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.