Gone away

Friday, March 29th., at sea.

AB is presently cruising around the eastern Mediterranean.
He will return, revitalised and refreshed, to reveal more of his story, thoughts and ideas in due course.

Getting ready

Saturday, March 26th., Cadogan Square, London.

I don't think I will continue with "The Accident" until after my Greek cruise. I haven't got the ideas very clear yet for Part II, and there is no hurry. And I have heaps of other work to do. I might do two short stories beside all my articles by Good Friday. And I could return to the novel with a fresh mind on my return. I think it might make a radical difference to the end of the novel. I have speculated before that the context (psychological) in which one writes makes a difference to the 'tone' of the writing. This is now decided. 

I have been sleeping better lately. The other night I had 6 hours unbroken. Felt quite groggy when I woke up, but definitely beneficial. Last night was only fair, vitiated by over-smoking. However at the end I received from God, or somewhere, just over two and a half hours of unbroken sleep, and at 5.45 accordingly felt restored to health. So much so that before dressing I wrote a little opinion, at the request of the Sunday Express, about the pirating of Joyce's "Ulysses" by one Samuel Roth. Into this I contrived to insinuate the opinion that Joyce is a very important figure in the evolution of the novel.

Tomorrow I start for Greece, hoping for some warmth, some wine, and a complete change of scene.

The creative process

Friday, March 25th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I spent a lot of yesterday afternoon in the Louvre picture galleries trying to get into a frame of mind sufficiently large and expansive for the creation of the central idea for my sensational romance. Many would-be artists copying. The chief result was a bad nervous headache, which did not, however, prevent me from eating well. I went to bed at 10, and had the idea for the 'scene' of the book in the middle of the night. How does this happen I wonder? Is part of our brain still working on a problem whilst we are otherwise asleep? Or perhaps more likely the total relaxation of sleep results in a sort of vacuum of the mind which is instantaneously filled by an idea as we turn our first thought back to the problem.

Just now I am spending several days in the utmost tranquility. I have gradually seen that my sensational yarn must be something remarkably out of the common, and therefore I must take the greatest care over the conception. I found that ideas for it did not come easily. I did not nowever force them. Then I had the idea for the 'scene' of the book. Then I thought I would buy and read Gaboriau's "Le Crime d'Orcival", of which I have heard so much, and see whether that would conduce to a 'flow' in me, as Balzac always does. It did, at once. 

It is I think the best elaborate long detective story that I have read. It contains much solid and serious stuff, is extremely ingenious and well-planned, and has real imagination. I have been reading this during the day and correcting proofs at night. My sensational work does not and would not in the least resemble Gaboriau's, and yet Gaboriau has filled me with big epic ideas for fundamental plot - exactly what I wanted. The central theme must be big, and it will be; all the rest is mere ingenuity, wit and skill. I have not yet finished reading the Gaboriau book. I read it and think of nothing, not asking notions to come; but they come and I am obliged to note them down.

The weather being extremely uncertain I have been unable to go out much, and so my existence has been quite extraordinarily placid. I go to bed one night, and then the next night, and there seems scarcely five minutes in between. Of course I am alone here in Paris, and I doubt anyone would notice my absence if I continued my 'hermit' existence. Quite comforting in a way. Also liberating. Suppose I conceived a crime and carried it out. Perhaps to carry out a crime isn't so dissimilar from constructing a plot for a book once the original conception is made. Perhaps I have read too much Gaboriau!

Simple and perfect joy

Wednesday, March 24th., Villa des Nefliers.

Arrival of four books today ordered from the Mercure de France, nicely bound. Astonishing how much simple and perfect joy can be bought for 15 fr. 60 c.! The anticipatory pleasure of unwrapping the parcel is almost worth that. And then to caress and smell the books ... I don't buy half enough books! Marguerite asked me today, playfully, how I would choose if the choice was between her and new books. I gave her the answer she wanted of course. The real answer I kept to myself.

My "Books and Persons" articles are just starting in the New Age. I am using the pseudonym Jacob Tonson. "Buried Alive" is to be published soon. I have struck into a golden vein of productivity.

Fine walks in the forest. Sunshine. Warmth. Cutting new books. A good patch of "The Old Wives' Tale". Disgust at the opposition lying in the Peckham election. Great fun in reading the account of the 200 million franc krach by a financial swindler in all the papers today. Another slice of my article on London stage. Embroidery design for Marguerite. Thus my day.


 

Goings on

Tuesday, March 23rd., Yacht Club, London.

We brought Knoblock to town yesterday morning in the car. Previously I had got rid of the temporary cook, who only arrived on Saturday - drunkard! Increasingly difficult to manage things at Comarques and do my work. Especially as Marguerite seems to find problems everywhere she looks. I think she forgets that there is a war on.

I had lunch at the Reform where I met Clutton-Brook. We had a good talk. I think he is the most educated person, except perhaps H.G., that I have yet met. I stayed in all afternoon reading Hueffer's "When Blood is Their Argument", which is not good.

Then to the premiere of Barrie's revue "Rosie Rapture" which was good here and there, but conventional. Not very well received though tons of flowers for Gaby Deslys at the end. Apparently Barrie wrote it specially for Deslys who seems to me better noted for her physical charms than for her histrionic talents. I must admit she has rather shapely legs. Apparently she was making $4,000 a week in the U.S.A. before the war. Gordon Selfridge, who is known to be having an affaire with Deslys, was in a box with his family. Bit rich I thought. On entering the theatre I was greeted by cries in the pit of my name. I think this never before happened to me. I was rather put about but tried to appear nonchalant. Much difficulty in getting car after the show. Wet night.

Also met Vedrenne, Algar Thorold, Spencer and Charlton, editor of Sunday Pictorial, who said he was, and really seemed to be, very pleased with my article last week. He said that circulation of their second number was a million and a half. Probably an exaggeration, but I couldn't help feeling impressed. Good news for me in any case.

Literary merit

Wednesday, March 22nd., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

According to the Swedish betting, this is the day, at the latest, on which the German Fleet ought to come out. Strange thing to bet on. Wonder if any of the German admirals have money down?

I received a letter from General Martin, Chief Military Representative for Essex Emergency Committee in case of invasion, this morning asking me to give him a few more copies of the Tendring Division Instructions, drawn up by me, to be used as a guide for other Divisions. I thought ours were very late, seeing that the W.O. Instructions were revised over six months ago. Also it seems strange that the W.O. should depend on the chance of the Instructions in one Division being competently drawn up, for the example of others. You would have thought that the Central Emergency Committee would have drawn up a model set of Instructions. However the letter shows that literary merit is appreciated, even in military circles. 

I am working hard to keep the Wounded Allies Relief Committee in funds, though the difficulty of doing so increases every week. General appeals to the British public are now become almost useless. I have obtained over £5,000 out of the U.S. public and believe there is potential for a great deal more if I can hit on the best way. To that end I am sending some pamphlets to Mrs Herzog, my primary contact in America, in hope that she will be able to do more on the spot than I can do at a distance. She is a most determined lady

My liver is even worse than usual at the moment. In fact the doctor came to see me today. It was not my own doctor who is in bed with asthma brought on by overwork. He sent a locum who is a Medical Officer on sick leave from the Front. He has had inflammation of the small intestine for a year and cannot cure himself, so I am not too hopeful that he will be able to help me. 

Awfully art nouveau

Tuesday, March 21st., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I went to see Docteur L. yesterday. He has a flat on the entresol in the Rue Marboeuf, en plein quartier chic.  The door was opened by a rather agreeable girl who politely picked up a pencil which I dropped. She showed me into a fairly spacious waiting-room horribly and characteristically furnished. A crimson plushy carpet all over the floor, a set of chairs and a sofa all in their housses; a modern Louis XVl table richly gilt and fairly well made, bearing old copies of L'Illustration and La Vie en Plein Air. A huge lamp standard in a corner; a piano with draped back; a column surmounted by a specimen of art nouveau statuary; to wit a withered tree, with a huge rock near it, the rock cut in the form of a face, as big as the tree - all in bronze. Two pairs of double doors heavily draped. Odd statuettes and signed photographs of men. I would have preferred to have spent the waiting time in company with the young woman but she did not re-appear. Her role in the establishment did not become clear.

The doctor surprised me by appearing through doors where I had not expected him. A man about 30, hair and beard sticking out, slightly stiff in manner but improving later. Beyond muttering the word "Vallee" he made no reference to the introduction which I had to him. He evidently sprang from the lower middle-class and was unable to rely on his manners. 

He took me into his consulting room, a room more frankly and awfully art nouveau than the waiting-room, but less distressing because it was all in one scheme and showed some sense of design. I soon found that he knew his business; but with that he proved to be somewhat vain and self-important. he wrote out his prescription at excessive length, and drew me the design of a canule. He couldn't help referring to that design twice afterwards, as it were fishing for praise of his ability to draw at all. However he was extremely practical. I should say he would be a brute in hospital and a brute with women. But in some ways I did not dislike him. He is an arriviste and quite young.

It was an odd consultation. I was somewhat embarrassed and pretty stiff myself. I must have seemed rather foolish to him, a stereotypical Englishman in Paris. I know that I can appear to be pompous and prickly; several friends have hinted as much. I find myself immediately on my guard with strangers, especially men of my own age, and engage in a pointless verbal fencing match which does me no favours at all. I am better with women. Or perhaps they are just more tolerant.

An anxious day

Sunday, March 20th., Cadogan Square, London.

The nurse for Dorothy's operation was here about 8 o'clock, and soon Dorothy's bedroom was transformed into an operating room.

I walked for about 40 minutes. Beautiful Spring-like day. Positive warmth in the sun. People noticeably more cheerful in consequence. Saw Dorothy when I got back and began to write my chapter at noon precisely. I wrote about 750 words. Saw Dorothy again and then at intervals I wrote more words. Nurse had been sitting in the drawing-room and elsewhere for a change.  When she returned to the bedroom I returned to my study, and finished my chapter and counted the words. I had written a complete chapter of 1,700 words and was fairly assuaged and content.

Then I went and had my own dinner and drank some Burgundy, and read Sinclair Lewis's "Elmer Gantry", which is acutely alive and readable. Then I saw Dorothy again and came downstairs and had half of one of my new Partaga Cigars. I saw Dorothy again previous to her being arranged for the night. I came back to my study and finished my cigar and read more of "Elmer Gantry". Finally I got to bed by 11 p.m. but with the expectancy of a disturbed night. I didn't spend one penny of petty cash all day. It was a satisfactory day considering all the circumstances, and I had done a day's work sufficient for even an absolutely free day.

I was indisputably on edge because of the operation but wouldn't admit it to myself until I got to bed. How strange the mind is and how little control we have over it even when we pride ourselves on self-discipline. My sense is that we are essentially emotional animals who have evolved large brains where rational thought takes place; but under stress our more primitive nature comes to the fore and ideas enter consciousness which would be abhorrent ordinarily. For example I found myself thinking yesterday afternoon, in a sort of semi-waking state after my nap, that if Dorothy were to die as a result of the operation how my life would be transformed, and the thought gave me pleasure. No use denying it!

Flashes

Sunday, March 19th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

When does middle-age begin? At 40 perhaps? I am now 37 and often feel positively middle-aged. Then again, at other times my youth returns, I swell with self-belief, and feel I could do almost anything. So is middle-age a state of mind? That seems most likely. And of course context is very important. If I were married and living a quiet life in a suburb somewhere, with friends in a similar boat, then I would likely feel more middle-aged than I do now. Associating with younger people has a juvenating effect I find. On the other hand I tend to despise those people who try to appear younger than they are, and almost inevitably fail. As a stoic, I strive to accept life as it is. My ideal is to be mature in outlook and behaviour whilst retaining a capacity for playfulness and fun. I don't find it easy.

Aimee Tessandier

Last evening I went with Raphael to see "Therese Raquin", with Aimee Tessandier as the mother. She was certainly very fine. Most of the rest of the performance was ignoble. Raphael, who lives in the same house as she does, told me that she started life in Bordeaux. The play is a good play, spoilt by clumsiness. I didn't go to bed till 2 o'clock, and then had to read The Times. No wonder I am feeling old!

I finished my play "Que Faire" yesterday afternoon. I had the notion from Kelly the other day: two people married who find themselves to be brother and sister. I at once saw that I could turn it into a good, but unprintable, short story. Then when I was talking to Davray on Thursday at tea, the thing suddenly presented itself to me as a play for the Grand Guignol. I saw the whole play, in two acts, like a flash, and I described it to him. He said: "We ought to do that together." At 6.30 I began to write the first act, stopped for dinner, and then worked for another hour, and for 25 minutes on Friday. By then I had finished a full draft of the first act. I read it to Davray on Friday evening and he was much struck by it. Yesterday I wrote most of the second act in the morning, and finished the thing in the afternoon. Davray will re-write it in good French. I have written it part in French and part in English.

At Oundle

Monday, March 18th., Yacht Club, London.

F W Sanderson

On Saturday we went to Oundle to stay with the Sandersons for the weekend and I greatly enjoyed it - especially Sanderson's company. He is a great modernist with a fruity sense of humour and much personal power. Food excellent, Mrs. Sanderson being a maitresse femme. On Saturday night we attended a school debate on the subject: "Is enough as good as a feast?" Not brilliant but one or two boys had a pretty turn for sarcasm.

On Sunday, the first morning Church of England service I ever (I think) attended in my life. I can see that I haven't missed much. I was frank with Sanderson about my lack of religious conviction but he persuaded me to go just as a matter of 'good form'. My strong suspicion is that Sanderson has no strong Christian belief himself but considers the moral discipline of religion important. We didn't have time, and don't know each other well enough, to discuss the validity of this position. He is a scientist by training so takes nothing as read. 

In the afternoon two masters gave us the Kreutzer Sonata - just that. The piano part was played by Brewster, the mathematical master, very well. Applause not allowed. Then Sanderson and I and Chadwick  (apparently running the library etc.) went to the library and art rooms, and I aroused Sanderson's sympathy by inveighing against there being reproductions of only old masters on view. He knows nothing about painting, but he was at once very anxious for me to send him a list of very modern painters. I objected also to the prominence given on the walls to mere large photos of cathedrals Chadwick agreed. This will be altered. I looked at my watch. 8.10 ! "I shall catch it", said Sanderson. He hurried off to the waiting supper. I Ilke Sanderson very much indeed.

Time for a change

Thursday, March 17th., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

Impossible to finish the second part of "Clayhanger". If I had finished it I should have spoilt it. I got up to within a few hundred words of 80,000 but the second part will exceed the advertised length by 5 or 6,000. Moreover I was frightened by a lot of the extraordinary praise of "The Old Wives' Tale" that I have recently had. For example from E.F. Spence, dramatic critic of the Westminster Gazette. I was afraid that "Clayhanger" was miles inferior to it, and that by going on blindly I might lose a chance of bucking it up in Switzerland ..... Neuralgia gradually getting better. 

Tomorrow we go to Paris via Newhaven. Our stay here on the whole has been a very great success. We have both enjoyed it. I have written over 100,000 words and Marguerite three short stories. But I doubt if the climate continues to suit us now that we are duly braced up. I have a feeling against it. Certainly I need less sleep. But smoking seems to affect me more and I have had neuralgia and headaches. Largely of course due to my book. I am inclined to think that the tension I have felt is because I have put so much of myself into the character of Edwin Clayhanger. As I write it is as if I am living Edwin's experiences. For example the scene between Edwin and Darius over money and marriage took a lot out of me. In fact most of the dramatic scenes have. I cannot be sufficiently objective to know if this is a good thing or not as far as the quality of the writing is concerned; I hope it will be.

Forming impressions

Wednesday, March 16th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I meant to go and see "L'Etrangere" at the Francais on Monday night but was too unwell - a mysterious lassitude. So I bought "La Petite Roque" od de Maupassant instead, and came home. yesterday I bought Taine's "Graindorge". This book brought to a head the ideas I have had for writing 'impressions' of Paris. I find I must write something. I can't lie quite fallow. Moreover I have now been in Paris exactly a year, and my ideas are becoming defined.

So this morning I started a book of impressions with an account of, and reflections upon, the opening of the Concerts-Berlioz which I went to last night. It is probable that this book, if I continue with it, will reduce my journal to a naked record. I am worried with an idea for placing the impressions serially in various newspapers. Many things seem to worry me in a general way at the moment. Not enough to lose sleep, but a sort of background 'noise' to my daily activity. I am inclined to think that I am working too little, and spending too much time alone. I will need to make a concerted effort to get on with things.

Bearing up

Friday, March 15th., Cadogan Square, London.

I have given up on "The Count of Monte Cristo". It started well and I was fully engaged for about three bed-reading sessions, but it has become too wordy, not enough action. I got as far as Rome; that was far enough!

My nephew Richard writes that he has a cold. In fact the greatest cold in Great Britain. Good for him say I. I never have colds - or perhaps one every three or four years - but I have plenty of other ailments. It occurs to me that perhaps the body can only accommodate one or two ailments at a time. So, if you have chronic neuralgia, as I do, then you are somehow immunised against other things. I may be wrong. It has happened.

Chiltern Court and Baker St. Station

 

 

Everything is subordinate to our intended move at the moment. I have decided that I am not going to buy any more Empire furniture. In fact I am going to sell some. When we move there will be much less Empire stuff in the domestic nest. I propose to have for myself a purely modern study, designed by McKnight Kauffer. A change will be as good as a rest, as my mother was fond of saying. It looks as if we are settled on Chiltern Court, over Baker Street Station, or rather to the side of it. This block contains the best flats we have seen. Nearly as good practical arrangements as in a house. They are sworn to be sound proof and they have the advantage of being within three minutes of Regent's Park. In fact I think we will take two flats and have them 'merged' together.

Wells has taken a flat there. So have the Kauffers, and I hear that Shaw is 'thinking'. When I went there the other day for another viewing the architect, the estate agent, and two underlings were all waiting on the pavement to receive me. It was like a royal visit. So to clear the solemn atmosphere I had to make a few jokes. The two flats together are about as long as a street. The rent would almost pay the interest on the National Debt.

Hence, I have done nothing but work and once the deal is complete it seems I will do nothing but work for the rest of my life simply to keep pace with domestic expenditure. This week I hope to finish the second part of "Imperial Palace". 140,000 words so far. There are four parts but the other two will be shorter. Nevertheless it will be my longest novel. I have now worked daily, including Sundays, for 23 days. Bearing up well so far. In fact when I awoke from my afternoon nap today I was feeling decidedly frisky, but there will be a reckoning.

Philosophers

Sunday, March 14th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

Lunch of the North Staffs. Liberal Federation at the North Stafford Hotel in Stoke yesterday. There was nothing especially to notice, except the inferior quality of the speeches, including Lord Crewe's. But Mills, of the Manchester Guardian there to report the proceedings, said that he was much better in the House of Lords. Well, better is a relative term of course; I can't imagine that he suddenly blossoms forth into a notable orator when in Parliament.

Hawtrey, after accepting "What the Public Wants" on his own - that is, so far as he was concerned - found himself obliged to refuse it because his syndicate funked it. Very disappointing. He said he thought he could ultimately have persuaded them, but we would not give him time. This is yet another instance of the ways plays are chosen. This was on Thursday. On Friday, Trench wrote me definitely commissioning a play, subject to seeing a scenario. 

The Leopard, Burslem

The Potteries is of course brim full of practical philosophers, but there are not so many of the theoretical sort; and even those few who are that way inclined would never admit to theoretical speculation, not relishing ridicule. But, last Friday evening whilst strolling about in Burslem, I bumped into Callear, who I had not met since we were at school together, and we went into the Leopard for a talk. Within half a hour we were deep in discussion of the concept of personal autonomy. Seems he is philosophically inclined and was disinhibited by my being a 'foreigner'. He gave me a quick run-down on the ideas of Rousseau, Kierkegaard, Kant and Nietzche. For himself he thought it his business as a rational person to be as clear as he could be about how his intentions and actions were truly his, as opposed to being a product of socialisation. I think he referred to this as 'personal autonomy'. Whether he borrowed that from one of the philosophers I know not. After an hour I made my excuses and we parted with mutual protestations of good feeling. I hope to make this a regular occasion and to see him again in about 30 years or so.

Anticlimactic

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

I finished "A Great Man" at 11.30 this morning having written about 10,000 words in the last five days. I am exhausted, but more satisfied with it than I thought I should be. I began it with an intention merely humorous, but the thing has developed into a rather profound satire. At least that is how I perceive it now, though it may not appear so to my readers (if there are any). I began the book about the 10th. of December; during two weeks of the time between then and now (Xmas) I put it aside, and during three other weeks I put it aside to write the play with Eden. So that I have been engaged on it nine weeks altogether. It is 60,000 words in length, and my eighth novel of one sort or another.

On Friday and Saturday I had an extremely severe cold in the head, but nothing could prevent me finishing that novel. I was in the exact mood for writing, and had all the ideas arranged in my head. On completion I felt that I had been thoroughly drained and could focus my attention on nothing, but by evening I felt better and was hungry not only for food but for humanity.

I wanted to dine, and there were a thousand restaurants within a mile; but they had all somehow ceased to invite me. I was beaten down by the overwhelming sadness of one who for the time being has no definite arranged claim to any friendly attention in a huge city - crowded with preoccupied human beings. I might have been George Gissing. I rewrote all his novels for him in an instant. I persisted southwards. The tiny walled river, reflecting with industrious precision all its lights, had no attraction. The quays, where all the bookshops were closed and all the bookstalls locked down, and where there was never a cafe were as inhospitable and chill as Riga. Mist seemed to heave over the river, and the pavements were oozing damp. I went up a familiar entry and rang a bell, thinking to myself: "If she isn't in, I am done for!" But at the same moment I caught the sound of feminine laughter, and knew I was saved, and by a miracle Paris was herself again.

A lamenting woman

Tuesday, March 12th., Chiltern Court, London.

A woman, an experienced and abandoned reader, lamented to me the other day that the domestic novel was disappearing. I could not agree. At any rate I, who do indeed glance at novels now and then in my spare time, have observed no sign of it. The great majority of novels have been and will be chiefly domestic in matter. Of course I am well aware what the lamenting lady meant. She meant that the old-fashioned domestic novel was disappearing. Naturally it is. The old-fashioned everything is disappearing and has been disappearing steadily for thousands of years. I expect to disappear myself at some time in the future.

And the most recent novel of Jim Crace, "The Melody", is domestic in nature though perhaps it would not be recognised as such by my recent interlocutor. There is not much to it. A formerly famous singer (Alfred Busi), widower, declining, living in a large old house where he was born and has lived all his life, is attacked (twice). He is further demoralised by the experience but is recued from collapse by the intervention of a young woman neighbour and a man who proves to be the narrator, though we never discover his identity. That is it in a nutshell. The novel has a dreamlike quality, is sometimes tongue-in-cheek, and I began to wonder if the whole thing was a nicely crafted joke. I enjoyed the book, but was not satisfied by it. Further reflection has led me to think it is an allegory of sorts but this may be me as reader grappling for an intent which the writer did not have. In any case I was able to persuade myself that this was a commentary on the decline of the West (Europe in particular), its failure to recognise the reasonable aspirations of those living precariously elsewhere, its suppression of the natural world, and its smug self-importance characterised by cultural 'superiority'. Crace writes well, as ever, and I particularly appreciated his delicate handling of Alfred's sexual uncertainties; in fact the novel is good as a general critique of ageing. Certainly worth reading.

At bedtime I am re-reading "The Count of Monte Cristo", in an English translation by Robin Buss. A very good translation of the complete novel. Buss introduces some modern idioms but only where these are useful substitutes for archaisms, not for their own sake. The story swings along at a fine pace - just the thing for night-time reading. Dantes has just escaped from his 14 year imprisonment and I am looking forward to rejoining his adventure later.

Theatrical business

Tuesday, March 11th., Cadogan Square, London.

I lunched with Donald Calthrop yesterday. I knew the Kingsway "Kate" was a failure. He showed me the figures. He had been away for the weekend, not with his wife. He has a reputation as a ladies man and is clearly not averse to using his 'influence' (or at least the promise of it) on behalf of aspiring actresses who are willing to accommodate him. I was given to understand that the young person from this last weekend has been promised she will be considered for a part in a revue. Evidently she was very keen to carry out her side of the bargain. Do I despise this sort of behaviour? Probably not. They are all adults after all. In fact, if I am honest with myself, I am rather envious.

Anyway, motoring up yesterday morning he had had an idea for a revue. He had seen that it would be better for his backer to close the theatre at once and spend what he would have otherwise lost in producing a cheap revue (no scenery). His notion was to produce this revue in less than three weeks. True, it is not yet written. He asked me if I would edit it. So I said I would, but on the understanding that he took a month to do it in. We went through all the items he might get at once, and all the authors he might approach at once. 

The revue was to be called "Pass the Port Please" and the nature of it was that some people are dining together and instead of going out they amuse themselves, and then call up the servants to help in amusing themselves. The servants are to be headaed by Sidney Fairbrother, whom the backer has engaged for another three months yet at £50 a week. I said the backer hadn't yet agreed. In fact he knew nothing about it. Well, Calthrop said he would see the backer that afternoon and phone me at 7 p.m.. I stayed two hours nearly with him. He phoned me at 7.25 saying that the backer was very interested, and could he see me today. He is to lunch with me today, and that is how theatrical business is done.

I wonder if my 'affair' with Dorothy Cheston falls into the same category as Calthrop's 'adventures'? I don't think so because I didn't solicit her attention. Nor have I intimated that I can further her acting career in any way. But, she is obviously aware that I have many friends and contacts in the right places, and would be less than human (certainly less than female) if she had no eye for the main chance. She is certainly costing me more than Calthrop's weekends cost him. Perhaps I am on the wrong track.

Better than the theatre

Wednesday, March 10th., George Street, London.

In search of ideas for island play, I spent yesterday morning in walking about, and went to stores and bought things in four departments. A wonderful and delightful way of spending time and money. Better than most theatres. It is surprising that rich, or fairly rich, people don't consciously practise "Let's go and spend £100 somewhere." Or even only £10 or £5. I think this sort of activity does stimulate creative ideas. On the other hand, refecting further, perhaps the rich stay rich because they don't spend money unnecessarily. My observation suggests that it is the poor, the under-classes, who are more likely to spend on a whim, and especially to gamble with money they can ill afford to lose.

Philippe and Helene  Berthelot came for dinner last night. Also Massingham and Legros. Berthelot said that he read from 11 to midnight. Then worked from 12 to 3 writing out his telegrams, and got up at 7.30. he had done this for six years - I think he said without a break. He talked exceedingly well, indeed perfectly, rather in the manner of Cambon. All his judgements seemed to be quite detached and fair. But you could see that he was the official - crafty, urbane, and also good-natured. He told several funny stories, two pathetic ones, quoted mots, quoted poetry; and poured my best champagne into a tumbler of water; didn't smoke; and left at 10.30, having given us a most finished entertainment.

You can understand the secret disdain of such a highly-cultured, broadminded, efficient, conscientious and industrious man, descendant of a great father and the finest civilisation, for the crudeness and mental slovenliness of representatives of the U.S.A. and even of England. And he gave us a great show. 

Old friends

Monday, March 9th., Cadogan Square, London.

Ernest Thesiger

The embracing qualities of revue seem to be more and more in evidence. I saw Ernest Thesiger last night at Hubert Griffiths' war play "Tunnel Trench". I knew he was to play in a revue (of Cochran's, Noel Coward's etc.). What surprised me  was that he should pass about six weeks in the country playing it before London - he who never plays out of London. He has left the Dauphin in "St. Joan" to go and play in revue. At the "Tunnel Trench" party afterwards on the stage of Prince's Theatre I saw Margaret Halstan who was the original Emily in "What the Public Wants". Hadn't seen her for years. Next moment I was talking to Haidee Wright, said to be our greatest tragic actress, and the real star of "Milestones". She said she had been asked to play in revue. She had enquired what she would have to do in the revue and the reply was that she would have to be an old woman in rags and try to ride a bicycle and fall off it, and that was all. So she refused revue.



 

Elegant women

Monday, March 8th., 37, Clarendon Road, Putney, London.

We left Paris on Saturday at 8.25, traversing hundreds of miles of snow. We are staying briefly with the Kennerleys on our way to Burslem.

Last thing I did in Paris was to visit the Exposition de la Societe des Aquarellistes at George Petit's. I went to pick up some hints about technique. general level very low. Coming out, I met procession of autos depositing elegant women at the door. I doubt if the auto has yet been properly done from the elegant and the purely romantic qualities it has. Then, similar thought to that caused by  the Debussy singer at Ullman's - all those painters having painted for a year to give, ostensibly, momentary pleasure to a few elegant un-understanding persons. Something fine about the notion somewhere. I thought I could work it up for "The Glimpse".

Two weeks ago, when he wrote to me in Paris, Lee Mathews said he thought he could sell "What the Public Wants" to Lena Ashwell. She is managing the Kingsway as well as appearing herself in the plays. To that end he took me to see Miss Ashwell today and we saw "The Truants", her current production, last evening. It is brightly written, has a splash of melodrama, and makes mild fun of the 'Salome' dance craze. Amusing and rather lightweight I thought for Miss Ashwell who is better suited to playing complex dramatic characters. I hinted this to her and she agreed but confided that the theatre is struggling financially and she needs a popular success. I don't think this will be it.

As at our first meeting I found Miss Ashwell to be in every way extremely attractive. Her voice is pitched low and has a slight vibratory quality which stirs something in me. And her eyes! When conversing with you she looks deeply, and almost without blinking, into your eyes. Hers are large, softly brown, slightly hooded, and entirely captivating. She is in truth a beautiful woman, elegant and understanding. She re-married last year to a medical man, the royal gynaecologist apparently. How much I regret that we did not meet sooner. She seems well-disposed to me, has read my books, and expects "What the Public Wants" to be a great success. What a wife she would have made. I feel quite downcast that her affections lie elsewhere.

Poppycock!

Wednesday, March 7th., Cadogan Square, London.

John Buchan, invited for tea at 4.30, arrived at 4.27. This promptitude pleased me greatly. He is a thoroughly organised man. He had a committee meeting for 5.30. And at 5.15 he simply got up and left. Perfect. I then, fatigued somehow (but not by Buchan who is most brisk) rested a bit, and then took up the play again, and reeled it off with strange ease.

I forgot to ask Buchan about his reading 'method'. An acquaintance recently asserted in my hearing that certain great men indulged in 'skipping' whilst reading and thought that in that way the best could be extracted from books. I felt called upon to disagree with them. While I agree that many books may deserve to be skipped through I say (1) that 'skipped' books ought nineteen times out of twenty to be afterwards ignored, and (2) that there are more books worthy to be read carefully than any individual could by any possibility read carefully. I know for certain that there are many great and experienced bookmen who believe in reading little and reading it thoroughly. 

It is important to distinguish here between those who read entirely for pleasure and those for whom reading is their work. I am one of the latter, as is Buchan, and in that role I necessarily have to do some 'skipping' simply to comply with the strictures of my employment. But when I read for myself I am with those who read little but thoroughly. I have fallen into the habit of writing about the books I read for pleasure just for my own benefit and I have found that this discipline encourages thoroughness. if I am reading for pleasure and not enjoying a book then I just toss it aside

To my mind those persons who attempt to 'keep abreast' of modern literary output are doing it and themselves a disservice. They are in fact misguided and essentially flibbertigibbet persons whose real aim is not to get the best out of books but to shine at dinner tables and in other places where jabber about literature is immoderately indulged in.

Of course the time given to reading by men is more important than the time given to it by women. Women read more, at any rate longer, but it is the verdict of men that ultimately counts. It is noticeable that there are, and have been, few women literary critics. Some ladies of a feminist disposition will of course say that this is because they are excluded by men, it is a closed shop, literally an old boys club. Poppycock! To say that women are not creative is manifestly absurd as regards imaginative literature. But it does not appear so absurd to me to say that they are not very good critics. Women, through some decision of nature's, suffer as a sex from emotional instability. Emotional instability is not a sure foundation for good judgement in literature, or in anything else.

On edge

Saturday, March 6th., Winter Palace, Menton.

I have returned to reading Stendhal's "Promenades dans Rome". Then I sat in garden and thought out next chapter of my novel. We just got back to the hotel at 1 p.m. for lunch. Neuralgia. I slept 15 minutes and woke acutely nervous and still neuralgic. I went in to Dorothy and said: "I can't sleep and I can't work either." She said: "Perhaps you can begin packing my valise." She was sewing. As only sarcastic responses occured to me I made no reply but returned to my room and began to write. I wrote 1,100 words, a complete chapter, in 75 minutes, and then felt better. Writing as therapy.

We set off back to England tomorrow, in time for Dorothy's confinement. I have a lot of things on my mind, apart from impending fatherhood I mean. Particularly the situation with Septimus who is dying of consumption in North Wales. I must go to see him of course, but how to handle the situation I know not. Also I have heard from Ida Godebski, who has seen Marguerite and tells me that she would not on any account agree to a divorce. 

We are returning in short stages, for Dorothy's benefit, to Paris and then via Calais to London. I intend to stay at Claridges for a week or so when we get back and have written to Miss Nerney to that effect. I don't want to go back to Cadogan Square until after the child is born. Then my life really will change. I am nearly 60 - can I adapt to the new circumstances? Only time will tell.

A destitute in Paris

Saturday, March 5th., Hotel Bristol, Paris.

Dorothy wanted to see Geraldy's new play "Son Mari"; "Only one act, or at most two", she said. Happily no seats were obtainable. So we got two for the Varietes ("L'Habit Vert de Flers" and "Caillavet"). Now Dorothy thought she had been asking the theatre man here for seats for 'Varietes', the German Jannings film - known as 'Vaudeville' in England. It was not until we were driving along the boulevard that she discovered that she had misled two men, the theatre man and me, as to what she really wanted. Regrettably this is the sort of misunderstanding that seems to occur all the time when she is involved. I sometimes wonder if it is in fact accidental.

Back home to England tomorrow and I shall not be sorry. Paris is well enough but not the place I remember. It has changed of course, but I suspect that I have changed more. London suits me better now which really means that I have 'grown into' it. How different my life would have been had I made my home permanently in France as I was at one time tempted to do. I don't say I would have been a better writer, but I would have been a different writer.

I have had a letter from Edward Garnett about Bunin, the author, who it seems is more or less destitute here in Paris. Garnett asks for a contribution. Says he has a high opinion of Bunin's work. I must say that I have never thought very well of his writing myself, but Garnett is a good judge of these things. He is probably more likely to be right than I am. "A Gentleman from San Francisco" I thought very crude indeed, and I could not get on with "The Village". However I was talking to Andre Gide the other night and he thought well of Bunin, especially "The Village". He sees Bunin as being in the great tradition of Russian novelists, which makes it all the more strange that I do not appreciate him. Anyway, I sent Garnett a cheque for £5. 

 

New things

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

Eric MacLagan

Feeling well and idle yesterday morning I went out for a walk and got into the Victoria and Albert Museum. In the galleries I met Eric MacLagan, Keeper of Sculpture, and he said: "You must come and see the finest Chinese sculpture in England." So I went with him into a closed gallery and saw it. 7th. Century (Tang). A Buddha. I said: "There is no Western Art." He entirely disagreed. He said that he thought Western painting much finer than Eastern, and the same for sculpture - but I forget his comparisons. He said we got into the way of comparing primitive Chinese with Renaissance and later European, and of course we didn't see in the latter what we saw in the former. To be honest I was more or less lost by his argument. He is an expert, and spoke to me as if I shared his expertise. Complimentary of course, but misguided.

Quantities of rotten pictures at South Kensington and many good ones. The place is close to my house and yet I hadn't been seriously into it for years. I went ostensibly to think about a story but thought very little.

I have been given a copy of a new magazine from America: The New Yorker. I like it. I particularly enjoyed an article on something called bibliotherapy and copy an extract here:

Bibliotherapy is a very broad term for the ancient practice of encouraging reading for therapeutic effect. The first use of the term is usually dated to a jaunty 1916 article in The Atlantic Monthly, “A Literary Clinic.” In it, the author describes stumbling upon a “bibliopathic institute” run by an acquaintance, Bagster, in the basement of his church, from where he dispenses reading recommendations with healing value. “Bibliotherapy is…a new science,” Bagster explains. “A book may be a stimulant or a sedative or an irritant or a soporific. The point is that it must do something to you, and you ought to know what it is. A book may be of the nature of a soothing syrup or it may be of the nature of a mustard plaster.” To a middle-aged client with “opinions partially ossified,” Bagster gives the following prescription: “You must read more novels. Not pleasant stories that make you forget yourself. They must be searching, drastic, stinging, relentless novels.” (George Bernard Shaw is at the top of the list.) Bagster is finally called away to deal with a patient who has “taken an overdose of war literature,” leaving the author to think about the books that “put new life into us and then set the life pulse strong but slow.”

I have never heard of bibliotherapy or Bagster, but I like the idea. 

Passionately interested

Monday, March 3rd., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

On the 1st. I began my book on women but I only wrote about 100 words. I think I may call it simply "Our Women". I meant to go on with it yesterday but couldn't. After muddling about nearly all day I began again at 5 p.m. and wrote 600 good words before dinner. The book is now really begun. I must admit to some misgivings and I expect to get a fair amount of criticism when it is published, but something needs to be said about the changing role of women and if not by me then who?

I have written to Max Beaverbrook today about theatrical matters. I need some advice. For a man who has two telephones in his office he is singularly difficult to get at. It is all to do with the affair of the Hammersmith Theatre lease. If I don't get hold of the lease Horne will assuredly sell it to one of the theatrical rings, who, I think, would give him an appreciable profit. At the moment he is prepared to sell to me for the amount he paid originally. I don't want to miss the chance. I have now, to my immense chagrin, become passionately interested in it. People have told me this is what happens when you get mixed up in the theatrical business - it gets hold of you.

The theatre has been closed for over a year, and before that it had a bad melodramatic reputation. We have undoubtedly put it on the map, and unless the wild sensationalism of the Daily Express, the Daily Sketch and the Daily Mirror plunges this millionaire-ridden country into anarchy, we have an excellent chance of accomplishing something permanent and valuable. The artistic credit will be Nigel Playfair's. The credit on the practical side will be mine and Alistair Tayler's. The press has been exceedingly kind on the whole, and already our prestige is unquestionable. So much so that we have been invited to take sole charge of the Shakespeare Memorial Week at Stratford.

Beauty from ugliness

Saturday, March 2nd., Chiltern Court, London.

Brains and imagination exist more abundantly in the heads of novelists than in the heads of other writers. This has been the state of affairs for a century and a half, and it still is. Until it is altered novelists will continue to hold the field. I see no real sign yet of any alteration, and the advent of motion pictures gives screenwriters (who are usually novelists) perhaps even more scope to develop their talents. But brains and imagination are not sufficient. The supreme challenge for the novelist, in fact the artist generally, is surely to create beauty out of ugliness. Most novels fail this test.

Which leads me to a new novel by Michael Ondaatje: "Warlight". This is the fourth or fifth novel by Ondaatje that I have read, but the first that I have formally reviewed. Each has confirmed my first impression that Ondaatje is an original talent, a writer like no other. He is of course a poet and a film-maker and these aspects of his professional life show themselves in his novel writing. First the title: warlight is the minimal lighting condition that pertains at night during a 'blackout'; the author's intention in selecting this title is presumably to alert the reader that what is being read may be unclear, and difficult to be sure of. The novel comprises a series of scenes, remembrances, self-reflections, in no particular chronological sequence. Is the narrator dreaming, inventing, elaborating, deceiving - who knows?

The narrator is the least colourful character in the novel. He is surrounded by the surreal not only in personalities but in places and situations. Several of the characters might have been imagined by Dickens had he been a user of hallucinogenic substances. We are introduced to the Pimlico Darter, the Moth, and Marsh Felon. I am myself an inventor of unlikely names for my characters and regret never having thought of Marsh Felon. There is no plot as such though we are invited to construct some sort of narrative sequence from a series of vivid scenes. That said, there is an undeniable flow to the text and the imagery is frequently resonant. Every now and then there is a remark, or observation, which causes the reader (this reader at least) to mentally take a step back. Sometimes I found myself stopping and going back for a page or so to find the line that had germinated in my subconscious; that is poerful writing.

For my money, this is not so good a novel as "The English Patient" or indeed "Anil's Ghost" but if you are the sort of reader who is able to submerge himself into Ondaatje's style and appreciate the writing for itself you will enjoy it. Does it pass the test of making beauty out of ugliness? Certainly, which is why Ondaatje is and is acknowledged to be a great writer.

Fearing the worst

Thursday, March 1st., 75 Cadogan Square, London.

I dined with Beaverbrook at the Vineyard, Fulham. He has given up his office on the top floor of the Express building. Nobody but me and Max. We grew rather intimate again. He said that I seemed not quite myself. He is right. I felt able to share some thoughts about why I am feeling the way I am at present. I think it has done me some good. At any rate I have written a letter to Dorothy in France to clear up a few things between us. I have been feeling very 'flat' lately, which is what Max recognised. Not depressed. Just lacking in any cheeriness, good humour, optimism .... that sort of thing.

I told Dorothy in my letter that she has a general tendency to exaggerate troubles and inconveniences, and that she still has a lot to learn about human relations. She asked me, quite seriously, before she departed why I'm not the same bright thing at home that I am in company. I really marvel at the question and told her so in my letter. I am not for the same reason that she is not, and that everybody is not; it would be absurd even if possible. Then there was the recent incident with Miss Nerney. I was staggered at the scene she made with Miss N. over something so trifling that I cannot even recall it. It was all because D. was in a temper. Now Miss N. has her faults, as do we all, but she has much common sense, is completely devoted and trustworthy and faithful. Frankly I would be lost without her. The way D. spoke to her was extremely painful to me and Miss N. was upset for days. There was no justification for it, and I have told her so. Regrettably I am put in mind of the letters I used to write to Marguerite when she behaved badly. I always feel that to write things down, soberly, is so much better than getting embroiled in argument with its attendant blame. Of course it never works, not with women. I can be sure that at some time in the future, when we are arguing, D. will quote extensively from my letter to demonstrate just how 'inconsistent' I am. I fear the worst.
 
I stayed talking to Max until 11.53, and arranged to go down to Cherkley on Sunday for the night. I think I will look forward to that.