and run away with fear, which is hard for them to cope with afterwards. On the other hand he has seen others who overcome their fear and gain tremendous confidence as a result. For some it completely changes their lives. Quite fascinating. As for himself he says that he came to the realisation that to fear death is illogical; if he were killed whilst hunting, well so be it; "Today is as good a day to die as any other." A model stoic attitude.

Also told us that most of his clients were Americans, usually a husband and wife. Apparently the women usually find the business of hunting and killing very exciting (sexually) though they may say they are 'horrified', and there is almost an expectation that they will sleep with the white hunter. Said he always took a double 'cot' with him on safari for that reason. Didn't say what the husband thought about it! Probably hadn't had opportunity to find out! 

Then Mortimer, Birrell and I went to the second night of Coward's "Sirocco". Goodish first act. Putrid second. And trying and hysterical third. On the whole a trying evening. I sometimes wonder why I bother to go out so often. I drove home with Birrell, and waited in bed for Dorothy to return. Pity she hadn't been out hunting.

A dinner party

Wedesday, November 24th., 12b George Street, London.

At work on film all morning. Lunched with Pinker and Swinnerton at Reform, and then I got information from Shufflebotham about nursing home for my film.

Barrie, Elgar, Massingham, Hy. Head and Sassoon to dinner, and Rivers came afterwards. Massingham had forgotten the date, had to be rung up and arrived forty five minutes late. Effects of the drinking of course. I don't think I have ever seen such a rapid decline in a man. He held up well enough but was by no means the witty dinner guest of old. 

Large quantities of interesting things were said at this dinner. None of them by me. Some of the fellows stopped until 12.25. I smoked too much. But I have survived it all right. Barrie said he never went out at all except to dine with me once a year. Elgar is fine, though in fact they all were.  



 

Horrible sins

Thursday, November 23rd., Royal Yacht Club, London.

In the afternoon, after some work, I found I had a chill on the stomach. 
I was told by my doctor years ago that I would always have digestive problems and he has been proved correct. Nevertheless I went with precautions to the Aldwych Theatre and got the last remaining circle seat for the first performance of "Aida". Theatre full. Goodish performance but offensive scenery that tried to be original but was only imitative and ridiculous. I take the view that scenery is simply a backdrop, and should not distract from the performance. Surely people come to theatre to see the players not their painted background? However my view seems not to be held universally. Oh! Russian ballet, what horrible sins you have caused. 

A recovery

Saturday, November 22^nd., Cadogan Square, London.

Depression, because I saw no prospect of finishing “Dance Club” play today or tomorrow, as I had hoped. I gave up all notion of finishing and couldn’t think of any of the ideas necessary for the final scene between Flora and Clair. When I got home from the Empire I was, as a consequence of neuralgia pains, a bit sick. This sickness at once relieved the pain. Instantly I felt better and instantly the hope of finishing the play miraculously returned, and ideas for the last scene came into my head and I became actively creative again. I have noticed this before: return of creativeness immediately upon surcease from pain. I felt well enough to go out for a night walk, turning the ideas over in my mind. Lovely evening for that: cold, rather misty, but still, quiet, a halo around the street lights, echoing footsteps, visible breath, exhilarating!


I have sometimes wondered if there is any sort of link between creativity and physical or mental problems; does the need to overcome difficulties enhance the artistic temperament? It is easy to point to artists who have succeeded against the odds but of course the sample is skewed - by the nature of things those artists for whom life is simple and free from problems will not attract the same attention.

A great success

Sunday, November 21st., George Street, London.

Dress rehearsals of "Milestones" on Thursday and Friday. They were a great success, in fact very great - except the song-singing which was rotten. I took a rug and a hot-water bottle with me but the theatre was warmed so not needed. St. John Ervine was there for the Observer, and sat next to me. There is no doubt that he was profoundly impressed. Of course he remembers it from the first incarnation, but he vouchsafed that he considered it as pertinent to 1920 as it had been to 1912. The first performance was last night. I took Bertie Sullivan and Legros. Much real enthusiasm. But by last night I had got tired of the play and went home gloomy. Gloominess seems to be my regular state at the moment.

Marguerite is away in Scotland at the moment on a recitals tour. Apparently her 'focus' is on Baudelaire. I should think this may be the first time that Baudelaire has been heard in Scotland. Of course I have been encouraging her in her declamatory efforts, and indeed she has some ability, but I honestly doubt enough to stimulate a paying audience. We shall see. She has some idea of a tour to America, but I doubt it will survive Scotland.

I introduced Legros to English clubs yesterday and he was immensely struck. "Quelle la vie charmante!" he said at the Garrick, where all the members chaff each other.

 

On the novel

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

E.M. Forster is a first rate novelist and an acquaintance of mine. He has recently published a book  "Aspects of the Novel" based on a series of lectures given at Cambridge. To my mind Forster is less like a lecturer than any lecturer ever was before. He is colloquial and glories in being so. He is larkish, witty, humorous, epigrammatic, full of sly fun. He laughs at himself, the public, the 'big guns', the entire art of fiction. He has praised me handsomely and then, writing of "The Old Wives' Tale" stated that "it misses greatness" - knocking me out in three words! I forgive him for that. After all I might say the same about "Howards End".

What endears me to Forster more than anything is his eager admission that he is only a 'pseudo-scholar'. I have hitherto concealed the fact that I too am only a pseudo-scholar. I will try no more. I state exultantly that I am a pseudo-scholar. 

As regards the novel, Forster decidedly knows what he is talking about; he knows in a manner and with an understanding possible only to a creative artist and impossible to any real scholar, because no real scholar can be also a creative artist. Nobody intelligent enough to be interested in the higher manifestations of the art and craft of fiction could read his book without pleasure and profit.

I was particularly taken by his observations on the question of plot. He says: "A plot is a narrative of events with the emphasis on causality." It is not the same as a story. Thus, 'The King died and then the Queen died' is a story. 'The King died, and then the Queen died of grief' is a plot. It would be difficult to be at once more illuminating and more succint.

My friend Mr. Frank Swinnerton is reported to have been engaged (perhaps an engagement not quite amounting to a betrothal) for years upon a work on the English novel. I have been pining for that work as it is certain to be good. But if it is better than Forster's it will be good with a profane adverb. Forster has to a considerable extent assuaged my longing for the thesis of Swinnerton. The latter may be well advised to stay clear of Forster's book so as not to feel unduly discouraged.



 

Carpe diem

Friday, November 19th., Cadogan Square, London.

We went to the Gaiety Theatre to see "Just a Kiss". A rotten musical play, with a terrible chorus, and not enough music. Ranalow, the chief singer and a fine singer, had only one song to sing. happily he is also a fine actor (though untutored).

It all seemed to me to be a bit sad. Generations of actors and actresses (in that same theatre, or at one on the same site) always talking and singing of love and fornication and kisses and drink, and always in a piffling childish way. 

Later - I wrote the above about two hours ago,and as I read it now it comes home to me how dissatisfied I am and how old I feel. There is nothing really amiss with "Just a Kiss". The audience seemed to love it. The problem is in myself. The world seems a flat, grey, uninteresting place and I wonder why I bother to get out of bed every morning. Well, in fact I know why - because I need to make more money to sustain my existence of constant conspicuous consumption! I look back to my time in London thirty years ago. Life seemed to be a great adventure, and joyful, though I had only a small circle of friends, and very little money. And again in Paris, though I was better known, I had time for myself and a genuine pleasure in work. Even just a few years ago, after Marguerite and I separated, I felt alive and vigorous. Enough of the moaning! The only person to blame is me, and the only person who can change things is me! What do I declare in my self-help books? Each new day life begins afresh - carpe diem.

A good friend

Friday, November 18th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I spent Wednesday evening with Emile Martin. I should say he is the best friend I have made in Paris. We seem to get on well together, chatting amiably about life and, in particular, women. Emile is older than me and rather experienced. He has put me in the way of several 'obliging' young women, thereby advancing my education considerably. I think that at first he thought I was atypical in my naivety, but I have convinced him that most young middle-class provincial Englishmen (and probably Londoners as well) are just as ignorant and bumbling as myself. He shrugs gallicly.

He explained to me pretty fully the financial working of his club, the Cercle de la Rue Volnay. It had 1,800 members who pay 150 francs each. But the expenses are 600,000 francs a year; the rent is 100,000. The deficit is chiefly made up by the club's profits on baccarat. he seems to be au courant of everything. I hope one day to have the same casual confidence of manner.

Last night Brieux's "La Petite Amie", in 3 acts at the Comedie Mondaine. It wa astonishing to me how this play 'got hold' of the crowded audience. Tears and violent applause were plentiful. It is not a good play, in my opinion, but it is tremendously effective, and sometimes extremely true.

Increasing irrationality

Tuesday, November 17th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Bertie Sullivan was here the other day. He is doing the same sort of thing at Brightlingsea as I am doing here (Military Representative). He told me of astonishing 'coincidences' at Brightlingsea. How, on the same day, the Customs' Officer's telephone wouldn't work, signalling was thought to be seen from the second martello tower (belonging to a suspicious family) on Beacon Hill, and a man had seen bubbles (indicative of a submarine) in B'sea reach, and two other coincidences which I forget. Next day the Blackwater was 'swept' by the new apparatus for a submarine, also the Colne, but naught was found; and that in fact there was nothing in the whole thing. All hysteria of course. And on top of that there will be people who, for reasons of their own, report 'suspicions' against people they dislike. We will have to be very careful about that sort of thing.

He told me that the Wallet was being closed by a boom. The War Office theory was that if an invasion was to be attempted it would be within the next fortnight. He said there was absolutely no co-ordination of effort against an invasion, and in particular no co-ordination between Army and Navy. Yet almost in the same breath he gave me two instances of the Admiralty informing the War Office of certain facts. Irrationality is on the increase.

He told me that Brightlingsea had between 8 and 9 percent of its population in the forces. As sergeant of special constables his difficulty was the sheer stupidity of people. Men kept writing week after week that Brightlingsea waterworks ought to be guarded etc., and at last demanded a military guard for it. In the end I think they got it but I'm not sure. Sullivan agreed with me that the chance of invasion was nil. Also he couldn't see the use of more new armies beyond what we have in training, as we couldn't arm them etc., etc. He said Kitchener didn't believe in invasion.

Thinking about things

Thursday, November 16th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

Today is published my third book, "Polite Farces". (Lamley & Co. 2/6 net.). And tonight, by coincidence, I made the first real start of the final writing of "Anna Tellwright". I worked from 5 to 12 p.m. and wrote 1,000 words, first-rate stuff.

I was out strolling this morning. There are really three 'types' of strolling as far as I am concerned: concentration on getting ideas; paying close attention to surroundings, people and places, a sort of 'here and now' experience; just drifting, a sort of semi-dream state. That's what I was doing this morning and I think it cleared my head so as to work better this afternoon and evening.

I have noticed lately, and again this morning, that I discover a tune going on in my head. Sometimes I can trace its origin back to something I have heard, but often it appears as if unconsciously. It is distinctly 'heard'. Occasionally it is annoying, but not often. As soon as I concentrate on something it disappears so I conclude that it is my brain somehow filling a vacuum caused by an absence of sensation. This idea led me to reflect on mental imagery. I have little or no visual imagery which discussion with others leads me to think is unusual. My thinking is decidedly aural. I wonder then if others 'think' as I do, or maybe there are people who think entirely visually. I can't imagine what that would be like. And instead of hearing tunes in the mind they may see images, or even have olfactory experience. Who knows?

A wet promenade

Monday, November 15th., Villa des Nefliers.

A grand, wet, gloomy, foggy day. I went out at 4.30 for a walk for an hour and a half, and it rained nearly all the time. But I was only a little damp under my waterproofs. As somebody once told me: "There is no such thing as bad weather, just inadequate clothing". It was dark when I re-entered the town from the Carrefour de l'Obelisque, and got from under the dripping trees. I was damp but I stood, chilling, to look at the bookshops. During this promenade I cleared my ideas considerably for the novel of which I still lack a title.

This morning I received a copy of the third American edition (the first printed in America) of "The Old Wives' Tale". Very ugly, and they have had the damned cheek to put "A novel of life" on the title page.

A Paris education

Saturday, November 14th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Last night "Le Sire de Vergy" Varieties, with the 'artistes' Brasseur, Anna Tariol, Claudius, Max Dearly etc. I was extremely disappointed with the whole thing. I found this fashionable theatre (like most of the rest) dirty, dingy, uncomfortable, dear, and badly managed. The first row of the balcony is 12 francs, exclusive of booking fee. Everything began late and the thing was not over until 12.15. Our seats (second row of balcony, 10 francs) were very badly stuffed and very uncomfortable, and there was no room. A boulevard swindle. The orchestra was vile, but for opera bouffe, I found the music really rather good - certainly fresh and clever. It was less the piece than the whole thing I objected to, the general sans gene and brazenness of the swindle.

So, my Paris education continues. Chichi told me that this was quite a theatre apart, a genre of its own, where there was no discipline except for the chorus-girls. She has performed there. The chorus-girls, at rehearsals, have to wait one or two hours for the 'artistes' but if they are five minutes late - a fine! In the green room drinks are ordered ad lib. Speaking of the lateness of everything, and the long entr'actes, Chichi said: "Ici on se moque du public. On travaille quand on a le temps."  And she referred me to Zola's "Nana" and the various places where the public is kept waiting for Nana's pleasure. She said that Zola had given an exact description of the green room of the Vaudeville, and that he must have studied his scenes from this theatre. How true this is I don't know. But I certainly came away with the impression that I had seen the worst side of soi-disant high-class theatrical entertainment in Paris.

Fortunately my personal Parisian education, courtesy of Chichi, is anything but disappointing. She is a very experienced young woman wise in aspects of Parisian life of which I am both imaginatively and practically ignorant. Yesterday we got to talking about sexual perversions. She recounted several of her experiences. I attempted to appear as if they were nothing out of the ordinary from my point of view. I don't think she was deceived. What would they think in Burslem!

While I was asleep after lunch Henri Davray called. I told him I wanted to buy some books, so we went off by omnibus to the quays to get a Casanova, a dictionary, and other things. I hope to get some ideas from the Casanova to set alongside Chichi's experience! We went first to the shop of Honore Champion. It was like a bookshop in a story by Anatole France, exactly. We were greeted first by a young man who spoke well and vivaciously, and then in a corner at a desk I saw a venerable and beaming white-haired man in a skull-cap. This was the father. He said little but smiled affectionately at all of us. The understanding between father and son was rather fine. The large shop was full of books that no-one but a bibliophile would buy.

Then we went to another shop nearby where the booseller was a little pinched man, not distinguished - walled in with books. Then we went across to the quay (Voltaire) and had a learned conversation with one of the stall keepers, who grasped exactly what we wanted and said we couldn't get it second hand.

After this Davray lost the scent of books, though it remained in my nostrils, and remembered that he had some shopping to do for his wife. We had tea at Foyot's. Being close to the bookshops at the Odeon we ran across and I bought Casanova, two de Maupassants and an Anatole France, and Davray carried off the parcel to have it despatched from the office of the Mercure de France. I found this periodical established in an old hotel. Fine large rooms and good woodwork. I was introduced to the Directeur (who was not sitting in his own chair because the cat had taken it) as 'the hope of English fiction'. That is something to live up to!

Cost of war

Friday, November 13th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Last Saturday Miss Nerney began her services at the hospital (Thorpe Hall). She was to work from 7.30 to 3.30 and from 7.30 to 6.30 alternate days. This was adhered to for two days but afterwards she was kept 'til 8 each night. She says there is no rest all day. Nevertheless there must be women in the village who could do this work in part. Every other week she has free. As the arrangement of 7.30 to 8.30 every day brought her work for me to a standstill. I gave notice that it would have to be altered. The Hall is owned by Major-General Byng who is I believe in Egypt at present. His wife Evelyn has placed the Hall at the disposal of the British Red Cross for use as an auxiliary hospital.

More wounded came at the beginning of this week, 14 English. There were already over 20 Belgians. When they arrived a large crowd assembled at the railway station to greet them. If these numbers reflect the picture elsewhere then this war is going to result in a lot of casualties. I haven't seen any figures yet for soldiers killed. It strikes me that warfare is now so heavily mechanised that all previous conflicts will be dwarfed by this one. And so much of the killing will take place at a distance. What will the psychological effect be on the soldiers?

Knowledge of soldiers: a grenadier at Thorpe Hall, wounded, told Alcock on Wednesday that the Germans had a gun with a range of 22 miles!

Justice?

Monday, November 12th., Chiltern Court, London.

I was talking recently to a magistrate and two barristers about a police court case involving a young woman. At issue was the sentence, as her 'guilt' was clearly established. In fact, and my interlocutors agreed with me, her upbringing (such as it was) and personal circumstances made her offending almost inevitable. No sentence was available to the court which might have a rehabilitative effect. Our discussion tended to the position that 'rehabilitation' is a mirage, an imaginary concept calculated to soothe the conscience of social reformers and the like. All rather depressing!

The conversation shifted to criminal trials. Apropos of the recent decision that in criminal trials the Crown counsel should in future be deprived of his traditional right of the last word to the jury, on the ground that the last word gave him an unfair advantage with the jury, both the barristers were strongly of the opinion that Crown counsel should lose also another right - the right to open the case with a formal presentation of the facts of the alleged crime as the Crown saw them and wished the jury to see them. The barristers held that the opening speech for the prosecution was at least as unfairly advantageous to the Crown as the final words were. It coloured the minds of the jury from the start, impregnating them with the idea that the accused was guilty, and no amount of rebutting evidence could entirely do away with the effect of the opening speech.

It became clear to me from the conversation that English legal procedure puts a very heavy handicap on any prisoner, and that a prisoner without professional help has almost no chance of being acquitted. Lastly, none of the three lawyers was convinced that the procedure of British criminal justice was in practice any fairer to the accused than the French procedure which so often arouses the indignation of Englishmen. And they would not deny that it was even less fair!

Finishing things

Friday, November 11th., Villa des Nefliers.

Still unwell all week. Can't quite say what is wrong with me. Occasional light-headedness, unsettled stomach, urinary frequency. All minor symptoms, but contributing to my lack of well-being. Nevertheless I finished "The Great Adventure" this afternoon at 4.30 p.m., four days in advance of time. Actual dialogue 20,300 words. I shall doubtless cut it to less than 20,000. There are now two complete plays of mine - this and "The Honeymoon", renounced by Trench - for sale. 

At last completed and posted a letter to a cousin of mine who lives on the Isle of Man. We are occasional rather than regular correspondents. It was one of those letters which one never quite 'gets around to'. But today I exercised self-discipline, wrote, and enjoyed the writing. As well as family news, I told her of a plan I have for some creative biography; a relationship which might have happened, but didn't. A sort of 'what if'. Just for fun!

The two American reviews of "Clayhanger" to which I looked forward with the most interest (Boston Evening Transcript and Chicago Evening Post) are both absolutely satisfactory in their enthusiasm. Doran wrote me, in response to my query, that he had sold about 12,000 of "Old Wives' Tale" to date, and that the demand seemed likely to continue. I must say that it is something of a mystery to me why my books are so popular in America. The Five Towns must seem a very alien and outmoded place to modern Americans. Perhaps it is the contrast or perhaps, as I would like to think, I have touched upon some universals in Human nature which appeal to any thinking person.

Raingo

Wednesday, November 10th., Cadogan Square, London.

I finished Part I (including all the political stuff) of "Lord Raingo" on Monday afternoon, to my great relief. While doing this I could not be bothered to write journals or do anything that I was not absolutely compelled to do. 83,000 words of the novel are now done. Beaverbrook has read all but the last four (short) chapters, to vet it for political correctness, and he is enthusiastic about it, thrilled by it. He only found one small slip in it (about the time it would be possible for Raingo to leave the House of Commons after hearing a debate). He found another slip; but it wasn't one. He made two suggestions: one for altering the wording of a telgram; the other in a form of address. It is marvellous to me that I have been able to do all these complicated politics without once getting off the rails. I can scarcely believe it. 

Beaverbrook said he would guarantee the rightness of the politics, though quite what that means in practice I don't know. he has a tendency to over-enthuse. he said it was the finest thing he had read for years. Miss Nerney also describes it as "a very fine book". I rather value her opinion more and so am rather reassured. My misgivings continue to be whether it is of any interest outside that small group of people who have an active interest in political affairs? Will the average reader find it tedious? I don't know.

I have put it to one side now while I write an article and work up the libretto of the "Bandits" which Phillpotts and I are doing for music by Austin.

Today I corrected the typescript of a short story "The Cornet Player" which I think is the most original story I have ever written

At the Banquet

Thursday, November 9th., Royal Thames Yacht Club.

I went to the Lord Mayor's Banquet with Regge of Frinton.

I asked the usher if I had to be received. He said I could please myself; so I wasn't, and joined Pett Ridge and another acquaintance whose name I couldn't recall behind a barrier at the entrance. Fisher got loudest cheers. Funny to see Asquith followed by his wife and daughter. Reception, in library, took at least an hour. Names called from usher to usher, and ushers walked continually up and down the length of the library with guests. In Great Hall about 1500 guests. Beef carvers at foot of big sculptures, with rags and knives in sheaths, stood on high platforms carving barons of beef. At the end a policeman lifted one old carver down!

Procession inwards of nobs. Maids of Honour with pink bouquets for the Lady Mayoress. Trumpeters. Inauguration march by solicitor - awful tosh. Soup tepid. Fish cold. Pheasant good. Cold meat good. No veg. Sweets excellent. Fruit good. Wines good. Box of two cigars and two cigarettes to each male guest, but no smoking in Hall. Awful dowdiness of women, including nobs.

After dinner, Maids of Honour appeared in a row in balcony in front of Lord Mayor, and arranged their pink streamers to hang over the balcony. Reporters had seats near nobs. Took about 5 minute turns, and handed a watch to each other. Trumpeting before L.M.'s Chaplain's grace (short and inaudible) before and after meal. Trumpeting (two pairs of trumpets, one echoing the other, very good; trumpeters covered with gold braid and with black velvet jockey caps) before each toast. Comic toastmaster who had a huge rosette and scarf and looked up to skies in announcing toast.

.... Loving cup never reached us .... general effect, old stonework, carving, sculptures, 2 galleries (top: musicians), to left of L.M. wooden beams, gilded roof. Dependent flags. Stone inscriptions round roof. Old flags at one side. City costumes, gilded. Black velvet and lace costumes. Levee costumes. Military ditto. Foreign ditto. Vast epaulettes of Ministers. Lord Mayor leaning back with false ease in his great gilded chair. Many City officials behind him. Look of tradition, City-ness, grooviness, in ugly and yet often decent faces of men.

Councillors had to wear their mazarine (?) costumes, trimmed with fitch fur, at reception, but some took them off for dinner (£12 each). Electric chandeliers. Flowers on tables. Rows of heads ...... Blackened windows. Policemen at every door. Draught on my head. Ben Davies sang 'God save the King' very well. The name of Venizelos aroused easily the most cheering. Herbert Samuel spoke without conviction. Balfour was resentful, defensive, and then over-confident (as to ability to prevent future Channel raiders from getting back). He said: "The service which I for the moment represent". French Ambassador quite inaudible after first few sentences. Lord French perky and sure - kept looking down at MS. Asquith was the best. Diction uneven, but phrasing absolutely perfect throughout. He was grim but not boastful.

After Asquith I left. It was an experience! I doubt I will repeat it. 

Alone in Paris

Sunday, November 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Today I managed to concentrate pretty nearly all day, 'til 9.30 p.m. on my story, and I collected a few decent ideas for it. I saw no one to speak to except my domestique, in the morning, and the waitresses at my restaurants. Last thing, I began to read "Don Quixote".

So, It has been such a day as ought to satisfy a man of letters. Having done my correspondence I went out at 10.15 for a walk, and to consider the plot of my story. I strolled about the Quartier de l'Europe 'til 11.30, and then lunched at my usual restaurant where I am expected, and where my maternal waitress advised me in the selection of my lunch. During lunch I read Le Journal. I came home, finished Le Journal, read "Don Quixote" and fell asleep. Then at 1.30 I amused myself on the piano. At 2 I began, in my Bruges chair, to ponder further on my story, and the plot seemed to be coming. At 3.30 I made my afternoon tea, and then read more "Don Quixote" and fell asleep for about a minute. The plot was now coming faster and faster, and at 5 I decided that I would, at any rate, begin to sketch the story. At 6.45 I had done a complete rough draft of the whole story.

Then I dressed and went to dine in my other restaurant in the Place Blanche, where the food and wine are good, and the waiters perfect models, and the chasseur charming, where men bring their mistresses, and where occasionally a 'mistress' dines alone, and where the atmosphere is a curious mixture of discretion and sans gene. The whole place seems to say: "You should see what fun we have here between midnight and 3 a.m. with our Hungarian music and our improvised dancing, and so on , and so on ..." I dined slowly and well, whilst reading Le Temps and The Pilot, and also watching the human life in the place. Then I took coffee and a cigar. I returned home at 8.30 and played the piano. 

The idea of writing my chronique for T.P.'s Weekly a day earlier than usual came into my head, the scheme of the article presented itself, and at 9.30 I suddenly began to write it, finishing it at 11.35. I then went to bed and read "Don Quixote" 'til 12.15. I felt content!

There is a lot to be said for the solitary life as exemplified by this day of mine. Did I feel lonely at any time? Positively not. It almost seems that time expands when one is alone, and so much more is achieved. Social contact is time consuming and rarely beneficial, particularly for an artist. Even fleeting attention to the concerns and ideas of others means a loss of focus on one's own creativity. Not to say that all society should be foresworn. Bread rises better when leavened. I think I should have more days like today. Of course if I had a mistress myself .......

Two novels

Tuesday, November 7th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I have just finished reading "L'Oeuvre". It has taken me a long time because I left it in the middle to read Wells's "Kipps". What a colossal affair it seems by the side of "Kipps"! So serious, tremendous, and imposing. The middle parts seem rather carelessly done; the detail piled up without sufficient attention to the form. But the final scene between Claude and Christine - the fight between love and art - is simply magnificent; it moved me; it is one of the finest things in Zola. It is overdone, it goes farther than the truth; but purposely; Zola has stepped into the heroic in this scene, as he does now and then. All the close of the book is most affecting.

As regards "Kipps", I am writing to Wells with my thoughts. The only real sizeable fault I can find is the engagement of Helen, which entirely failed to convince me. In fact it is useless to tell me they ever were engaged. I do not believe it! Helen is a real and lifelike figure, but Ann is more so, and the Ann scenes are the best in the book. After agreeing with myself that I read the book through with eagerness and joy, and after telling myself that I must not expect in Wells's 'human interest' novels those aspects of life which he disdains to see, I find myself asking what this book proves, and not getting any answer. Perhaps no question was intended? I think I must point out to Wells that I am deeply offended by his beginning a sentence: "Next to starting a haberdasher's shop ...." I hope he will take it in good part as I hope to avail myself of their hospitality when I am next in England!

Old-world charm

Saturday, November 6th., Villa des Nefliers.

I received copies today of the U.S.A. edition of "The Glimpse". Horrible binding. In glancing through it I noticed several misprints. The American spelling of course one accepts, though I have noticed that American novels published in England retain their spelling. Why is this?

I had a superb walk in the forest. This has been a marvellous autumn but must now be coming to an end. I fear we will have a sharp frost and/or a high wind and the trees will be left bare. Before long it will be difficult to recall that they ever were clothed.

At 9.30 I began, very unwillingly, the last day on my second act. I was rather pleased with it at lunchtime. After repose I threw my painting over  and finished the act. What a relief! I then fiddled about with tea and Max Beerbohm and the proces Steinheil until 4, when I was obliged by my conscience to go to the barbers. I am always loathe to get my hair cut and yet invariably glad when it is done. I don't seem to learn from the experience.

Happily it is a stately barbers where hair cutting and friction are treated with adequate solemnity. In the half-light, with its mirrors and rococo woodwork and complicated apparatus, it had 'due style' tradition behind it. A little framed notice was hung up as always on hunt days."Rendezvous de chasse. Croix de Toulouse" All this kind of thing will belong to a past generation probably before I am dead. I shall recount it as something antique, quaint and scarcely conceivable. The entire atmosphere was old-world. I have often noticed how elderly people delight in detailing how different (usually better) the world was when they were young. I haven't reached that stage yet, but I sense it in the offing!

I came home when there was star in a field of blue-green above pink, above purple-grey that mingled with the smoke and roofs of the houses. A simplified tableau seen from the lower corner of the Rue Bernard Palissy. Then I came in and read my dose of Taine.



 

A character

Monday, November 5th., Cadogan Square, London.

Took one of the new 6-wheel buses, just to try it, to the Ritz, and walked up Bond Street to the Queen's Hall to look at programmes.

Odd encounter in the street. I was accosted, apropos nothing at all, by a rather disreputable looking character who was doing some sort of work at the front of a business. He asked me if I was a poacher! This in the middle of London! I said I was not, and he explained that my coat and the bag I was carrying looked to him like the sort of things poachers affected. "I was a poacher myself" he said with a knowing wink. Feeling in the mood to humour him I asked why he said was? Apparently because the gamekeepers were wise to him, and he had been in some sort of trouble (he made a gesture suggesting violence) which made it vital that he should not attract the attention of the law. He shrugged philosophically. He then went on to tell me how his senses were more finely attuned than those of the average person (meaning me), due to years of successful poaching, and that he believed himself to be descended from Viking stock. From his general appearance I thought he might be right! Then he said "Well guvner, got to be getting on", and seemed to dismiss me from his attention. I walked on. All this in about five minutes.

At 3 p.m. I was at the Board Meeting of the New Statesman to discuss scheme for getting a push on sales. I promised to write a booklet, to sign it, and to find £200 towards the outlay required for the push, such sum and any further sums to have a prior claim on previous loans.

A sorry state

Sunday, November 5th., Cadogan Square, London.

Well, I am making progress with "Imperial Palace" but is it good enough? I have rarely been able to estimate the quality of my writing whilst writing so all I can do is soldier on. The operation and management of a luxury hotel is fascinating for me, but will it interest a general reading public? And is Evelyn Orcham a believable character? I have met people who illustrate the various aspects of his personality, but not all in one person; could there be such a person? I liked the scene at Smithfield Market, and there are some effective peripheral characters. I do have these crises of conscience. Just get on with it!

Charles Masterman

Charles Masterman is in a sorry state. What a decline there has been since the war ended, and it is to be accounted for by serious abuse of alcohol and prescription drugs. Whilst I feel sorry for him I feel more so for his wife and children who must dread a complete fall into poverty. 

I took Charlie out for a drive this afternoon. He told me:
He has only £200 in the world;
His memory is gone. He cannot even read, much less write;
His father was insane and he himself is going mad;
He cannot sleep;
His wife is worn out; 
Bottomley is bringing a libel action against him which he cannot defend. He will have to go bankrupt. He will be morally ruined as well. No newspaper will ever buy another article of his;
He and his family will starve.

It was no use trying to comfort him as like all people in his case he loves his despair more than anything. He would not admit that physically he was better, but I think he is a bit better. Anyhow he has lost 3 stone.
I told him that I would give him money and would not let his family starve. I shall try to enlist the support of some mutual acquaintances on their behalf.

Dreaming in Paris

Tuesday, November 3rd., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I came across this aphorism whilst browsing recently: "Poetry is a shotgun aimed at our shared experience". It has been at the back of my mind since and I think there may be something in it. I admit that poetry generally fails to inspire me, and my own poetic efforts are simply awful. Still, I sense that poetry could be a means to 'shake up' receptive persons, with the response varying according to their personal state of mind. If so, a pretty effective weapon! I don't know where I read it. Would like to find it again.

A cocotte de Paris

I was told today that, as I thought, the most distimnguished of the music-hall cocottes went to the Casino de Paris; and also that they did business comparatively infrequently, but what they did was very remunerative. This latter statement I regarded with suspicion, as also the following: that a particular woman, tall, very distinguished, and well-dressed and well-jewelled, whom I had often admired in various resorts, had an absolute minimum of 250 francs. It seems she goes about in a pair-horse carriage in the evening, by some sort of arrangement with the coachman. I was told that many cocottes pay their coachmen either partly or wholly in sexual favours. This woman by the way sometimes brings to the Casino her young child, of 7 or 8 years old perhaps. I have seen them together there, and the effect was certainly effective. It is only a lack of nerve that prevents me availing myself of the services of one of these superior cocottes; whilst the expense would be a strain, the experience would be worthwhile. But I am too constrained!

A particularly vivid dream last night. I was a boy again, perhaps 12 or 13, and was being taken by my parents to some sort of family gathering. It seemed to me in the dream that it was at Tunstall indoor market but without the customary stalls! Anyway, a lot of my relatives were there and I was being treated with notable deference by the adults, which wasn't going down well with my various cousins. After a while I got my cousins together (boys and girls) and suggested we go out into the town as a group to seek out some interesting experiences. This was well-received and I became accepted. That is all I remember except that I felt marvellously 'physical' - strong, fit and lithe. I was sorry to wake up!

Entertaining Melba

Friday, November 2nd., Cadogan Square, London.

My nephew Richard seems never to settle to anything. I don't know why. Of course there have been all the problems with his father and the sorry 'adoption' business which I should never have agreed to. Still those are all well in the past and he is mature enough to get on with life. At least in my opinion. At his age I was making my way in London, and had had none of the support he has received. Perhaps that is part of the problem - the more 'help' some people get, the more dependent they become. Have we made him dependent? Possibly.

Anyway, at the moment he is at Port Sunlight (what a name for a place!) working as some sort of chemical engineer. Quite what that involves I have no idea. He is discontented, allegedly because of the environment and the people he is working with but mainly, I think, because he aspires to a life of luxury (like yours truly!) and is impatient to get it. I have told him that he must, whilst he remains at P.S., work as if he intends to spend the rest of his life there. I doubt if he will.

Dame Nellie Melba

I have had a good month of writing - 26,000 words of "Raingo" besides a lot of correcting of MS and typescript etc. The only thing is that I feel more and more often that I am writing by rote rather than with the true creative flame burning as it used. It is professional and well done but not up to my work of two decades ago. Probably unrealistic to expect anything else. It is generally true that artists (and scientists) produce their best work when they are young and unconstrained by experience. Do I have another first rate novel in me? I don't know. Perhaps my big 'hotel' project if I ever bring it to fruition.

I was to have dined with Knoblock last night but instead accepted an invitation from a journalist name  Beverley Nichols who was entertaining Melba. We had a great time with Melba. She is 64 and as lively as ever. She has sold her house in Mansfield Street and we called in to see it all dismantled. It's a lovely house. She left for Paris at 9 a.m. today. They say that she is by far the richest of all the retired opera stars. I can believe it.

Worrying

Monday, November 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

I concocted a film plot this evening, in the streets, between 5.15 and 7.15, after spending most of the day in worrying about the proposals and cast for the revival of "Milestones". I first heard of this affair on Wednesday last, from Eric Pinker on the phone. He had just heard of it; but negotiations had previously been going on between Eadie and Bright (on behalf of Knoblock). I refused to agree to Eadie being the producer, and wanted to cable Knoblock. Miss Nerney however learnt on the phone form Bright that Knoblock had left no address and that Bright had power of attorney and that Bright agreed to Eadie being the producer. So I agreed.

I have it in my mind that if this revival fails then the reputation of the play will be damaged beyond repair. That is why I want Haidee Wright to get the part of Gertrude. She has the star quality to assure success. But why am I letting it worry me? If it is a success then I will make some money but if it fails I will be no worse off than before the idea was floated. I have noticed a growing tendency in myself to worry unnecessarily. Must try to keep things in perspective!