Some silly things

Monday, December 31st., Hotel Belvedere, Mont Pelerin sur Vevey, Switzerland.

Dinner. Games. God save the Queen, and varied songs at the hotel. God save the Queen (or King) in various languages. Servants watching eagerly at nothing from behind a curtained window. I say 'at nothing', but the sight of a crowd of middle-class English people determined to enjoy themselves, and fuelled by over-indulgence in alcohol, may indeed be worth watching. I would rather have been watching than participating, but there you are; life is only occasionally what you make it.

I have never worked so hard as this year, and I have not earned less for several years. But I have done fewer sillier things than usual. It is a constant quandary for me, whether to focus on 'serious' writing which is professionally and intellectually rewarding, but unremunerative, or to write to make money. I have tried to do both. I will probably continue to do so because I do enjoy the rewards of financial success. Such as winter in this hotel. 

I wrote "Buried Alive", three quarters of "The Old Wives' Tale", "What the Public Wants", "The Human Machine", "Literary Taste: How to form it", about half a dozen short stories, including "A Matador in the Five Towns"; over sixty newspaper articles. Total words 423,500.

Looking back through my journals I see that it has become a habit to record the number of words written each year. I think this has been a record, but I have not been consistent in what I include, journal for example. Still my output is considerable by any standards. To think that if my working life extends to say forty years, at an average of 300,000 a year then I will have written 12 million words! That is a figure to conjure with indeed.

The turn of the year is a time to take stock and, for many, a time for new resolutions. I am not inclined to the latter, having seen so few actually carried through. I wrote in one of my self-help books this year that "the chief beauty about time is that you cannot waste it in advance. The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you, as perfect, as unspoiled, as if you had never wasted or misapplied a single moment in all your life. You can turn over a new leaf every hour if you choose." I still think that is good advice. I resolve to follow it!

At war

Wednesday, December 30th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I always feel that December 30th. is a sort of 'nothing' day. Christmas is more or less a memory, and the new year is yet to be. I want to get on with taking stock of the year just gone, and crystallising some ideas about the one I am beginning. Usually it is a time when my thoughts turn to holidays, but of course that is not the case this time; Christmas at war, and where shall we be this time next year?

Great storm on Monday night. We lost five trees. A large elm blew across the road, broke telegraph wires, and broke through the vicarage fence, and blocked the road all night. While I was out at 10.30 p.m. inspecting I heard another tree crashing and fled. An old oak fell into the pond. General devastation. Started to feel sorry for myself and neighbours, and then recollected the troops in their trenches only 100 miles or so away. That sobered me up and made me see things in perspective! How easy it is to forget temporarily the great tragedy that is unfolding in France. I can't help feeling that however long this lasts, and whatever the outcome, the world will be very different. Am I glad that I am too old to be of use militarily? Undoubtedly yes, and yet .....
 

Gloomy

Wednesday, December 29th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I was much fatigued after Christmas having slept poorly throughout. And on Christmas day I gave my annual dinner at Claridge's - vast crowd; two lounges added to the restaurant; many family parties; extremely noisy with many crackers and much throwing of paper missiles. But still I managed to do some work on my novel in the afternoon of Boxing Day.

Yesterday we were in London and after dinner I went out to be polite to the members of the "Milestones" company. Eadie was very gloomy. He is of course fully aware that I was against his appointment to be producer of this revival and so we are never more than polite to each other. Stella Jessie, Ada Barton and two others were the gayest. Stella asked me whether I could tell her what old gentlemen with long beards did with their beards when they took a bath. Hardly great wit but I said that a long beard may cover a multitude of sins in the bath. She laughed. It was that sort of occasion.

The front-of-house-manager displayed the usual illogical optimism in face of a poor house. The night was awful and the audience thin and 'chilly' according to Eadie - hence his gloom. Perhaps that accounted for the atmosphere in the dressing-rooms. I think that Harben was the only realist in the assembly.


Today I lunched alone, dined at home, and wrote 2,100 words of my novel. Not bad words I think, but they did not come easily. 

I shall be glad when the 'holiday' period is over.

In translation

Friday, December 28th., Chiltern Court, London.

The weather continues grey and cold and damp but I find myself to be surprisingly cheerful. My digestion is better than it has been for some time and my neuralgia is much less troublesome. Now that we are settled here I feel more content though financially the place is a considerable burden. I have spent more than I ever expected to adapt the place to suit Dorothy, and I still think she does not like it, though she has ceased to make a fuss. I look back nostalgically to those halcyon days at Cadogan Square, after parting from Marguerite, when I had only myself to please.

Is it possible to effectively translate a work of fiction from one language to another? My instinctive response is negative. This question comes to mind because of a visit for tea today by S. K. and her husband. S. has lived in this country for 40 years, coming originally from Argentina, and I have known her for two decades. She is a person of lively, indeed sparkling, and challenging intelligence and, alongside her main employment, has worked as an interpreter (Spanish/English). More recently she has been developing an academic interest in translation and we have been exchanging views. It has seemed to me that the language in which something is conceived and written is so fundamental, indeed integral, to its effectiveness as a work of art that any translation, however good, must necessarily be a diminution. However, S. has gone some way to persuading me that I may be wrong. Thinking about it now it seems to me that a translation may be entirely successful if the translator is able to straddle not only the two languages, but also the two cultures (which may be chronologically separated as well as geographically). Is this possible? Well, S. thinks so and indeed has herself engaged in translation of an Argentinian author with apparent success. She knows a lot more about this than I do and I am prepared to be persuaded, though not without a fight.

Of course I have read and reviewed many books in translation myself and it occurs to me now that when I have found them to be good, or occasionally excellent, I have really had no idea how far, if at all, they capture the spririt of the original. I don't know why I haven't thought of this before, and I may work up an article on the subject. A good case in point is Feuchtwanger's "Jew Suss". I am largely credited with popularising that book in this country and I feel just a little embarrassed now to acknowledge that I never even thought of asking a native German speaker to give me an opinion on the authenticity of the translation I used. Of course, in a sense, the translation may become a work of art in its own right; it could even be an 'improvement' on the original. There is more to think about here than I had previously realised.

Getting together

Tuesday, December 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

Bad night. Enfeebled. Forty minutes talk with Dorothy about the fortunes of "Mr. Prohack". Then I walked in snowy Battersea Park, which cleared my head. Family gathering with a sort of running buffet this afternoon. Fortunately I managed a short sleep, or rather a doze, in my chair before evryone arrived so was able to enjoy it. Plenty of light-hearted banter interspersed with personal observations and some sentimental recollections. Noisy and tiring but good. Essential for family cohesion to have a get-together now and then, and what better time than Christmas.

Later I sat down to draft a letter to authors urging them to subscribe to the National Book Council. It is suggested that this appeal should be signed by Hardy, Shaw, Wells, me and two or three others. I shall send it tomorrow to Willie Maxwell for his consideration.

 

Hare and bilberries

Saturday, December 26th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

Yesterday, Christmas Day, I was reading "Falk" in Conrad's "Typhoon", and then several stories by Wells. Also Merimee's famous "Mateo Falcone", which is nothing special except in the extraordinary cruelty of the plot. Conrad though is by himself as a creator of characters; I feel that they almost come alive off the page as I read. This book of short stories is a triumph.

I went to bed at 1.30 and was kept awake until 4.30 by a barking dog. Then at 7.15 my mother knocked on the wall. She was in the middle of a bilious crisis caused by overnight hare and bilberries. She stays in bed. hence the whole atmosphere of the house becomes special, and 'sick roomy', and I can't proceed with my novel today as I had meant. In any case I feel so tired that I could not have done justice to it. 

Various people came in during the day to extend Christmas wishes, gossip a little, eat and drink. All pleasant enough. I was asked by a boy of ten or so, son of one of the visitors, to play a game of chess. He only has a moderate grasp of the rules, but seemed genuinely interested in the game. If I had a spare chess set by me I would have given it to him. Good to encourage some cerebral activity in the young. I enjoyed the game.

Misunderstood

Saturday, December 25th., Cadogan Square, London.

This Xmas all right, though I did not have a good night before it. It was all organised by Dorothy, and she made it very successful. It was her first Christmas in charge of a household. I have no doubt that, if asked, she would say that it was success in spite of, rather than because of, me. I have acquired a reputation as a 'bah... humbug' sort of person, which I think is undeserved. It makes sense to me that there should be a festival mid-winter, to mark the turn of the seasons, but it is all the frenzied preparations and materiality which give me offence. I blame Dickens!

Another area in which I am misunderstood is in my tendency to question things. I don't like to take things for granted but when I pose a simple question it is often interpreted as my being negative. For example whilst we were out walking yesterday we saw an old lady standing by herself and seeming to be in need of help. I was on my way to offer assistance but a young man beat me to it. The lady thanked him but said she was quite all right, just taking a rest. It was suggested to me that this was an example of how kind people could be. I agreed but pointed out that even to offer help is not a selfless act, because the person offering gets a psychological reward; they feel themselves to be a good person. In my view there is no such thing as 'pure' altruism. I did not intend to minimise the action but was nevertheless condemned as a grumpy old detractor. Well, at least that is correct in part!

I have opened my presents. Some are consumable, which is good. Some are books, which is better. Some are puzzles, which suggests to me that there is a suspicion abroad that I am in need of mental stimulation to counteract the effects of ageing. 

Puzzled

Monday, December 24th., Chiltern Court, London.

Out walking this morning. Sunny day, but not clear. Misty, creating a dense atmosphere and suppressing sounds. Experienced a unique trick of light. Beams of sunlight were coming through trees and were clearly visible in the moist air. Then I noticed that they were being reflected off a stretch of water next to me and the reflected rays also were visible going back up into the sky. I have never seen this before. A rather dramatic effect.

I have now finished reading Golding's sea trilogy "The Ends of the Earth". I don't feel it is as good as its reputation suggests. Some of the writing sparkles, and the idea is good but, for me, it is rather uneven in execution. No doubt the voyage is intended as a metaphor for the central character's growth towards maturity, as signalled in the title of the first volume: "Rites of Passage". Edmund Talbot is a self-centred, opinionated, spoilt, and generally unpleasant young man who acquires some semblance of self-awareness (even humility) as the voyage progresses. But for me the whole thing is over-contrived and over-extended. What is the function of the parson Colley who is humiliated and dies in the first book? Why is a love-interest introduced for Talbot? What is the point of the dramatic escape from collision with an iceberg, apart from a certain amount of virtuoso writing? I wonder if Golding originally intended only the first part but found that his central character had made insufficient progress? The whole thing I find to be a puzzle at present. Perhaps it will become more clear with additional thought.

Speaking of puzzles I have been given a book of puzzles as a present and am so far making little progress with them. No doubt there is a particular set of mind necessary. I fear that I no longer have the flexibility of thought to be successful, which is annoying and rather dispiriting.

Reflecting

Wednesday, December 23rd., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

I had a smooth passage over on Monday.

Yesterday I saw Pinker twice, and after some hesitation on his part, arranged that he should pay me £50 a month certain during 1904.

Pinker, Barry Pain and I lunched together. But Pain hadn't many new stories. He is usually reliable for entertainment at mealtimes. I heard that Mrs. Humphry Ward had £10,000 from Harpers for serial rights of "Lady Rose's Daughter", and that the book sold 400,000 in America alone. I can't say for sure that this is true, but it makes you think.

Woke up this morning at 4.30. Read de Maupassant, myself, and the Telegraph; but couldn't sleep again until 8.30. Strange to back in Burslem, but comforting in a way. I am looking forward to walking about, forming impressions, and getting ideas. I don't suppose Burslem has changed much, but I have and wonder how it will seem to me now? It would be easy to sneer at Potteries provincialism after living in Paris, but real life is here also.

Literary overload

Saturday, December 22^nd., Chiltern Court, London.

A wide inquiry ought to be made as to the average time given to reading by the average person fond of books. I estimate that it cannot be more than an hour a day, and even that is generous. I am led to this suggestion following a visit to a bookshop this morning – it was awash with persons who appeared increasingly desperate to find a book (almost any book) which would ‘do’ as a Christmas present. I had hoped to browse at leisure, but such was not to be.
How many of these books will be read? Rather less than are put onto a shelf for a year or two and then disposed of when it is safe to do so without offence to the giver. 
 
Now, go into a bookshop and see the new books and new editions. Scan the literary pages of the press. Examine the multitudinous advertisements of publishers. Not only will you be intimidated by the mere mass, you will be compelled to admit that even if we had a hundred Christmases on end, and ate and drank in strictest moderation, and refrained from parties and read steadily all day and every day we could not read a quarter or an eighth of the books which are worth reading. 
 
The output of books is enormous and growing, but the literary public is also enormous and growing and feels under pressure to ‘keep up’ with new authors and fashions. There is some sort of a public for nearly every good book, and the duty of the wise is to choose one book and to totally ignore another. And then to read it slowly and with pleasure. All hurried reading is worse than futile; it is a waste of time. I admire a person who says when a certain book is mentioned: “It may be a masterpiece but I haven’t read it, and I shan’t”.

Preposterous

Tuesday, December 21st., Victoria Grove, London.

The constant unsleeping watchfulness for verbal mistakes and slips and clumsiness in composition, necessitated by my post as editor of women's journalism, has sharpened and exasperated my susceptibilities to such a point that only by a great effort can I read anything now without noting such slips, however trifling. In spite of myself, my mind registers them as they occur, in no matter what writer's work. Such preposterous attention to the superficialities of style seriously interferes with the enjoyment of literature. There is scarcely an author, unless it be Henry James, whom I find flawless, and whom, therefore, I can read in perfect comfort.

Making a change

Sunday, December 20th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Yesterday I finished the second chapter of "A Great Man".

I went to Cook's in the morning and began the business of departing to England by drawing out all the money I could and getting my ticket. The clerk asked me if I was going home for Christmas and I said I was, but am I? He wished me a happy Christmas.

At night I didn't feel very hungry so I had to tempt myself with a 'nice little dinner' at Sylvain's, which cost me 6 francs. Then I came home (there's that word again!), played Beethoven's two Sonatas op. 49, perfectly charming, finished reading Le Temps all through, and went to bed at 10.30. Read in bed for half an hour or so - Golding's sea trilogy; I have just started the third part; not quite sure about it. I slept until 8.10 this morning, which is good.  

I have seen a lot of Chichi lately. We dined at the Hippo. Restaurant on Friday and then to Bostocks. The restaurant seemed to be full of dancers and ex-dancers. C. doesn't seem distressed about my going back to England. No doubt she will have other 'company' in prospect while I am away. Not sure how I feel about that. In a way I will be glad to make a change, even if only temporary. I am one of those people who, whatever their situation, are always inclined to think that they would like to move on to something else. Perhaps most people are like that, at least men, but we can't admit it.

Gratified

Saturday, December 19^th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Major Danielson and Lieut. Goodhart called on me this afternoon. Danielson told me that their intelligence department was extraordinarily good, and that they had news of the visit of German ships this week at 5 o’clock on the evening before they arrived. I did not, however, understand why sufficient big English ships could not arrive in time to deal with them. Obtaining intelligence which you are unable to act upon seems a little pointless.

From Thursday in last week to last Thursday I did nothing on my novel. I was fairly free to go on with it on Wednesday, but I had neuralgia. I wrote 2,500 words of it yesterday. Always a dilemma I find – to make oneself write even when not feeling like it, or to wait for inspiration. I am inclined to the former but sometimes it is a step too far for me.

I have been feeling moderately pleased with myself lately, between bouts of neuralgia, as a result of certain words reported to me by Pinker. It seems that in conversation with Henry James he asked the great man what he thought of "The Price of Love"? James apparently said: "I read it with great interest. It is an example of Bennett's amazing talent. I do not quite see why he should want to do it, but for what it sets out to be it is excellent. He has, it seems to me, rather declined in it on too easy a style, but it is wonderfully interesting to see how he can, after apparently squeezing his own particular orange so dry, come back to his original inspiration, and find us something fresh." I agree about the style, but the general tenor of James' remarks is gratifying.

Finishing things

Tuesday, December 18th., Cadogan Square, London.

Last evening, at home for once, I finished reading "The Sea" by John Banville. Whole thing in two good sessions. Frankly I think that it would have benefitted from judicious editing to become a 'long' short story. Very good, elegant writing; some of the lengthy, complex, sentences reminded me of Henry James. Themes are loss and memory, fairly common but well treated by Banville. Setting is Ireland, probably north of the border. I had a little trouble with the central character/narrator who is really too anguished by the death of his wife; it is made clear that she had been dying for a year, so he would have had time to get used to the idea. Present and past events are nicely juxtaposed, and the subsidiary characters are well done. Overall a good read.

Today I finished correcting typescript of "Punch and Judy" film.

Geoffrey Russell, F. Swinnerton came to lunch on business; also Elena Sullivan, our first view of her since Bertie's death about three weeks ago. She behaved with Latin calm and dignity. Exactly the right touch.

After lunch I formally gave to Dorothy 47 volumes of my MSS. (34 of Journal; 2 "Old Wives' Tale"; 1 "Riceyman Steps"; 1 "Elsie"; and 9 "Clayhanger Family") in the presence of MissNerney, Fred Harvey, Swinnerton and Geoffrey Russell.

Roger Fry, Mrs. Anrep, Francis Birrell and the Edes came to dinner. Very good evening. Fry and Birrell were fine.

Bookish men

Monday, December 17th., Chiltern Court, London.

There are bookish men whose morbid appetite demands to be titillated by an everlasting diet of new books, and I regard them as cases for brain specialists. Their malady is akin to alcoholism, which is I think the worst malady of the mind known to medical science. The morbid appetite for new books will drive the sufferer to strange caprices. One of my interlocutors told me that, despairing, he read some Kipling. With an air of astonishment he confessed that he found Kipling very good! Indeed he seemed to think that he had discovered Kipling. He had to be told that Kipling is still, after more than thirty years, the most popular serious English author alive. I am informed that the rumour of Kipling's readableness has even reached the hunting and cocktail classes.

On the other hand I am well acquainted with bookish men who day in and day out protest that too many new books are published. They gloomily assert that the majority of new books are worthless and can do no good to anyone; that the sytem is monstrous by which publishers avowedly expect to recoup themselves by their profits from one successful book the losses on half a dozen failures. Lastly, they weep, in a manner of speaking, because this is a decadent age and things are not what they were.

I have a primitive desire to assassinate these men. But I refrain, for the reason that they are misguided rather than vicious. They sin in ignorance. They are merely persons who do not know what they are talking about. This is no more a decadent age in the literary sense than any other age. On the contrary, in no previous age have so large a proportion of the population shown such discrimination among books, such intelligent interest in good books, as obtains today. Further, the success of a book is not necessarily a criterion of its worth. Even today bad books occasionally achieve large sales. 

I am myself a bookish man. The sort of bookish man who takes a broad view, is tolerant of the short-sightedness and prejudice of others, and has an infallible sense of what constitutes a 'good' book. I am also rather modest. In fact only the jury of time is able to give a verdict on the worth of a book, and this is because we who review new books are, in spite of our best efforts, unable to achieve objectivity. Kipling may fall out of favour in time; in fact I believe that he will because a reaction will set in as the Empire declines, which it inevitably will. I myself may be read only by a discerning few in years to come.

Frank conversation

Thursday, December 16th., Victoria Grove, London.

At my dentist's, a strange Bohemian cockney, who called me 'mate' at the second interview and referred intimately to the missus and the kids. It seems that the misus is a lively young woman, hence the numerous kids! He didn't exactly say that she was ready for it at a moments notice, but that was the impression conveyed. The flow of talk from him was rather what one would expect from a barber than a dentist, but nevertheless he seems good at the job. Seems to enjoy it. I suppose one gets used to anything but poking about in other people's mouths for a living would certainly not suit me. Might suit somebody with sadistic inclinations!

In his own jargon he said: "I have put in two uppers and a lower today." He also told me of a curious domestic custom: "My missus", he said, "has extraction money, and toothpowder money for 'er perks." He didn't say exactly what the perks were. He sold me some toothpowder so I hope she enjoys them whatever they are. Not quite clear whether they have four or five children, but with Christmas approaching he is hoping for good business.

One of the things I like about conversation with those in trade is that they are often uninhibited in discussion of life and opinions. And they don't beat about the bush to tell you things as we in the middle classes do. It is refreshing and takes me back to my youth in the Potteries. There, you can be certain, that any opinion you are offered will be clear, concise and unadulterated. And if you don't like it, that is your problem.

Conservatives

Saturday, December 15th., Cadogan Square, London.

I lunched with two statesmen at my political club. One of them told a story about a man who had seen a suicide hanging. The man was asked by my first political friend: "But why didn't you cut him down?" The reply was: "Because he wasn't dead." My first political friend applied this story as a parable to the Tory Party. He said he didn't want to cut it down until it was dead. My second political friend agreed with much fervour. I remarked to both of them that they might have to wait quite some time.

I did not go so far as to tell them that in my opinion the Tory Party will easily survive all other parties in this cautious and compromising country. All political parties in all countries disappear sooner or later, except the Conservative, and the Conservative is immortal because it is never for long divided against itself. The first and most powerful instinct of Tories is self-preservation. They do not really want anything but the status quo, and who can blame them when they transparently do so well out of it. They are deeply aware that united they stand, but not otherwise. And every Briton is at heart a Tory - especially every British Liberal.

Occasionally a faction will appear in the party which espouses some policy which, for them, becomes a matter of 'principle'. Usually it comes down to one or two individuals who have sufficient charisma, or influence, to carry a bunch of others along. Inevitably they will appeal to patriotism (by which they mean nationalism) and will generate heat for a while. In our political system it is not difficult for well-placed persons who focus on one issue to capture the agenda for a time; they will never be in power so they have no need to consider the practicalities of their project. Then attention will move elsewhere, or they will be bought off with a title or a place in the Lords, and the party settles with a sigh of relief to promoting its own best interests once again.

Romantic London

Friday, December 14th., Yacht Club, London.

Wakened at 6. I began writing about noon and by the end of the day, 7 p.m., had written 1,400 words of "The Pretty Lady". Not bad. I feel it is developing well. May cause a bit of a stir when it comes out.

Dugald MacColl

Lunched at Reform, and had talk with Dugald MacColl who was rather professional in appearance but not at all in ideas. He made one more real expert to confirm me in my anti-Sargent views. I spoke to him about his own watercolours and he said that the one that I liked took him half an hour, but that all his watercolours were chances - at any rate the sketches, and that the percentage of successes was about five only. Which is considerably higher than my percentage success rate!

During the evening F.E. Smith, Attorney General, rang me up - how he got hold of me God knows - and said: "Will you go to the United States with me on Saturday morning?" He then spoke, low, some confidential remarks about his mission. I didn't catch them all and didn't get him to repeat them as I hadn't the slightest intention of going - especially for two months. I only listened out of politeness. I did hear him say: "Nominally you'll be my secretary, but only nominally of course."

Although I like him as a dinner companion I didn't see myself going to the U.S. as F.E.'s secretary even had I spare time to do so. Of course it is all about raising money for the war.

Fog and mist and a most damnably romantic London. I walked from Oxford Street to Piccadilly. Scarcely one of my 'pretty ladies' about. Had there been I might just have been in the mood to make an engagement, purely for professional reasons of course.

A good story

Thursday, December 13th., Yacht Club, London.

I was told the following at dinner last night:

Two working men were in the Tube and began arguing whether a certain peculiarly dressed person in the same carriage was or was not the Archbishop of Canterbury. They bet. To settle it one of them went up to the person and said: "Please sir, are you the Archbishop of Canterbury?" The reply was: "What the bloody hell has that got to do with you?" The workman went back to his mate and said: "No good mate. The old cow won't give me a straight answer either way."

The dinner was rather rich and consequently I didn't sleep as well as I would have wished. A bit lethargic this morning, but a good walk (frosty and clear) did me a power of good, and I got some ideas for my novel. I think myself it probably was the Archbishop!

Writing for a living

Monday, December 12th., St. Simon's Avenue, Putney, London.

Ella D'Arcy

Sunday night we called on Ella D'Arcy, and I made her promise to bring me the novel she had written some years ago, and then left in a drawer because one publisher, John Murray, had refused it. An interesting woman now in her fifties. Travels a lot. She had much to do with the Yellow Book and seems to have been de facto its editor. She remembered my short story which appeared there and hinted that it was she who secured its inclusion. She has written mainly short stories herself, several of which appeared in the Yellow Book. 

A young French novelist, de Vissac, was also present. It appeared that his first novel had won a prize from the Academie.

On Saturday appeared in the Nation the most striking article on me that has yet been written. Very gratifying to see oneself praised as an artist in a widely read periodical. However much one may disdain praise publicly an inner glow of self-satisfaction is inescapable.

Continuous progress with the construction of the first book of "Hilda Lessways". It is more of a challenge than I had initially thought. Having constructed and written "Clayhanger" I conjectured to myself that it would be a relatively simple matter to match them up, so to speak. I am enjoying doing it.

Aiming high

Friday, December 11th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Yesterday I worked from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m., chiefly on "A Great Man". I was exhausted, but also satisfied. I have been rather gloomy of late, seeing little prospect of improving my situation, but if this novel continues in the present vein it may just be the breakthrough I need to put my name before a wider public.

There was a long article in Le Temps on Herbert Spencer, which confirmed the view which Wells expressed to me about him in the early part of last year; namely that, as a thinker, he was 'woolly'. I must admit that I was ready to be convinced by Spencer's ideas about social evolution when I first came upon them. But I am now more sceptical. My first thought these days when presented with some idea is: "What is the evidence for it?" It seems to me now that Spencer made a leap from Darwin's theory, which is supported by evidence, and has feet of clay. I have also noticed that other lesser thinkers are latching on to Spencer's ideas to support their own theories about racial superiority. This is distasteful, and may become inflammatory.

I meant to go and see Brieux's "Robe Rouge" at the Theatre du Peuple, but as I was busy, and as they had allotted 500 seats to 'midinettes' last night, I refrained. Three plays by Brieux are being done in Paris this week: the new "Maternite" at Antoine's; "Le Berceau" at the Comedie Mondaine, and the "Robe Rouge". I am green with envy. It seems that once a playwright becomes fashionable then he can do no wrong, and his name alone is sufficient to guarantee success (at least for a while). That is what I am aiming for.

Revelation?

Tuesday, December 10th., Yacht Club, London.

Weekend at Dr. F. Keeble's at Weybridge. He is an academic, to do with the plant world. Rather distinguished. Lillah McCarthy also there. Marguerite thinks that there is something going on between those two. Says she has intercepted 'significant' looks. Well, they do say that opposites attract.

In spite of my neuralgia we had a great weekend, full of good, and not too serious, conversation. I promised to write Lillah a play on the subject of the biblical Judith if a firm contract was made at once. I rather think she fancies herself in the title role, wrapped in various diaphanous draperies and enticing Holofernes to his destruction. In fact I constructed the play on the spot, after having read 'Judith' myself and having heard it read by Keeble. We had some difficulty in finding an 'Apocrypha'.

I hope she is serious, though whether there is an audience for that sort of play I don't know. A lot may depend on how far Lillah is prepared to go in revealing her undoubted charms!

Walking and talking

Wednesday, December 9th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Sub-committee yesterday with H. Sullivan here as to signalling order to evacuate. I found he knew more about handling populace than anyone I had yet met. He said: "I ought to have been chairman of the committee." He was right. I have to say that it all seems very unreal to me. Here we are talking about evacuation in the event of a German invasion as if we will be able to control and direct what people will do. It should be obvious that if there is an invasion then people will do whatever seems best for them and their families, and blow the directives from on high. Typical of the patronising approach the nobs have to the working class.

Out walking this morning. Mild and breezy. Quite enjoying the winter so far, but it will inevitably go on too long, as it always does. Talking as we walked about character and personality. I suppose they are inextricable in the sense that personality is the outward manifestation of character. But what is character? Didn't find a satisfactory definition of that. Nor did we quite decide whether there are aspects of personality which are unchanging through life. Possibly the caring instinct which most women (and a few men) have. Thinking about my own character, I like to think that I have been pretty consistent, but time focuses one on the essentials, perhaps having a corrosive effect on finer feelings such as the common good.

Self analysis

Tuesday, December 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I succeeded far beyond my hopes in planning out "A Great Man" yesterday, and in making a detailed sketch of the first chapter. I was, however, and I remain, extremely dissatisfied and discontented with my general condition. I suppose I shall always be more or less like this. I cannot think of any device or policy by which I could change my condition with any prospect of improvement. I want to be free and fettered at the same time, and it cannot be done.

I often find myself daydreaming, when I am out walking and when I am settling for an afternoon nap. And more often than not the dreams are of a sexual nature. I am inclined to think there is an element of sexual frustration in my dissatisfaction. Of course I can easily satisfy my physical needs here; where better? But I feel the need for a relationship that is both sexually satisfying and emotionally fulfilling. I have vowed to marry before I am forty, and still intend to, yet I have still to meet a woman who would suit me. Perhaps one of these days I will fall in love? Strange to think that my future wife is out there somewhere; perhaps we have already passed each other in a street, or sat near each other in a restaurant. Speculations and dreams!

I read the first act of "Othello" last night and it did me good which probably goes to show that there is nothing fundamentally 'wrong' with me. Perhaps I am spending too much time observing life rather than participating in it?

I rest my case

Friday, December 7th., Cadogan Square, London.

I have been thinking about books. Well no surprise there; my wife alleges that I think of little else! In particular I have been thinking about whether the government might usefully subsidise books. On balance I think so, but within limits. I do not mean novels, or verse, or essays, or biographies, or treatises on the loves of Napoleon, or the social eccentricities of deceased elder statesmen or living notorieties. I mean solid books of reference and research and collected learning for the advantage of scholars, autodidacts and other earnest persons.

In fairness H.M.S.O has published a few excellent books, but nothing, to my knowledge, on a large scale of general utility. Such as, for example, a Dictionary of National Biography. Now, there is a D.N.B. and it counts amongst the greatest and most interesting works of reference in the world. And yet what young man or woman of today has heard of George Murray Smith? His name is not to be found in the conciser encyclopaedias and yet he was one of the supreme benefactors of scholars and British bookmen, and through them of the British public.

George Murray Smith

When he was nearing 50 he thought of the idea of a D.N.B. and he thought it into existence. It was not then remunerative, though it may be today - I know not. At least it is indispensable. Can any bookman conceive a book-world without the D.N.B.? He cannot. George Murray Smith, who was a publisher, paid for the D.N.B., but not by publishing. It was made chiefly by the exploitation of a mineral water which Smith rendered famous. An excellent mineral water; I still drink it in cistern quantities. So that we owe our D.N.B. not to governmental action to remedy an obvious deficiency, but chiefly to a table-water! That is what I term romance.

A government with a really large view of things might reorganise and enlarge the scope of H.M.S.O. which has already done, and is doing, good work. A relatively small investment would perform wonders, and thereby earn a tremendous prestige. Such an enterprise would arouse less opposition than almost any enterprise which this or any other government ever undertook. And it would have a better chance of success. It would be the sort of subsidy which gives subsidies a good name. I rest my case.

Writers

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

I attended the dinner of the P.E.N. Club to Lion Feuchtwanger, and sat next to him, and was pleased with his personality. He is evidently well-used to publicity. He said that his Berlin secretary said that he spent one hour in writing and the rest of the day in business, making contracts and seeing people. Rebecca West was in the chair and she didn't say enough. Feuchtwanger spoke very satisfactorily in very bad English. I went over and talked to May Sinclair, whom I hadn't seen for sixteen or seventeen years. I also went over to Mrs. Aria. She said: "You haven't kissed me." So I kissed her, for the first time. 

The P.E.N. Club started in London in 1921, but now there are apparently twenty five centres throughout Europe. It is on the way to becoming the first world-wide association of writers, and has aspirations to promote literature and freedom of thought everywhere, especially when they are under threat. Presently grappling with a Charter. Inevitably an organisation made up of writers is going to have some difficulty formulating a written manifesto! P.E.N. is an acronym - Poets, Essayists, Novelists. Galsworthy is the President. It was originally the idea of an English poet, Catharine Amy Dawson-Scott. Dinners are totally apolitical.

Dismal day. Not cold, but a constant threat of rain. I walked out to get ideas, but didn't get any. Back is still sore and I think the walking has made it worse, though my expectation was the reverse. One would have thought that when 'God' was designing human backs he could have made a better job of them.

Sea air

Sunday, December 5th., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

Down here for a few days to get a change and some sea air. I like Brighton, though most of my friends seem to think I am peculiar to do so. Good walking. Good bookshops. Comfortable hotel. Of course it was here that I started to write "Clayhanger" so many years ago now, and it doesn't seem to have changed much in the meantime.

Walter Sickert and wife (Therese Lessore) and Cobb and Schuster and Wylde dined with us here. Sickert, now aged 66, was in great form, especially towards the end of the dinner and later when we came up to our sitting room. His wife was very quiet and dark and sweet, but far less quiet than when I sat next to her at dinner at Ethel Sands' a year or two ago. I mentioned “Clayhanger” to her, and she asked why I had stopped writing Five Towns novels. I told her that I had said all I wanted to say, that the well had run dry. She said it was a shame.

Sickert said some fine sopund things. He explained to us exactly why he liked Leader's pictures. But his pose is increasing of admiring the public as a judge of art. I said that what he said was only half true, and he said: "Yes, but there is a great deal in it."

Uplifted

Tuesday, December 4th., Cadogan Square, London.

Bad night. Somehow or other I have strained my back and it seems to be having some sort of sympathetic effect in my legs when I lie down. Must have pinched a nerve or something. So when I returned to bed at about three this morning I could not get comfortable enough to get back to sleep. Tossed and turned for an hour or so and then gave it up, and got up, and stayed up. Sat in my study (standing up periodically to stretch) browsing. I read my story "The Matador of the Five Towns". It is good, but not as good as "Simon Fugue" which is, I think, the best I have written. "Matador" hasn't quite got the balance or cohesiveness, though it is full of good things; perhaps I put too much in it? Interesting that I used the epithet 'matador' because I have been reading some of Hemingway's stories recently, and Jos Myatt is just the sort of taciturn, declining, complex sort of character that Hemingway might have put in a bull ring.

To liven myself up after my nap I walked by roundabout ways to the Garrick Club. En route I met and was stopped by four people, including one who didn't know me but thought he would like to be sure that I was I, and an old lady whom I had met once at Monte Carlo about seven years ago, just for a few minutes. Met Geoffrey Russell at the Club and he suggested I should go with him to Bach's B Minor Mass at St. Margaret's. I did. I ate oysters with him at the Reform hastily first. Church full. The whole thing marvellous. 

It seems that the Mass was not performed for many years after it was written and delivered, and Bach delivered it mainly as proof to his sovereign that he was fitted for post of capellmeister! Good performance. The effect was terrific; also uplifting, despite dowdiness of every woman in the congregation

Therapeutic fiction

Sunday, December 3rd., Lusitania, at sea.

Still rough sea and following gale, and creaking noises all night. Not yet one good night's rest on this steamer.

Mr. and Mrs. Compton Mackenzie had tea with me. She is a beautiful young woman. Both lively and interesting characters. Inevitably we talked about writing. She said, memorably, that in an increasingly secular age fiction is one of the few remaining paths to transcendence. Wants some thinking about. Also we got on to talking about different 'sorts' of fiction and how it may be that some readers seek out books which have a therapeutic impact - a sort of literary self-medication. I think that the setting of this discussion, taking place on a wild sea, made us freer in out thinking than would otherwise have been the case.

Concert in aid of Seamen's Charities last night. Half of it done by Harry Lauder.

I read most of Artzybacheff's "Sanine", skipping. Mostly clever, naif, and dull. Some of the salacious parts are pretty good. I am in the mood for all things salacious at the moment - too long away from home. But how infantile those Russians!
 

To the Other Club

Thursday, December 2nd., Cadogan Square, London.

As I had not got my ideas clear for the next chapter of the novel, I went out for a walk after finishing correspondence and oddments, and walked to the XXI Gallery in Durham House Street, Strand. I found my idea all right. The gallery is very dark, appropriately in the circumstances as it has an exhibition of Cosmo Clark's pictures of the Black Country. I wasn't awfully pleased with them, but I bought one because I had known Cosmo as a baby and was an old friend of his father's.

I walked all the way to the Savoy Hotel for the dinner of the Other Club. Birkenhead came in, and we were very affable to one another, and everybody laughed about the just-finished scrap between us in the Daily Mail. Afterwards he was most friendly and asked me to lunch with him alone. Reading was in the chair and the dinner was the most agreeable that I remember of this Club. I sat next to Charles Masterman and opposite Alf Mason, and we had a great time. Afterwards I went and sat next to Jim Garvin. He talked exceedingly well, and is full of knowledge and ideas. Churchill and Jack Seely came in very late, long after dinner. Churchill said to me: "Receive the congratulations of Tom Hogarth" (over my row with Birkenhead). There was a great deal of "Raingo" throughout the evening.

Looking back

Wednesday, December 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

When I opened the Daily Mail this morning I found that Birkenhead had made no further answer to me; so the incident is now, I suppose, closed. The press has been very generally in my favour. I had prepared some heavy artillery to kill him if he had continued to fight.  Woke up with a stiff back this morning and couldn't get comfortable in any sitting position. Fortunately it seems easier following my afternoon nap.

Mary Borden wrote an article in the Standard (as a retort to my criticisms of her) advising the young to take no notice of the work of H.G. Wells and myself. She is a clever woman, and was clever enough to ignore my criticisms of her. 

Five years ago yesterday my mother died and I never thought about it all day, but this morning it came into my mind. I looked back through my journals to find the relevant entry; didn't have much to say. Then I browsed a bit in the journals. They are interesting, I think, and varied. My recurring themes seem to be my health, and going out. I don't write much about the process of creation of my novels which is a pity. It would probably be interesting to anyone reading my journal in the future. Which begs the question, will I leave my journals behind when I 'go'? Who am I writing them for? I suppose I may one day have a biographer - who knows?