Travels

Saturday, December 31st., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

I left Paris last Wednesday week, and stayed two nights with Wells. I read the typescript of the first part of his new novel "The Comet". What an imagination he has. His skill seems to lie in making the improbable seem possible, if not likely. He said that his financial position was becoming more and more secure. Not boasting but obviously pleased with himself. I was somewhat envious.

I went to Burslem on Friday for Xmas. Same as ever. One day I walked through the town and saw two childs' funerals exactly of the same kind: a procession of five or six pairs of women in black with white trimmings; two pairs carried the small oak coffin which was covered with wreaths and which they held by white cords over their shoulders. Immediately behind the coffin, the chief mourners, in one case a man and a woman. The coffin occurred about the middle of the procession. These little forlorn, smug processions ambling towards the cemetery from the Wesleyan Chapel were very curious.

Glad to be here with the Phillpotts'. Eden and I have worked on "An Angel Unawares", and soon it will be finished. 

During the year I wrote 282,100 words which is a low number for me. I made no particular advance commercially. I had several grave disappointments including my visit to Scotland to be cured of stammering. The artistic success of "A Great Man" was a genuine surprise to me. I firmly decided to marry. Now I just need to find a suitable person!
 

Domestic strife

Monday, December 30th., Bath Spa Hotel, Bath.

If truth be told I am here to get away from my wife. I regard myself as a quiet, peaceable sort of chap, but if I stayed in Essex much longer I might do her serious damage. It is all getting to be too much for me to bear.

The bone of contention at the moment is Lockyer, the gardener. I don't know why but she dislikes him and wants to get rid of him. In fact she has been scheming to get rid of him for some time. I think myself that he is too assertive a character for her, too inclined to say what he thinks and to do what he considers best, even when it goes against her wishes. I like him for more or less the same reasons.

He has been fighting in France and has just recently returned. When he was called up Marguerite wanted me to take advantage of the situation to dismiss him. Think of that! I positively refused to do so. No man of honour and decency could have contemplated such a thing. Now she wants me to terminate his job at Comarques which would mean of course his leaving Thorpe and breaking up his home. Some reward for going through all the discomforts and dangers of a soldier's life at the Front. She is trying to blackmail me by saying that she will refuse to do her domestic duties unless I comply with her wishes. Well, I shall give no ground and we shall see who has the greater will. If my wife, aged 40, chooses to behave like a girl of 14 I shall have to respond accordingly.

I intend to stay here for at least another week. The spa facilities are excellent and the water appears to agree with my digestion.

I wrote to George Moore last week to, amongst other things, tell him that it was the first chapters of "A Mummer's Wife" which opened my eyes to the romantic nature of the district that I had bindly inhabited for over 20 years. He is indeed the father of all my Five Towns books and stories.

Feeling well

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

Splendid health. I have now cut my breakfast down to four or five kinds of fruit (raisins, oranges, apples, lemon and prunes) plus two cups of tea and two pieces of rye bread. And little or no meat for lunch. This regime seems to be agreeing with me. I wonder if I should become vegetarian, and might were it not that it would be such a fag in restaurants etc. I would have to stop eating out and would also have to involve myself in 'warning' all guests in advance. Damned nuisance not to be able to do just what would suit one best.

It seems increasingly apparent to me that I know best about almost everything, that is everything about how to live. Of course I wrote several self-help guides in my younger days but this feeling is more about really living. The older I get the less likely I am to actually tell people where they are going wrong; I find they generally resent such advice, and in any case rarely stick to it. But I often find myself metaphorically (perhaps sometimes actually) shaking my head when I observe the behaviour of others.

Yesterday afternoon to a performance of "West Side Story". Music by Leonard Bernstein and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim. Excellent. Throbbing with the vital spark of life. For me the two central characters were the least interesting part of the performance. The supporting and peripheral parts had much more character and intensity. I can't decide whether this is intrinsic to the parts themselves or is a reflection of the actors' performances. Not that they were bad, just a little dull compared to the brittle glitter of the rest. Worth seeing.

Today, after chores, I walked along the Embankment to the next bridge west and down along King's Road, and then wrote 750 words of my "Millionaire" article in one and a quarter hours at most. Then by bus to Piccadilly. Lunch at Reform Club with Gardiner and Tudor Walters. I like Tudor more and more. Sir John Brunner and Vivian Phillipps joined us in the smoking room. We talked about our own defects and about the characters of politicians. I came to the conclusion that what Liberal statesmen lacked is courage.

Moral messages

Saturday, December 22nd., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Rickards came on Christmas Eve. Doran came on Sunday morning. Doran left this morning to spend the weekend with Ernest Hodder Williams. He said that while he was ther he didn't have to go to chapel, and Ernest didn't go either. I said that if he had any backbone he would decide for himself whether or not to attend religious services, and not rely on moral support from others.. He said: "It's all very well for you!"
 
In the three days up 'til yesterday I wrote 4,500 words of a short story, in spite of guests and eating. 

I am now re-reading "The Way of all Flesh". It stands it. There is very little wrong with this book, even technically. But the trick of reading a piece of the narrative to the hero himself and then writing down what the hero's comment on it was, is a mistake - especially when it is repeated. It is a brave book which could not have been published when it was written, and I'm not so sure that some of the messages it contains are not just as relevant today. In fact I know they are.

Lunacy

Wednesday, December 26th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Only seven sat down to dinner last night owing to difficulties of transport and engagements of officers for mess dinners. This is the smallest Xmas dinner we have had in this house. Soldiers were noisy outside during the day. Mason came for lunch and stayed 'til after nightfall. He rode off in falling snow, having made Richard a present of all the chemical reagents which he had ordered for him. Much bad music after dinner. I think Marguerite was disappointed not to have a good crowd. She enjoys the attention she gets from the young (and not so young) officers. I felt rather guilty to think that we were here enjoying a more or less traditional Christmas whilst millions of young men (German and Allied) are squatting in squalid conditions, not so far away, pursuing a lunatic war not of their making.


I have read a lot, all I shall read, of Saintbury's "History of the French Novel". Very prolix and bursting with subordinate sentences and clauses, but containing plenty of useful information. He understands something of the craft of novel writing. The amount of this old man's reading is staggering.

Some bookish men of my acquaintance have a morbid appetite which demands to be titillated by an everlasting diet of new books. I regard them as cases for brain specialists. Their malady is akin to alcoholism, which is the worst malady of the mind known to medical science. Then there are other bookish men who day in day out protest that too many new books are published. They gloomily assert that the majority of new books are worthles and can do no good to anyone. 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 liunatic men. But I refrain, for the reason that they are misguided rather than vicious.

The divine fire

Christmas Day, Chiltern Court, London.

Bright and sunny, just as it should be. Brisk walk. Smell of cooking on return stimulating the gastric juices. Just time for a few thoughts before settling down to a serious session of over-eating.

A number of people, all of them wanting information, most of them unwilling to take decisions, have been asking me to tell them what books to buy for Christmas. I have refused to advise. A book as a Christmas present is a dangerous thing. The recipient will quite probably not like it and, if he or she does like it, they will resent the fact that you have deprived them of the pleasure of 'finding' it for themselves. For a serious book person the finding is almost as rewarding as the reading itself. The recipient may not even read it, in which case his politeness will compel him to lie to you, or at best prevaricate.


All I would say positively about books as presents for Christmas is that they need not be Christmas books, nor books impregnated by what is termed 'the Christmas spirit'. There are excellent Christmas books, and I have read a few of them, but I should have enjoyed them equally well in a heat wave. And I would absolutely decline to circumscribe Christmas reading by limiting its subject.

There is in fact a marvellous embarrassment of choice for the prospective book buyer at this season, which may make him miserable, but should also make him happy - or the divine fire is not in him. Personally I am both miserable and happy. I could readily name two hundred books in the Christmas lists that I should be glad to have or glad to present. Withal, I am writing in a room fortified by four thousand volumes - and five ashtrays.

The vice of the Potteries

Thursday, December 24th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

I had a smooth passage over on Monday and came here yesterday with Tertia, William and a headache. The first printed thing that caught my eye when I landed at Newhaven was a newspaper placard: "Vice in the Potteries: Shocking Details." It turns out that a bumptious local vicar, the Honourable Leonard Tyrwhitt by name, has been preaching sermons on "The Devil (and all his works) in the Potteries". It beggars belief. Talk about self-righteous, he is the sort of priest who goves religion a bad name.

It is one of the easiest and one of the most dangerous things in the world to kick up the dust of what is called 'morals'. The mere word 'vice' will draw people together from afar as a dead dog will draw carrion crows. When I tried to buy the London newspaper which had placarded our 'vice', do you suppose I could get it? Not a bit. It was sold out. It was sold out all over London. And the fact is that for days past the whole of England has been feasting upon the panorama of our alleged enormities.

It would be interesting to know whether any thinking man really believes at the bottom of his heart that human nature is worse in the Potteries than it is elsewhere. For my part I regard the theory that the Potteries is ultra-vicious as unworthy of discussion. I have no doubt that the same 'vice' is to be found in any large manufacturing district. Indeed in English villages a virgin at age twenty is something of a curiosity. No doubt the Honourable Tyrwhitt has emerged from that stratum of society which is sufficiently affluent to be high-minded and high-moraled. His elevated position does not however give him the right to look down on those less favoured by birth and expect them to conform to his idea of what is right and wrong.



I went out this morning and saw numbers of people as I walked down to Burslem. This afternoon, walking to Hanley, I was struck by the orange-apple cold Christmas smell of the greengrocers' shops. And now all is silent. There is a palpable air of expectation.

Humbug

Thursday, December 23rd., Cadogan Square, London.

Some interest is being shown in making "The Pretty Lady" into a play. I think there is potential in the idea but I made it absolutely clear to Saville when we discussed this yesterday that Christine must remain absolutely a prostitute. Otherwise the thing loses its point entirely.

It took me a long time making trifling Xmas arrangements before I could think at all about "Accident". Twice I started out for a reflection walk, and twice had to come back almost at once. But eventually I did get down to the Reform Club where I had 35 minutes to write down notes and have a glass of sherry before lunch. I browsed about a bit in Sloane Square on my way home just watching people as they dash about in a frenzy of shopping. Peter Jones department store seemed to be particularly busy. I find it all quite depressing in a way. A festival in mid-winter seems entirely appropriate, though it has been appropriated by the christians, but it is being mercilessly exploited for commercial reasons. I have taken to calling it 'Humbug' instead of Christmas. Dorothy seems not to be amused.

Happily by the time I sat down to write this afternoon I had the necessary ideas for the continuation of my chapter.

Incidents of war

Monday, Decmeber 21st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

General Heath, Colonel Ryley and a sub called to see me yesterday morning. Heath, still greatly preoccupied with the question of civilian behaviour in an invasion, showed me a proclamation which he was having printed about sniping etc. He also showed me a draft proclamation to coastal population about bombardment. It was clumsy. I offered, with proper diffidence, to re-draft it. He consented. I think that is what he came for. I posted him the new draft last night.

Two naval officers Lieut. Hogg and Assistant Paymaster Simmons on motor bikes for tea. Hogg told me a tale of a soldier (cavalry) wounded in a charge, who lay on the field with the spear of a lance sticking in him. Another English soldier came along and was asked to remove the spear. Just as he started to do so he was shot through the brain. Then a group of Gemans came along and began to loot bodies. Without troubling as to the spear, they took the wristwatch off the cavalryman's wrist, but just then a shell burst among them killing or disabling all of them, but leaving the cavalryman untouched. He was ultimately saved. I think Hogg believed this to be a true account. Simmons, I thought, seemed older and wiser. There must be so many of these sorts of stories doing the rounds. I fully expect somebody else to tell me the same thing (with a twist here and there) before too long.

Today I heard firing at sea which seemed to be like a battle, and not like firing practice. The first time I have had this impression since the war began, though we have heard firing scores of times.

Problems

Monday, December 20th., Cadogan Square, London.

Rain here all day and the Square looks particularly bleak. I had wanted to get out for a walk this morning to find some ideas but it was not to be. At one time I would go out in the rain without a moment's thought but I am getting nesh as I get older.


I swore to write 365,000 words this year, and today I have reached that number. But of course I shall write more. Dorothy thinks that this obsession with number is strange. Miss Nerney has never offered an opinion on it. I am not sure myself if it is more of a target or a proverbial albatross around the neck. Bit of both I suppose. But that is the way I am, and am likely to stay. This has been an averagely productive year so in the last 30 years I must have written over 10 million words; that is something to think about!

I missed a phone call from an old Potteries friend this afternoon whilst having my sleep. Somebody I haven't spoken to for several years now. I may be able to return the call later, but Dorothy and i are engaged for a dinner at the Savoy this evening. Not something I am looking forward to, but it must be done, more for Dorothy's sake than mine. Minor domestic crisis because the nurse has left at short (in fact no) notice and Virginia is now temporarily in charge of a hospital nurse. I suspect that there is more to this than I know about, or want to know about.

I don't know what is going on with Richard. He seems to have some idea of coming up to London with fiancee in tow. I did suggest a couple of months ago that I might be able to put in a word for him with Gordon Selfridge with a view to a job. In fact Gordon might be at the dinner this evening. Anyway it is apparent that Frank is in trouble again so Richard can't go there, and he hints that Stella is having parental problems as well. . I suspect an appeal to the bank of Uncle Arnold which is unfortunately not so well funded as he seems to believe. I am definitely doing no more for Frank though I hate to see him going under.

Gloom

Wednesday, December 19th., Yacht Club, London.

Yarned at Reform Club with Harold Massingham and a few others. Then finished Sardonyx article, and then saw Gardiner who said the "Thugs" were after him now. Apparently all to do with his recent attacks on Lloyd George interpreted as meaning that the Daily News is pro-German and represents nothing in England. What poppycock! Just wartime hysteria which will blow over, but I can see why he is anxious about it.

Then to Turkish Baths. Masterman and Squire. Masterman told us that the new Allied Military Council at Versailles is an absolute farce. I am not surprised. Seemingly their main concern is to get equal representation of all the allies on the Council. Nobody would guess there is a war on! Turkish bathing is very civilised. No wonder it was so popular with the Romans. Squire is something of a scholar and tells me that the Roman bigwigs would regularly meet in the Baths to talk politics and business. And they had a system of being oiled (by slaves presumably) all over and then 'scraped' with a special instrument called a strigil to remove the oil and dirt at the same time. I wouldn't mind trying it, especially if I had the right sort of slave to rub the oil in.

I was wakened out of my after-bath sleep by news of an impending air-raid. This made me feel gloomy. I didn't mind missing dinner at the flat, or anything - I was merely gloomy. As soon as I got out into Northumberland Avenue I heard guns. Motors and people rushing. Then guns very close. I began to run. I headed for the Reform Club, and abandoned idea of reaching the flat. Everybody ran. Girls ran. However, I found that after the Turkish bath I couldn't run much in a heavy overcoat. So I walked. It seemed a long way. Guns momentarily ceased. So I didn't hurry and felt relieved. But still prodigiously gloomy. When I reached the Club the hall was in darkness. No girls in the Coffee Room. The menservants manfully tackled the few diners. Nothing could be had out of the kitchen as it is under glass and deserted.

All clear at about 9.30. I heard later that there were five bomber planes and that ten people were killed and a lot more injured. Oddly that made me feel less gloomy.

 

Startling mummery

Sunday, December 18th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

Full day yesterday. Perpending on "Hilda Lessways" all morning whilst walking about.  Sketch in Luxembourg Gardens after lunch. New Age article after tea. Odeon Theatre later to see "Les Trois Sultanes" and "Les Fourberies de Scapin". Nothing remarkable. To be honest there is too much theatre in Paris now and as the quantity has increased so the quality has gone down, in my opinion.

I went into St. Sulpice again this morning whilst walking to look at Delacroix, and came across a great ordination service. Dozens of young priests in parti-coloured capes etc. drinking the sacred wine with elaborate ceremonies, music etc. They were all, or nearly all tomnsured. A startling mummery right in the middle of Paris. Crowds of women. Is it the spectacle which appeals, or the thought of all these 'beautiful' young men who are lost to them? Of course all the mothers and friends will be there. Remarkable really that the R.C. church is still such a power in the land. Will religion die out as materialism grows? Wells thinks so, but I'm not so sure. He gives people too much credit for reason; in my experience people are much more likely to respond with emotion, especially, but not exclusively, women.

London weather

Thursday, December 17th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I went into a rather select little cafe last night in the Place Clichy, and was more than ever struck by the 'intimity' of this kind of cafe. The place amounted to a club. Nearly everyone who entered shook hands with the demoiselle de comptoire. An aged couple came in, aged between 60 and 70. The man was reading La Presse, and the woman, big and bony, called for Paris-Sportif and busied herself in the day's racing until they were joined by another man, also pld and very mannered..All three were intensely respectable and dignified, though not in the least chic. Watching people from the shelter of my newspaper in these places is better than going to the theatre.


I had meant to see Sudermann's "L'Honneur" at the Theatre de Peuple, but being interested in my novel, I came home at 8.30 and worked 'til 11 p.m. Good progress.

I finished Daudet's "Sapho". Chapter XII describing Jean's management of the rupture with Fanny is very great indeed. No general accusation of sentimentality can be brought against the book. As a whole it is great and terrible. I read that a play based on the novel is causing a sensation in the United States because it centres on a sexually active woman who 'preys' on men. I hope it will be brought to Paris. It should be, though it won't be so sensational here. Now I can go back to my "Casanova", having read all the absolutely first-class French novels of the nineteenth century.


This morning the weather is exactly London weather, gloomy and muggy, and not very cold. The sort of weather that makes one feel like turning back when opening the door into the street. And impossible to tell which clothes to wear to be comfortable and dry whilst walking about.

That Brieux is not a good playwright is certain; but it is also certain that he is a social force, and that his plays are very interesting as rough-and-ready presentments of social problems. Her and there he displays an extraordinary gift for the theatrical effect.

Approaching humbug

Monday, December 16th., Chiltern Court, London.

Humbug time is approaching again. My nephew is spending the holiday with his in-laws. Well, it may be all right, but I object to all family Xmases except my own. The older I get the more I like to be in my own place, with my own things to hand, and my own time to do with as I will. We had talked of going to Jo Davidson's for Xmas. Dorothy was in favour but fortunately she turns out to be working 'til and including the 27th. What a relief! And I didn't have to muster any reasons for staying at home!

I am well settled here already. I like it, though it is really more than I can afford. But Dorothy is a bag of nerves. Overwork. She may last until the 27th. without a collapse. While her own bedroom is being altered she is staying at the Savoy; guess who is paying for that? It's a bit rich that, having drawn my attention to this place herself she is now constantly complaining about it. Well, we are here to stay, and I have told her so. I have agreed to several mitigating alterations but I am not moving again. Perhaps we will break-up over this? There is a part of me that would not be unhappy if we did.

I have been reading about Socrates and ancient Athens. He said, allegedly, that "the unexamined life is not worth living." I suppose what he meant was, not worth living for him. I am in agreement with that as a personal statement, but it doesn't stand up to scrutiny as a general principle. There are many people, in fact most, who hardly give a thought to the 'meaning' of life; too busy living it, or just not used to thinking in that way. Women especially. And does that mean that their lives have less value than those of a more philosophical disposition who agonise about how to live the 'good' life? Of course it doesn't. I'd have liked to have met Socrates and I'm confident that we would have seen things very similarly.

Missed opportunity

Sunday, December 15th., Yacht Club, London.

I began the scheming of my play "Judith" yesterday. Made good progress. I have promised to complete it by the end of January. I have told Lillah that she can expect to reveal almost all in the climactic scene; she appears sanguine.

I went and had tea with Weir, President of the Air Board, at his request. he wanted me to put a speech in order for him which he is going to deliver in Manchester on Friday, and in which he will define the proper British air policy for the future. He told me some interesting things. He said that the great difficulty in long distance flying now was not mechanical but navigational. As an example, a big machine had started for India from London on Friday and, coming into a storm, had come down in France. He said that the commander, a General, was a first class pilot etc., but if he had been a really first class expert in navigation, such as they do possess, he would never have come down.

Weir said that he had been up in a 'flying boat' weighing seventeen and a half tons carrying nine passengers and a ton of goods, that travelled at 118 miles per hour and carried enough petrol for 1,000 miles. He said that the projected flight to the United States would occur between March 15th and April 15th. On politics he was extremely grave and bitter.

I kicked myself after I came away because I could easily have asked if he would arrange for me to have a flight. It was in my mind all through the interview but I couldn't quite commit myself. Scared! I wonder if I will ever take a flight? The rate of change of machines is simply amazing. Where will it all end?

Keep paddling

Saturday, December 14th., Cadogan Square, London.

I find that I have turned into a toff, and feel ashamed. How do I know? In many ways: attention to dress, servants, aesthetic pretensions to do with literature and music, a willingness to advertise aforesaid pretensions in public, fine dining, rubbing shoulders with 'the great and good', a disinclination to spend time with Potteries people, a definite pomposity of manner.....

I think it all started when I bought the country house in Essex, though I must have had a tendency in the toffish direction even before then. With such a house how else can one be except toffish? I found that I was treated differently, with greater deference, and soon lived up to the expectations which people evidently had. Then of course there was the war and my increasing acquaintance with politicians and landed persons. A growing celebrity. And the move here only accelerated the process; my social circle increased in breadth but declined in depth. A subtle process which I wasn't aware of as it happened. Insidious really, as if I were being drawn in not exactly aginst my will but in spite of myself.

Is there hope of improvement? I don't think so. I need to earn money (lots of it) to maintain my domestic situation. So I must continue to cultivate the intelligentsia who are, at bottom, my employers. I am seen as something of an eccentric, and I suppose I am, but it is not natural to me. I think back to my days as a bachelor in France, and at Fontainebleau, and even my early years in London, and envy the freedom I had then to be myself. Now I have to be what I have become. Of course I have compounded the problem by establishing myself with Dorothy and fathering a child. Were it just myself I think I would, at least partially, 'retire' to somewhere modest in the country, perhaps by the sea. I know I could not return to the Potteries, and they wouldn't want me. I am adrift and can see no alternative other than to keep paddling.

A cogitating day

Sunday, December 13th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

After buying papers and tea yesterday I lunched at the little creamery in the Place de la Trinite. Then I came home and read various papers and periodicals and "Casanova", and fell asleep, sleeping uncomfortably. Then I tried seriously to find ideas for Chapter II of my new novel; I had been more or less asking for them all morning; no success. Then I went out for a walk and felt tired even in starting.

I walked through the St. Lazare quarter to the Madeleine and turned along the Grand Boulevard to the Grand Cafe. I like the interior of this cafe. It is as much like the respectable ugliness of an English club as anything in Paris. I must be a little homesick I think. I ordered a cup of chocolate because I felt empty.

I thought steadily for an hour over this chocolate and I seemed to leave the cafe with one or two germs of ideas. I walked home cogitating. When I arrived there was a telegram from Whitten requiring my weekly article two days earlier than usual. This upset my plans somewhat. I felt so tired - I had taken a chill - that I lay down under the eiderdown on the bed and went to sleep again, reading "Casanova". 

When I awoke it was dark though only late afternoon. I made tea and felt better. A leading notion for the chapter had now formed itself. I went out to the Comedie Mondaine to book a seat for Brieux's "Berceau" and then to the Duval to dine, where I read Le Temps all the way through. Then I bought a cigar and had coffee in the Place Clichy. I cogitated at the cafe for an hour, and then I had the whole chapter clearly outlined in my head. This is a fair specimen of one of my cogitating days.

Beaten to the post

Monday, December 12th., Cadogan Sqaure, London.

Mrs. P. Campbell came for tea yesterday at 5.30 and made a terrific outpouring. She said: "If you want to keep me quiet give me a cigar." So I gave her one. Later she went out into the Square and smoked it. Her energy seems quite unimpaired. She now wants to produce and play in "Flora". I discussed a few things with her and left the rest to Pinkers. 

Two or three years ago when Carter et al discovered Tutankhamun I said to one or two people that it didn't seem quite right to me to disturb him after all these years. I thought of writing an article on the subject but forgot and now the Bishop of Chelmsford has beaten me to it. It appears that Tut's mummy has now been unwrapped and scientifically examined. The Bishop writes, in the Times, "I wonder how many of us, brought up in the Victorian era, would like to think that in the year say 5923 the tomb of Queen Victoria would be invaded by a party of foreigners who rifled it of its contents, took the body of the great queen from the mausoleum in which it had been placed, and exhibited it to all and sundry who might wish to see it. ... I protest strongly against the removal of the body of the king from the place where it has rested for thousands of years. Such a removal borders on indecency." He has a point! I wish I had made it first!

I have finished my re-reading of Hardy's "The Woodlanders". Of course it is overblown at times, and some of the conjunctions that progress the plot don't stand up to scrutiny, but a magnificent book nevertheless. The whole atmosphere of the woodlands is marvellously created and sustained; it is the core of the book, almost a character. And in Marty South, Hardy has devised one of the noblest creations in fiction.

Yellow Book

Wednesday, December 12th., Victoria Grove, Chelsea.

I have been browsing in the October edition of The Yellow Book. The literary content is, in my view, anodyne. Three of the short stories I abandoned after a few pages having found no interest in either the characters or their situation; I had hopes of Ella D'Arcy but she fell away after a promising start. The art work I find much more to my taste, especially that of Mr. Aubrey Beardsley. He has four drawings in this volume plus (unattributed seemingly) the cover and the frontispiece. Wherein lies the power of Beardsley's drawings? For a start they are more black than white which imparts a sinister quality, and there is always an element of the grotesque in them. I find them disquieting and fascinating at the same time.

I have been wondering about my story "A Letter Home". I think it is good, and others have told me it is. Perhaps I should submit it for consideration to be published in a forthcoming edition of The Yellow Book? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as my mother would often say. Although I am fairly content with my work at Woman I itch to be independent and to make my way by means of literature.

Double entendre

Tuesday, December 10th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I have been having a little fun with E. F. Spence drama critic for the Westminster Gazette. He is excellent at his job, and we have had some correspondence in the past though we have never met. Clearly a man of discernment as he has expressed publicly his admiration for my work. Anyway, I think I have caught him out in saying that 'double entendre' as spoken by Miss Jean Aylwyn in defence of the farce "Who's the Lady" at the Garrick Theatre is a mistake in French. I think not.

If it is bad French, which it may be, then I argue that the phrase has become English, and rendered righteous by use, like blancmange and connoisseur, words incorrect in French but which Spence would no doubt permit himself to employ. I suppose that most languages enrich themselves by these transfers from other languages. Custom, and not logic, is the main factor in the growth of the language, and quite right to; a language is a living thing and those of us who love and use words should enjoy that fact.

I have in fact seen Miss Aylwyn in the farce. She plays the part of a cocotte and I can attest from personal experience that she is credible in the role. I hear that the Lord Chamberlain has observed her occasional state of undress in the play with some dismay. To his credit, Spence does not think the play obscene; nor do I. Miss Aylwyn is a rather attractive young woman with particularly good legs, shown to advantage at times during the play. I wouldn't mind going to see it again! What Miss Aylwyn apparently said was: "There are people who are ready to see a double entendre in everything". She is right about that as well. I am one of them!

An umbrella story

Friday, December 9th., Les Sablons.

Glad to be here again. Stormy weather. I have been out and about in my big overcoat, rain or shine, and feel how splendid it is to be in the country. 

Stll working on "Sacred and Profane Love" and making steady progress. I was extremely pleased with what I did yesterday, but when I read part of it this morning my enthusiasm was a little dampened. 

Martin, who I met in Paris the other day, described the general sensations of being well drunk as magnificent, splendid, "But", he says, "you mustn't set out to get drunk. It must take you unawares." He told me that when sober he frequently lost umbrellas, but when drunk, never. He made a special point of retaining his umbrella then in his hand; it became his chief concern in life. Once he got badly drunk (not by design) at Maxim's. He just had sense enough to take a cab to the rooms of a mistress he had then. She received him, undressed him, and put him to bed. But he would not leave go of his umbrella in the process. He passed it from hand to hand as she divested him of his coat, waistcoat and shirt, and he took it to bed. "She became very angry with that umbrella", he said. He did not vouchsafe me whether there were therefore three in the bed! A good basis for a farcical story.

For myself I rarely get drunk, and never now so drunk as to be incapable. Not for any moral reasons, but purely because alcohol has a detrimental effect on my sleep which is already bad enough. As a young man if I drank too much I found that I slept heavily and woke up feeling unwell; unable to keep anything at all in my stomach. Somebody advised me (Shuff. I think) that the thing to do is to drink at least as much water before retiring as you have taken alcohol, so you do not dehydrate. Good advice, which works well, but that means getting up several times in the night for bladder relief. On balance, I prefer to stay sober.

An excellent dodge

Thursday, December 8th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

I have been working daily at construction of "Hilda Lessways". I had thought, naively, that this would be simpler, having written "Clayhanger"; but in fact it is not because of the constant need to refer back to make the two 'fit'. Challenging but interesting to do.

As it was pouring with rain this afternoon, I went to the Gare d'Orsay and had tea on the platform-terrasse of the cafe, and walked about for two and three quarter hours, and really worked excellently at the first book, and was moreover all the time amused and diverted by the phenomena of the teminus. At the railway bookstall for example men came up, all sorts of men, threw down a sou, snatched a paper, and departed; scores of them. I remained, staring like a ploughman, vaguely ... This is a most excellent dodge for wet days.

I have been incensed by a letter of one Robert Morley in the Nation. He refers to art works hung in an exhibition at the Grafton Gallery by Roger Fry. Works by Cezanne, Van Gogh, Picasso, Matisse and others which have, evidently, enraged numerous people, especially Mr. Morley. He states: "It is impossible to take them seriously". Idiot! Does he think the artists were having a joke? Does he think that Roger Fry is engaged in a comic enterprise? What about Mr. Bernard Berenson, distinguished art critic, possibly the greatest living, who has professed a profound admiration for Matisse? I wonder if Morley has actually attended the exhibition or is merely reflecting ill-informed, second-hand sentiments. What he means is that a new and fresh approach to art has jarred with his deeply embedded ideas, and he has not the flexibility of mind to engage with it. I have written in this vein to the editor of the Nation.

Truth is a talisman

Monday, December 7th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I am reading "Casanova". This caught my eye: "I have learnt by experience that truth is a talisman of which the charm never fails, provided that one does not squander it on rascals." What a motto for my "Truth About an Author"!

I cured my depression yesterday by slaving all day at our play. I did the sketch of it complete and posted it to Eden Phillpotts last night. I only went out for quite a short walk of about 20 minutes, just to clear my brain and exercise my limbs. And to eat. Speaking of which I have obtained a photograph of the Duval where I go for my lunch, and have sent it to my mother. She is curious about my way of life here. It is an enormous place and I always sit at the same table which I marked for her with a cross. I can imagine her sitting in her chair in the house at Waterloo Road imagining me sitting down to eat in Paris. Of course there are things about my life here which I cannot tell her about!

As for the restaurant it is good of its kind; and when I say a restaurant is good, I who renew my flickering life almost solely in restaurants, the praise is well-deserved. It is large, quiet, clean, well-ventilated, well-warmed, and well-decorated; the linen is good, the glass thin, the silver bright and the service rapid; the raw material of the dishes is sound, and the dishes are well-cooked and various. I have nearly always enjoyed, and never disliked, what I ate in that restaurant. In short, it meets with my hearty approval. And there is my regular waitress. I am prepared to assert that she is over fifty years old and that her waist measurement is over forty, but she has taken to me and I to her. Her dark hair is always carefully dressed, her gowns fit and suit her admirably, her features are agreeable, and her gestures show kindness and force of character. I know not if she is a wife or a widow. She is certainly not a virgin. Were I fifty six rather than thirty six, romance would be in the air. Perhaps I have read too much "Casanova".

War efforts

Sunday, December 6th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Major Danielson asked me on Tuesday to write to the Press about behaviour of civilians in case of a raid. I did so, and sent the letter to, interalia, The Times, where it made a great effect. Major-General Heath, G.O.C. South Midland Division, wrote me on Friday evening saying that he agreed with every word of the letter, but that I ought not to have written it in my capacity of Military Representative, or to have mentioned him as my authority. This is very characteristic of the official fear of responsibility. The military are really very anxious for their views to prevail, but they don't want anybody to know!

Meeting yesterday of the Emergency Committee at Colchester. Quite busy on the High Street, enlistment notwithstanding. Not sure the gravity of the situation has really come home to people yet. Representative of the police there - an awful, beefy, decent piece of stupidity. I paid for maps for Parish Councils. Badges for Special Constables simply cannot be got. Amazingly the Committee haven't yet been able to get out of Headquarters what roads they will want if there is a raid, nor to settle with the police what the signal is to be. Well, we are only three months into the war and hopefully the Germans will do the decent thing and hold off with their raids until we get properly organised.

I am now fairly in the last part of the third Clayhanger, which I intend to call "These Twain". Very pleased with the way it is going. The writing is well up to the standard of the first two and, I think, for psychological insight into marital relations, it stands alone. I could not have written it even four years ago but my own marital experiences are giving me all the material I need. It occurs to me that I may want to return to the Clayhangers at some point in the future when my experience is even deeper - a realistic view of marriage when the first flush has well and truly been left behind! Who knows, perhaps even the disintegration of a marriage?

Distinctly liverish after my sleep this afternoon. I haven't felt quite well for several days but milder conditions starting last evening combined with heavy rain have brought on my symptoms. Good in a way. get it over and done with.

Artists

Thursday, December 5th., Chiltern Court, London.

No artist can rightly be only an artist. When he has finished a day's work of sincere creation he must be a merchant. Therefore he ought to learn how to be a merchant efficiently - that is to say how to sell his goods in the largest possible numbers and at the highest possible price consistent with honesty. Artists yearn to be appreciated; at least all the ones I have met do. It may be that there are artists hidden about the world who have no interest in the appreciation of their art by others, they are content to create in secret. This strikes me as a sort of onanism, but I have no objection in principle, though I would contend that no-one can sincerely regard himself as an artist who is unwilling to subject his art to public scrutiny. In fact, can art be art if it is accessible only to its creator? This is a matter too deep for me.

In any case, the best proof of appreciation is the receipt of cheques, notes or coin. If people genuinely appreciate a thing they will pay money for it to the extent of their means. If not, not. A comfortable earned income should be a matter of pride to an artist. It is to me! Artists who affect to contemn a comfortable income, when they can't make it, are nincompoops in addition to being liars. 

 

An outing

Saturday, December 4th., George Street, London.

Today I began work on the film and other things, though short of sleep. Pressure of financial responsibilities means that I have to work well or not. But I have felt worse than this!

I took Marguerite this afternoon to see Japanese prints at the British Museum, and was more impressed than the first time even. Of course the mummies held Marguerite on her way through their rooms. She is obsessed when she sees them by the fact that they once lived, loved etc. Sentimental twaddle. To be just she showed just as much interest in the Greek sculpture. We were struck anew by the size and grandioseness of the B.M. It is a very efficient affair. Crowds of people, especially girls, most of them uncomprehending. Experts giving popular lectures.

i was thinking later about the mummies. Is it morally defensible to dig up and put on display human remains, however old they are? As I understand it these people believed that they had to preserve their bodies so as to have an after-life. They would be horrified to find themselves being gawked at by crowds of sensation seekers. The more I think the less satisfactory it seems to me. Perhaps I shall compose an article on the subject.

News from Egypt

Tuesday, December 3rd., George Street, London.

My health is in the main very good, with slight stumbles. After much searching and disappointment I have taken a house in Cadogan Square (No. 75). 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 (4 small rooms) to my secretary Miss Nerney and her mother. It will be an immense advantage to have my secretary on the spot, and the arrangement seems to suit them as well. Miss N. is much attached to me and, frankly, I would be lost without her. She has been with me for eight years now and I often reflect that it a good job she is not an attractive woman (sexually speaking) as we are thrown a good deal together. As far as I can tell she has no sexual interest in men at all.

Much excitement in the press about the discovery of a Pharaoh's tomb in Egypt - name of Tutankhamun apparently. It seems that Lord Carnarvon and a Mr. Howard Carter, professional archaeologist, have been searching for this tomb for several years and are at last successful. The Times seems to have the best source of information, apparently Carter himself. As I understand it much work has been undertaken to clear a way through to the sealed tomb which was entered by Carter just a couple of days ago. Though it has been entered in antiquity by tomb robbers it seems that there is a great deal relatively undisturbed, and, particularly, an inner chamber where they hope to find the mummified body of the pharaoh himself.

All very exciting. Just the sort of thing Haggard would write about, though his protagonists would only have come to the tomb after surviving immense challenges in an alien landscape and would probably make their entrance at dead of night with only a flickering candle for illumination. I jest! The whole business has stirred my imagination and I feel that I would like to see some of the marvels of Egypt myself. In fact, given my changed domestic situation, this would be a good opportunity, but I am commited to the new house with its attendant costs and responsibilities. Oh to be at liberty!

 

A giant

Monday, December 2nd., Chiltern Court, London.

Browsing in my library last evening I took up Hardy's "The Woodlanders" and began to read. Two hours later I came to my senses and went off to bed. To my mind it is the most successful of Hardy's novels; successful in the sense of style, construction, characterisation, 'pattern'. "Far From the Madding Crowd" is a close second and, for dialogue alone, is the superior. Of course Hardy had his faults, as have we all, but what interests us with Hardy, as with Shakespeare, is not his defects, but his positive qualities. There are times when he shows a sustained power of writing which has not, in my opinion, been surpassed by anybody anywhere.

His observation of the natural world is remarkable to my mind. Perhaps those persons brought up in a rural world are naturally more aware of the vegetable and animal life which surrounds them, but I cannot think there have been many, if any, observers more subtle than Hardy. When his characters go off into the woods, which would merely be a setting for plot development for most authors, they enter a new world, a sort of magic kingdom for those with eyes to see. And Hardy had the eyes, and used them. And what is more he had the language to communicate what he saw to we lesser mortals. I like to think that I am observant, but to read a passage of Hardy is rather dispiriting.

When I last saw him, in London, Hardy was nearly eighty, a spare man, very young and active indeed for his age, who chatted and chattered away quite cheerfully and - thank heaven - quite ordinarily. He talked about anything, and nothing long. He had authority, but did not show it, perhaps hardly felt it. No nonsense about him. No pose. No secret but apparent preoccupation with the fact that he was the biggest living thing in English literature. It was a large gathering, no chance of a tete-a-tete. He knew who I was but never said if he had read any of my books. I desperately wanted to ask him, but had no opportunity and, in any case, would I have wanted to risk having him cast about for something politely vague to say? Best to remain in ignorance.

Change of scene.

Wednesday, December 1st., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

Arrived here last night. Noted for thrird novel in the trilogy the scene on the train, and Shields' dentist scene. All in my special notebook. Stoke station was packed with people and so was the loop line train.

Weather is wild. Glass lower than it has been all this year I think. I have been put in the big bedroom because Marguerite is expected on Friday. I am a little apprehensive about her advent. There is a good deal of semi-concealed nervousness about her and indeed she will certainly seem a rather exotic creature here amongst the potbanks. Florence has prepared a whole programme of introductions for next week - engagements every evening.

My mother seems fairly well though she cried this morning during breakfast because Frank wouldn't buy her exactly the kind of coal she needs. I have my meals with Frank and his family. One of the children is ill in bed. I risked going to look at him, but didn't get too close. Apparently there is a lot of flu about at the moment. "People are dropping like flies" Frank said. It was only nine degrees acording to the thermometer in my bedroom this morning so I fear getting a chill on the liver.

More tooth problems so I went to the dentist first thing. Spent an hour and a half there. He put a filling in a cavity. I have to go again on Monday. I have started taking Sanatogen Tonic wine, Shuff recommended it to me. Says it will be good for my nerves when I over-work. Quite a pleasant taste I find.


In the meantime I am going to a grand municipal dinner this evening; at least, grand by Burslem standards. I have also been asked to give out prizes at the Art School and make a speech on socialism. I refused.

French praise

Saturday, November 30th., George Street, London.

Andre Gide

Andre Gide has written me a most charming and complimentary letter. It has given me the greatest satisfaction. I have always had the idea that French critics must regard English fiction as rather barbaric, lacking in finesse and in civilised breadth. In brief an imperfect attitude to life. I have written back that no appreciation that I have ever received has given me such pleasure, not even that of Joseph Conrad, who is an oriental and gives praise like one.

Gide has the idea that I have developed a new 'manner', and perhaps he is right. There were symptoms of it I think in "The Pretty Lady", but it is not emerging in my new book which is a light one. After writing sixty books one cannot change one's manner I find simply by taking thought. However, I feel encouraged to be more experimental, less circumspect, more challenging.

My film is progressing. As a first effort in this new medium I don't expect much of it, but when I have broken down the outer-defences of 'the trade' I hope to do something better. In France, Manoire's transalations of my books appear to be doing well. Most recently "Clayhanger". The firm of Bernard Grasset is to publish several. I understand that "These Twain" is to appear in the Revue de Paris, no doubt with the usual terrible cuts, but it may enhance my reputation and increase sales of the books. "The Price of Love" is to appear in a thing called La Revue de la Semaine of which I have never heard.

A toad

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

I didn't finally wake up until 7.58, a very rare occurence, as I had had very few breaks during the night. I don't expect I shall ever have another uninterrupted night's sleep, at least not in this life. So I was calmly browsing in the Daily Mail when I came across an article by Birkenhead on me, in which he practically accused me of lying. The toad. I went downstairs and wrote my reply to Birkenhead in the form of a letter to the Mail. When I took it to Miss Nerney she said that the Mail had phoned for an article: so I crossed out the Sir and Yours Truly, and called it an article, and charged £60 for it. I could do with a few more eminent persons taking a public stance against me!

A beautiful day at last, after so much rain. I had to get out this afternoon and walked up to Kensington Gardens. I walked right round the Serpentine, glanced at the Albert Memorial, and came home feeling revitalised and refreshed. Everywhere I walked people were smiling because of the sun. It was rather cold and I fancy there may be frost tonight.

The other day Eric Kennington was here and showed me Lawrence's £30 book, "The Seven Pillars". 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.

Depression

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

I am now in a state of much desperation. Perhaps I oughtn't to have finished "Dance Club". Still it is finished. Anyhow the reaction after writing it has been too much for me. Two bad nights; last night awful; depression, indigestion; the usual phenomena after a 'work'. But "Prohack" tortures me all the time. I worked hard at it yesterday and nearly all that I did was no good. I hoped for better today; and lo! in the night from 2.50 onwards I watch the hours go by; get up, smoke, drink, do exercises at intervals. No sleep; and I watch also the hope of a day's work gradually destroyed. Looks as if I will not be able to work today, and every day is precious. I feel harried to death in a triangle of which the sides are fulfilling my engagement to Knoblock, fulfilling my engagement to Dorothy, and my financial worry. I can't see a way forward but know that a good night's sleep would work wonders.

Every hour of the day-time is precious, or seems so, and I have cut out all social things from all afternoons. People who must see me have to come to lunch and leave at 2 pm. I feel sometimes just as if I should go off my head and I remember that at exactly my present age my father's brain gave way. I know that I am getting near the end of my mental and physical resources. I have had a terrible autumn and I daresay that I am perhaps not quite so much of a stoic as I think myself, or am thought to be.

Grey and gloomy

Wednesday, November 27th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

Mildish day, but grey and gloomy. Rather suited my mood in fact. I took a long walk, initially for nostalgic reasons, down towards Middleport, onto the canal and along to the Harecastle tunnel entrance. Partly the way I used to go to and from school. Not much has changed. At the bridge where I got onto the towpath there was a barge coming south, loaded with clay, towed by a disconsolate-looking horse. I had to wait for it to pass. The horse was being 'encouraged' by a young girl with a whippy bit of stick. Didn't seem to be making any difference to the horse which is probably inured to all such treatment.

Looking up towards Burslem, chimneys and smoke making the gloom of the day even gloomier, but I liked it. Brooding bottle kilns of course but all sorts of other chimneys as well - tall, short, some round and some square. Once I started to look carefully there was a lot of subtle colour to be seen - grey, blue, black, the browns and reds in the marl hole, the white of the shordruck. One building in the middle distance had its side painted a bright red and it almost glowed in the surrounding gloom. Swirls of smoke in the sky. It could be painted and might be striking. But not by me!

Up at Harecastle the water was pouring out of Brindley's tunnel because of all the rain we have had recently. Bright orange colour due to the iron content in the ridge. I thought about asking one of the boats to give me a ride through the tunnel but I would have had to walk back along Boathorse Lane and my clothes would have been a sight to see. And I'm not sure that I fancied the dark enclosed tunnel. So I walked back through Tunstall, got some oatcakes at the Market, and was more than ready to eat them when I got in.

My boots were in a state, but I enjoyed the walk and was in much better humour as a result. It occurs to me that there is romance of a sort here, looked at aright. I have been reading Conrad lately. Are his jungle river settlements, hemmed in by the great forests, really so different. There are people here striving and often failing, living lives in any case.

Fatal defects

Thursday, November 26th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I wrote over 3000 words of my last Windsor story, dined at a nice Duval in the Parc du Champs de Mars, smoked a cigar at the Globe, and then went to the Theatre Antoine and saw Ibsen's "Ghosts". This is not after all a good play. It is vitiated by the symbolism of the asylum. The defect, fatal defect, of the play is that it is too 'stagey'. It has not the air of being quite sincere. It is too clever. All this I can see quite clearly. There are moments in the first and second acts however which are poignantly dramatic.

Also "La Paix Chez-soi", a new one act piece by Georges Courteline. Very good, funny, and at the same time bitterly true, in its essence, to real life. How such an idea would have been ruined by sentimentality in an English play. But I think that I could write a play as good. I returned home after 12, and after reaching my etage dropped my box of matches, which fell right down the well of the stairs to the bottom. How I cursed! I had to go down and find them. Vile weather.

Somehow I got to thinking of Oscar Wilde whilst I was out and about today. It is only three years since he died here in Paris. I might well have met him had dissipation and the effects of imprisonment not taken their toll. How would we have got on? Well of course he was a toff so probably not very well. Not that I have anything against toffs, so long as they are only toffish in private and with other consenting adults. In fact I know little of Wilde's life but my sense is that, whilst he didn't deserve to be imprisoned, he was the author of his own destiny. No doubt attitudes to homosexuality will change in time but it is unwise to balatantly disregard public mores however much you despise them personally.

Paranoiacs

Monday, November 25th., Chiltern Court, London.

I have just read two novels which I fear must be the decadent fruits of paranoia. 

The first is "Tarka the Otter" by Henry Williamson. Instead of dealing with mankind, Mr. Williamson deals with otters, fish and other aquatic and amphibious beings. His knowledge of them and his imaginative sympathy with them are really astonishing. But is not this preoccupation with beasts and fish a sure symptom of paranoia? "Tarka the Otter" has been very highly praised by some of the finest literary critics in our depraved land. I agree that it is marvellous. And the writing of it is marvellous. Indeed to my mind the writing of it is too marvellous. I consider it to be over-written, marked by a certain preciosity. The author has searched too often and too long for the utterly right word. But I have no other criticism.

The second novel is "The Bridge of San Luis Rey" by Thornton Wilder. It deals, I regret to say, with life in the early eighteenth century in such mad places as Lima. And a strange and hot, decadent lot the characters indeed are! Paranoiacs, nearly every one of them, and their creator a paranoiac, according to what I can gather of the definitions of Dr. Hyslop. A horrid qualm seizes me - I may be a paranoiac myself! In my opinion "The Bridge of San Luis Rey" is an absolutely first-rate work. It dazzled me by its accomplishment. The writing, simple, straight, juste and powerful, has not been surpassed in the present epoch. This author does not search for the right word. He calls; it comes. Here is a sample of the writing: "She saw that the people of this world moved about in an armour of egotism, drunk with self-gazing, athirst for compliments, hearing little of what was said to them, unmoved by the accidents which befell their closest friends, in dread of all appeals that might interrupt their long communion with their own desires."

I regret to write, but honesty compels me to declare, that the imaginative power of these two writers is now beyond my reach. Such is the effect of growing old.

Malicious mischief-making

Sunday, November 24th., Cadogan Square, London.

I seem to have upset Richmond Temple, publicity agent for the Savoy group of hotels and an acquaintance of mine. Or rather his friends have upset him by suggesting that Morfey, a character in "Mr Prohack", is a caricature of him. I understand that Temple has not seen the play himself but is, as it were, upset at one remove. Morfey is described in my notes for the play as 'nervous, mincing, intelligent; very much groomed, eyeglass, gardenia and all'. I did not have Temple in mind when I wrote those notes but I must admit to myself that his reaction is just what I might have expected from Morfey, were he not a fictional character, in similar circumstances.

The character of Morfey is taken from my book "Mr Prohack". I admit that his profession would not have been what it is in the play if I had not heard of that profession from Temple himself; he happens to be the chief exponent of it, as far as I know. Still, as the profession exists it surely cannot be barred from imaginative literature. In my opinion no offence whatever can be found in the play. Morfey is even a more sympathetic person in the play than in the book. He comes out on top every time, and gives a lesson in manners to the Prohacks every time. He is beautifully played by Frederick Cooper.

This is a clear example of malicious mischief-making. I suspect that ass Swaffer who writes in the Express to be behind it. I am very cross with the mischief-makers and would cheerfully break their heads whoever they are. That said, I think Temple is being oversensitive and rather 'precious'. It is the sort of reaction that gives homosexuals a bad name.
 

Yesterday I went by bus to Trafalgar Square, to the National Gallery, to get ideas. And I got them. I spent some time looking at Turner's "Rain, Steam, Speed - the Great Western Railway" which had not previously struck me as deserving its reputation. The more I looked the better it seemed to get. After a while I had the strangest sensation of the train coming out of the painting towards me. Tremendous effect. Shows the necessity of taking time to appreciate works of art. All too easy, particularly in a place like the National Gallery, to glance at a painting and move on.