Refreshed

Saturday, February 20th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Last night at 11 I finished another section of "A Great Man", having written 8,300 words in four days. It is too much. Today I needed a rest so I decided to rearrange my bookshelves. Is there anything more relaxing, and satisfying, than messing about with books? I recently acquired a couple more shelves having been on the verge of running out of space, and this gave me the opportunity to have a good rearrangement. And of course I permitted myself to be tempted to browse in the books as I went along. I feel a new man now.

This evening I am to go to the Ambigu to see "Nana", a drama in five acts drawn by William Busnach from Zola's novel. It was first produced at the Ambigu in 1881. Amande Cassive in the title role. She is about forty now but still a pretty woman apparently. I am not much for seeing plays based on novels. They never do justice and the characters never correspond to the image I have in my head from reading. Still, I feel ready for anything after today and am especially hungry so out into the Paris night for a good dinner then off to the theatre. Who knows what adventures may await?

Travels

Saturday, December 31st., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

I left Paris last Wednesday week, and stayed two nights with Wells. I read the typescript of the first part of his new novel "The Comet". What an imagination he has. His skill seems to lie in making the improbable seem possible, if not likely. He said that his financial position was becoming more and more secure. Not boasting but obviously pleased with himself. I was somewhat envious.

I went to Burslem on Friday for Xmas. Same as ever. One day I walked through the town and saw two childs' funerals exactly of the same kind: a procession of five or six pairs of women in black with white trimmings; two pairs carried the small oak coffin which was covered with wreaths and which they held by white cords over their shoulders. Immediately behind the coffin, the chief mourners, in one case a man and a woman. The coffin occurred about the middle of the procession. These little forlorn, smug processions ambling towards the cemetery from the Wesleyan Chapel were very curious.

Glad to be here with the Phillpotts'. Eden and I have worked on "An Angel Unawares", and soon it will be finished. 

During the year I wrote 282,100 words which is a low number for me. I made no particular advance commercially. I had several grave disappointments including my visit to Scotland to be cured of stammering. The artistic success of "A Great Man" was a genuine surprise to me. I firmly decided to marry. Now I just need to find a suitable person!
 

A cogitating day

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

After buying papers and tea yesterday I lunched at the little creamery in the Place de la Trinite. Then I came home and read various papers and periodicals and "Casanova", and fell asleep, sleeping uncomfortably. Then I tried seriously to find ideas for Chapter II of my new novel; I had been more or less asking for them all morning; no success. Then I went out for a walk and felt tired even in starting.

I walked through the St. Lazare quarter to the Madeleine and turned along the Grand Boulevard to the Grand Cafe. I like the interior of this cafe. It is as much like the respectable ugliness of an English club as anything in Paris. I must be a little homesick I think. I ordered a cup of chocolate because I felt empty.

I thought steadily for an hour over this chocolate and I seemed to leave the cafe with one or two germs of ideas. I walked home cogitating. When I arrived there was a telegram from Whitten requiring my weekly article two days earlier than usual. This upset my plans somewhat. I felt so tired - I had taken a chill - that I lay down under the eiderdown on the bed and went to sleep again, reading "Casanova". 

When I awoke it was dark though only late afternoon. I made tea and felt better. A leading notion for the chapter had now formed itself. I went out to the Comedie Mondaine to book a seat for Brieux's "Berceau" and then to the Duval to dine, where I read Le Temps all the way through. Then I bought a cigar and had coffee in the Place Clichy. I cogitated at the cafe for an hour, and then I had the whole chapter clearly outlined in my head. This is a fair specimen of one of my cogitating days.

In the dark

Tuesday, November 9th., Les Sablons.

Today I rose in excellent health, began my last act, and at 5.30 had written one third of it. 

I received a complete bound set of my Tauchnitz works from the Baron. Though ugly, the format was not too ugly to please me. I put the row of twelve volumes in Marguerite's secretaire. Pauline seized "A Great Man" out of the lot, and has been reading it at every spare moment and smiling to herself the whole time. Not to be outdone, I began to read "Buried Alive", and also smiled the whole time. I don't think I have ever read a funnier book than this unless it's Wells's "The History of Mr. Polly".

Dark early of course but I determined to go out for a night walk, and did. I have always enjoyed getting out when it is dark, starting when I was young and needed to get out from under my extensive family. Very different walking here from walking the streets of Burslem. Two ideas came into my mind as I walked. One was to ask the question, "Has any author successfully conveyed the sensation of night walking?" The other was to think about how different the experience of darkness must have been before the advent of artificial lighting. Just imagine at this time of year how people managed with candles, or oil lamps, or just the light from a fire. Did the darkness make them melancholy? Bears thinking about.

Anticlimactic

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

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

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

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

Family matters

Sunday, January 17th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

I was much disquieted today by Tertia's letter in which she said twice that our mother was 'extremely ill'. Deep down in everyone's mind will be the idea that I am 'enjoying myself on the Riviera' while she is extremely ill. It is the address of the absent son that matters on these occasions. But I should be a fool to go to London unless she was much worse than she is. And I know she wouldn't want me to. I can't blame Tertia. She is a sensible woman and will have reasoned that she could prove to be at fault whether she told me or not; so she left the decision to me. I would have done the same.

However, I managed to do a good day's work, and finished Chapter 5 of "A Great Man", 5,500 words.

Frederick Hanbury, of Allen and Hanbury's Foods, and the great botanist, editor of "The London Catalogue", came to lunch. He is staying with his cousin Sir Thomas Hanbury, the Lord God of these parts. Sir Thomas apparently has the finest private garden in the world, 100 acres, 5,000 species (some absolutely unique) and 46 gardeners. Quite what criteria have been applied in coming to the conclusion that it is 'the finest' were not vouchsafed. One suspects family pride may be a significant factor. We were not invited to visit which I am glad about as formal gardens leave me rather cold.

Speaking of Monte Carlo, Hanbury told us of how he was at the tables 30 years ago and saw two Russian princesses there losing heavily, but keeping stoical silence, the tears streaming down their cheeks. He is emphatically not a man of the world and his Russian princesses were probably French whores, but nevertheless his picture of the women playing and losing, in silent, irrepressible, hopeful despairing tears, was an effective one. He is fgar from an ordinary man, and I rather liked something at the root of him, but soon after lunch I stole away to sleep.
 

Aiming high

Friday, December 11th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Yesterday I worked from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m., chiefly on "A Great Man". I was exhausted, but also satisfied. I have been rather gloomy of late, seeing little prospect of improving my situation, but if this novel continues in the present vein it may just be the breakthrough I need to put my name before a wider public.

There was a long article in Le Temps on Herbert Spencer, which confirmed the view which Wells expressed to me about him in the early part of last year; namely that, as a thinker, he was 'woolly'. I must admit that I was ready to be convinced by Spencer's ideas about social evolution when I first came upon them. But I am now more sceptical. My first thought these days when presented with some idea is: "What is the evidence for it?" It seems to me now that Spencer made a leap from Darwin's theory, which is supported by evidence, and has feet of clay. I have also noticed that other lesser thinkers are latching on to Spencer's ideas to support their own theories about racial superiority. This is distasteful, and may become inflammatory.

I meant to go and see Brieux's "Robe Rouge" at the Theatre du Peuple, but as I was busy, and as they had allotted 500 seats to 'midinettes' last night, I refrained. Three plays by Brieux are being done in Paris this week: the new "Maternite" at Antoine's; "Le Berceau" at the Comedie Mondaine, and the "Robe Rouge". I am green with envy. It seems that once a playwright becomes fashionable then he can do no wrong, and his name alone is sufficient to guarantee success (at least for a while). That is what I am aiming for.

Self analysis

Tuesday, December 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I succeeded far beyond my hopes in planning out "A Great Man" yesterday, and in making a detailed sketch of the first chapter. I was, however, and I remain, extremely dissatisfied and discontented with my general condition. I suppose I shall always be more or less like this. I cannot think of any device or policy by which I could change my condition with any prospect of improvement. I want to be free and fettered at the same time, and it cannot be done.

I often find myself daydreaming, when I am out walking and when I am settling for an afternoon nap. And more often than not the dreams are of a sexual nature. I am inclined to think there is an element of sexual frustration in my dissatisfaction. Of course I can easily satisfy my physical needs here; where better? But I feel the need for a relationship that is both sexually satisfying and emotionally fulfilling. I have vowed to marry before I am forty, and still intend to, yet I have still to meet a woman who would suit me. Perhaps one of these days I will fall in love? Strange to think that my future wife is out there somewhere; perhaps we have already passed each other in a street, or sat near each other in a restaurant. Speculations and dreams!

I read the first act of "Othello" last night and it did me good which probably goes to show that there is nothing fundamentally 'wrong' with me. Perhaps I am spending too much time observing life rather than participating in it?

Balcony breakfast

Saturday, January 16th., Menton

I wrote 2,500 words of "A Great Man" today, but it's difficult to work hard at a novel and appreciate a new environment at the same time. I am here with Phillpotts collaborating on the writing of a play. Perhaps we should have stayed in England where there would be few external distractions. 

Yesterday I woke up just before dawn, and there was a red streak of light along the horizon, and the sea smoke colour, and the lamps and the riding lights of the vessels just beginning to be ghostly. On either side the hills with their bare rocky tops. Later I took my tea and croissant out on the balcony in the 8.30 am sun, wrapped in my largest overcoat. It was tremendous after the bed breakfasts of a Paris flat.

I breakfasted on the balcony again today, in dressing gown and overcoat, and all day I have had the atmosphere, perfectly wonderful, and the magnificent views from the balcony. Beyond a walk to the centre of town and the bandstand I made no excursion.

Before dinner Eden and I discussed and settled certain outstanding preliminary points in our play. It only took about half an hour. I expect to begin the actual writing on Tuesday, and the actual detailed constructive thinking on Monday.

A year in review

Friday, January 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I finished the third chapter of "A Great Man". I have written worse.

In the evening I went to the Concert Rouge and heard Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, badly played, but it had an excellent effect on me. Why are some people, like myself, moved by music whilst others are apparently indifferent? I find this puzzling and it makes me think about how little we have in common with our fellow humans once the superficialities are stripped away. I doubt if we even 'see' the same world, and for certain communication one to another is largely ineffectual. In a way, it occurs to me, the beauty of fiction is that the world created is common to both the writer and the reader; if well written of course.I think that Conrad is particularly good in this respect.

I forgot to set down on the 1st., the brief record of last year. I wrote five sixths of "Leonora" and twelve short stories. Four books of mine were published. The great fact illustrating my commercial progress was that the Windsor Magazine gave me a commission for six short stories. I did nothing in the way of drama.

I did practically no work between January 15th., and March 15th., when I was travelling in Algeria etc. Returning from Algeria i spent a fortnight or so in England preparatory to settling in Paris. Then between April 1st and June 30th. I wrote nearly all "Leonora". At the end of June I went to England and messed about till September 18th. doing scarcely any work - a summer cut to pieces and wasted and therefore not a pleasant one. returning to Paris I spent 10 days in taking and furnishing a flat; then I started work and I have worked ever since. I propose to work almost without intermission at any rate until July 30th.

I bought "The Gates of Wrath" (Tauchnitz edition) and read some of it. Its smartness and clarity prevent me from being quite honestly ashamed of it.

Writing easily

Sunday, February 28th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I finished another section of "A Great Man" yesterday at 3.30 p.m., having written nearly 10,000 words in a week. I ought easily to complete the book by March 20th. It seems amusing enough, and very good in places. But if I treated this as a draft, and really thought out types, and made the book fuller, I could make it much better. However I have a mania for producing a lot just now. And further, this sort of book though I can do it, is scarcely my natural genre. I do not take quite the same interest in it as I take in a serious book, nor do I get quite the same satisfaction out of a passage which I know to be done well. And often I have the greatest difficulty in starting my day's work. I am all right when I have started. But the starting is penible.

Additionally for February 28th., see'Changing perceptions'

We went to the British Museum. Elgin marbles the greatest sensation I have had for a long time. I used to think them cold. Now I see how passionately they were done. The illuminated MS. also made an entirely new appeal to me. And I was more than ever determined to do some decent illumination.

Writer's reflections

Sunday, February 28th., Paris.

I have been exceptionally industrious lately! I finished another section of "A Great Man" yesterday at 3.30 p.m., having written nearly 10,000 words in a week. I ought easily to complete the book by March 20. It seems amusing enough, and very good in places. But if I treated this as a draft, and really thought out types and made the book fuller, I could make it much better. However, I have a mania for producing a lot just now. And further, this sort of book, though I can do it, is scarcely my natural genre.  I do not take quite the same terrific interest in it as I take in a serious book, nor do I get quite the same satisfaction out of a passage which I know to be well done. And often I have the greatest difficulty in starting my day's work. I am all right when I have started. But the starting is penible.