French theatricals

Monday, February 28th., Hotel Bristol, Paris.

The Andre Maurois'

Lunch at the Andre Maurois' at Neuilly, and met Madame Maurois. Present also: Mimi and husband, Jouvet (director of the Comedie des Champs Elysees) and the Comte and Comtesse Guy de Pourtales (he being the author of the new life of Liszt). He is a hearty bright fellow. Both Dorothy and I were very pleased with Jouvet, but had no opportunity to talk to him. Maurois took me aside, and told me formally that he wished to adapt "Milestones" for the French stage, and I have informally given him permission and told him that he could have a free hand to alter it as he thought best. The Pourtales drove us back to the hotel. 


We dined at the Cheval Pie and then walked to the "Studio des Champ Elysees" for a rendezvous with the Maurois' and Maurice Baring, who had come over in the afternoon, to see "Maya". We had a private directorial box, and it was very hot and hard with a very side view. The play is drawing all Paris because it is about the life of grues at Marseilles. it is very dull and artistically is not a bit better than "Le Souris d'hotel" that we saw the other evening at the Edouard VII."Maya" was apparently a flop when first put on stage three years ago but has been revived by Gaston Batty. maurois attributes much of its success to a striking poster designed by Paul Colin. It is certainly strong and effective.

Red Wagon

Wednesday, February 27th., Chiltern Court, London.

The majority of first novels are in essence autobiographical. Beginners don't look outwards, they look inwards; it is easier, and to these mistaken neophytes it is more interesting. Again, the majority of first novels, though they may cost their authors 'blood and tears', are clumsy and somewhat superficial affairs in so far as they are not based on personal experience. They are deficient in hard, fundamental brainwork. They are spotty, unequal, and misshapen. The authors can master neither their material nor their faculties.

These criticisms do not however apply to "Red Wagon" a first novel by Lady Eleanor Smith. It is not autobiographical. Its subject is circus life, both in Britain and in America, both ancient and modern. Lady Eleanor proves herself to be a serious person. She has collected her material with admirable conscientiousness. And instead of allowing the material to dominate her, she has dominated the material. Similarly with her quite considerable faculties of creation and form. Nothing has got the better of her intelligence, and her intelligence, which is high, has controlled her industry, which is beyond question quite extraordinary.

The hero of the novel, Joe Prince, rises from naught to be a circus proprietor with his name lettered in gold on fifty gaudy caravans. The book is the story of his rises and of his loves - all unfortunate. The story is extremely picturesque but, more than that, it accords with life. With every temptation to sentimentalise the author is not sentimental. Again and again one is brought  up with a jerk and reassured, by some unexpected truth concerning human nature. Lady Eleanor has not shut her eyes to any aspect of circus life. She understands it and knows all about it.

"Red Wagon" has a defect, and a not unimportant defect. The writing. The author is intensely scrupulous about everything - except the writing. She is content to use the first ready-made phrase that offers itself to her pen; she lacks originality in phrasing. Now and then even, the author by negligence fails to say what she means. Also she mixes her metaphors. It is useless to say that the reading public don't notice these trifles; they are not trifles. And readers, even if they do not notice them, are unconsciously estranged by their cumulative effect. A good book nonetheless.

First night failure

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

First night of "Kate" (or Love will find out the way -Good God!) at Kingsway last night. It fell flat in the audience. The applause exclusively friendly applause. The thing was killed by a perfectly rotten book. The plot was unfollowable and the words terribly dull. No one that I saw in the audience thought other than that the thing was a frost.

Marjorie Gordon

We went behind to Marjorie Gordon's dressing room. Full of flowers and bonbons (costly) and two bottles of champagne which I was asked to open. I opened one. Completely different atmosphere. Marjorie, after her great effort, needing praise and optimism, and getting them from half a dozen people. Difficult to know whether these artists really believe in a success, when any grain of common sense should tell them that the thing was bad and failed to please. A woman saying, "I'm sure the stalls liked it." Me saying, "Delightful, you were splendid Marjorie." (Well, she was, but had nothing to do.) "Beautiful production," and so on. All praise, no criticism. Not a hint as to the badness of the book. On the stairs I meet Donald C. Well, he asks my view. I tell him I like the production (I don't- yet we are very intimate), music, performances (yes, true). I gave a slight hint as to the badness of the book. He likes it all right. But supposing I told him the book was bad enough to bust up any show?

We drove homewards, Dorothy and I, and say again and again that the thing is hopeless. And in scores of cabs and autos radiating from the theatre to all points of the compass people are saying the same thing. But the artists and the aged authors of the book are trying, not successfully I think, to convince themselves that the thing is a success. This is a first night sample of many first nights.

 

Pleased for Punch

Thursday, February 25th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I worked nearly all day yesterday, till 11 p.m. This singular industry is becoming monotonous.

Reading "Notes sur Angleterre" last night - a wonderful book - I was amused by Taine's noting young Englishmen sleeping with open windows in winter as a sign of primitivism, a sort of healthy reversion to original type. I think myself it is more talked of than done, though it may feature in public schools where masochism is part of the curriculum. I went to a school which aped public schools in many ways - fagging, prefects, latin school song, that sort of thing - but shied away from those so-called 'character forming' aspects of public school life. Taine's remarks on Punch are extremely clever and ingenious, in the way of finding the very roots of our national character in that periodical. Punch will always be able to say that Taine gave three pages to praising it.

Jaded

Thursday, February 24th., Hotel Bristol, Paris.

We walked along the Rue du Faubourg St. Honore. Lovely shops. Beautifully arranged. Marvellously arranged. This fact strikes me more and more. You may wander afar off to see old quaint quarters of Paris; but they are not more artistic than these modern shops in the middle of the much-despised modern shopping Anglo-American quarter. Well, we went into Hermes, and were very well served by a young man, and we bought a hand-bag for Dorothy, price 1,000 francs. Dorothy didn't want me to pay so much; or at least she protested that I was over-indulgent. But the bag really affected my feelings, and she would certainly have been disappointed in me had I not bought it for her.

I read in Paul Morand's "Rien que la Terre". This book does not seem to me to be anything remarkable - at best you might call it remarkably bright, variegated journalism. This is the last of the six French books which I bought in Paris on the day we left for Cortina. I have now read or sampled them all. The best is certainly Aragon's "Paysan de Paris". I gave it to the Aldous Huxleys. De Castellane's "Comment j'ai Decouvert l'Amerique" is very interesting and alive for the most part, and contains a few rather profound things. But on the whole I haven't read anything really startling since we left England.

I begin to doubt whether I am in fact very fond of reading. I always look forward to reading. But the realisation is rarely satisfactory. I soon tire of it. I don't know what to make of this state of affairs. Books have been the only consistent love of my life. I think it must be a temporary problem, probably resulting from the pressure to read so as to construct my weekly column for the Standard. I need to give myself a holiday from 'professional' reading and get back to reading for pleasure. I have an idea to make a list of my twenty favourite books (which won't be easy to do) and then to re-read them. That will do the trick.

It has been a beautiful day. Blue sky. No wind. Distictly warm in the sun. We were able to apricate in the hotel grounds. Lovely word that - I picked it up from the Manchester Guardian earlier this week. I do like to add new words to my vocabulary, and to use them. To be honest I have a tendency to overuse them until the novelty wears off.

 

Diversely diverting

Saturday, February 23rd., Chiltern Court, London.

Last week, determined to buy a new French book, I went into a large bookshop in Paris, opening and shutting the door with extreme rapidity because of the intense cold. I made the tour of that shop six times, without finding a single book attractive enough to draw money from my pocket. There were plenty of fine old-fashioned works; but either I possessed them, or I had read them, or I positively intend to die without reading them. I noticed that "Maurice" by Constantin Weyer, which has just won the Goncourt Prize was in its hundred and fifteenth thousand, and this fact decided me to deprive myself of it.

Lacking the moral courage to depart without a purchase, I bought "An Anthology of Ronsard and his School" edited by an excellent critic, Auguste Dorchain, and I am now charmed with this book of 500 small pages; it is highly recommendable. At the time I concluded that interesting modern French literature had, for the month, ceased to exist. I was wrong. Two days after my sterile adventure there was published, and I received, an extremely stimulating affair: Paul Leautaud's "Passe-Temps". This book is not merely worth 12 francs, but 12 shillings of the spare cash of any lettered person who can read French. I have performed the act known as 'revelling' in it.

Leautaud, whilst a pillar of the staid Mercure de France, is nevertheless the terrible infant of French literature. He will write down anything that comes into his head. Some of what comes into his head has to be represented by dots. Much is grossly and wilfully unjust. But who minds? Not I at any rate. The present book is made up of sketches, bons mots, remarks, and anecdotes. There is a delicate account of a young stray dog of the female sex who became the mistress of the author's study. He says that for three months he wrote nothing, devoting all his evenings to the contemplation of the animal. She had a gourmand's passion for books and he bestowed on her 20 volumes of the (alleged) poetry of the fecund ballad-monger Paul Fort, and at the rate of three a week she ate them all. Not a leaf was left. "Rarely," says he, "has a literary work been so appreciated." Leautaud's "Pastimes" make a morsel than which nothing more diversely diverting is likely to be published for a long time to come.

It has quite cheered me up.

Lascivious dancing

Tuesday, February 22nd., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

Today Mrs. Granville Barker, nurse, and a Miss Ponsonby came for tea. The last had come down from London to recount triumph of Galsworthy's "Justice" to the wife of its producer. She is an au courant de tout woman, and when talking to an author about criticizing a work of art says, "Oh, but you great men can see the technical side and all that", etc., in quite a serious tone. An attractive young woman not nearly so naive as she pretended to be. We flirted in a light-hearted way. You can get away with that sort of thing I find when your wife is present; she takes it as a sort of compliment.

Marguerite and I went to see "The Merry Widow". I felt I had to see it, in order to be cale on such things when it came to writing abut London.

Same thing over again. Indeed I could notice no difference. Music even much less charming or superficially and temporarily attractive than I had expected. Troupe of about 40. Elaborate costumes scenery and appointments. Sylvia May, Kate May, and the other principals all chosen for their looks. Not one could avoid the most elementary false emphasis. Thus, Sylvia May looking at a man asleep on a sofa, "But he may wake up" (when there was no question of another man asleep) instead of "He may wake up." This sort of thing all the time. Also such things as recognize. Three chief males much better. All about drinking and whoring and money. All popular operetta airs. Simply nothing else in the play at all save references to patriotism, and why that for heaven's sake. Names of tarts on the lips of characters the whole time. Dances lascivious, especially one. I couldn't stamd more than two acts. Too appallingly bored.

I am making good progress with "Clayhanger". How odd it is though to be engaged in serious literature whilst surrounded by frivolity.

Kensingtonianism

Sunday, February 21st., Hotel Winter Palace, Monte Carlo.

I am getting on with "The Vanguard", though my opportunities for writing are somewhat limited.

It has been an overcast day. As Dorothy wanted to rush off instantly to Monte Carlo, I hired a car (only 150 frs.) and at 11.50 we did rush off. Of course it is her first visit and she is understandably excited; so was I when I came here first before the war. Lunched at Hotel de Paris as being the best place (180 frs. with tip). The only person I knew there was T.P. O'Connor, looking very definitely old. Does he spend any time in his constituency? Or even in Parliament?

Then across the road to the Casino Theatre: "Boris Godounoff". I had forgotten what this salle looked like. Built by Farmer about 1878. The richest, ornatest, gildedest thing in Europe I should think. Full of nudities and semi-nudities, in colours, gold or white. two of the boxes, very large, look directly away from the stage into the auditorium. The sloping ground floor is well arranged, and 900 people can see very excellently. We were in the back row (87 frs. for two seats, not dear). A mediocre but not entirely odious performance. This opera wears very well.

There were some decent people - a few - at lunch at the Hotel de Paris; but on the faces of most, the consciousness of being correctly at the Hotel de Paris. We got back to the more agreeable Kensingtonianism of the Winter Palace at 6.15 and I went to bed for an hour. What a pleasure it is to get away and lie down in a quiet room. I didn't sleep. Too much to think about. But I was refreshed in mind and body. We dined late and the big restaurant was nearly empty.

You can't read the same book twice. Not exactly a profound thought but I hadn't formulated it quite so clearly to myself before. I was re-reading a short novel that I first read about twenty years ago. The central character is a man in his mid- forties; about the age I was at the time so his experience resonated with me. Now, at the age of 59, he seems to me rather naive and I see that the novel is not about him at all but about the women who have, from time to time, occupied, organised, and interfered (kindly) with his life as it progressed. Not the same novel at all. I must re-read "Clayhanger" to see how I feel about Edwin now. The author opines that women are in fact looking for a man like the man they would be if they were a man. That may be profound.

Charming Violence

Tuesday, February 20th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Opera masked ball on Saturday night. The Atkinses supped with me at the Place Blanche. We got to the restaurant too soon, and found all the waiters asleep in odd corners, and the room darkened. It was like going into an enchanted palace. We woke it up, and lighted it up, in an instant. By the time we left, 12.30, there was a noisy band playing and a crowd of guests.

We got to the ball at 12.45. Already an enormous crowd. Great cohorts of men in silk hats. I should say the men outnumbered the women by 5 to 1. The people who looked really well were the chorus girls etc. from the Opera who were thoroughly used to fancy dress and knew how to walk and how to dine.. Outside these and a few professional men, there was almost no fancy dress; but plenty of dominoes. The coup d'oeil in the salle was superb, and the orchestras (3) fine and deafening, as they ought ot be.

There was, relatively, very little dancing. Not a single well-bred Frenchwoman there, so far as I could see, and very few toilettes worth a damn. But the general effect was dazzlingly immense. And the cohorts of men, all on the lookout for 'something nice', seemed to lurch from time to time in one direction or another, as crowds do, bodily, and sometimes even to stampede. There was something undignified in these masses of masculinity. The waiters and ouvreuses seemed politer and gayer than usual. We left at 3.15. Many people had preceded us. It was an experience, one I shall remember in years to come when I look back on my time in Paris which, I can feel already, coming towards its end. It seems to me that Paris has acquired such a reputation for 'gaiety' that its denizens feel obliged to act up to it, whether that is their natural inclination or not. It is a sort of communal hysteria which someone like me is not easily caught up in.

Needless to say that I was a wreck on Sunday, and the noises of the people in the flat above got on my nerves even more than usual. As suspected the concierge has taken no action on my behalf. However I wrote a brief account of the ball for the Standard, rather sardonic, and took it down to the office. 

T.P. O'Connor dined with me last night. He still slanged Sargent, and he said that Renoir was a master. In literature, with his usual charming violence, he cursed Conrad's style (very cleverly) and was enthusiastic about Thackeray. We came back here and went through a lot of my books. He proved himself at once a fairly accomplished bookman. But late in the evening, when we were talking about religion, Malthusianism, etc. I discovered that in some matters his ideas were a strange mixture of crudity and fineness. He is certainly a unique character, and something of a minor deity in Liverpool.

Back to Methuselah

Tuesday, February 19th., Cadogan Square, London.

Dorothy and I to the first night of first playing of "Back to Methuselah" last night at Court Theatre. 'House Full' boards outside before the performance. I had asked for and offered to pay for seats, in order to please D., but I received an apologetic letter from the manager to say that they were really all gone. Afterwards a box was returned and Barry Jackson himself gave it to me; which I thought was rather graceful. The affair was a solennite. But not quite the usual kind of first night.

Walls of box dead black and of stone. We could see the empty orchestra and the nakedness of Adam and Eve. Curtain going up announced by a sort of clash of a cymbal. I was very bored by the play. I could see nothing in it; neither action, nor character, nor a sermon, nor wit. The game of finding new words played by the characters seemed silly. It was too far round to go to smoke in the interval so we stayed in our tomb. In the second act I went to sleep and had to be wakened for fear a snore might be heard on stage. Audience indifferent but very polite. Many calls. Play began at 8.37 and ended at about 10.15. Barry Jackson said author in house but wouldn't appear until the last night.

In fact Shaw had the box over us. His programme fell down at the end and was wafted into our box. Dorothy took it away as being 'historical'. Shaw has an exalted opinion of "Back to Methuselah" as both literature and philosophy; in the press release he wrote for its publishers (Constable & Co. London) he said it would "interest biologists, religious leaders, and lovers of the marvellous in fiction as well as lovers of the theatre" and described it as his supreme work in dramatic literature. He considered it a book for reading rather than playing on the stage. He was right about that anyway. If the play had been written by anybody else it wouldn't even have been published. A most depressing night.

Theatricals

Wednesday, February 18th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Returned from London today.

"Rivals for Rosamund" received with amiable indifference at Palace Theatre on Monday night. Last night I went to see it myself with J. Atkins. The first half was quite well received; the second half coldly. This was right. It is no real good, and if I had realised this earlier I would not have let it be done. Production and acting goodish. Mildly amusing at times. I don't imagine that it will have much of a run.

Characteristic of theatrical methods. My name was misspelt on the painted notice in front of the Vaudeville Theatre, and the title of the short play was given wrongly in the illuminated sign in front of the Palace Theatre. 

Dress rehearsal of "Helen with the High Hand" on Monday night was good. The original end had been restored, with my chief emendation preserved. How will it go? I wish I knew. My time seems to be oriented increasingly towards the theatre these days, socially and professionally. Of course it is in the theatre that real money is to be made and I have established a life style which demands real money, and lots of it. A reputation is all very well, and is of great assistance in getting anything published, but it doesn't count for much when the public (and the critics) have taken their seats. Are treadmills still in use in prison? I feel sometimes as if I am on one.

Hot and Cold

Wednesday, February 17th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I really enjoyed working on my novel today, and this although I had a headache most of the time. Usually I am incapacitated by a headache, but this time I worked through it. It is the best thing to do I know but usually I feel so sorry for myself that I can only sit quietly and groan.

An acquaintance (female) accused me yesterday of lacking emotion. The circumstances were a sort of public street celebration which we came across by accident - lots of cheering, people hugging each other, laughter and general bonhommie. I can't actually say I found out what was being celebrated. In any case I was my usual reserved and cautious self; hence the accusation. In fact it isn't true. I have a great deal of emotion, but it has been so long consciously suppressed that my reputation as a 'cold fish' is cast iron. Why is this? Well of course we weren't encourage to ventilate feelings as children or as young adults, but I think that my shyness (not helped by my speech impediment) caused me to erect a sort of defensive shield and it became ingrained. Quite often I find myself on the verge of tears in an emotional situation, especially where there is music involved, but I will do almost anything to cover up. Frankly I would like to 'let go' but cannot do it. I envy those people who can immerse themselves without thought or shame in popular feeling. I am sure that their life is richer as a result. On the other hand, I have noticed that those who experience heights of emotion are often subject to the opposite as well. So my only consolation is that depression never takes me.

I bought Mercier's 18th century book "Le Tableau de Paris" on the quays this afternoon and found it excellent.

In the woods

Tuesday, February 16th., Hotel Belvedere, Vevey.

Up in the woods. Long snow path. Greenish-brown-black colour of wood cut and uncut coming often in the distance, or rather flaming out with a spark or spot of ochreish raw wood - the end of a fresh cut log. Immense amount of wood-cutting on the mountainside. All the upward paths lead up to and stop at either a farm or a wood-cutting place. The paths seldom join each other. They are nearly all blind. But this morning in a snowstorm I found a path that led clear over the top of the mountain to the southern slope; a long way. It stopped at a wood-cutting place, or diminished rather to a track of a dog's feet, which went under a hedge and reappeared on the other side. But the slope was too steep for me to follow. I could see Attalens. So I had to turn back. Clouds broke and then strong sunshine.

Yesterday I finished three quarters of "Denry the Audacious". I think that in book form I shall call it "The Card". Good honest everyday work, vitiated by my constant thought of a magazine public. Is Denry Machin a credible character? My feeling, looking back, is that he has become somewhat more of a caricature as the novel has progressed. In a way the novel has become increasingly plot driven rather than character driven and I feel as if Denry has 'gotten away' from me. Not that it really matters. It's a comic novel, not highbrow literature. Mr. Polly isn't 'real' either - but what a creation! 

Overworking

Wednesday, February 15th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

I got as far as the death of Mrs. Lessways in "Hilda Lessways" on Sunday afternoon, and sent off the stuff as a specimen to Pinker yesterday. 33,000 words. During this time I haven't had sufficient courage to keep a journal. I suspect that I have been working too hard for 5 weeks regularly. I feel it like an uncomfortable physical sensation all over the top of my head. A very quick sweating walk of half an hour will clear it off, but this may lead, and does lead, to the neuralgia of fatigue and insomnia and so on, and I have to build myself up again with foods. And my digestion is unstable. This afternoon I was experiencing sharp pains in the stomach, and couldn't venture far from the toilet. I have decided to eat nothing else today.

Yesterday I signed the contract with Vedrenne and Eadie for "The Honeymoon" at the Royal Theatre.

Feeble

Thursday, February 14th., Trinity Hall Farm, Hockliffe.

I did some work today. When I say work, I mean real physical work, not my usual idea of work which is sitting at a desk writing. It nearly killed me. I decided to enlarge a flower bed which involved moving soil to the vegetable garden in a wheel barrow. The vegetable garden is at some distance and I think I only moved about three barrows full, but it was enough. How on earth do people do this sort of thing all day long, every day of the week? I hadn't realised how 'soft' I was and feel quite disappointed in myself. Well, there are only two options for me: carry on as I am, or make an effort to get stronger. As I feel now then I will undertake a strengthening programme by working regularly in the garden, but can I keep it up? There is the question.

Drinking beer

Sunday, February 13th., Hotel Savoy, Cortina.

Idle in the grand manner today. The Huxley's came for lunch shortly after 1 o'clock, and we had a very good lunch, and I drank beer, and it did me no harm. This is the first time I have drunk beer without suffering for it for about 18 years. The last time I drank it was at a restaurant at or near Baia; it made me ill instantly. The time before that was about 16 or 17 or 18 years ago in a cafe in the place where are the theatres Sarah Bernhardt and Porte St. Martin, after seeing Sarah Bernhardt in some rotten play. It made me quite ill for 24 hours. So my metabolism must have changed in the interim, or else the altitude is good for me. I feel disappointed that I might have been able to drink it years ago and never knew; I was too timid to try.

But I was forgetting. I wasn't completely idle. I corrected the last three quarters of the proofs of my 20,000 word short story "The Woman Who Stole Everything". I thought this story one of the best I have ever done. I was so full of this idea that I wrote to Miss Nerney about it, and talked at some length with Dorothy about it, and wrote to Newman Flower about a special jacket for the book which is to come out this Spring.

Dorothy is planning to come here again next Winter, with a larger party. But I don't think this will happen. In fact I intend that it won't. She won't be able to get a larger party - perhaps no party at all. Interesting people aren't free. They have their own plans. However the queer thing is that I simply don't mind where I go for a holiday as long as there is a really good hotel on the spot. I can amuse myself and pass the time agreeably anywhere. I rather fancy the Canary Islands which I hear are like Spring all the time.

Paris life

Monday, February 12th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I called at a bureau de tabac this morning to buy a box of Mexican cigars, and was told that the state was out of stock of them, and would not have any more ready until next month. A good example of State management. The same thing happened with Jupiter matches a few months ago.

I have been having difficulties with the tenants overhead, through the medium of the concierge, apropos of pattering about in boots on uncarpeted floors. The concierge listens attentively, but I don't think she takes any action on my behalf. I imagine that, once out of my sight, she simply shrugs her shoulders in a characteristically gallic way and forgets all about it. I asked what the monsieur was by profession, and was told that he was the manager of a large business office, and that he sang at the Opera (presumably in the chorus) three times a week. This seemed to me to be very Parisian. I suppose I should take the matter up directly but am inhibited by a native diffidence. Also my French, though much improved, degenerates when I am under pressure so I don't think I could carry off an interview satisfactorily should it become a matter of dispute. Nothing is simple.

However, cigars and noise are really minor irritants which I should not allow to bother me. The main thing is to be living in Paris, this 'city of sin', as an independent person rising in his chosen profession. Perhaps I need a regular 'companion' to help improve my French and educate me in a few other things at the same time. Shouldn't be too hard to arrange. I must consult one of my Parisian men-of-the-world friends.

Back home

Monday, February 11th., Chiltern Court, London.

I would like to say how good it is to be back in England, but I hate to tell untruths, especially to myself. It is in fact warmer than it was when we left, but feels much colder. Tenerife was warm, indeed hot at times, and shirt sleeves were in order. The bliss of walking about of an evening in light clothing, enjoying the warm air, and stopping now and then to savour the life al fresco. All went well. Traveling arrangements by Thomas Cook and Co. were efficient and required minimum effort on our part. We may repeat the experience next year, which is something I have not generally inclined towards.

I haven't read much whilst away. In fact I had more or less decided not to read at all, but had a few books with me as insurance. Good job! The most interesting thing I read was an essay on the so-called Kett's Rebellion. This occured during the short reign of Edward VI in Norfolk, almost spontaneously it seems. Robert Kett, the eponymous leader, was a yeoman farmer in Norfolk who harnessed the justified anger of rural people oppressed by wealthy landowners. The 'rebellion' gained a momentum of its own and culminated in the seizure of the city of Norwich, then the second city in England. Inevitably it was put down by the state, with great cruelty, and Kett himself was hung from the walls of Norwich. The 'rebels' it seems wanted no more than to be treated decently, in fact as human beings, but that was too much for the powerful to contemplate. It was ever thus.

My neuralgia has improved considerably whilst away. In fact it has more or less disappeared, and I feel as well as I have done for several years. The warmth seemed also to have a stimulating libidinous effect and hence my time for reading has been much reduced. A very fair trade-off I thought. No doubt the effects will not be long-lasting. They may already be a memory, but a pleasant one.

Health and well-being

Friday, February 1st., El Balcon, Puerto de Santiago, Tenerife.

'A change is as good as a rest' was a favourite saying of my mother, and this is about as significant a change as I could have made. Before we left England it had turned cold and was threatening to snow; here it is dry and sunny - wonderful!

The island is of course volcanic and everywhere there is evidence of the volcanic past. Rocky coast. Great cliffs just a mile or so north of here. Mountainous interior including the great peak of Teide itself. Just across the water, and visible from my balcony, is the island of La Gomera usually shrouded in cloud but quite clearly visible today. We have been doing a lot of walking. Mostly along the coast, but up in the hills yesterday. On the coast everywhere is extremely dry, as if all the moisture has been sucked out by the sun, which I suppose it has. Inland though there is much greenery and a profusion of flowering plants. Quite surprising for me.

I haven't done much, and don't intend to. No work at all. My aim is to eat healthily, walk as much as I can, and relax when I am not walking. I have a selection of books available to read but have barely opened them thus far. I did glance at a book on the Romans, discussing their ideas about health and well-being, some of whch are strange indeed. Perhaps I will get back to it. Perhaps not.