Almost content

Monday, March 22nd., Villa des Nefliers, Fontainebleau.

I am half way through Verne's "Around the World in Eighty Days" which, surprisingly, I have not previously read. I don't know what to make of it. Is it to be taken at face value? Is it a subtle critique of social mores, colonialism, class, progress ...? I sense that it is a joke but one to which I either lack the necessary background or am too constrained to appreciate. I do not dislike it, and will finish it, but I am perplexed.

Change of weather last night. Today, first day of Spring, twelve kilometres in the forest. Through too much work I have slept badly for several nights, which upset my digestion. Still my output is enormous. Pleasure in being in the country increases. Yet, a certain dissatisfaction, an expectancy, behind the content. Probably this will always be there, wherever I am and whatever I am doing.

The vernal equinox. Time to set aside this journal of commonplace matters, which musty not becomw a burden, in favour of more time out of doors. Time to walk, and to breathe. To savour the burgeoning forest. No doubt I will make the occasional entry when there is something of consequence to be written. And Autumn will come around soon enough.

More Cointreau needed

Saturday, March 21st., Cadogan Square, London.

We were at Lady Colefax's supper to meet John Barrymore on Thursday night. There were no Asquith's there which was surprising as Asquiths seemed to occupy all the boxes on the first night of Barrymore's "Hamlet" at the Haymarket. Also they were photographed in their boxes. Barrymore, at the supper where he arrived after 1 a.m., seemed to be partly exhausted. He looked distinguished but didn't talk distinguished. During songs he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. Then he exclaimed: "Oh, for some Cointreau!" very urgently, and it was brought quickly to him. He is very shrewd and perspicacious. Needless to say he was much admired by the ladies, not excepting Dorothy.

I am inclined to be 'unwell'; some people, I know, think me something of a hypochondriac because I generally look well enough whilst complaining of a variety of symptoms not visible to them. In fact I think that people admit themselves 'unwell' oftener than they used to. This is because they know a little more about the greatest of all physical marvels and mysteries, the human body. I former days an indisposition was looked upon as the act of God and regarded fatalistically. Now it is known to be the act of man and therefore perhaps cuarable if officially proclaimed and treated. The champions of the past in this matter say that we are a generation of mollycoddles.

Still, we live appreciably longer than our ancestors. Some will assert that since life is a nuisance, then longer life is a still greater nuisance. I do not subscribe to this view in spite of my notorious ill health. In some ways we have retained the foolishness of the past. Today, just as in former times, there are certain diseases, especially those affecting physical attractiveness, as to which women will unfailingly become hysterical. And men are as apt as ever to become hysterical if their digestive organs go wrong. I am guilty of this. On the other hand a man will still as of old deny to himself the existence of an obvious  chronic malady, and carry on his existence as if his proper place was not in bed. And then die suddenly, and have the effrontery to be surprised thereat.

And what remarkable faith we can generate, in the face of all good sense, in patent remedies. I am guilty of this as well. Not only will people try all sorts of quack medicines, they will convince themselves they are working, and broadcast their success, until their failure becomes manifest and there is no alternative to a quiet reversion often accompanied by a declaration that they didn't really expect it to work in any case.

In the country

Saturday, March 20th., Trinity Hall Farm, Hockliffe.

Out early this morning after a decent night. Nearly five hour first sleep. Feeling pretty fit and very glad to be away from towns and cities, though they pull me still. I suppose it is to do with having been raised in an urban setting. Though I feel happy here I shall never feel that I belong. I am tolerated and humoured by the people I meet locally. They are too polite to tell me I am not one of them, but I know it.

Speaking of belonging, I have just finished reading an excellent short novel which has that as one of its themes. "A Month in the Country" by J.L. Carr. I think it spoke more clearly to me living here than it would have done had I been still living in London or, God forbid, Paris. It is a remembrance by a man named Birkin of a golden summer when he was a young man, not long back from the horrors of the War. He is a restorer of wall paintings in old churches and is commissioned to a job in Yorkshire. There he meets another ex-soldier, lives in the belfry of the church, becomes involved in aspects of local life, and falls in love with the vicar's wife. All in the space of a few weeks of summer. Carr draws his characters for us sparely but sufficiently. We can feel Birkin coming alive again before our eyes. It is a portrait of an ideal, imaginary, England such as we would like to believe in, inhabited by decent people, a place of hope and comfort. Hopelessly nostalgic of course but none the worse for that; I was happily absorbed by it. Only a novella really though presented as a novel in the edition I read which was additionally beautifully illustrated (engravings) by Ian Stephens. A pleasure to read and to look at.

Two bibliophiles

Friday, March 24th., Hotel Majestic, Paris.

This is an excellent hotel, but not the one I would have chosen. It is all we could get. Rosenbach and I have a terrific apartment here: Drawing-room, two bedrooms and two bathrooms for £3.10/- a day. You wouldn't get it in London for twice that. But I shall leave it because the Champs Elysee is such a hades of a length.

We had an excellent journey here, no problem with the crossing. Rosenbach is one of those exhaustless persons. He would go to a music-hall last night  because of the row going on here about nude women on the stage. There is danger of them being forbidden so we had to see them before they were. Well, we saw them all right! Some with a frail girdle, some with nothing whatever. Then he wanted to go forth for 'supper', but I dissuaded him and got him back here by 12.30, and this morning he thanked me heartily for that. Who would have thought that a bibliophile would turn out to be such a lively character? We first met in the U.S.A. in 1911 and at that time he seemed to me to be a typical Jewish intellectual, or at least my stereotype of one. He is known in London as "The Terror of the Auction Rooms", and here as "The Napoleon of Books". Knowing this I suppose I should have guessed that his character would be rather larger than life.

What to make of the nude revues now that I have seen one for myself? What they are not is titillating. They aim I think to be artistic, and perhaps they are, but it is indubitably the nudity that is the attraction. They undoubtedly objectify women and that must be a bad thing. Of course that is what men have always done. Many of the great masters of painting, Titian as an example, did the same thing. Where lies the difference? I did feel uncomfortable, as a man, staring at naked women on stage. I won't be going again.

Rosenbach tells me that he is hopeful of purchasing the manuscript of "Ulysses"  from Joyce. He is confident that it will increase in value, and he certainly seems to be reliable in his judgement as far as books are concerned. For him, it seems to me, the two aspects of books are more clearly defined than for anyone else I have met. He is a man who understands and appreciates literature, but he also acknowledges books as objects, unsentimentally. I think it ironic that there is apparently more money to be made trading in books, if you know what you are doing, than in writing them.

Self examination

Thursday, March 18th., Cadogan Square, London.

Two good sleeps last night. One of four and a quarter hours. Felt quite rested this morning and did some deep breathing and stretching exercises as Holden recommended. My shoulders were a bit stiff after yesterday's exertions and this helped. I am trying to get some sort of exercise each day. Seems to be helping me feel more relaxed in mind and body. Walked down to the river late morning and then along the Chelsea Embankment and back via King's Road. Fairly mild though grey. Daffodils appearing here and there which is a good sign.
 

Got to thinking about self-indulgence and self-denial. I don't know why. It occured to me (I don't know why I haven't thought this before) that both are rewarding, but in different ways. Suppose one had just finished a good meal, felt satisfied, and were then offered a sweet treat such as a chocolate; would there be more reward in indulgence or denial? Alternatively, if one were hungry, having been deprived food for a period, indulgence would seem likely and in fact would not seem to be indulgence at all. But wouldn't self-denial in that situation be even more rewarding if one were inclined in that direction? I should think that either, but especially self-denial, can be addictive particularly if some moral value can be attached. Hence the ascetics who crop up from time to time throughout history.

I suppose that there is a sort of continuum and we all fall somewhere along it, in the sense of our characteristic response. Obviously we all are able to self-indulge or self-deny to extreme on occasion. For myself, I think I tend towards the self-indulgent, though I have detected some movement towards self-denial as I have grown older, especially where alcohol is concerned. I think that as one ages one becomes more bodily aware, less reilient, and less likely to over-indulge, knowing what the consequences will be. I became quite engrossed in these thoughts, and hardly noticed my walking at all.

Beginning again

Wednesday, March 17th., Hotel Bristol, Paris.

We drove to Andre Maurois's house at Neuilly. Nice ground-floor flat with garden and two children (boys 4 and 5); the daughter aged 12 had gone to her cours. Portrait of the dead mother on the table in drawing-room. She was beautiful. Something tragic about this. Maurois, slim, slight, Jewish; charming; with an open mind; interested, admirably urbane. Agreeable talking. It was all very nice. We left at 3.50, and Maurois drove us to Faubourg St. Honore in his car. I dozed.

At 6.30 I went out to sample the Champs Elysee in the half-light, and began to like Paris again. Dined at the hotel. Good. Then to the Theatre Femina. Crowded. Heated. People came in half an hour late, noisily. Play began 17 minutes late. Ended 11.45. The first act terribly Bernsteinish and old-fashioned. Nothing to it. But in 2nd act, when it appears that Irene's frison is a Lesbian attachment, things begin to look up a bit. But the play was always wooden and antique in treatment; especially in dialogue. It was admirably acted by three women. Mdme. Sylvie as the heroine Irene was very fine indeed.

I had sandwiches at the hotel. Muriel Foster came along and talked a bit. Alfred Sutro and wife had come along at dinner time.

Prowling round

Monday, March 16th., Villa des Nefliers, Avon S/M.

Worried about the finances of Fontainebleau lately. Still I kept myself in hand very well until the moment arrived last night for me to receive a crucial letter from Pinker. I had given him carte blanche to dispose of "Buried Alive" exactly as he thought best, and had made it clear that my priority was more money! The letter was handed to me in a dark street. I had some difficulty not stopping to read it under a gas lamp. I read it at the station with a commendable show of nonchalance, though nobody there had the least interest in me or my business. Strange the compulsion to 'perform' even when there is no audience. It was alright. No mistake, the constant practice of Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus has had its gradual effect on me.

Have never worked better than these last few days. 4,000 words of "The Old Wives' Tale" in three days plus two articles and some verse. And I have a general scheme of a long article on the London theatrical situation. And ideas for a big play about journalism for the Stage Society, designed to thrill London. Of course I cannot go on at this level or I will be ill. Marguerite is due to return from Paris today and will no doubt make me slow down by deployment of her feminine wiles.

Lovely weather but chilly. Chilblains on hands. Immense pleasure, pretty nearly ecstatic sometimes, in looking at the country, in being in it, particularly by the Seine and in the forest. I said to myself the other morning that the early savage used to prowl about from his cave like that and that I might almost meet one in the forest; whereupon it occurred to me that I was exactly the early savage over again, prowling round his cave, with the same sniffing sensations of instinctive joy in nature. We have lost a great deal in the acquisition of civilisation. Perhaps too much. Of course the life of primitive man was short and beset by hardship and violence, but how much richer it must have been in many respects. Is the worth of a life to be measured by the number of days lived, or by the way one lives today? Very curious this getting down to the bedrock of existence.

 

Users of words

Monday, March 15th., Chiltern Court, London.

I am myself a chronic user of words and, I like to think, have acquired some reputation for using them well. But there are others more adept than I, and I give way willingly.

C.E. Montague

Among the major modern experts and virtuosi in writing must be counted the late C.E. Montague, a man with a passion for the proper use of words, a man who turned leading articles into literature. A few years before the war, being acutely intrigued by the literary performances of this Manchester man, I went up to Manchester to make his acquaintance. A temeraraious excursion, rather like going over the top! He was just about the most reserved man I ever met. He had the air of a secondary school teacher or a Wesleyan preacher, but when he talked, he did talk. I soon perceived that he knew a hundred times more than I knew, and had an infinitely more complex taste. He did not traffic in simplicities. His reputation was that he was 'cold'. Well, he was, but he had a heart which he carried in a padlocked secret pocket, never on his sleeve.
 

Another fine user of words is Edith Sitwell, one of the most original poets of our day, who now stands forth as a literary biographer and critic. Her "Alexander Pope" (illustrated and with designs by Rex Whistler) has the qualities one would expect from her. It is brilliantly written, it is challenging, and it is ruthless. She sets out to prove that Pope was a lovable and kindly man as well as a great writer and, by and large, she succeeds. The final chapter is criticism of a very illuminating, unusual sort. If you would see what a vitruoso can see in a given collocation of words, read this chapter. It is revealing and as fresh as the dawn. The plum of the book to my mind is the tirade in the opening chapter upon the "general blighting and withering of the poetic taste" during the first quarter of the twentieth century. She uses strong words, and good words. Her book would be much admired and appreciated by Montague.

A character

Sunday, March 14th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Disturbed night. Five or six hours in total. Felt discontented this morning so I went for a walk first thing after breakfast. Blustery sort of day, and had obviously rained in the night so I stuck to the roads and made-up paths. Quiet. Nobody about except that as I was passing the gate to one of the local estates a rough looking man appeared and engaged me in conversation. Turns out that he is some sort of gamekeeper, but not paid; rather he receives benefit in kind. At least that was the impression he gave me.

Interesting character. About sixty I should say but well preserved, ruddy complexion, strongly built though not especially tall. Looks as if he has seen something of life. Enjoys a good scrap he said. Wanted to talk about himself and his ideas and I let him. Obviously not an educated man, but naturally bright I should say and completely at home in the countryside. His talk ranged widely. Told me about, and showed me, some fossils he had found nearby eroding out from the bank of a stream. Wouldn't say where. Also the trouble he has with trespassers to whom he gives short shrift. "See that hedge", he said at one point, "If I am after a trespasser I don't go round a hedge, I go through it. That surprises 'em". I think he was serious. In fact he seemed a serious man in general. Believes in omens and 'wise women' who have powers that humanity generally has lost. Says he has seen some things that are inexplicable by science. Told me that he has shot over 100 squirrels on the estate just this year because they predate on birds eggs. Fascinating character. In fact I felt quite fascinated, in the literal sense, by his talk. Like someone from Yeats 'Faerie' book. Worth turning out for.

I felt better when I got back and did some good work after my afternoon sleep.

Laughing matters

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

Yesterday, Reform lunch. Talking about gambling. It was defended by James Currie and even by Lord Buckmaster. Stated to be the one distraction of the people! There is, however, fornication. I felt quite cross to listen to all these well fed and self-satisfied Tories taking about 'the people' as if they have any idea about the lives of ordinary men and women. They do not. Nor do I, but I don't go about the world pretending that I do. They also take it as read that their lives are necessarily 'better' and more important than those of the working classes. I doubt it. I should think there is more genuine feeling and life in the streets of Hammersmith than in any of the genteel homes the toffs return to when they leave their clubs. 

I say Hammersmith because, apropos of all this, when I was coming home from there in the Tube yesterday evening, two workmen got in, one about 35 and the other 18 or 20.They might have been father and son I suppose. It was a pleasure to watch them.

Hammersmith Broadway, 1910 - Tube Station on the right

They carried paint pots and 'turps' pots wrapped in paper and covered at the  top (paint pots, i.e.) with paper with a hole for brush handle to poke through. Dirty. Shabby. Dirty hands. Dirty caps with big peaks. The young one wore black leggings. They pushed the cans as far as possible under seats. The young man was smoking a cigarette. He carried a coil of rope within his buttoned jacket. It stuck up towards his neck. As soon as they sat down each of them pulled a new packet of chewing-gum from his pocket, stripped off the paper, broke the packet in half and put one half into his mouth. I didn't notice any actual jaw motion of chewing. The young man kept on smoking. The chewing-gum business was obviously a regular thing, and much looked forward to. Obvious satisfaction on their faces as they opened the packets. After a few minutes the young man pulled a novelette from his pocket and went on reading it. The elder just sat, contented and relaxed after a hard day's work. So here were some minor distractions of the people: cigarettes, chewing-gum, novelettes. And they probably called in for a pint or two on their way home. 

I think I have lost my sense of humour. I say this because the other evening, browsing on my book shelves, I came upon Stevenson's "Travels with a Donkey". It must be twenty years, if not more, since I read it last and I recalled how much pleasure it had given me. Not now. I doubt I even managed a smile and after three chapters I gave up. On its own this would be no evidence but I have noticed my failure to be amused in several contexts lately, and I feel sad about it. When did I last have a good 'belly laugh'? I would like to bet that there is plenty of laughter in Hammersmith of an evening.

 

Confident femininity

Saturday, March 12th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

On my way to seeing Mrs. L. I called at a bread shop in Holborn. To judge from the exterior one could desire no place of refreshment more fastidiously neat and dainty. But when I was inside I found the shop and the room at the back occupied by women and girls in various conditions of deshabille. The place was being cleaned, and the hour being only 11 a.m. customers were clearly not expected. The girls all looked up surprised, and with a show of indifference I picked my way amongst kneeling figures into the inner room. When I had sat down, I heard a rummaging noise under the table, and presently a fat young girl appeared therefrom. She hurried away laughing, but came back shortly and produced from under the table a tin bowl of dirty water which she carried away, with a giggle. I ordered a glass of milk and a sandwich, and then waited. A girl, tall, thin and vacuous, ran upstairs and came down soon afterwards pinning on an apron at the back. She brought me my food. I ate it, while looking at a dirty newspaper placed to protect the newly washed floor, and at the crimson petticoat showing through the placket-hole of a girl who was washing the floor behind the counter. I could feel about me an atmosphere of confident femininity. I discovered that there were two of me present: one recoiling from the dirt and untidiness which spoilt the taste of my food; the other calculating how to become better acquainted with the crimson petticoat. I came away thinking: "This is a bad omen for the result of my interview with Mrs. L."

The room into which I was shown in Gower Street was, I think, the ugliest, the most banal I have seen. From the twisted columns of the furniture to the green rep of the upholstering, everything expressed Bloomsbury in its highest power. This was a boarding house. My hopes sank and they were not raised by the appearance of Mrs. L. who combines the profession of a landlady with that of a "mental healer". She looks the typical landlady, shabbily dressed, middle-aged, and with that hardened, permanently soured expression of eyes and lips which all landladies seem to acquire. She fitted with and completed the room. I put on my bravest face and surrendered to the situation.

She asked me about my stammering and my health generally, talking in a quiet, firm, authoritative voice. I noticed the fatigue of her drooping eyelids and the terrific firmness of her thin lips. She told me how she had been cured of nervousness by Dr. Patterson of America, and gave a number of instances of his success and her own in "mentally treating" nervous and physical disorders. Some of them were so incredible that I asked myself what I, notorious as a sane level-headed man, was doing in that galley. However as Mrs L. talked I was rather impressed by her sincerity, her strong quietude, and her sagacity. I was given to understand that she was a "Christian Scientist". I asked what the patient had to do. "Nothing", she said. I explained my attitude towards "mental healing" - that I neither believed nor disbelieved in it, that certainly I could not promise her the assistance of my 'faith'. "Can you cure me of my stammering?" "I am quite sure that I can," she answered with quiet assurance, "but it will take some time. This is a case of a lifelong habit, not of a passing ailment." "Shall you want to see me often?" "I shall not want to see you at all: but if you feel that you want to see me, of course you can do so. I shall look after your general health too. If you have a bad headache, or a liver attack, send me a word and I will help you."

I nodded acquiescence but I was nearly laughing aloud. At least I told myself that was what I was doing. I also told her, in my head, that I preferred to dispense with these mysterious services, but had not the moral courage to carry it through. So I arranged terms with her and as I did so I marvelled that I should be assisting at such an interview. And yet - supposing there were after all something in it! I was not without hope. She had distinctly impressed me, especially by odd phrases here and there which seemed to indicate a certain depth of character in her. I went away smiling - half believing that the whole thing was a clever fraud, and half-expecting some happy result.

Tonight I sent her a cheque. I wondered, as I wrote it out, whether twelve months hence I should be wanting to burn these pages which recorded my credulity, or whether with all the enthusiasm of my nature I should be spreading abroad the report of Mrs. L's powers.

Strolling about

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

Sloane Street up from Pond Street to the bottom; a shade under half a mile I suppose. Curious fact; they are laying a pipe, or rather six pipes, earthenware, all in one, and I have never had enough curiosity to ask what the pipe is, and why it should be in six divisions. I think it must be water, as I often see an official 'turncock' whilst strolling about. The street is being repaired very rapidly and very well and very noisily. The noise of about a dozen drills for boring and breaking up the concrete is awful. Men live in it all day, and those who use the drills have their hands vibrated all day. Must damage the nerves in the hands and arms I should think. And hearing as well. What a way to earn a crust. The whole thing is a 'perfect hive' and a wonderful scene. Might be worth an article.

 Put me in mind of the painting titled "Work" by Ford Madox Brown which I saw some time ago; I forget where. If I remember rightly that focussed on workmen digging a road. Hampstead? Excellent piece of work in the Pre-Rapaelite manner. Detailed. Beautifully painted but also socially relevant. I remember being genuinely impressed by it at the time. Must find out where it is and have another look. I wouldn't mind having a reproduction to look at if I could get one. Interesting chap by all accounts, Madox Brown. As I recall, in the painting Carlyle was depicted watching the work; can't remember what the point was but I smile to think that I could have been observed today in similar pose!

Part of the street was totally up and repaved about two years ago or less. Why this so soon duplication of work? Another instance of the amateurishness and 'loose-limbedness' of London government.

Plenty of material

Saturday, March 10th., Cadogan Square, London.

George Doran came to lunch, and after lunch, in my study, he began talking about the idea he had given me last year for a novel based on the tragic life of Ernest Hodder-Williams. I said I liked it but couldn't handle it yet, as I was more attracted by a scheme for a realistic novel about a big luxury hotel. I have had this scheme in mind for years now and it is a ghost I must lay before I am much older. All the material is in my head. I shall probably begin it as soon as I have finished my play. Doran was disappointed but accepted the inevitability of my decision.

An interesting novel by a young Irish (Northern) writer has come into my hands. Nick Laird. I think we will be hearing more from him. The book's title is "Modern Gods". Essentially the story concerns two sisters, one of whom is an academic anthropologist but has rather 'lost her way' professionally and emotionally, and the other has married a man who turns out to have an unfortunate past. Very unfortunate - he has killed several people in a sectarian act and served a sentence. The first sister, Elizabeth, has, and takes, the opportunity to go off to New Guinea to investigate and report on a new cult that has arisen there. The second, Alison, has to cope with being bound to a man she feels she no longer recognises. Tribalism is at the centre of the narrative. Also the chronic hypocrisy of religion and professedly religious people. Also elements of a daughter's relationship with her mother, misunderstandings and betrayals. Laird is good at dialogue which is very authentic to my ear, and he handles the juxtaposition of the parallel stories well. Good also at creating a sense of menace which unsettles the reader. The ending is poor. In fact it seems to just stop as if the author had run out of time. I also felt that there was so much material that Laird had failed to write the much longer and more interesting book that was available to him. Definitely a writer to watch out for.

I was at a big dinner at the Savoy last evening, given to Capt. George Nicholls ('Quex' of the Evening News). He insisted that I sit next to him, for moral support, which I thought a great compliment. Birkenhead was in the chair and made a most brilliant and impudent speech. Champagne was bad and so I have a slight headache today. But I have spent time with Virginia and have taught her to negotiate the stairs with only minimal help. Dorothy will be surprised when she returns.

Wondering and wandering

Tuesday, March 9th., Chiltern Court, London.

A sunny morning and I walked out to get ideas. Regents Park. I haven't spent much time there since the move, but I like its informality. Strolled along the Broad Walk and almost felt as if I were on holiday. Mainly young women pushing perambulators, nannies in the main I suppose. So what are the mothers doing who would otherwise be out here with their children? Difficult job being a nanny I should think. Not the work as such, but the social relationships, getting the balance right with family and other servants. Increasingly difficult with the way society is changing. Servants are rapidly becoming a thing of the past.

I noticed today that I am talking to myself more. I don't mean the internal dialogue which I suppose everybody has, but actually talking out loud. Is this a sign of ageing? Probably. I think I do it most frequently in my study, when something is on my mind and I pace about from one side of the room to the other. It is not quite a 'real' conversation because it seems most often to be a case of seeking confirmation of a point of view or a decision taken. I find myself saying things like "What do you think AB?" and hearing myself reply "Absolutely right, just what I think". It seems perfectly natural at the time but is a bit odd set down in writing. I wouldn't mind asking other men of my age if they do it, but perhaps they would think me peculiar. Rivers would be the very man for this. I could ask him without any embarrassment.

When I think of it I don't really have any intimate friends now, and sometimes feel quite lonely, which is strange for a person who spends most of his spare time 'going out'. No point trying to talk to Dorothy about it. She would listen of course but wouldn't be able to imagine herself as me and would respond superficially. Would Marguerite have understood had we still been together? I don't know. 

Internal dialogue. That is an interesting phenomenon it seems to me. Personally, I can't imagine how I would think at all without language, and yet I must have done so I suppose before I learned to speak. And what about our distant ancestors? It increasingly appears that the evolution of man has taken place over many millions of years, but language is relatively recent as far as I have understood things. So how did men think before they had language? In the same way that animals do now I suppose. I cannot imagine what that would be like. It seems that once the bridge has been crossed into speech then there is no going back.

Censorship

Thursday, March 8th., Cadogan Square, London.

John Buchan came for tea yesterday. He was invited for 4.30 and arrived at 4.27. I expect he had been 'hanging about' nearby to be sure of his time; I would have been. He had a committee meeting nearby for 5.30, and at 5.15 he simply got up and left. He is a thoroughly organised man who I have known for decades and I admire him greatly.

We spoke about censorship, amongst other things. Am I in favour of censorship? Of course I am, and so is he. No country can exist without some form of censorship. I was asked the other day whether I would permit in Britain the unrestricted circulation of one of the most wonderful and original of modern novels, James Joyce's "Ulysses". My plain reply was that I would not. It simply would not do. A censorship there must be. But I maintain that any form of censorship does some harm; it must do. The question is whether it does more harm than good. I think that our present censorship does do more harm than good and ought, if anything, to be weakened, not strengthened. But not eliminated altogether.

In fact I am not in favour of any alteration to the law at the present time because it might, despite excellent motives, be too easily altered for the worse. We have to keep in mind that laws are enacted by politicians and often miss their targets. Best to leave the law alone and entrust liberty to its sane administration and to the tendency for all excessively drastic laws to fall into desuetude through their own inherent absurdity. As a fact the present law on censorship fell into partial desuetude from the moment it came into operation for the reason that to apply it strictly would have meant its instant death from ridicule.

I felt fatigued somehow after Buchan left. Not by him as he is most brisk and has a tonic effect generally. So I rested for a while and, feeling better, took up the play again and reeled it off with strange ease.

The Bach of fiction

Sunday, March 7th., Victoria Grove, London.

To my mind Turgenev is the master. Having conceived his story his method is to strip away every picturesque inessential, austerely turn aside from artfulness, and present it in the simplest, most straightforward form. That is why he can tell in 60,000 words a history which George Eliot or Thomas Hardy would only have hinted at in 200,000. He is the Bach of fiction, whose severity and simplicity are mistaken for lack of imagination and baldness. I used to think that Bach was a lofty creature without a heart, but I have been told by people who know that he is in fact as emotional as any composer who ever lived. I am now beginning to see as much for myself.

I have not touched my novel this week. The demands of Woman and my new bicycle have been too imperious to be ignored, but I am also digesting the Turgenev method and will endeavour to imitate it when I restart my writing. I may not succeed but the intention will be there. I feel now that I could do a remarkably good short story (5 or 6,000 words) so much has my ability improved as I have been writing the novel. When "In the Shadow" is in the shadow I will have a go at one and will contrive to make it ten times as good as "A Letter Home" which was a sentimental early effort. I am getting pretty weary of "In the Shadow" and am positively anxious to start something new.

The sun was shining from a clear sky today, and there was genuine warmth to be felt though the air temperature remained cold. That always seems strange to me. But I feel a little unsettled and dissatisfied which is, I think, to do with these signs of Spring springing. I have a feeling that this may be a significant year for me.

A big idea

Sunday, March 6th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Edmund Gosse

The Davrays dined with me last night at the Hippodrome, and afterwards we went to the Grand Cafe. He gave me sundry particulars about the French dinner to Edmund Gosse, and said that Gosse's speech was simply admirable and was continually interrupted, at every sentence, by applause. Schwob's speech in English was also very good he said.

It appears that Gosse received the offer of his appointment to the Librarianship of the House of Lords on the very morning of the banquet. Davray saw the letter offering the appointment, from Sir Henry Loundes Graham, and said it was extraordinarily flattering.

I had great ideas this last day or two of a chart of English Literature, chronological; divided in coloured sections showing different groups such as poetry- history, drama etc. .... and showing the 'contemporaneousness' of authors and works exactly. Thus the years from 'Summer is y-cumen in' down to Wells would be marked perpendicularly and the contemporaneousness shown horizontally. It would be possible to see at a glance what poetry, history, theology etc. was being produced at the date, say, of "Tom Jones"; and how "Tom Jones" stood with "Clarissa", or "Hamlet" with "The Broken Heart". And also the ages of the authors at the dates of their various works would be automatically perceptible.

Such a chart would be extremely useful. A month's work with nothing but Chambers "Encyclopedia of English Literature" and the "Dictionary of National Biography" would suffice for it. I would try to include all the authors dealt with in the former. I sem to see myself doing it, for fun, after an illness, or when I was thoroughly exhausted with creative work

Nice chaps

Friday, March 5th., Cadogan Square, London.

I have had an acutish liver attack for two days but it is over now.

I didn't get into bed this morning until 1.20 and was up at 7. I dined at Diana Cooper's last night. I have never been to her Gower Street house before. It is fine, a complete house. Next door is a converted block of flats and they have knocked a hole through the wall and added one of the flats to their own home. An ingenious scheme. Amazing what can be accomplished when one has pots of money. The house does look beautiful though, and I feel quite envious. One curious thing is that Duff Cooper doesn't smoke, therefore there were no cigars, which pained me. Not because I can't do without cigars, but because I disliked the argument which ensued. Yet Duff is a most delightful man. 

I am dining with the Duke of Marlborough on Thursday and I hope, and expect, that things will be better there. I have known him for twelve years but at the Other Club last Thursday we became more intimate and he requested me to dinner. He is of course the head of the Churchill family and the grand grand grandson of the greatest soldier in English history, to whom a greatful country presented Blenheim. Also he is a very nice ignorant chap, and an ardent Roman Catholic. That is about all I know of him.

Our new servants are now installed. But when I wanted a bath last night (1.10 a.m.) the water was cold. This annoys Fred even more than it does me. His views on women (or rather girls) are gradually being soured. Wells and Shaw are coming to lunch on Friday next. The top of the house has been painted and papered as part of our preparations to move out later this year. I wish to God that we could stay! We still have no idea where we will move to and the cost of the whole operation will be fantastic. Which means that the unrelenting round of work continues. I increasingly wonder if it is all worthwhile, but feel entirely trapped.

Tomorrow I am off to the first night of "The Lady of the Camellias" with Duff Tayler. It is at the Garrick and features Tallulah Bankhead.

Making up the numbers

Saturday, March 4th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Went to London Wednesday. Lunch and sleep at Marriott's. Then national 'Economy' meeting at Guildhall where I sat next but one to Barrie. McKenna spoke well but too slowly. Kitchener read badly a speech which had evidently been prepared for him. Balfour was pleasing. I found myself thinking that it was all so much theatricality. Everybody going through the motions, playing their part, feeling important, and it all amounted to what? Simply a show to put a stamp of joint purpose on policies which are already decided and in train. But it looked good in the papers yesterday! I don't know why I was there. To make up the numbers I suppose.

Some of the Labour people were funny. The representative of one branch of workers drank too much. Another slanged trade unions. Turner of the Shop Assistants was good. 

Another quarrel with Marguerite. Once again she has instructed the maids that they must get up at 5.30 to start their work. Once again I have explained to her that my peace of mind, my work, my sleep, my general well-being are of primary importance. The management of the house must be organised to fit in with me, not the other way round. Marguerite knows this, she has admitted as much, and yet she persists in making changes which go against my wishes, and upset me. I don't want to get involved in the management of the house and the indoor servants; at the outset we agreed that she should do those things and I would look after the garden. But I will not be disturbed!

Theatricals

Thursday, March 3rd., George Street, London.

I reached home from Liverpool late on Tuesday night and was run off my brain-legs yesterday until 7 p.m. The play went most excellently in Liverpool, and the house was full, and I went before the curtain and so on. The mischief was that Tayler and I had to go out to supper afterwards to meet the whole company. This feast lasted until 2 a.m. I was most gratified by the attentions of some of the young lady cast members; I think it must have gotten about that I am restored to bachelorhood (or thereabouts).

On reaching Euston on Tuesday we found Herman Finck, the music hall composer, had come to meet us, so the least I could do was ask him to come with us to the flat. He stayed yarning, being a good yarner, until 12.20 a.m. By that time I was dead with fatigue, though diverted by the yarns. Finck has been a prolific composer for the last twenty years and must have pots of money I should think. Apparently he conducted the first phonograph record of Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker". A few risque stories about the famous 'Palace Girls' when he was conducting at the Palace Theatre which we were in a mood to enjoy.

Yesterday I was determined to lunch quietly at home, which I did. But there was a Lyric Theatre meeting in the afternoon and in the evening I dined with Beaverbrook at Fulham. Couldn't get away from there because I had promised to deliver home in my brougham Helen Drury, B's sister, and Eleanor Smith, daughter of the Lord Chancellor. These young girls definitely refused to move until midnight, and I had to keep my end up. So bed at 1.15 for me. However I slept well which surprised me. 

Off to the theatre yet again tonight for a first night of a David Garrick opera. Not looking forward to it, but what can you do?

Astonished

Monday, March 2nd., R.M.S. Anselm, at sea.

I can positively say that we are at sea. I cannot say where at sea we are. Somewhere in or near the Irish Sea it seems. The coastline to starboard may be Wales! Expecting to be in the Mersey on Wednesday.

All sorts of problems before we left. Originally it was to have been a February 24th. departure but owing to quarantine delays in Brazil it was changed to the 28th. Then reports came that she had made up time, but they proved unfounded as she was again delayed by gales and 'bad coal' and hadn't reached Lisbon on the 27th. Eventually we left Oporto at 8.32 a.m. yesterday.

Just as I was sending off a Marconi to advise people back home of the situation, to my great astonishment, I received a Marconi. My first ever. I thought it might be that there had been an earthquake at Thorpe, or an armed rising in Burslem! But it was a message offering me £530 a week and expenses to go to Russia to interview Lenin and report generally on the beauties and defects of Soviet Government. I wirelessed back that I would go if the American newspaper syndicate making the offer would send with me a courier who knew Russia and who could attend to all formalities and despatching of cables etc. I am equivocal about going. A unique experience, but a month of my valuable time and the likelihood of discomfort.

This holiday in Portugal with Swinnerton has been excellent. He was quite right to say that I needed to get away from domestic anxieties. I have only had one indisposition which kept me in bed for nearly a full day. We have been out most nights, music mainly, and I have done ten watercolours. Swinnerton particularly liked one I did of the lighthouse south of Cape Raso.
 

It is a great change from the Portuguese coast to the Welsh coast. Yesterday wandering on deck with no overcoat in blazing sun. Today, sun but two overcoats. Well, "San Ferry Ann" as my Uncle Fred used to say.

Strange feelings

Monday, March 1st., Winter Palace Hotel, Menton.

I wrote 700 words this morning, and 700 this afternoon, of my new novel which I think I shall call "The Vanguard". Dorothy worked on her scenario of my short story "Death, Fire and Life", and so was not ready to go out until 12.22.  We sat in the garden of the hotel for a bit, and began to lunch fairly early. After a snooze we went out at 3 and walked down to the level ground, about six minutes, and then Dorothy did not want to walk any more, and we took a victoria and went about town shopping. I think that pregnancy is starting to make her lazy, and warned her that she will get fat if not careful. She laughed.

I have been reading more of Yeats's "Celtic Twilight". It is an engaging little book. Simple but elegantly written. I particularly like the way Yeats tells the reader, without frills or comment, what he has himself been told about supernatural experiences. Their matter-of-fact delivery makes them more credible. Yeats describes a couple of weird experiences of his own but shrinks from saying that he believes in 'faeries'; intimates that he may have fallen under some sort of enchanting influence. But I think he does believe. A part I was reading today about the feeling one can get in isolated places, especially woods, rang a bell with me. I have sometimes felt that sense of heightened awareness, a sort of anticipation that something strange is going to happen, even on one occasion in Bradwell Woods when I was a boy. I can remember that just in the act of taking one step I felt as if I had crossed some sort of line, things were quieter, I became wary, and wanted to look round as if I was being watched. Not scared exactly, but conscious that there was more around me than I had been aware of previously. This must have been forty odd years ago, and yet I can resurrect the feeling now, and the hair on my neck rises.

We have had an invitation to visit the Wells's for one of their 'weekends' but won't be back in England in time. Our intention is to leave here next Sunday and travel by easy stages to Paris, then on to Calais and home.