Sneeped

Sunday, December 19th., George Street, London.

Here's a good story. A Captain Griffin, from Walsall, wounded nine times in the war, and then a prisoner in Germany. Was reported dead. After he returned to life, and came home, his solicitor among other bills forwarded the following: "To Memorial Service (fully choral) 3 guineas."

The last few days, having delivered the film, I have read through the first instalment of "Mr. Prohack", and been inspiring myself for the next instalment. Inspiration is certainly needed. The writing is workmanlike, but lacks a spark. I think that I am simply too tired, mentally, as a result of domestic conflict and too much work. Some sort of break is needed, perhaps a change of scene, or a sabbatical.

George Moore sent me his play, "The Coming of Gabrielle" in the edition de luxe. The idea is very ancient and the plot very clumsy; but there are bright distinguished things in the dialogue; it is readable without being fireworky. Rather like my stuff at the moment. I wrote back in a positive vein and reminded him that I consider him to be the 'father' of my Five Towns novels.

I gave permission to the Everyman Theatre to do "The Honeymoon". They did not consult me in any way about casting, scenery, or production. The first word I had from the theatre was 2 tickets for the first night. I returned them. In the first place I had a curious absence of all desire to go, and in the second place I thought it was a darned cheek to ignore me completely until the first night. The thing has been played in Harrogate and Manchester before the London production tomorrow. I only know of this from the papers. I don't know why this has put me out of sorts. Why should they consult me anyway? If they did, they would feel obliged to follow my advice and I don't feel that is worth much at the moment. I just feel sneeped!