True or false?

Tuesday, January 31st., Cadogan Square, London.

I went out for a long walk and got really quite a few decent ideas for my play during this walk, which took just under two hours. For many people in my experience walking in the city is not really walking at all, and they see no purpose in doing it. They think me rather eccentric, which I am, but walking is not a symptom of that eccentricity. Country walking is what is valued but I see no essential difference - the streets are as full of interest as is the countryside, perhaps more so. Lambeth was the most interesting part of my walk today. Had tea in the Express Dairy in King's Road. I always enjoy this place. Total cost: 3d.

My memory has been troubling me. Recall is the problem - names of people; names of places; titles of books. It is infuriating (and worrying) to know that you know something, but are unable to bring it to mind. And then, later, when your mind is on something else, it pops up. A mystery. And what is a memory anyway? It has become obvious to me over time that even things you feel confident about, remembering I mean, can prove to be unreliable or even downright wrong. Only a few weeks ago I was talking to Geoffrey Russell about a play I had seen some years ago; he looked puzzled and, when we explored it, it became apparent that I could not have seen it. I wasn't lying; I sincerely believed that I remembered seeing it. So this was a false memory, a fabrication. How much of memory is false then? I am starting to think that very little is accurately remembered, at least not by me. What about Proust? I have found his writing impenetrable, though I don't doubt that it contains within its borders several small masterpieces, but have not questioned its veracity. Does it matter?

Some rather wearing visits anticipated from relatives I scarcely ever see and whose course of existence is separating from me more widely every year, and has been doing for over 30 years. It is, as a fact, desolating.

A bookman's day

Tuesday, January 30th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Slept well. Six and a half hours sleep undisturbed. Felt exceptionally well in consequence. I went down, partly on foot and partly by omnibus, to the Quai des Grands Augustins. It was a perfect morning. I had the itch to buy a book or two and I gave way to it. There is nothing in the world to compare with the pleasure of browsing for and buying books when one has plenty of time, a carefree soul, and a sufficiency of spare cash. Just the thought of it makes me feel better.

I bought, on the Quai, the two "Cardinal" books of Halevy, a Moliere in two volumes (Didot), Jouast's edition of "Le Mariage de Figaro", and Albert Wolff's "Memoires de Boulevard". The whole lot bound in various calfs for twelve and a half francs. I lunched frugally in a corner at Laperouse's. I read Wolff coming home in the omnibusand in my reading armchair when I got back "Madame Cardinal". The former is amusing, the latter a masterpiece. I felt I had thoroughly enjoyed myself.

I had also collected my ideas, by the way as it were, for the second instalment of the serial, and between 3.30 and 4.30 I wrote 500 words of it.

More reading this evening and the pleasure of re-arranging my bookshelves to accommodate the new purchases. Altogether something approaching a perfect bookman's day.

Reputations

Saturday, January 29th., Hotel Savoy, Cortina.

We have been here for four days now, and are settled after a poor start. I had arranged that we should have a suite of three rooms plus bathroom but due to telegraphic miscommunications we only have one room and no bathroom; we are promised an improvement when suitable rooms arise. Part of the problem is that the Duke of Genoa is presently staying here and wanted twelve rooms. He could not be refused it appears. Well, I suppose that is how things are, but not necessarily how they should be. We are comfortable enough, and saving some money.

On two occasions in my maturer life have I blushed. The first occasion was when, sitting in the stalls of a theatre, someone lightly touched my shoulder from the row behind, and, turning, I heard a remembered voice say: "You don't know me Mr. Bennett, but I know you." This was Ellen Terry. The second was when, in the coffee room of a club to which we both belonged, a stoutish man accosted me and said: "You won't recall me, I'm Henry James. May I join you upstairs later?" Yes, I did fairly blush - I suppose because I was flattered. Such is the mysterious influence of immense artistic prestige on my blood vessels. Artistic prestige has an influence not only on my blood vessels but on my critical faculty. It took me years to ascertain that Henry James's work was giving me little pleasure. I first had a glimpse of this distressing fact when "What Maisie Knew" began to appear serially - I could not get on with it. My fault of course. But when I was immovably bogged in the middle of "The Golden Bowl" and again in the middle of "The Ambassadors" I grew bolder with myself. I gave them up. Today I have no recollection whatever of any characters or any events in either novel.

I have come to think that James hadn't actually much to say, in a creative sense, that needed saying. I think that he knew a lot about the life of one sort of people, the sort who are what is called cultured, and who do themselves very well both physically and intellectually, and very little about life in general. I think that in the fastidiousness of his taste he rather repudiated life. Of course my eyes may have a blind-spot for the alleged supreme excellencies of Henry James. But, if so, the eyes of a vast number of other people no plainer than myself are similarly afflicted. I can only say that never shall I set out afresh into the arid desert of "The Golden Bowl".

I have had an idea for writing a series of souvenirs d'enfance. There is nothing about souvenirs d'enfance in Louis Aragon's "Paysans de Paris", but this book is certainly stimulating me into a fresh creativeness. I must say that, though it is uneven, I should like to write a book like that - I mean about London. Only of course England would never tolerate the belle franchise of this French book. And perhaps I don't know enough about London to do it justice. In that respect it might be that my book on 'London Life' would be as circumscribed as are James'

Alice Hallagarten Franchetti

While Dorothy was dressing I went out for a walk. I wanted to be alone to think about a short story and two articles and my dimly projected souvenirs, but I came across Baroness Franchetti, acquaintance of the Huxleys. She would walk with me. And when I said I must turn she said she also must turn back. Then she took my photograph twice in the middle of the road, blazing sunshine, screwing up eyes, etc. I don't think I have ever been photographed in the street before. I don't like being photographed at all, not being of a photogenic appearance. However she did tell me one interesting thing. She knew Ibsen. She said she spent a whole season in the same hotel with him and his family somewhere. She sat at the next table to the Ibsens. They - father, mother, and boy - never spoke a word during the whole time. Ibsen (said Mdme. Franchetti) would talk freely to Madame Franchetti afterwards. He told her that he wrote all his work four times. Also, that he wrote "The Doll's House" in the open air, in tremendous sunshine, at Sorrento. He loved the greatest possible heat to work in. Ibsen is another whose reputation, in my view, exceeds his actual worth.

Job done

Monday, January 28th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Today at lunchtime I finished my novel "The Pretty Lady" - about 80,000 words. The close seemed to me to be rather ingenious, well-executed and effective. In fact I am pleased with the whole thing and I hope the war scenes will be of interest and help it sell. It is a marvel that I have finished it at all with so much else to do, not to mention domestic anxieties. I believe it to be good but for years past I have ceased to try to judge the value of a novel until it has been pubished for a year or two - one of my own I mean. I thought "The Old Wives' Tale" was dull when I finished it.

Wilson's 14-point plan for post-war peace seems to me to be entirely laudable, indeed plain common sense, but it doesn't appear to be gathering momentum. I hear too many people who should know better saying "The Germans must be punished", or "Only an unconditional surrender will do". Not people who have had to do any fighting needless to say. It makes no sense to desolate Germany; the only consequence will be resentment and an urge for revenge. Sometimes I despair. 

I was musing today and trying to decide if people are by nature (the majority of people I mean, especially men) amoral but constrained by law and social conventions, or 'good' but forced to behave badly by the social conditions in which they are brought up and live. I am inclined to the former but not entirely sure.

A practical philosopher

Friday, January 27th., Victoria Grove, London.

A few nights ago there was a gale. In spite of weather we went to the Empire music hall. In the usual midnight altercation at Piccadilly Circus we failed to get inside seats on the omnibus and sat on the inclement top of the vehicle - a disconsolate row of four, cowering behind waterproof aprons (which were not waterproof) and exchanging fragments of pessimistic philosophy. We knew we were taking cold but with increasing numbness came resignation.

We started to take an interest in the imperturbable driver, never speaking, never stirring, only answering like an automaton to the conductor's bell. We could see only his hat, some grey hairs, his rotund cape, and his enormous gloved hands. For mile after mile he drove forward in Trappist silence 'til we were verging on Putney, then at last, without moving his head, he joined in the conversation. 

"I've been out in worse" he said. "Yes, we gets used to it. But we gets so that we has to live out of doors. If I got an indoor job I should die. I have to go out for a walk afore I can eat my breakfast. I've driven these roads for eight and twenty year, and the only pal I've found is Cod Liver Oil. From September to March I takes it, and I never has rheumatism and I never has colds, nor nothing of that sort. I give it my children ever since they was born, and now I'm blessed if they don't cry for it."

He finished. he had imparted his wisdom, delivered his message, and with the fine instinct denied to so many literary artists he knew when to be silent. We asked him to stop and he did so without a word. "Good night" we said. But he had done with speech for that evening and gave us no reply. We alighted. The bus rolled away into the mirror-like vista of the street. The wind blew.

Gambling fever

Tuesday, January 26th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

The first visit to Monte Carlo must be a sort of event in the life of anyone with imagination. I went there yesterday afternoon from Menton by tram. The ride is very diversified, and here and there fine views are obtained.

On the whole I was disappointed by the exterior aspects of the town. It lacks spaciousness, and since it is in the absolute control of one autocratic authority, spaciousness is what it ought not to have lacked. Some of the villas however, witht their white paint and general air of being toys, are excessivement chic. The casino is alright in its florid, heavy way - but what a chance for an architect on that site over the sea. The whole town had an air of being Parisian, but not quite Parisian enough.

Inside the gaming saloons (at 4 o'clock) I found a large crowd and many tables in full work. The crowd not so distinguished in appearance as I had foolishly expected. I had no itention of betting, but after I had watched several tables and grasped the details of roulette I remained at one table as if hypnotised. Without knowing it I began to finger a 5 franc piece in my pocket, and then I became aware that I was going to bet. I 'knew' I should bet some seconds before I formally decided to. A good example this of the fact that the conscious mind does not direct the body, but notes (and usually ratifies) what it has done. I staked my 5 franc piece on an even chance, and won! What sensations of delight! So this is how gamblers get started.

The idea of gambling quite absorbed all my thoughts; obsessed me in fact; and I fabricated schemes for becoming a regular system-using gambler. There is no doubt that the human spectacle of the gaming saloons is tremendous, unequalled, the interest of it could not easily fail for an observer. All the more so for a trained observer like myself. I had to drag myself away and even then missed my tram. I had half an hour to wait and spent most of it thinking about gambling. I also noticed that there were 'ladies' in and around the casino no doubt attracted by the prospect of attaching themselves to winning gentlemen. They all seem to have that indirect but unmistakeable way of looking at prospective clients which I find very attractive. Several looked at me. I will return.

In Manchester

Saturday, January 25th., Midland Hotel, Manchester.

C E Montague

I came here from Burslem yesterday at the invitation of Haslam Mills and G.H. Mair of the Manchester Guardian. I was entertained to lunch by them and also present was the renowned C.E. Montague their chief leader writer; also A.N. Monkhouse. Quite a gathering. I felt honoured. Montague's hair is quite grey. He has a tight, prim way of speaking and when he disagrees, or is not convinced, he is sometimes silent with a slight working of the muscles in his face; probably due to sloth. I was told afterwards that he lives in a shell; but yesterday he came out and people were surprised. Monkhouse is a large grave man, slow speaking, with an extraordinary sedate and sincere charm. 


In the afternoon I was taken to look round the Municipal Art Gallery of which they are very proud, and with good reason. A lot of good solid paintings. Best of the lot, in my opinion, was "Work" by Ford Madox Brown. This is a very impressive piece of work which bears close inspection. I can see why it suits the Manchester character alright. Brown has shown in this picture that there is nobility to be found in the commonplace and, not content with that, has filled his painting with social references. In the Hogarth manner. You really need to get up close to see all the detail he includes and I should think there will be new things to discover whenever one returns to the picture. It is clearly in the Pre-Raphaelite mould in terms of its colouring, attention to detail, and narrative content, but I think it goes further, and may be the best of the lot. Thinking about it in the night I felt my work has something in common with it, in fact quite a lot. I feel proud of that realisation.

Woke up with a headache at 10 am. caused by too many strong cigars. But yesterday was one of the most agreeable days I have ever spent in my life. I could live in Manchester. The whole atmosphere of the place suits me and I can imagine a good novel or two germinating here.

Finishing things

Tuesday, January 24th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

Last night I finished my sensational novel, "The Curse of Love", fifty thousand words in exactly three months, with all my other work.The writing of it has enormously increased my facility, and I believe that now I could do a similar novel in a month. It is, of the kind, good stuff, well written and well contrived, and some of the later chapters are eally imagined and, in a way, lyrical. I found the business, after I had got fairly into it, easy enough, and I rather enjoyed it. I could comfortably write two and a half thousand words in half a day. It has only been written once, and on revision I have scarcely touched the original draft. Now I want to do two sensational short stories - and then to my big novel.

I was thnking in the night, in that reflective state that comes after a job is finished, that this time next year we shall be in a new century, and I shall be thirty three years old, and will I be fairly launched on my new career? Sometimes I feel confident, as if nothing can prevent me, sort of 'fated'. And at others (usually after a little too much to eat and drink) I am full of misgivings. Writing is a compulsion. I must write, as others must paint, or play music, but is it wise to make it the essential core of my life? And writing is a damned lonely business I find. In some ways my job as editor of Woman suits me, though I am always complaining about it. I write a good deal, concealed behind various pseudonyms, and yet have a regular routine and an income. Surely the role could be developed further and I might go on to edit bigger and better periodicals, or even newspapers. That would be the sensible course to follow. I think it is what my father would want me to do.

 

Seeing Rome

Saturday, January 23rd., Hotel de Russie, Rome.

I didn't begin work until 6 pm. Very near the end of "Raingo" now; shall finish it in a couple of days. And I already have a good idea for my next novel which I hope to start before we return to London. 

Septimus is declining further I hear. Now under 7 stones. He craves food, and needs it, but can't assimilate it. I am afraid the end cannot be far off, but it is infeasible for me to go back to England at the moment given Dorothy's condition. I have arranged for a specialist to see Sep. but more to mollify Maud than for any idea that it will do good. 

After lunch at the hotel we went for a drive. Right down right bank of the Tiber to the place where I moored the Velsa before the war. Much interested to see this again, It was a good spot. It was a good boat. I sometimes wish I had concentrated on boats to the exclusion of women. Then we drove round seeing Jewry, including the Marcello Theatre, with little shops in its ground floor arches, odd dwellings above, and apparently large flats in the superimposed modern part - by modern I mean 30 or 40 years old. Then to varied odd remains, and we came to an enclosed space where 'excavation' was actually in process of being done. This was thrilling. There is much to see above ground here in Rome but it strikes me that there is probably as much, or more, still buried.

Since the 1st of January the street, traffic-controlling police, newly initiated by Mussolini, have been very proud of their new uniforms and mackintoshes. In the Corso the horn-hooting seems to me to be less. But I must inspect this more closely after my novel is done.

I have just finished reading an excellent book, "Days Without End" by Sebastian Barry. In fact it has delayed me slightly in finishing "Raingo". A sort of Western. The central character is an Irishman exiled from his native land as a boy because of the famine, and growing up in America before and during the Civil War. He is homosexual and forms an enduring relationship with another young man. Together they join the Union army, experience great hardship, and eke out a living post-war as 'entertainers'. It turns out that our hero prefers to dress and act as a woman. They are involved in Indian wars, see and take part in acts of extreme brutality, and eventually have the opportunity to settle as farmers on land in Tennessee. There is much to admire in this book. The characters are convincing, the descriptions of weather and scenery poetic at times. There is a sense that the author has captured and conveyed something of the essence of what humans are, and can be, whatever the context. Little more can be asked of any author.

Reflecting

Wednesday, January 22nd., Cadogan Square, London.

Out of sorts today. Bit of a chill on the liver. Didn't sleep well last night; not even as well as usual. And I couldn't settle to my nap this afternoon, so I am now lethargic, mildly irritable and generally dejected. We are all more or less slaves to our internal organs, especially the digestion. Wells described it nicely in the first part of "Mr. Polly". He was aiming for humour of course, but truth was there.

I was at the British Museum on Monday, just getting ideas, though I didn't get any. Went in to look at the Elgin marbles. I hear that the Greek government want them to be returned and put on display in Athens. Not back in place on the Parthenon, but in a specially constructed museum. I was in Athens a couple of years ago and ascended to view the Parthenon. Impressive, and moving. My overall feeling was sadness that the place had been more or less destroyed as part of a minor skirmish in a stupid war, after thousands of years of standing proud above the city. Having been brought to England by Elgin has probably saved the sculptures from damage and perhaps destruction, and I am glad they are in London to be seen by people like me whenever we wish. But I would be hard pressed to mount a moral defence for their retention now.

I look about London and wonder if there is anything here that would excite people in two thousand years time if it were still in place? Plenty of monumental architecture of course but nothing original that stands out. The Tower probably. Perhaps Greenwich Naval College? The Reading Room at the B.M.? What would most reflect our age and genius in my opinion would be one of the great stations - St. Pancras or Paddington. I don't expect people will still be using trains in two thousand years but I think they would admire the 'spirit' of the station in the way we admire the Parthenon.

Distressed

Wednesday, January 21st., Cadogan Square, London.

We were at Lady Russell's dinner party last evening and Anthony Hope told me a lot about Henry Irving. For example that on every first night Irving gave an immense champagne supper to about 300 people - journalists and friends. Also that all sorts of people had free entry to the theatre on any night, amnd if there were no seats they stood. You only had to know Irving, or Loveday or Bram Stoker to be let in. All this at the Lyceum of course. Hope reckons that Irving, notwithstanding his fame and success, was in a chronic state of hard-up-ness. Surprised that he left £10,000 when he died, expecting only a schedule of debts. Wouldn't be surprised if people think something similar about me.


Ian Hamilton was there as well and he is a very nice and artistic sort of old man. I like him much. I praised his writing highly (which it deserves, what I've read of it) whereat he was clearly much pleased. "I feel several inches taller" he said on leaving. He said he couldn't work much because he had so much to do in connection with ex-servicemen's organisations.

Last night I had more distressing instances of my failure to recognise peole whom I know. Three in fact. I hadn't the least idea who any of them were, and each of them had to make the first move, while I groped after the identity. Coming home from Pisa last week I met, at different parts of the country, four people whom I knew and hadn't, again, the slightest notion who they were. I make a joke of it of course; speak of my 'advancing years', but no point not admitting that it worries me. I am not sixty yet. God knows how things will be later on. If it is softening of the brain then I am determined to put an end to myself before I cease to be myself. Can't bear the thought of degenerating into a second infancy.

i am still reading Stendhal's "Memoires d'un Touriste", slowly. Second time. Why? I suppose because of the fellow's mind. I at last bought "A Passage to India" and am looking forward to getting started on that. And there's another thing - just now I could not have said, if my prosperity depended on it, who wrote that damned book; just couldn't bring it to mind. This is happening more frequently as well.

Large ideas

Monday, January 20th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Returned yesterday from a short trip to Thorpeness in Suffolk. A remarkable place recommended to me by Barrie who is a good friend of Ogilvie the developer. I was told, and I don't know how true this is, that there were severe storms in 1910 which flooded land around Ogilvie's mansion. He had the idea of turning the flooded land into a lake, now called the Meare, and developing the land around as a holday village. The houses etc. are in a sort of Arts and Crafts, mock-Tudor style. Better than it sounds.

Anyway we had a good weekend, staying with the Morrells. Weather excellent. Cold during the day but not a cloud in the sky. Frosty first thing. Good walking area and plenty of wildlife to see - otters, red deer, marsh harriers, more ducks than you could shake a stick at. Strolled along the beach to Aldeburgh which is a pretty little town about two miles distant. Good appetite from fresh sea air. 

I have been reading in Wells' "The Outline of History". Fairly staggered by it. It is about the most useful thing of the kind ever done. And it is jolly well done. Full of imagination, and the facts assembled and handled in a masterly manner. My only fault to find is with the proof-reading, which is sloppy. Quite apart from various verbal inelegancies (which Wells is prone to, and I have told him so) there are positive mistakes which diminish the pleasure of reading for those pedants amongst us. I shake my head though. How the fellow did the book in the time fair passes me. I can't get over it. It's a life work.

Away from home

Saturday, January 18th., The Mere, Thorpeness, Suffolk.

AB is taking a very short break in Suffolk. 
Home on Monday.

My statement

Monday, January 16th., St. Dunstan's Chambers, London.

A Russian proverb: "If everyone washed his own doorstep, how clean the town would be!" This made me smile and is increasingly subtle the more one thinks about it.

Looking through some short stories in old volumes of a weekly paper today, I was astonished at the old-fashioned air of them. Mediocre work must age very rapidly. These tales appeared in 1893, and they were positively antique. On the other hand there are stories which defy ageing, remaining fresh to the reader whenever their genesis. What is the difference? Craft.

Several people who should know better have cast missiles at me recently for troubling with sensational serials. But why should I not write a sensational serial if I so desire? Exciting fiction is as much a form of art as any other sort of fiction. In fact I finished a serial last night and I may say, quite without prejudice, that it seems to me to be very good - ingenious, full of trepidations, and eloquent; those who begin it will finish it. There is talk of 'pot boiling', a pejorative term if ever there was one. Snobbish. William Morris says that he does not want art for the few any more than he wants education for the few, or freedom for the few. I do not want literature for the few. In my opinion there are two sorts of books: well written ones, and poorly written ones.

Then there is the question of making a living. I have no intention of sitting here all my life editing a female paper, or any paper. In fact I have now had as much of editing as I want. My desire is to be moving on and I shall not remain at Woman a moment longer than I can help. But if I leave journalism I must find something else, amd that something else is fiction. It dawns upon me that fiction is my forte. But if I continue to turn out psychological treatises like "A Man from the North", I might earn some sort of reputation, but I should not, most emphatically, earn a livelihood. Therefore I must do, to begin with, the kind of fiction that will sell. And as long as my fiction is well written I shall not be ashamed of it.

At full blast

Tuesday, January 15th., Yacht Club, London.

We came to London this morning, dog, Richard, cook, Marguerite and me. Lunch at the Webbs. Serious and intense as usual. I'm not sure I have ever seen Beatrice smile. Then I hurried back to the Reform Club to join after lunch 'The Writers' Group' - Paish, Gardiner, Massingham, Spender, Wallas, Murray, Dickinson, Hobhouse and Hartley Withers. A peace campaign is afoot ie. peace with the German people. Naive. Spender as usual had the most information to give, and it seemed very well-founded. Of course I can't fault the sentiment that the war must be brought to an end as soon as may be, but we writers have very little contribution to make however highly we value ourselves.

After dinner to "Sleeping Partners" at St. Martin's.It still seems so terribly strange to me that here we are, dressing for dinner, going out to the theatre, laughing at a light-hearted comedy, and in the meantime young men are crouching in trenches, perhaps dying. Are people like me going to the theatre in Berlin? I suppose they must be. The play is adapted from Sacha Guitry. Slow at first but very adroit and amusing indeed as it progressed. Seymour Hicks had all the jam, and was marvellously good. We all really enjoyed it. I met Lucas in the entr'acte and he took me round to meet Hicks whom I instantly liked and decided to ask for lunch. When we came out of the theatre there was 3 inches of slush on the streets, and snow driving in every direction. No taxis of course. Women, equally of course, in satin shoes. I had the snow shoes that Uncle John Bennett gave to my father in 1880 - that is planning for you!

I picked up a copy of "The Diary of a Nobody" the other day and have started to read it. I doubt that I will get much further as the humour appears to be eluding me. I can see that it is satirical in intent but Pooter's misfortunes have already become tedious to me and I am barely half way through the book. The fault may be in me. I know people who swear that they find it extremely funny. Could it be that I am, or have been, the object of the satire? 

I am now on the last week of "The Pretty Lady", and really in full blast. I have written seven or eight thousand words in three days. Exhausted. But the publishers have seen the first half of the novel and are deeply struck by it. In fact they call it 'tremendous'. That is usually a bad sign but this publisher is a writer himself so may know what he is talking about.

Into the void

Thursday, January 14th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

Well, here I am at last. A dream fulfilled. A reality still to experience.

I left the Rue de Calais yesterday, depressed, at 5 pm. after having lunched with Chichi. Was my depression due to leaving her behind? Or to do with the fact that she was quite evidently not so concerned that I was leaving her behind; perhaps I had hoped to be missed? I think our relationship has now run its course and I am grateful for it; my intimate knowledge of the ways of women having been increased immeasurably.

The drive to the Gare de Lyon along the interminable length of the Rue de Rivoli got on my nerves. And I was decidedly excited and 'wrought up' when the train de luxe came up and I saw Phillpotts. Much talking and mutual satisfaction, continued on the train. I have a sore throat now! The train left sharp at 6 pm. and arrived here at Menton sharp at 9.56 this morning. On the whole a really good sound train. It would be almost perfect if it had a drawing-room car, as it certainly ought to have. The ceaseless noise and jolting did not noticeably affect me much. I took a sedative and slept very well, though mostly conscious of the action and the din.

Coming along the coast I had my first glimpse of Monte Carlo and the salons thereof. I was duly impressed by the beauty of the coast, and of Menton in particular. But my thoughts were chiefly occupied with the idea of the train, that luxurious complete entity - running through a country and ignoring it. I seldom had the least idea where the train was. Space, as a notion, had vanished for me. I might have been in the void.

And now four weeks of new impressions, new people, and new air to look forward to. Of course we have a good deal of work to do, but there will be time enough, I am determined. I can hardly believe I am here.

Holy ground

Friday, January 13th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

On Wednesday evening I went into Westminster Cathedral, and saw how to use it again in my novel. Very cold day. Nice warm cathedral. Ugly chapels, details invisible. A non-RC parson or two squinting about, probably looking for hints or tips. Noise of a charwoman mopping the floor. Exceedingly few people. Then at 10.10 either Prime or Tierce. A few performers came in after a bell had rung; took their seats and then the intoning begins; scarcely audible for a second or less. It 'steals out'. Words utterly incomprehensible. Who are they calling to? Outside, front of shop devoted to rosaries, crucifixes etc. God's work is carried forward in many different ways. Amazing places these cathedrals - powerful but pointless.
 

 Today, Walpole's scheme for me to republish Jacob Tonson articles in volume had taken shape. I read through a lot of the stuff and found it enormously vivacious. In fact I hated to leave it this evening to go toball given by 2nd First London R.G.A. at Weeley - "The Fields".

Right and rare

Tuesday, January 12th., Victoria Grove, Chelsea.

Reading George Moore's "Mike Fletcher" I felt inclined to give up my new project of taking a house, and instead to take rooms in Grays Inn or the Temple, and cultivate carefully the art of being a bachelor in comfort ... to dine regularly at the same secluded, excellent restaurant, to know the byways of town life, to accomplish slowly the right and rare furnishings of one's rooms, to have occasional 'adventures' with persons of the fair sex, to be utterly independent ... The sound of these words is atractive, and such employments might give content 'til one was say 45; but afterwards? Forty five seems an age away at present and I feel now that I will then be old, but of course I won't be.

I took up my neglected novel "Sis Tellwright", and sketched out a chapter, with difficulty recreating the atmosphere. The preliminary title is clumsy. I shall have to think of another. The portions already drafted seem good, more than satisfactory as the result of the 'first process' in the manufacture of my fiction. The 'first process' (imagine the building of a house on a hill) is to get the materials, pell-mell, intermixed, anyhow, to a certain height. Having carried them there, I have found that what remains to be done is somewhat less difficult, at any rate requires less brute power of brain. My character Ephraim Tellwright is, I think, a genuinely original and powerful creation, so much so that he may, if I am not careful, dominate the novel as he dominates his daughters, which is not my intention. I am working up to a great revival scene in the Bursley Wesleyan Methodist Chapel which is to beat Harold Frederic in his own chosen field.

I have been acting as a sort of agent for George Sturt in his efforts to get his book "A Year's Exile" published by John Lane. I think progress is being made. George is rather too prickly and self-aware to push himself forward in the way he needs to if he is ever going to make his literary name. Not much use being a writer if nothing you write gets published, and books don't publish themselves.

No more!

Friday, January 11th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Marguerite bought a pig at the end of the year. It was a small one but we have been eating this damned animal ever since, in all forms except ham, which has not yet arrived. Brawn every morning for breakfast. Yesterday I struck at pigs feet for lunch and had mutton instead. They are neither satisfying nor digestible, and one of the biggest frauds that ever came out of kitchens. All of this is a war measure, and justifiable. I now no longer care whether I have sugar in my tea or not. We each have our receptacle containing the week's sugar, and use it how we like. It follows us about, wherever we happen to be taking anything that is likely to need sugar. My natural prudence makes me more sparing of mine than I need to be. Another effect of the war is that there is a difficulty in getting stamped envelopes at the Post Office. The other day the postmaster by a great effort and as proof of his goodwill, got me £1 worth, which won't go far.

It occured to me how the war must be affecting men of 70 or over, who have nothing to look forward to. The war has ruined their ends and they cannot have much hope.

I am staying at home all next week so as to get a good period of ten days at my cocotte novel which is to be called "The Pretty Lady". I hope to finish the debauched thing by the end of the month. Then the hard part will begin of trying to get it published in face of cries that it 'offends public morals'. I can hear them now. But I shall not give ground. Christine is either a prostitute or she is nothing.

Another reason for me staying at home next week is a sort of 'message' to Marguerite. She continues to pester me to give up this house and live in London. I will not do it and I have told her so. The whole business is getting me down. It is disturbing my sleep which is bad enough to start with. I simply will not do it, and rather than do it I would live here alone. I regret in some ways consenting to her having a flat in London from which she goes to her war 'work'; three or four shifts a week of four hours each at a YMCA canteen near Victoria station. I don't resent her doing the work, though it doesn't appear to me to amount to much, but it has sharpened her appetite for London generally. It's ironic that it was she who wanted to come here in the first place.

The high life

Tuesday, January 10th., Yacht Amaryllis, Monte Carlo.

After fiddling about fruitlessly in search of little bits of mechanics, I wrote the whole scene in the afternoon yesterday, about 1,400 words, in spite of a headache due to too much exercise in the morning. We dined at Ciro's and the Grand Duchesse was there again. I was much relieved to see the maid, dressed in black, and sad to match, dance twice. She is a nice looking mournful girl of about 30. I was tempted to ask her for a dance myself. Perhaps I could cheer her up. The Grand Duchesse herself is about 60, tall, slim, straight, but damnably ugly, dresses in white and is a good dancer. She dances with a lot of young men. Seems to be enjoying herself. I was told that on Sunday night the Grand Duchesse stood half-bottles of champagne to the professional danseuses. The resort is run on exactly the right lines. There is freedom combined with tenue, and the manners of the danseuses are perfect of their kind.

Baroness Orczy

1,500 words today. I called on Baroness Orczy in the Villa Bijou, Avenue de la Costa, according to promise, and found a place stuffed with furniture and her husband's pictures. During the War, she formed the Women of England's Active Service League which had as its intention that women would contribute to the war effort by pressing men to enlist. There are probably men dead now who were not suited to war and would be alive today but for the pressure from militant women. But all of them at the villa were very decent agreeable people. I stopped an hour. Nothing notable in the talk.

Still no luck with engineers. The new one from England was returned as hopelessly incompetent today. He was seasick in harbour and knew nothing of the engines or the dynamo. Not sure how he comes to call himself an engineer! Anyway he was put ashore on Monday night. Although ill up to the time of going there, as soon as he knew that he was to sleep ashore he bucked up, shaved, and made himself spruce. He did not turn up to report this morning and the skipper went to fetch him. Said the skipper afterwards: "There he was having his lunch, among ladies with furs, and him with a knife and fork and a serviette. I soon pulled him out of that". It was the serviette that upset the skipper.



 

Bookmen

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

The Crosby Gaiges came for tea. I took Gaige into my study and showed him some MSS. and other things. He asked me whether I ever thought of selling my MSS. He said that if I ever did he would like to have the offer of them. I said they would be very dear. He said he might be in funds. I found the MS. (bound) of "The Muscovy Ducks" among a lot of Staffordshire books, where it certainly ought not to have been. So, on impulse, I gave it to him. 

He has a considerable library himself I understand, and was much taken with two recent 'finds' of mine. Firstly two volumes of Lyell's "Principles of Geology" from 1860, and in good condition. Many pages uncut. I am intending to read in it when I have time. More especially a copy of John Lloyd Stephens' "Incidents of Travel in Central America etc.", also in two volumes from 1842. This was something of a coup of mine because I noticed when browsing on the bookstall (Clerkenwell) that the second volume had an owner's stamp which was absent from volume one - and it was for I K Brunel, the great engineer. So I bought it. I wanted a copy anyway. The seller was happy, and so was I. Gaige was a little envious.

He is an interesting and colourful character. Apparently he adopted the name Crosby, and with it a whole Revolutionary War ancestry. His money has been made producing Broadway hits and he has recently gone into publishing. He tells me that he has a press in a huge barn at home where he sets and prints fine editions. I would like to see it. Decidedly an American.

After discussing it with Dorothy I decided to make over to her all the rights in my performed plays - reserving those not performed. And when we got home at about 10.40 I at once wrote a letter to Geoffrey Russell on this great subject, giving instructions and asking advice. This may save some trouble in the future regarding Marguerite should I pre-decease her.

Thinking further about the "Incidents of Travel" I am inclined to think that they are not in fact an original pair. If they were and had been bought as such by Brunel then surely his owner's stamp would be in both? There is a hand-written inclusion on the inside cover of Volume 1 which is not decipherable except that the date is March 27th., 1842. My feeling is that the original Volume 1 was lost and was replaced by an identical volume from another set. In 1842 Brunel was much engaged in the building of the SS Great Britain and I am enjoying a speculation that he may have been reading the original Volume 1 whilst travelling, and it was subsequently lost, eventually to be replaced to complete the set.

Stones in the landscape

Wednesday, January 8th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

These doldrum days after Christmas were enlivened yesterday by a trip into the Derbyshire Peak District. Callear had told me that he was developing an interest in archaeology and was in contact with a certain H. St George Gray who is engaged in excavating a prehistoric monument near Buxton. The weather being dry and quite mild at the moment he suggested that we make a visit. And we did.

Gray is acquiring a name in archaeology it seems and has learned his craft from the well-known investigator of burial mounds Augustus Pitt-Rivers. Fortuitously Gray was at the site, known as Arbor Low, when we arrived and gave us a tour. More impressive, and much more interesting than I had expected. It is high on the moorlands with commanding views all round. Stiffish cold wind from the north-west. The monument consists of a circular bank of earth, perhaps 100 yards in diameter and with two 'entrances'. Inside the bank is a ditch, and inside the ditch is a circle of stones, now recumbent. Some are very large. All very weathered. Hay says they would originally have been upright but were probably toppled in the Middle Ages for superstitious reasons. There are a few large stones also in the centre. Hay speculates that some sort of ceremony took place here, perhaps several times a year, with people gathering from the surrounding area. Perhaps they entered one way and left by the other, or perhaps two different groups (men and women, tribes?) entered separately and met in the middle. Gray has found some skeletal remains, flint scrapers, bone and antler tools. He thinks that circles like this were at one time commonplace but that most have been flattened by farming, so they only survive in isolated areas.

Nearby is a burial mound called Gib Hill which was excavated fifty years ago. The excavation was not up to Gray's standards and he regrets its having been attempted. There was evidence of a cremation and some pottery. Callear and I walked about and speculated freely about the lives of the people who built these monuments. Were they farmers or hunters? What did the stones represent for them? What sort of ceremonials were involved? All fascinating. I can see why this can become a consuming passion for some people.

Last night here tonight and I shall not be sorry to get back to the metropolis. It is good to be part of a family but it is possible to have too much of a good thing.

Blessings

Monday, January 7th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken, Essex.

2,000 words of novel on Saturday. 2,000 word article for the Daily News yesterday, and a bad night in between. Sundry officers, including Saunders, Jacob and Cummings, dined on Saturday night, and the delight of these last two in singing more or less at sight good and bad songs from the "Scottish Students' Song Book", to my bad accompaniment, was most extraordinary. I should think these officers must count their blessings every night to be stationed on home soil, and must dread the prospect of being sent to France. No wonder they are so cheerful!

Last night Richard was talking about being set to learn forty lines of "L'Allegro" in 45 minutes prep, and to write essays in ten minutes. My first thought was: "What a fool of a master", but later I reflected that it is probably a good discipline; forces a concentration on the essentials and demands action. I didn't say anything more about it to Richard today but I can't see it does any harm, and may do him some good. I imagine it is apprehension about returning to school that prompted the revelation. No sympathy from me. Just get on with it.

I bought an Eversley bible the other day. Not sure why, though it is striking in appearance. Anyway I have been browsing in it since. I am reading it as literature rather than as divine revelation. The Book of Esther is a good eastern story, exceedingly ingenuous, all based on copulation. I Kings makes excellent reading. But the way David ordered executions before he died, and Solomon upon his accession is rather startling. Nothing much seems to have changed in the arena of power politics though less actual blood is spilt nowadays. I was led on to re-read some of "Paradise Lost" and thought it very fine and interesting. The remarks of Adam and the Angel about the relations of man and wife have not yet been beaten for sense.

Alive

Monday, January 6th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Whilst out walking this morning I suddenly realised that I felt remarkably 'alive'. I was on a low ridge with open countryside on both sides. There was a stiff breeze, not cold exactly but very present to the skin. I had been walking for about 30 minutes and it came into my head that I was walking briskly but without effort, striding along; no aches or pains; clear head. I had to stop and just breathe in deeply, and feel delighted with the world and with myself. A great feeling which I haven't had many times in life, at least not since childhood.

I am deeply engaged in promoting the work of the Wounded Allies Relief Committee of which I am a member. I have written a promotional pamphlet which is being widely distributed. The main focus at the moment is a high-class concert I am getting up in aid of the Committee's funds to take place at the Haymarket Theatre on February 20th. The Committee has enterprises in all Allied countries and spends about £100 a day, every day. The money needs getting and there are no days off. Being wounded is just as disastrous and needs just as much sympathy now as at the start of the war, but the public gets tired, hence the requirement for continuous fund-raising activity.

I have just finished reading "Blood Meridian" by Cormac Mc Carthy. It is like no other book I have ever read and I am inclined to think that I wish to read no other like it. It is set in the American south-west mid nineteenth century and insofar as it has a 'story' at all is about a young man (a boy really) who runs from home and becomes involved in a sort of private army hunting, killing and scalping Indians in Mexico and the borders. The violence is continual and graphic, and enacted by all parties. There are no innocents in this tale. It has the feel of some sort of epic in the tradition of Homer or Beowulf or Norse sagas. Mc Carthy's descriptions of the terrain, the weather and the terrible purpose of this group of misfits left me shaking my head in wonder. I don't know where he derived his imagery from but his landscapes (human and natural) have a genuinely nightmare quality. The characters (including 'the kid' whose name we never discover) are grotesque but of little significance in themselves, apart from Holden, 'the judge'. I think McCarthy must intend the reader to take Holden as a sort of representative of Man as he has become: intelligent, well-read, curious, philosophical, capable of kindness, duplicitous, arrogant, cruel, violent and self-serving. At the end it is inferred that he kills 'the kid'. I don't know what to make of that.

Farting fiction

Sunday, January 5th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

In the time-honoured manner, since New Year, I have been taking stock of my life and career at age thirty two.

I worked prodigiously for the last three months of last year - 96,000 words in total and I was a week in Brussels; so well over 1,000 words a day, including Sundays. I completed several short stories, a huge mass of criticism and 35,000 words of a sensational serial. I began the serial partly because I had a notion that  my position, commercially, was not founded on a rock as it should be, and partly because I didn't see why I shouldn't write as good exciting fiction as anyone else.

This house costs a hell of a lot to keep going in a generous way as I like, and although I am actually earning ample for all purposes, my desire is to earn enough apart from my editorial salary. I am sick of editing Woman and of being bound to go to a blasted office every day. I want to work when I feel inclined and to travel more. I saw only one way of freeing myself from official ties, namely fiction. If other people can hit the popular taste and live on magazine and newspaper fiction, them why not me? It's not literature I know but it is better fun than going to an office and editing a ladies' paper, and should pay better. And the literature can come later.

I began the serial towards the end of October and swore to myself to do one instalment a week, though I nearly killed myself at first to keep my oath. However, after the fourth instalment (17,000 words in a month) I seemed suddenly to conquer the trick of the thing. There has been an immense increase in my facility, not only for rotten but for decent stuff. I believe I could fart sensational fiction now! Several times I have sat down at 4 pm. and done 3,000 words in the day - not to be sniffed at.

I have thoughts of sticking to the sensational stuff and blow the literary reputation but I know I won't. I am dying to get on with my Five Towns novel, which lately in my mind has assumed a larger and more epical aspect as if it has acquired a sort of independent life. I do believe it will be decent. With my newly acquired facility I fancy I could write that novel in six months and put my best work into it. It will certainly be immensely superior to "A Man from the North".

Confidences

Friday, January 4th., Trinity Hall Farm, Hockliffe, Bedfordshire.

As we drove through Battlesden Park on a misty moist morning yesterday, Kennerley and Tertia in front, and Sharpe and I cramped and pinched behind, I had a sense of a constantly unrolling panorama of large rounded meadows, studded with immense bare cedars, also of a formal and balanced shape; bulls and sheep, all of fine breeds, wandered vaguely about; sometimes a house; often a gate to be opened, and Spot gallivanting tirelessly around the trap; in one distant clump of trees we saw a rook perched on an invisible twig on the top of a high elm; in the mist he seemed enormous, an incredible motionless fowl; at length he sretched his wings slowly, sank gently forward, and beat heavily away into the distance. Everything was a vague green and dark grey in the fog - everything except the red hips and the staring white of Spot's coat. 

On the way home we called for a dead snipe that had been given to us: the first snipe that I had ever seen; I was naively astonished at its small proportions, and the impossible length of its thin bill. 

In the afternoon Tertia began, at my request, to teach me to bake. I have very few practical skills but felt I could take to baking, and do it well. Here it seems very appropriate, in the same way that it would be appropriate to tend a vegetable garden, or shoot game. I enjoyed it and produced a very creditable mincemeat tart which was much admired at supper. There is a a real satisfaction in making things well. I expect William Morris tried his hand at baking. Tertia and I had quite a talk whilst alone in the kitchen. It seemed conducive to confidences. I told her about some of my experiences and misadventures in Paris and she confessed that she was not a virgin; it seems that she and Willie Boulton had anticipated their conjugal state. She said she didn't regret doing so, and was just glad that there had been no consequence. She is quite 'over' Willie's tragic death now, and has hopes of the relationship with Kennerley.

Fresh air

Tuesday, January 3rd., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

I have read about a third of Edith Wharton's "The House of Mirth". Not fine, but capable. No connection with literature; a ceratin fairly agreeable bitterness of satire now and then. It can just be read. Probably a somewhat superior Mrs. Humphry Ward. I stopped reading it in favour of Marcus Clarke's "For the Term of his Natural Life", which I picked up here at Brighton in a sixpenny edition. I am enjoying this though in form and plot it is very naif. I could drop it without tears  Mood and context matter a great deal as far as pleasure in books goes. Here for example I don't expect to read with enjoyment anything 'heavy'. It's a place for crime stories, science fiction and humorous novels.

Today I wrote a New Age article, arranged the outline of an article for The Nation, and schemed out the first nine chapters of "Clayhanger" which I hope to begin to write on Wednesday. This afternoon we moved into our new room on the fourth floor, and I arranged everything for my work. We walked on the pier, and I saw subjects for water-colours and pastels. The weather was bright and bustery this afternoon. Excellently fresh air off the sea. I feel that I can get more air into my lungs here. Tremendous sensation of the chest expanding as one breaths in, and in, and in ... 

The one advance which I made last year in worldliness was having a play put on at a West End theatre for a run. That it failed is a detail. I bet it won't fail ultimately.

I wrote last year: "The Card", novel; "The Glimpse", novel; "The Honeymoon", three act comedy; scenario for "Don Juan", play; seven short stories; seventy odd articles; my journal. Total 312,000 words. Much less than the year before.

Go to your books

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

This is New Year, traditionally the season for good resolutions. Few good resolutions are made; fewer are kept. One of the most influential of all resolutions is the resolution continually to freshen one's interest in one's books. This resolution should be made, and it should be kept. Therefore I am specially advocating it. The resolution ought to be seriously considered by budding bookmen, and still more seriously by bookmen of experience, accomplished bookmen, and most seriously of all by bookmen who have gathered together extensive libraries. 

The majority of books in the majority of libraries lie utterly idle, like railway wagons in a siding. They await the reader, and the man who ought to be their reader never glances at them. What is the remedy for this deplorable state of affairs? Surely no man can read all his books all the time? Of course not. But every bookman can allot a certain regular amount of leisure - particularly between solid sustained perusals -  to cultivating at least an acquaintance with books which he has not read and probably will never be able to read through. A lot of knowledge can be very pleasurably obtained by an hour's miscellaneous browsing twice or thrice a week. It may not be exact knowledge, but such as it is it enormously assists the formation of the mind and quickens every mental functioning.

Go to your books; pick one out at random, look into it and so on. The process is rather like plucking flowers in an enamel meadow. No higher praise of it is necessary. After an hour or even half an hour of the exercise you will be conscious of stimulation. Let me add that I address this homily to myself as well as others. For I am a sinful neglecter of books, and compassion for them is not one of my major qualities. A man buys a book, rejoices in the purchase of it, sticks it with due ceremony on a shelf, and it vanishes from his memory. That vile man is myself. 

It occurs to me as I write that I have had little or no experience of bookwomen. Are there bookwomen? Certainly I have seen women buying books, and there are noticeably more women than men who serve in public libraries, but do women collect books? I have also noticed, now I come to think of it, that I often get what my mother used to call an 'old-fashioned look' from ladies when I speak of my books in mixed company. Not that women fail to take books seriously; quite the opposite. Many women of my acquaintance are great readers and hold interesting and intelligent views about the books they read, but they seem not to have an interest beyond reading. I have never heard a woman speak of her library.

Playing politics

Saturday, January 1st., Royal York Hotel, Brighton.

We came here from London today, having been in the Potteries for two weeks over Xmas. I intend to write my next Five Towns novel, "Clayhanger", here and had been gathering all the information I needed in Burslem, mainly from Joseph Dawson. 

Our first stroll along the front impressed me very favourably this afternoon. But I am obsessed by the thought that all this comfort, luxury, ostentation, snobbishness and correctness, is founded on a vast injustice to the artisan-class. I can never get away from this. The furs, autos, fine food, attendance, and diamond rings of this hotel only impress it on me more. I might have Edwin Clayhanger, the main character in my new book, come here and contrast in his own mind, as I am doing, this place and Burslem.

I left behind me in Burslem a sort of political manifesto. It came about when I was in Dawson's printing office acquiring stuff for "Clayhanger". Edmund Leigh called, and he orated for an hour with such persuasive effect that in the end I vounteered to write a personal manifesto, as a sort of exercise in thinking things through. I wrote it easily and read it out to them, to great effect, a few days later. The printing of it was put in hand instantly but it hadn't been finished when I came away so I have no copy to hand. Dawson is as remarkable as ever. He is as young at sixty as I am at forty. He told me once that he could never read Tennyson's "Idylls of the King" without tears coming into his eyes. Fancy that for a hard-nosed Potteries tradesman!

The main points were:
1) A written constitution is essential as the basis for law;
2) There should be an elected Head of State; there can be no justification in the 20th. century for an hereditary system;
3) Universal suffrage;
4) Elections by proportional representation; the present 'first past the post' system is undemocratic and tends towards unnecessarily violent swings in policy;
5) End of patronage, privilege and titles, and the House of Lords; how ludicrous they seem, 'Lord' this, 'Lady' that, 'Duke and Duchess' the other, like persons in a comic opera;
6) Universal education to age 16, and abolition of the so-called 'Public' schools;
7) Entrance to universities by merit in competitive examination, not by grace and favour;
8) Disestablishment of the Church of England;
9) A national insurance scheme funded from taxation to provide basic health care and retirement for all.

There was more but these were the main items. It occurs to me as I write them here that when the document is printed it may spontaneously combust. Or if not it is likely to produce conflagration in those who read it.