Genius

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

Last night with Duff Tayler to "Jitta's Atonement", adapted (nominally translated) by Shaw from the play by Trebitsch. Fulham Grand. This play made a very deep impression on both of us. Shaw has taken an obviously conventional and machine-made play, left the first act in all its conventional competence, 'situation', and dullness, and then in the second and third acts treated the development of the theme realistically and wittily. The effect is simply electrical. The play wakes up, the artists wake up, and the audience wakes up. Enthusiasm obtains. It was an experience to be there.

J. Leslie Frith as Alfred Lenkheim, Nancy Price as Agnes Haldensted

The mere idea of starting on a purely conventional first act and then guying it with realism and fun, shows genius. In the other acts there is some of the most brilliant work, some tender, some brutal, and lots of the most side-splitting fun that Shaw ever did - and he is now approaching seventy I suppose. The 'hysterics' scene of laughter between the widow and the mistress of the dead man is startlingly original. The confession scene between the mistress and the daughter of the dead man is really beautiful. The fault of Shaw's changes to the play is that the husband of the dead man's mistress, a shallow person to begin with, suddenly in the third act becomes a wit and a practical social philosopher of the first order - a Shaw at his finest. There was a very good audience and any quantity of appreciation and delight. And this in spite of very, very little good acting and a good deal of very bad acting. Nancy Price was the best of them. Frith better than anybody could have hoped for. But then they had something to do, something that made them come to life.

At this moment Shaw is packing the big Regent Theatre with "St. Joan". And a repertory company begins a series of twelve of his plays at the Chelsea Palace next week. At this rate Shaw will soon be nearly as popular in London as he is in Berlin and Vienna. I wish that I were half as successful!

When I say I love books, this is what I mean. A month or so ago I picked up a nice copy of Lyell's "Principles of Geology" (2 volumes) in Clerkenwell. After my sleep yesterday afternoon I started to read a little in it. Good. Lyell was both erudite and lucid, an unusual combination in my experience. But I soon realised that most of the pages in both volumes remained uncut. I hadn't noticed when I bought them. They have the bookplate of "Edward Howes, Morningthorpe Manor" and I got to thinking how they must have sat on the shelves of his library, disregarded and unloved, for decades. I felt genuinely sorry for them. What a fate for a beautiful book! I could almost have cried. So, that is what it means to love books. I shall give them the attention they deserve commencing with a pleasurable session of careful cutting.

War nerves

 Saturday, January 30th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Meeting of T.E. Committee today at Colchester. Usual sort of bureaucratic talking shop. Lot of middle-aged men who want to be doing something for the war effort; or at least to be seen to be doing something. I doubt there is anything they would be able to agree on. Personally I favour a sort of benign autocracy as the only way to get things done in the absence of military discipline. And even military discipline doesn't seem to count for all that much out here. A gloomy prospect I fear.

Richmond, of G. and J. Weir (Glasgow), came this morning and is staying until tomorrow. We got on well when I was in Scotland, and he still seems a decent sort. This afternoon he gave me all particulars of slacking by members of the Amalgamated Society of Engineers in war contracts. His firm is making shells, mines, and submarine engines. He said there was not a great deal of money in it, but capitalists always say that as they make their way to the bank. He said that the Contracts Supervision Department of the War Office was saving enormous sums. I think he meant they are spending less than they expected, but the cost to the Exchequer must be enormous. Taxes are bound to go up after the war if not before. 

Richmond told me that a submarine had attacked Barrow. This must have been the same vessel that is reported to have sunk several steamers in the Irish Sea last weekend. Apparently the submarine appeared off the coast in broad daylight and was thought at first to be British. Only when it opened fire on the coast was the real situation recognised. Made me think how anxious people afloat must be because of such an unseen enemy. I would think twice before considering an Atlantic crossing. And what a target a big ship like the Lusitania would be. Richmond thinks this is the start of a new German strategy to 'starve' Britain by cutting off supplies from the Colonies and America. The problem they have is in identifying which ships are British, but perhaps they won't be too concerned about that.

Re-reading

Friday, January 29th., Chiltern Court, London.

I followed my own advice, as given to my readers in the Evening Standard, to 'take a book at random from your library and read in it'. The book I took was "Howards End" by E.M. Forster. I read this when it was first published and felt it added to Forster's reputation. Now I am not so sure. Certainly it has added to his reputation, but is it good? My experience was that as I read I found myself becoming irritated, thought of giving up, and then a phrase 'caught' me and I carried on. Only to become irritated again! Why?

For one thing it is so mannered, and we have become used to a more realistic type of fiction. And then there is the author's voice. Now, I don't mind an author's voice; I have often introduced my own voice into my fiction. But this voice felt intrusive to me. It was just a little too knowing, for example in describing a performance of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony I couldn't make out if he was being serious or sarcastic. And then what is all the stuff about female equality, empire building, money, cultural distinctions etc. about? If Forster is wanting to make a point about inequality, whether social or sexual, why not just make it, go straight for it, as Gissing would have done. Why write about privileged people if you want to say they are only privileged because of the poverty of the majority. Just write about the majority! And Leonard Baste. Is he a credible character? The relationship with Jackie seems contrived to me but, having contrived it, Forster doesn't seem to make much of it, when there is surely potential to advance his class theme. And I didn't get as far as the relationship between Baste and Helen, but that didn't ring true the first time.

So, I doubt I will read any more. I have much respect for Forster in spite of his observation about "The Old Wives' Tale" that "it misses greatness". That hurt a bit. Forster is ten or so years younger than me but I don't think you would realise it from his writing. As I write this I am thinking to myself that perhaps some of the criticisms I have directed at "Howards End" might equally have been made about "Imperial Palace". Perhaps. I can't say. What would Swinnerton tell me I wonder? 

Worthwhile going back to books though. Must do it more often.

Dallying

Thursday, January 29th., Yacht Amaryllis, Cannes.

I am now up again but still with a rotten cough. I have only had two coughs in about twenty years. The first was last November and this is the second one; bit troubling. It has rained heavily most of this week. For example it rained from 5 a.m. Thursday last until 1 p.m. on Saturday. Today is fine and I have begun a watercolour and may finish it tomorrow if the sun co-operates with my endeavour.

Sullivan left for London on Friday in search of a new captain, so we are more or less stuck here. Still, there are worse places to be! The weather hasn't interfered with dancing or dallying, and I have been doing as much as I can, given the state of my health, of both. Some rather attractive, though expensive, young women here. Good to be single again.

We have at last got an English engineer that I think may suit. He was second engineer on the Laranda (400 tons) which put in here the other day. He was only engaged for the outward trip on the Laranda, and was sent to us by his Chief Engineer. In the absence of Sullivan I engaged him last night. The dynamo motor broke with a great noise the other day and is being re-built; piston rod smashed. In the meantime the voltage is down to 20 (instead of 50 odd) and diminishing hourly. Candles. Lamps. Odious. Both the big Renault engines are going to be taken down, which is some job. Expensive business this grand cruising!

The seas here have been terrific and even today in this enclosed port this ship is rolling like a cradle when a cradle is efficiently rocked. I went out oaring yesterday which was probably a mistake but I was trying to impress a young lady of my recent acquaintance. I managed to row us around a schooner that was lying and rolling and pitching in the outer roads, but the oars were so heavy that I returned exhausted. And she was a little green in the face, so that was that; wasted effort. 

No prospect of us moving from here so I shall set out for London on Tuesday 8th., arriving on the Wednesday. I go to Eastbourne on the Thursday to see a performance of my play "The Love Match" previous to the London Production. I gather that the first performances have not been at all satisfactory. It seems about twenty years since I had a play produced, and this one is too good really to be a success.

Stars

Wednesday, January 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

We have a sun-bath installed now in the bathroom. It is self-contained except for the flex - cost £25. I am taking a bath daily, but I detect no results so far. Seems like a fashionable gadget to me. Dorothy's idea - she says that 'everyone' has them in America. I would have thought there was enough sun in America already, at least in the South. I still have the chest cold that I've had now for a fortnight and I don't feel at all well. Nevertheless I am giving the thing a fair show.

"Piccadilly" is opening to the public unexpectedly (owing to the failure of somebody's revue) at the Carlton tomorrow. The film is very good so far as it goes, but very little of the comedy has survived and the story does not really end, it only breaks off. Much of it however is first-rate Dupont. Anna Wong is marvellous. Gilda Grey not so good. If I had lived at Elstree for three months I could have got a far better film out of Dupont. Most of last Saturday I was at Elstree revising the titles of "Piccadilly". They would have been terrible, for they had altered back a lot of titles already revised by me, if I had not been firm. I got my way over every title. I shall go to the performance tomorow. I didn't want to go but there was such a fiendish outcry at Elstree when I said I shouldn't go, that I gave in. Also Anna Wong will be there, so it is worth the trip to see her again.

I saw the German filmed "City of Pleasure" last night. The Blackpool fun-fair scenes etc. are excellent, and the whole production has an impressive scale. But every shred of humour has been removed and the book was full of humour. Also the story has been completely removed from the city of pleasure. As filmed it might have occurred anywhere, so the title becomes ridiculous. This show depressed me overall. There is just so much more that could be got from motion pictures approached in the right way. If I were forty I would have a proper go!

The newspapers say that I was 'the star' at the celebration of ten years of Playfair's management at the Lyric on Sunday night. I truly was. Funny! I wasn't a bit nervous about singing, though it was my first appearance on any stage. It has always puzzled me that my stammer disappears when I sing. Sometimes, when it is really bad and I just can't get the word out, I sing it. Disconcerts some people but always works. 

I spent three hours at the Savoy Grill last Thursday arguing with 'the greatest English producer', Alfred Hitchcock, about my second film-story. He wanted to alter it but I wouldn't agree and I won't. Thorpe, the manager of British International Pictures, took my side. At the end I was very hoarse. I should have sung more!

Differences

Tuesday, January 26th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

I woke before dawn this morning and could immediately tell that there was something afoot by the quality of the light from outside. Peering through the curtains I saw at once that it had snowed heavily. I wasn't surprised. Several people told me yesterday that "we were due for some snow". Some people seem to have a sort of sixth sense for that sort of thing. Dawson is one of them. Anyway, Waterloo Road was transformed and I was itching to get out to see familiar places made unfamiliar.

By the time I had breakfasted and found my father's old snow shoes most of the road was tramped down by people going to work so I cut across towards Middleport, heading for the canal, the way I used to go to school in Newcastle. The canal was hard frozen. A few daring boys were sliding on it. I felt quite nostalgic, not that I was ever daring, but still. The valley was almost tranquil and the skyline towards Porthill was nearly picturesque. Definitely worth getting out for! Of course it has thawed during the day and is now mostly dirty slush. I haven't been down to Burslem which will be a right mess I should think.

Yesterday I was up at Sneyd Green visiting Callear. He wanted to show me a telescope he is making. It is impressive! Says it has taken him three weeks so far, and probably as long again before it is finished. Beautiful 3 inch mirror, which he has ground himself, not secured into the body of the instrument yet. And he is presently working on the angled mirror which diverts the light into the viewing lens. Apparently Newton invented the reflecting telescope. I didn't know that. I am envious of people who can do things with their hands, apart from writing that is. It also helps that his family is comfortably off, and he has use of a workshop. He reckons that he will be able to see craters on the moon and possibly the rings of Saturn, and I think he said the moons of Jupiter. I kept nodding knowingly, but my knowledge of outer space is abysmal. I suppose he knows that but we collude not to draw attention to it. He has no interest in books. As my mother frequently says: "We are all different".

 

Huxleys

Tuesday, January 25th., Hotel Savoy, Cortina.

Magnificent morning yesterday. Pinkish, salmonish Dolomite peaks, grey rocks, white snow, blue sky, strong sunshine. The air is undoubtedly very tonic at this height, 4,200 ft. I can feel that I am sleeping better already. Who knows, with plenty of exercise I may sleep a whole night through!

 Aldous and Maria Huxley called on us. We talked with them for some time and then they took us to their house for tea, where several other people arrived.

Today was the first full, empty day of the holiday. We met the Huxleys again. They had been ski-ing. This seems to me to be a lunatic sort of exercise, but each to his own. I stood about till I could risk the cold no longer, and then went for a walk, breaking often into a run. By this time (4 pm.) all the tracks around here were in shadow. The Aldous Huxleys came for dinner and stayed till 11.55. Inevitably, most of our talk was about literary things. I couldn't help thinking that in some sense we were competing with each other, Aldous and I, though we didn't want or intend to. I suppose it is a male thing. I like them both.

The novel is going well and I am getting a lot of 'colour' from this place.

Censorship

Sunday, January 24th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

Attempts at censorship in England have been annoying me for some time and I have been waging a small campaign of my own, against censorship, in the New Age. Now the English Review have asked me to do an article on the subject for them. I said I would. To that end I wrote to John Lane because I understood that he had had trouble in connection with publication of "The Song of Songs" and "The New Machiavelli". I have now had his reply.

As I suspected, Lane tells me that Scotland Yard informed him of a complaint alleging obscenity in "the Song of Songs" as translated by Sudermann. I should like to know who inspired the police, not believing that Scotland Yard, in the intervals of its preoccupation with the Sidney Street brigands, had found time to make a study of current fiction in the interests of London morals. No doubt it is some self-appointed moral guardian, probably a fundamentalist Christian; they are the worst in my experience.

Lane has written to several authors to get a view about the alleged obscenity of the work. For myself I read it carefully and could see nothing to censure on grounds of obscenity, though much on grounds of aesthetics. Eden Phillpotts hit the nail on the head by saying that "the only things obscene therein were the Americanisms". Thomas Hardy apparently thought the book should be withdrawn because the translation is so poor. I agree entirely.

As regards "The New Machiavelli", I think it magnificent and in no way obscene. Conrad has called it "a master work". I have seen a review by Hubert Bland in the Daily Chronicle which describes it as "clever, but unpleasant and smug". The fact that they commissioned Bland to write the review shows that they had a preconceived antipathy to the book. Where is the Society of Authors in all this? Keeping quiet, that's where. If the Society of Authors and the Publishers' Association got together they could, in my view, kill library censorship very easily, but neither group seem willing. It seems to me that they are more by way of dining clubs than active literary organisations.

"Hilda" is progressing well. Over 16,000 words in three weeks. Good words too!

Imaginings

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

I didn't begin work until 6 p.m. Lunch at the hotel. Then we went for a drive, Dorothy's idea. Right down the 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.

In conversation Dorothy asked me an interesting question: "If you could go back in time for one day, in Wells's time machine say, where would you choose to go?" I found this difficult to answer because there are so many things to consider. To gain time I asked a few clarifying questions: observing or participating, visible or not, all day or just daylight hours? Then I settled on Athens during the Greek 'Golden Age' with the Parthenon just built and philosophers aplenty. She opted for Rome at the time of Augustus. Predictable choices.

But since then I have been thinking it over, and have changed my mind. Of course I would love to see Athens in its glory, and Rome. And I would like to visit Elizabethan England, and Florence during the Renaissance. But I know quite a lot about these places and times, and they would, in a sense, be familiar. So, if asked now I would settle instead on one of the Mayan cities in Central America, Palenque or Copan. I well remember reading, and being enthralled by, John Lloyd Stephens' account of his travels in that region, especially the arrival at Copan. It seems to me that to spend a day in one of those places would be quite alien, exciting and unlike anything I could imagine. I salivate, metaphorically, at the prospect!

Of course Haggard, and similar 'romantic' writers imagined such places and peopled them, but generally it seems to me the people were really modern day people transposed. I don't think any author has successfully imagined himself into a different way of seeing and living in the world; perhaps it is not possible to do so. Certainly I could not do it.

 

Conscientious objector

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

Well, this is a pretty pickle! It appears that, through an attempt to be helpful, I am to financially embarrassed, or at least substantially out of pocket. 

At Masterman's funeral last November I promised to set on foot a scheme for collecting £4000 to ensure an education for her children, Charles having neglected to make provision for them. One of the people I approached, and who agreed to contribute to the extent of £1000, was Beaverbrook. He now tells me that he will not contribute because he has a 'conscientious objection' to trust funds. A conscientious objection to killing people I can understand, but to trust funds???

Since the funeral I have discussed how best to help Lucy and the children with numerous people, but especially with Reginald Bray and John Buchan. We all agreed that a trust fund was the best method. One of the chief reasons for having a trust is the extremely unbusinesslike character of Lucy Masterman. She is an excellent woman, but has no notion of money or even of paying bills when she has money. The Trust has in fact been formed, and I think it will work very well. It will assuredly work far better than any other scheme, The problem is that Beaverbrook was to contribute £1000, and seemingly is not now willing to do so.

I find this hard to understand. When I broached the subject with him in the first place, and he offered to contribute, he said he would give me a free hand as to how the money should be used. To be sure of this I asked him twice if that was what he wanted. He was clear. In the meantime I have had no opportunity to consult him as he has been away for some months, and have acted as I thought best. Well, there it is. I wrote to him yesterday to set out the situation and to attempt a little emotional blackmail. I said that if he did not now feel able to contribute then so be it, but that I felt morally bound and would find the extra £1000 myself. I hope to God that he relents!

I am still getting over Hardy's death and funeral. It seems to have hit me unexpectedly hard, and I don't know why. Thinking about it this evening whilst walking about in Battersea. What a different world from the one Hardy conjured so marvellously well. The streets are drab, the tenements repulsive, and the people mean. I saw an open gramophone shop with a machine grinding out a tune and a song, and an open 'Fun Fair' sort of place with a few small boys therein amusing themselves with penny-in-the-slot machines. What a life!

Going strong

Thursday, January 21st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

My brother Septimus is working in Sheffield and seems to have become convinced that the city is critical to the war effort. I don't know why. I told him that, whilst its productivity is clearly very important, so is the output of ten other cities in this country. Coventry for example. Last week I was in Glasgow (another of the ten) with Richmond, managing partner of Weir's, one of the largest munition firms on the Clyde. I suppose he thinks they are critical as well, but didn't say so. In fact he seemed quite cheerful and said that the labour situation had never been so good since the war began.

The weather in London has been quite awful. Roll on Spring! When we came out of the theatre last Wednesday there was three inches of slush on the streets and snow driving in every direction. No taxis of course. And the women all had satin shoes on, of course. I had the snow shoes that Uncle John Bennett gave to my father in 1880, and they were just the job. Shows that you should never throw things away. I paddled Marguerite back to the flat. I think she enjoyed it. We had been to see "Sleeping Partners" with Seymour Hicks in it. It is funny, and improper, and he is simply great. We met afterwards and I liked him, against all expectation. He is lunching with me and Lucas next Wednesday.

M. was interested to hear about Uncle John. I told her, embellishing as I went along, that he was the eldest son of a pottery-painter. The Potteries being too small for him he went to London, to a cottage in Lambeth. He exhibited one of his pottery-paintings in the parlour window and Sir Henry Doulton, strolling that way, saw it and engaged him for his Lambeth works. Then, Doulton's being too small for him, he migrated to America where he succeeded and made money. He had a powerful, stimulating, and unconventional individuality. Full of more or less original ideas, he talked like an artist, and was one. But lack of education vitiated his modes of thought, and his taste was deplorable.

I am in the last week of "The Pretty Lady". The publishers have seen the first half and are deeply struck by it. Though I say it myself, it is good and original work. I have written seven or eight thousand words in the last three days and am exhausted, but content. But I am sticking to my half-day a week devoted to art. Specifically I am finishing the eight full-page colour illustrations for Atkins's new book about the Thames Barge. I think he intends to call it "A Floating Home" or something like that. The publishers say that having my name on the cover will considerably boost the sales.

Booming

Wednesday, January 20th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

On Monday we had lunch at the hotel . Tea at Frank Schuster's apartment in the Palazzo Cini. Schuster is a friend of Sassoon and particularly of Elgar. His country retreat in England is known as 'The Hut', and has acquired a certain notoriety. Afterwards he and we went to a concert in a drawing room in a palazzo in the Piazza Paganica. We got there at the stated hour, 5.30 precisely, and the concert had begun. This upset me considerably. Why give a time and then ignore it?

It was to boom Mark Raphael, a young East End Jew, with a nice voice and no distinction. The concert party consisted of Raphael, Roger Quilter, and Maude Valerie White. The last accompanied several of her own songs sung by Raphael. She is a very old woman, certainly over seventy five, particularly seen in proximity to the youthful Raphael, but plays with immense brio and decision. Her eyes flashed and she sometimes said or sang the words to herself, with her witch-like fallen-in mouth closed. Also she would look full at the singer sometimes, as if to admire or inspire him. She became extraordinarily young, fiery, and quite humorous while playing, and made a fine sight. Quilter seemed quite a sympathique person. The only good items in the programme were a Galuppi, a Salvator Rosa, and two songs by Schubert and two by Schumann.

Seeing White put me temporarily into a melancholy mood. I thought about my "Old Wives' Tale", and wondered how she felt now looking back at life. Apparently she was the first woman to be awarded the prestigious Mendelssohn Scholarship and perhaps foresaw a life as a classical concert pianist. Then again she has evidently been a spirited and independent woman and I admire that. Regrettably we had no time to chat after the concert. My mood was quickly restored once we were out into the soft Roman night air, and we determined to walk back to the hotel. It was lovely.

Good form

Saturday, January 19th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

In London most of last week: lunch with the Webbs, meeting of 'The Writers' Group', "Sleeping Partners" at St. Martins - Seymour Hicks marvellously good.

Thursday I went to the Leicester Galleries to see the Dyson war-drawings, and ended by buying a Barbizon gouache. I was hoping the sight of pictures would stimulate my novel-cerebration, but it did not. However, today, after a sleeping draught, I was in form again and wrote over 2,000 words, a complete chapter. I began on a little Balzac last evening: "Une double famille". This kind of thing is always stimulating and I felt ready for anything today.

Heard at the Reform on Thursday afternoon on very good authority that a telegram recalling Haig and appointing Allenby in his place had been drafted and was to have been sent on Wednesday, but was witheld for further discussion on Thursday. Spender says there is a proper peace campaign (peace with the German people that is) underway. I hope it comes to something. Amazingly there are still plenty of voices, in spite of the terrible cost of this war, that still demand it be pursued until Germany surrenders unconditionally. In fact they say because of the terrible cost. I can only shake my head.

Full swing

Thursday, January 18th., Hotel Californie, Cannes.

Yesterday I finished the fifth article of the Harper's series. And today I turned towards the construction of the sequel to "The Card" for the American Magazine. It is only between two spells of work that I can find time for unimportant correspondence, notes etc. My days are always absolutely full; without counting that I have had three abscesses, two together, as a result of a chill in December. The last one is not yet gone, quite.

I am now in the full swing of my ordinary day; writing, reading a lot of newspapers and several books at once. I bought Whymper's "Scrambles among the Alps", and Stendhal's "Vie de Napoleon", and began reading them together, and immediately felt that I had got hold of two rattling good things. These, with a daily instalment of Sorel's "L'Europe et la Revolution Francais", keep me busy.

Marguerite seems continually surprised that I have more than one book on the go at any one time. Claims that she would be confused and mix them up. Well I don't. I have a sort of system whereby I have a serious book which I read after my nap, when I am rested, a general daytime book of the pick up - put down sort, and a book for reading in bed which is usually a novel, but not necessarily. Of course I don't read non-fiction books word for word. No point. The idea is to get a general impression which stays in the mind. So I do get through more books than the average reader.

I have received an invitation to be Guest of Honour at a dinner of the Writers' Club. Very flattering, but I have declined. That sort of thing is entirely out of my line. I told them that I am merely a writer, not at all a speaker. When I was in America I refused nearly a hundred invitations to lecture or read at a minimum of £100 a time. That shows how serious is my objection to exposing myself. 

I must say that Marguerite has blossomed here. Very stylish and desirable at present. I have noticed that she is attracting admiring looks when we walk out, which is gratifying I find. In consequence I have found my own ardour to be greater than it has been of late. Very pleasurable! I intend to buy her some new clothes, especially flimsy undergarments!

On autobiography

Sunday, January 17th., Cadogan Square, London.

I had a letter from one of my readers asking me if "Clayhanger" was autobiographical. Well of course it was! All literature is, more or less.

The main question for the author is how to get the semblance of life down onto the page before the eyes of the reader. The novelist has selected his subject and drenched himself in it. He has laid down the main features of his design. The living embryo is there and waits to be developed into full organic structure. Whence and how does the novelist obtain the vital tissue which must be his or her material? The answer is that he digs it out of himself.

First-class fiction is, and must be, in the final resort autobiographical. What else should it be? The novelist may take note of phenomena likely to be of use to him. And he may acquire the skill to invent very apposite illustrative incident. But he cannot invent psychology. Upon occasion some human being may entrust him with confidences extremely precious for his craft; female confidences are especially useful for a male writer. From outward symptoms he can guess something of the psychology of others and he may use a real person as a helpful basis for each of his characters, but all that is really nothing! When the real intimate work of creation has to be done - and it has to be done on every page - the novelist can only look within for effective aid, Almost solely by arranging and modifying what he has felt and seen, and scarcely at all by inventing, can he accomplish his end.

An inquiry into the career of any first-class novelist invariably reveals that his novels are full of autobiography. But, as a fact, every good novel contains far more autobiography than any inquiry could reveal. Episodes, moods, elements of autobiography can be detected and traced to their origin by critical acumen, but the intimate autobiography that runs through each page, vitalising it, may not be detected. In dealing with each character in each episode the novelist must, if he is to convince, interrogate that part of his own individuality which corresponds to the particular character. Effectively he asks: "Now, what would I have thought or done?" Good fiction is autobiography dressed in the colours of all mankind.

Success and failure

Sunday, January 16th., Cadogan Square, London.

Bernard van Dieren came for tea. He stayed for two hours, talking for about seventy five percent of the time.. He is a very fine talker but he drones or chants, and his command of English, though marvellous, is that of a foreigner. He told us he had lived in London for twenty years. He is one of the most cultured men I ever met and seemed very good in all the arts, and in at least four languages. He really came to consult me about the book of an opera he is writing on the subject of Cesar Borgia. It seems to me that he has not achieved the notoriety that might be expected from someone of his gifts. Like myself, he has been plagued by ill health, and had to leave off working for the Phillips electrical company for that reason. I think his wife, a pianist, is the main earner in the household. I have heard that he gets financial support from a range of 'admirers'. I wonder if there is a sort of failure of application in his character, and if the illness is more of an excuse than a reason? Still, I liked him. He is a very attractive man - Dorothy was definitely smitten!

Last evening I picked up a copy of "Lilian" and started to read. In fact I must have read about half of it in a couple of hours which goes to show what a light-weight confection it is. Truth be told, I am rather ashamed of it. Not that it is badly written. It isn't. But there is no substance, no meat, no purpose. This morning, feeling a bit gloomy about it, I looked back at some of the reviews. One said it was the sort of book which would make people believe I was second-rate; another that the mediocrity of the conception was depressing. They were both right. I remember at the time taking exception to a reviewer calling it a 'pot-boiler'. It isn't a pot-boiler and I told him so in print, but it isn't good. I scorned the reviews at the time, at least publicly, but I think they had their effect in making me determined to do better, and I wrote "Riceyman Steps". Van Dieren would, I think, have been demoralised.

Found out

Friday, January 15th., Hotel Matignon, Paris.

The weather here is a great nuisance, as it is apparently in England. It has been very cold, and last week it snowed heavily. And we were only just emerging from flu! Today though is beautiful, but it won't 'stay put' I feel sure.

Still, we go to the theatre every night, and lunch and dine with friends, or they with us. I have seen five things including the big revue at the Casino de Paris, and I haven't yet seen one piece at which I was not most markedy bored. But the acting is marvellously better than London acting; it is superb. I have had the august visits of Andre Gide, James Joyce, and Valery Larbaud almost all at once. Joyce is nearly blind, and totally self-centred; a very strong personality indeed. I should hardly like to be his wife. He looks quite boyish, but has two adult children, one married; and still a strong Irish accent.

I am thinking of writing a story. I must do something to keep the wolf out of the hotel! The hotel is very good - and cheap. We like it better than ever before. I saw the outskirts of Joffre's funeral procession last Wednesday, and could write a diverting article thereon, but I am too idle. And now the hotel has found out at last who I am. I mean the management of the hotel has found out. Which is a pity because I have always come here disguised as E.A.B. But when celebrated persons arrive and ask for A. B. the cat is sooner or later bound to leap out of the bag. It has done.

Jo Davidson is nearly finished working on my bust, and he is going on to 'do' Gide. I shall thank god when it is finished.

Calligraphically decent

Friday, January 14th., Cadogan Square, London.

I read a lot of Villard's book on great American journalists. It is not very well done, and the editor of the N.Y. Notes ought to be able to write better than he does. I expected more from this book and feel disappointed.

I have had my first sight of the luxury facsimile edition of "The Old Wives' Tale". It is marvellous. Exceeded my expectations. I hope it will sell. It is easier to read than I expected and interesting to see the changes I made as I went along. Twenty years ago now and in some ways it doesn't seem like something I wrote; I wonder if I could produce something as good now?

At the time I was looking for some sort of outlet as I had no relaxations. I thought to try calligraphy and took to it quite well. I made a number of experiments with the object of forming a 'hand' suitable to myself. The result was discouraging at first, though I tried hard to imitate the finest models. In the end I reached a compromise which was really not cursive enough, but I decided to write a whole book in it. Ambitious, because I already knew that the book would amount to about 200,000 words.

So the manuscript reproduced in this edition is, as stated on the title page, the first and last writing of "the Old Wives' Tale". I have never had the courage, except on one minor occasion, to write a novel, or any part of a novel, twice over. I say to myself: "What you have written you have written, and there it is, for better or worse." Of course, if your manuscript is to have even the most modest pretensions to calligraphic decency, you must know all the time exactly what you are about to do; otherwise a regular mess will ensue. And some pages in this manuscript are a bit of a mess, but the readers will know that they are as close as they can be to a genuine act of creativity.

The 'hand' I adopted can be written as fast as any ordinary hand, or at least any that is legible, and far faster than my thoughts will flow. So that the adoption of it led to no delays. The actual writing occupied less than eight months (averaging 1,000 words a day) but the composition was spread over a longer period being interrupted by other work, including another novel, which I began and finished between two parts of "O.W.T".

Adventures

Wednesday, January 13th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Horrible muddy weather yesterday. I did nothing but prepare to depart for Menton where I shall meet Phillpotts. I bought two Stevensons and read a lot of "Island Nights". Good sound work but, strictly judged, decidedly mediocre.

This isn't a holiday of course, though it feels like one. And whilst I was packing I got to thinking about holidays past. Unlike Stevenson, I had little longing for adventure as a boy. In particular I had no desire to go to sea or to the pathless forest. And Five Towns boys were not allowed much travelling then. When an infant I had the enormous luck to go several times alone with my grandmother to Buxton. She was losing, and had nearly lost, her eyesight. I was her guide. Once I remember that, in passing a Post Office, she exclaimed excitedly: "I can read the words 'Post Office'!" These were, perhaps, the last words she ever did read. The immense pathos of this didn't strike me at the time.

But the immense romance of going to Buxton struck me. Buxton was twenty five miles off and you had to 'change'. An adventure! I vividly recall the seductive smell of cooking coming up from the basement kitchens of Buxton boarding houses. Fancy, a place set up entirely for leisure, repose, and entertainment; difficult to believe in, even having been there. Buxton is still a most romantic spot for me.

It was also, generally, the destination of choice for the annual Easter Walk on Easter Monday. We went off in a band, girls and boys, and, taking the train at intervals, would do about twenty five miles walking in the day. The crown of the terrific day was a supper of celestial ham and eggs at home at the close of it. One year the walk was postponed to Whitsuntide. We were very lively and had energy enough to do some swimming at Buxton. In consequence, on leaving the town, we had exactly three hours to cover the thirteen miles from Buxton to Leek station. - and a hilly road. We did it, girls as well as boys - and the last five miles in an hour; we must have been nearly running!

Then we had ten miles of train and a final two miles to walk. It was the last two miles in the dark that killed us. The repose in the train stiffened our joints so that we could hardly get out when we got to the station. Still, the heavenly thought of ham and eggs cheered us. We reached home. We bathed. We smelt the smell of the traditional ham and eggs. We sat down to table. We tried nobly to eat ... we could not! We were too tired to swallow! We went to bed of our own accord. This was a tragedy and I shall never forget it. That was my last ceremonial walk. 

And this afternoon I leave from the Gare de Lyon, heading south. Another adventure.

Dissatisfied

Tuesday, January 12th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

I began to revise recently written bits of "Raingo" at 7 a.m. 

We went to the Doria Gallery this morning. Badly hung pictures. Badly lighted. The galleries narrow and terribly over-decorated. The collectors seemed to have had a sure taste for the second rate. But there were several very fine Breughels, some small second rate Claudes and Titians, and a lot of filthy stuff. The Velasquez portrait of Pope Innocent X 'hung in lone spendour' was pretty good. Hard to understand some of these galleries. They seem to have the idea that if a painting is well known, or by a famous artist, then it presents itself. Quite the opposite is true.

Home at 4.10, had tea, and had written 1,000 words of "Raingo" before 6.30, although I was rather depressed about the general 'feel' of the end of the book. I fear people (discerning persons) may ask: "What is the book about?" and I mayn't be able to answer them. I don't know, articulately, what the 'idea' of the book is. It doesn't matter, I am just a bit dissatisfied with life. If asked I shall say: "It's about human nature; what else?"

I picked up a volume of Hardy's "Wessex Tales" last evening and ended up reading two stories: "The Three Strangers" and "The Withered Arm". They held me. Strange thing about Hardy's story-telling, sign of his genius I suppose, that the contrivances and coincidences of his plots are obvious when thought over later, but do not detract from the actual reading. At least not for me. I would have enjoyed a talk with him about his work, and could have had one I expect had I made an effort pre-war. I know he has read and enjoyed my novels. Too late now though.

Sights of Rome

Monday, January 11th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

We did a bit of sightseeing yesterday, mainly for Dorothy's benefit. We had a driver and went first up the Janiculum Hill. Suddenly, despite protests, the driver got out and said in Italian: "House of Torquato Tasso, author of 'Jerusalem Delivered'. He enjoyed the sun, meditated, and then he wrote." I thought this wonderful; it was so naive and so direct, with a smile. Then we descended to the Tiber and saw the outlet of the Cloaca Maxima, and the Temple of Vesta and Fortune, and home along the left bank of the Tiber. It was good, though I thought later that it was a bit odd to 'see' a sewer outlet, however ancient. As for Tasso, he obviously wasn't writing to maintain an income; lucky him!

Difficult to have gone today because of the Queen Margherita funeral. The maitre d'hotel had seen it and he described it to us. The electric street lamps on the route were draped in crepe and lighted. A good scheme that London would never have thought of. The walls of the streets have been covered with large black appeals to members of various societies to honour the mourning for the queen. This afternoon crowds back in the streets. Shop shutters lowered but the majority of shops open, with a gloomy, holiday air. But no sign of gloom in the demeanour of the thousands of saunterers.

I hear that a new king has been proclaimed in Arabia, and is to rename the country after himself, or his family at least. I don't know much about it but it seems that there has been fighting going on to gain supremacy, and this is the final stage. The muslim holy sites seem to be important in all this but probably they are used as an excuse for action by both sides as and when necessary. I hope this does not presage a resurgence of militant Islam.

The gambler

Sunday, January 10th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

I am progressing with "The Great Man" but it is impossible to work hard at a novel and appreciate a new environment at the same time. Beyond a walk to the centre of town and the bandstand I made no excursion. But I breakfasted on the balcony in dressing gown and overcoat, and all day I have had the atmosphere, perfectly wonderful, and the magnificent views from the balcony.

Yesterday I went to the Casino at Monte. Of course I went to study human nature and to find material! The sole advantage of being a novelist is that when you are discovered ina place where, as a serious person, you would prefer not to be discovered, you can always aver that you are studying human nature and seeking material.I was much impressed by the fact of my being in Monte Carlo. I was proud. And when I got into the gorgeous gaming saloons I was more proud still. Then, after studying human nature at large I began to study it at a roulette table. Just as a serious novelist might.

I don't know how it was, but long before I had formally decided to gamble I knew by instinct that I should stake a five franc piece that I happened to have in my pocket. I fought against the idea but couldn't take my hand empty out of my pocket. Then at last I drew forth the five franc piece and bashfully put it on black. I felt that all the fifty or sixty persons crowding round the table were staring at me, and recognised me as a beginner. However black won and the croupier pushed another five franc piece alongside mine, and I picked them both up smartly. I thought I might as well continue. In truth I hadn't the face to get up and leave after one gamble, and in an hour I had made fifty francs without breaking into gold. Then I decided to prove my self-control by ceasing to play. So I did prove it and went to have tea in the Casino cafe. I was as happy as though I had shot a reviewer without being found out!

I may go again. To study human nature.

Motivations

Wednesday, January 9th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Still working away on "The Pretty Lady". Another chapter on Monday. More today. 

Too much smoking, ostensibly to provide Richard with tobacco ash for chemical experiments. I wonder how much tobacco I have smoked in my lifetime? And how much more money I would have now if I hadn't started? I suppose I am addicted to the stuff. Wonder if I could give it up if I put my mind to it? Now that would be an interesting experiment!

I have been reading in Hammond's "Town Labourer". There is undoubtedly a pleasure in reading recitals of horrible injustice and tyranny. I didn't like reading the child-labour chapter. It exceeded the limits in its physicalness. I wish I had read it before I wrote the child-chapter in "Clayhanger" to which the Hammonds refer. I could have made that chapter even more appalling than it is. But at that date probably all the materials had not been collected, as the Hammonds have since collected them. And the publishers would probably have objected on the grounds of impact on sales. Strange though this business of the attraction of cruelty. Why are people so fascinated by descriptions of torture and such like? There has been a fair amount of that sort of thing during this war. It must be conceded I think that the propensity to inflict harm on others gratuitously is not far below the surface in many men; I don't know about women - probably not. I suppose it is about power and the desire to assert our own status over others, but I don't think that can be a sufficient answer.

Wilson, the American President, has made a speech to Congress about war aims and from what I read he makes good sense. There has been a noticeable absence of clear aims on our part it seems to me. That was a point Sassoon made in his now notorious statement. Wilson wants to avoid punitive measures against Germany when the war ends, and aims to turn German opinion against their government. Very sensible and likely to be well-received by the liberal element here. But all I hear from most people in London is about punishment of Germany. They don't use the word revenge, but that is what they mean.

Gloomy

Sunday, January 8th., Cadogan Square, London.

Enfeebled, gloomy. I wrote a lot more of my story, and then supplanted the cook in Dorothy's audience chamber, and arranged to go for a walk with her at noon. Part of Grosvenor Road, the interesting part near the Tate Gallery, was barricaded. Crowds of gazers. We went on to Vauxhall Bridge. Nothing to be seen anywhere except mud on the footpath of Grosvenor Road, and the damp interior of the Riviera Club, which had been flooded out. Only a couple of days ago my barber was telling me how he had been to watch skate-waltzing on the rink at Grosvenor Road.

It is reported that at least a dozen people have been killed in the floods and many thousands made homeless. Part of Chelsea embankment has collapsed. Apparently it is all to do with a great volume of water coming downriver, coinciding with a particularly high tide. The reason for all the downstream water is the melting of the recent heavy snow plus torrential rain inland near the source of the Thames. Just goes to show how quickly things can change and how fragile really is our tenure of the planet. We think we are all-powerful but in the face of the might of nature we are simply children. I hope something will be done at least about Thames flood defences but how would we protect a whole coastline if the waters rose?

I have finished reading "The Optimists" by Andrew Miller. Very powerful book which will stay with me for some time. Essentially the story, such as it is, is about a photographer who witnesses the aftermath of an atrocity in Africa. He suffers a breakdown in consequence, trying to come to terms with what he has witnessed. How should he respond? Revenge? Reporting? Suicide? Forgetting? And in his groping after some sort of response he is brought to realise that guilt is universal, that nobody is innocent, that we are all complicit if not actually evil ourselves. Not a cheery tale, but something that needs saying. The writing is uneven but  relentless, and no satisfactory conclusion is offered, which is as it should be for such a subject. There is just the glimmer of light at the end but knowing what we know about the central character it seems unlikely that he will be guided by it. Why the title? I haven't been able to make sense of that so far; surely not simply ironic? I expect to have this on my mind for some time to come.

Sightseeing

Thursday, January 7th., Hotel Excelsior, Naples.

We have been here for three weeks now and another week to go. The weather has been perfect. This hotel is on the edge of the Bay of Naples and Vesuvius sits opposite, about 10 miles off. It is 3,600 feet high but doesn't look it. I sat at my open window on Christmas morning (in fact every morning since we came here) and had breakfast in contemplation of Vesuvius, Sorrento, and Capri. That is something to think about for a boy from the Potteries! I was told the other evening by a visiting professor of some sort (American) that if Vesuvius erupts again, which it may well do, then the damage will be colossal because there has been so much unregulated building in the vicinity.

Naples, which I had not previously seen, meets with my approval. I don't reckon that Pompeii is so very great and I am sure that the Pompeians were a rotten lot, with second rate taste. But some of the frescoes are extremely risque, and taste isn't everything. I am looking out for a book of colour reproductions of the most 'interesting' art but no good so far. Interesting that almost anything can be shown if it is 'art' or 'historic', or especially both together. That is why we got away with so much with "Judith".

We have been out to Capri by motor launch. Good but unexciting, Better was a trip further south to a place called Paestum which I had no previous knowledge of. Wonderful Greek temples in a marvellous state of preservation. Also tombs with lovely frescoes. Wandered about by myself. Virtually had the place to myself. Memorable.

I am not looking forward to return to England, though it will be good to have access to my books and things again. I expect the weather will be dreadful. In the meantime I intend to soak self-indulgently in the sights, sounds, and even the smells of ancient Napoli.

Bad!

Thursday, January 6th., Cadogan Square, London.

I bought "Treasure Island" yesterday, as I had lately heard such praise of it. All I remember of my first reading, many years ago, is that I liked it. I read a lot of it yesterday afternoon and a little more this morning. All I can say is that I thought it wasn't so bad. I have a soft spot for a rollicking good story, like Haggard's early stuff for example. Sometimes you just want to be carried away by the story, not caring about obvious gaps in the plot or inconsistent characterisation. Whatever you say about Stevenson, he did know how to tell a story. And think of the influence he has had with this book on how people think. Ask anybody what they think of when they think of pirates and they will say things like: "peg-leg", "parrot", "buried treasure", "pieces of eight".

Of course the moral and artistic value of any particular book published now is unknowable to us. Posterity alone will judge our books. I hope it will judge mine favourably. We can however immediately judge the value of our books considered as physical objects. And this consideration has importance. Most books, and especially most novels, are bad examples of the art and craft of making books. They are badly set-up from bad founts of type in a badly designed page, printed on bad paper, badly bound, and enveloped in bad dust covers. They offend the eye of taste; they offend an honest partiality for sound workmanship, and when you have read them they look as misshapen as if they had been thrown down in Piccadilly and run over by a motor bus. I think I may be turning into William Morris in my old age!

Interesting times

Tuesday, January 5th., Cadogan Square, London.

A time of change it seems. I am full of life and anticipation, though also working too hard, by which I mean trying to do too many things. My 'shopkeeper' novel is going well, and I have hopes that it will do something to restore my reputation amongst the literati.

Only three weeks since I moved to this rather noble thing in houses, but already I feel settled and content. I liked Comarques but it was inconvenient, as well as being expensive. This too will be expensive, but a little less so. Really I am glad to be back in London where I am most at home and where the potential for bachelor excitement is considerable.

I went to the first night of "Polly" at the Kingsway, and I ought not to have gone as it gave me a set-back, being out at night. It is the most prodigious success, but as a show it is not equal to "The Beggars's Opera". My niece is threatening to visit and is desirous to see it. She is rather an attractive young woman so I shall not mind. Speaking of attractive young women, I have met a certain Dorothy Cheston who seems much interested in me. She is an actress, blonde, good figure, lively intelligence if a little lightweight, young enough to be my daughter. I feel my blood rising as I write! I shall invite her to accompany me to a private dance to be given by Richmond Temple at the Savoy. That will certainly impress her and who knows where things will then proceed.

Odd!

Wednesday, January 4th., Cadogan Square, London.

In the early brightness of yesterday morning fate led me to Downing Street, which is assuredly the oddest street in the world, at least in my experience. Everything in Downing Street is significant, save the official residence of the Prime Minister, which, with its three electric bells and its absurdly inadequate area steps, is merely comic. The way in which the vast pile of the Home Office frowns down upon that devoted comic house is symbolic of the empire of the permanent official over the elected of the people. Good job too. God knows what would happen if politicians had charge of things!

Today I corrected typescripts for one hour, and then walked up to Piccadilly Circus and back, thinking further over my scheme for a play for Ruth Draper. I got the scheme into order and wrote to Ruth about it immediately after lunch. I find that I can think best when I am in a street of shops now. I like more and more looking at shop windows. Bit odd that when I come to think about it. I suppose it is a bit like walking in the country, which I now do rarely, in that the eyes are occupied without really seeing, so the mind is free to work. I rarely remember details of my walks and it seems probable that properly alert pedestrians are constantly getting out of my way.

I couldn't get off to sleep this afternoon owing to the noise of workmen next door. I arose and did a further installment of my World-Today article, about the Riviera, writing it with zest and ferocity. I am reading "Peter Simple". It has apparently no form but is very good indeed otherwise. It does give a picture of naval life and its moral backbone is excellent. 

I was very gloomy this morning, reflecting that life ought to be give and take, but that I gave without taking. Especially in my relations with women, which have not been fortunate. However at night I was cheerful again. Odd!

A dream

Saturday, January 3rd., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Neuralgia has stopped me working for two days but I resumed this morning.

Woke with a dream clear in my head, which is unusual for me. I wasn't actively involved in the dream, just a sort of observer, but I could talk to others, though they only seemed to see me if I spoke to them. We were in a large house in a town, more like a hospital or school or some institution in fact. Men and women were living there and they never went outside. They were not prisoners exactly but just discouraged from exiting. They cooked for themselves, communally or singly, and stores were 'magically' replenished between times, so they had no need to go out. Anyway two or three of the men became discontented and decided to go into the town which was easily done as there were no guards, just by forcing an external door. I followed them into the town where they sort of wandered about, staying together, just looking round. There were some street entertainers, but not very interesting. After quite a short time one of them said: "Shall we go home?" and the others readily agreed. They went in as they had left and secured the door behind them, breathing a collective sigh of relief. That was all. I suppose the message to me is to be content with what I have, which is in fact a great deal.

The Spences came over to dinner on Thursday night from the Grand Hotel at Frinton. Spence is the dramatic critic of the Westminster Gazette. He said that, concerning the Maybrick affair which is nearly 30 years ago now, Mrs. Maybrick was understood to be guilty, and that she had confessed to wardresses immediately after sentence It was said that she had arsenic in the pocket of her peignoir and administered it by means of a handkerchief pressed to Maybrick's mouth when he complained of dry lips, or something of that kind. But Spence could not explain why Charles Russell remained always persuaded of her innocence. Apparently Mrs. Maybrick is still alive having had her sentence commuted, and subsequently reduced. Maybrick seems to have been a rather horrible individual.

A local man, schoolteacher, has been showing me his collection of stone age 'tools'. Just small pieces of flint in the main which you wouldn't notice unless you were looking out. But he showed me how they had been deliberately shaped for various purpose such as hammering, scraping and cutting. Some are very sharp and would certainly be effective. He also had a couple of arrow heads, very finely crafted, which must have taken a great deal of work. I had no idea about such things, and was much impressed. He seemed to think they might be more than 10,000 years old. Amazing to hold something that old in your hand and to think of the connection with the person who made it.

Grumbles

Saturday, January 2nd., Hotel de Russie, Rome.

 

1,070 words of "Raingo" this morning 9 - 11 o'clock. Good effort. 

 

At 11.45 we went for a walk. Plenty of people about, mainly tourists. Sky cleared and the sun shone. Surprisingly warm in the direct sunshine. Walked as far as St. Peter's and entered the basilica which is huge; remarkably huge! It is a miracle in stone and I can't imagine how it was built. We both felt uncomfortably dwarfed and only got about half way to the altar area before turning back. Keen to get outside. I suppose the dwarfing is part of the purpose so that those who are vulnerable to impression are put into a frame of mind to believe that miracles can happen.

Called at American Express Co. to get some cash. Grumbling American woman, repeating grumbles, about not being served quickly at the teller's desk. If things don't go smoothly American women usually frown and change their sweet tone for a sour. I have noticed this before. Americans in general seem always to be in a hurry, as if they haven't enough hours in a day. Some of my self-help books sold well in America so perhaps I have contributed to this in my own small way?

I finished Baring's "Cat's Cradle" at 5.45 p.m. 720 big pages. Its curious fault is that it reads as if it really had happened: a report of actual events. I say fault but it may be that there is potential for a novel approach to fiction there somewhere; readers might be attracted to a book when they don't quite know if what they are reading is fiction or fact. It has taken me 14 days, about, to read. But I have only fitted it in between other things. Probably not a good use of my time but I won't grumble about it.

Going out to dinner. Passing a barber's shop. Vision of the barber standing quite away from the half-shaved customer and flourishing his razor in argument. Given the excitable nature of Italians it might be a risky business having a shave here.

A decision

Saturday, January 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

 

Very feeble this morning after the New Year's Eve carousing, and bed at 2.30. Too late for me nowadays! Towards noon I walked to South Kensington Museum to see the temporary exhibition of commercial printing and illustration. I met D.S. McColl there. He told me that some time since Tonks had been 'very much bitten with the idea' of illustrating "The Old Wives' Tale". I never knew before. Wonder if it might be worth a luxury illustrated edition? I remember that Sickert wanted to illustrate "Clayhanger". I am glad really that nothing came of either scheme because their conceptions of the characters would not be the same as mine, and would confuse my mental images.

Feeling physically better after this afternoon's sleep, but in a reflective mood. I got to thinking about New Years past. Remembered that once, as a youth, I walked up to Mow Cop on New Year's Day. Don't think I had been there before though of course I knew of it and its history. Nobody else there and I recall standing at the top looking out over the vast Cheshire plain. I felt as if I could see forever. Exhilarating. I stood there for ages, with my back to the smoke and gloom of the Potteries, just breathing deep lungfulls of clean air. I think it was then that I decided, though I didn't formulate the thought clearly, that I wouldn't stay in the Potteries, but would seek my fortune elsewhere. And that is what I have been doing since.

On my way back that day I stopped at St. James church in Newchapel to have a look at the grave of James Brindley. Not much to see, but I was told once by Uncle John that the Bennetts were descended illegitimately from 'Schemer' Brindley. When I got home my mother asked me what I had been doing out so long. "Oh, not much", I said.