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 .......