On being drunk

Saturday, December 10th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

X----- described the general sensations of being well drunk as magnificent, splendid, "But", he says, "you mustn't set out to get drunk. It must take you unawares." He told me that when sober he frequently lost umbrellas, but when drunk never. He made a special point of retaining his umbrella then in his hand; it became his chief concern in life. Once he got badly drunk at Maxim's. He just had sense enough to take a cab to the rooms of a mistress he had then. She received him and undressed him and put him to bed. But he would not 'leave go' of his umbrella during the process. He passed it from hand to hand as she divested him of his coat, waistcoat and shirt, and he took it to bed. And he said: "She became very angry with that umbrella."

I was extremely pleased with what I did yesterday of "S. and P. L." but when I read part of it this morning my enthusiasm was a little dampened.

I have been invited to visit the Phillpottses again, and hope to get there by the 30th., or 31st., though I would like to arrive on the 29th., if at all possible. However my movements at this time of year depend on the caprices of about 153 blood relatives. Emily writes that they intend to close Eltham and to "wander abroad". I am distressed by this news in the sense that Eltham is the most perfectly appointed house I have ever stayed in. But, if they wander I may see more of them because they cannot wander without touching Paris, and I will regard it as an unfriendly act if they do not then come to visit me.
Also see 'In the West Country', September 21st., -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/in-west-country.html

I am looking forward to going down to Les Sablons tomorrow.


Additionally for December 10th., see 'Ideas and arrangements' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/ideas-and-arrangements.html

This morning I walked 5 or 6 miles through Roehampton and Barnes. Impressed by the cleanliness, order and sober luxury of all the dwellings I saw.
I found most of the plot for a humorous novel; I hope to find the remaining part of the plot tomorrow.

Working hard

Wednesday, November 11th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I worked all day yesterday, except between 4 and 6 when I paid a call, till one o'clock this morning. I lunched on 2 francs and dined on 2 francs at the Duval, and took coffee at the Cafe Terminus St. Lazaire, a big place with an orchestra. And I noticed how even Donizetti came out strong and alive amongst the mass of Gibulkas, Metras, and other composers of light music.

Again today I worked the whole day, till 10.40, and I finished the third Windsor story. "A Bracelet at Bruges"; 5,100 words complete in two days. Already, after a period of slackness, I have a sort of wild hope of being able to finish the six stories by the end of the month.

Tonight I had two letters from Eden, both of them about our play and our holiday next Spring on the Riviera. He says that Jerome has written asking him to collaborate in a big serious play! Eden says that my recent letters indicate a tendency to cynicism, and that my recent articles in T.P's W. seemed to "throw distrust, not to say contempt, on love of women". He goes on: "Some natures are self-contained and don't want it - some can't do without it. Golden rule in the matter: To keep the mouth shut and go one's own way."

Additionally for November 11th., see 'Remembrance' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/remembrance.html

I walked out and 'saw' the Two Minute Silence from inside the lobby of the Court Theatre. When I saw old gents standing two minutes  in that perishing wind, hatless, I was glad I'd come inside.

Eden and I

Tuesday, October 31st., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

I left Torquay, where I have been staying with the Phillpotts, this afternoon.

At Exeter I heard of the British defeat in the Transvaal.

The Battle of Nicholson’s Nek was one of two British defeats around Ladysmith that came to be known as “Mournful Monday”, or the battle of Ladysmith. A British force found itself in an impossible position and the result was the biggest surrender of British troops since the Napoleonic Wars. Close to one thousand British soldiers entered captivity after the battle. The defeat at Nicholson’s Nek and the failure of White’s main attack at Lombard’s Kop ended any chance of avoiding a siege at Ladysmith.

I went down to Torquay last Friday and had not been long with Phillpotts before I found my own creative ideas begin to flow under the impulsion of his companionship. Phillpotts works from 10.30 or 11 to 1 o'clock each day, and sometimes in the afternoon again for an hour or so, after going for a walk.. Every month he interrupts his big work to write a short story which takes him 2 or 3 or 4 days.. He showed me a diary of work showing quantities. Up to date this year his total was 360,000 words. He had hoped to write 600,000 words in the year but has no chance of doing it.


See also, February 23rd.,  'Writing for a living' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/writing-for-living.html
And September 21st., 'In the West Country' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/in-west-country.html

On Saturday we walked by the coast to Teignmouth, and thence up the Teign to Newton Abbot, and back to Torquay by train. I was struck by Phillpotts's minute botanical knowledge, and his unfailing eye for a rare flower. Talking of dreams, he said that he had once kept a dream diary, with probable causes of the dream in opposite pages. But it was useless. He agreed with me that dreams, as works of art, were an utter failure. He had only had one dream that was of the least use to him.

Every night we have had long literary talks, in which I did rather more than half the talking, while Mrs. Phillpotts sat between us, quiet but apparently interested. Phillpotts often spoke of these 'shoppy' talks with the greatest pleasure. He said they were a sharp stimulant - a stimulant he rarely got. He said, among dozens of other little personal statements, that as regards style De Quincey had influenced him most. What he chiefly admired was stateliness, the stately management of a long sentence. He remarked how few men cared to attempt a long and elaborate sentence. He said he had been influenced by Hardy ("Talking about your god are you?" said his wife, coming in); and distantly by Fielding for whom he has an intense admiration.

"The hero of my next book", he said ("The Pagan") "has better ideas about Dartmoor than any person I ever met. he seems to me to have the proper ideas, the only right attitude. He knows much more of Dartmoor than I do, and has taught me a lot." This, almost seriously, of a creature of his own brain.

Looking through Mrs. Philpotts's collection of autographs, I was a little surprised at the warmth and spontaneity of the tributes sent by well-known men. A letter from James Payn about "Lying Prophets", and another from R. D. Blackmore about "Children of the Mist", pleased me particularly, so natural and large-hearted and fine. I had no idea that well-known men put themselves out to do these things.

Yesterday Phillpotts took me to Compton, three miles off, a little village with an old fortified manor house, lying in a hollow near Ipplepen, which he has chosen for the scene of his next novel but one - "Sons of the Morning".

Before leaving today Mr. and Mrs. Phillpotts walked with me down into Torquay. Mild, with flowers blooming everywhere. It seemed to me to be a place of retired military officers, rich and stiff dowagers, and spoiled over-fed dogs led about by servant maids. Phillpotts said that, for its size, it was the second richest place in England, Tunbridge Wells being first. There were scarcely any poor. Nearly every house stood in its own garden. There were very few children, as the inhabitants were mainly retired and old. Also, but few young men. The whole town consisted of rich households and the people who fed them and waited on them.

In the West Country

Tuesday, September 21st., Eltham, Torquay.

I left at 11.30 yesterday, and caught the noon express to Torquay. Shared a compartment with two middle-aged gentlemen with outdoor faces, about which I propose to write an article. I had been rather gloomy and preoccupied before, but as soon as I had written down the notes for the short article I felt better. Emily Phillpotts met me to my great surprise.

Adelaide was rather quieter than usual, but had little bursts of talking. We had a tremendous literary and social pow-wow - just as usual - interrupted by a short view of the garden. This pow-wow went on from 4 to 7 without a break, and was continued after dinner.

Today I began to write my article about the journey at 7.30 a.m., after quite a fair night. I fear for my projected average of 1,000 words a day for the year. i am already a day behind it.

This evening we listened extensively to the wireless. It soon gets boring, in fact as soon as one has got used to the marvel of it. All sounds are somewhat falsified - thickened. still it is all very marvellous.

I wrote an article during the day, in three instalments of time. Talked with Eden in garden, about 'shop' matters. He goes on working rather harder than ever. He says he has nothing else to do, and would vanish if he didn't work. Adelaide also is a great worker. She said that in London she goes to bed at 10.30 (and lies awake thinking) and gets up at 7.30. Works at desk most of the morning, walks before tea, and works after tea.

See also 'Writing for a living', February 23rd., -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/writing-for-living.html

Additionally for September 21st., see 'Health and well-being' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/health-and-well-being.html

Last Wednesday I was carefully examined by Shufflebotham who decided that I must be X-rayed. He is a pioneer and acknowledged expert in the use of X-rays for diagnosis. He guaranteed that I had had appendicitis several times without knowing it.

Praise and disappointment

Friday, May 27th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Today I am 37. I have lived longer than I shall live. My new series begins to appear today in the Windsor. My name is not on the cover. Anthony Hope's stands there alone. And I am 37. Comment is needless.

The Windsor Magazine was a monthly illustrated publication produced by Ward Lock & Co from January 1895 to September 1939 (537 issues). The title page described it as "An Illustrated Monthly for Men and Women".

I have now warned my mother and Tertia that I shall get married before I am 40.

My story in the Windsor is called "Nocturne at the Majestic" and I have warned Wells that, should he come across it, the least he could do was to think it very good! This because I praised, in a recent letter to him, his story "The Country of the Blind", which appeared in the April Strand. I thought the story really admirable if a little faint towards the end; but fundamentally damn good. Strangely enough, though I never met anyone who perceived the satiric quality in "The First Men in the Moon", I have met several who have spontaneously explained to me that the Strand story is a 'fine criticism of life'.

Wells, Whitten and Marriott think that "A Great Man", recently published, is my best book. And Phillpotts is enchanted with it. I was touched by Wells' praise, my only surprise being that he didn't find more fault with it. As a matter of fact I could have done it better, especially towards the end. But, having conceived it as a 'lark', I fell into the error of regarding it technically as a 'lark' also. I told Wells that it was just one writing, no draft, practically no erasures, & about two months' work at most. He always seems to prefer the work which costs me the least trouble. But what is the use of talking about colours to the blind?

Writing for a living

Wednesday, February 23rd., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

Sitting with me in his dark little office at Black and White after lunch, Eden Philpotts, heavily wrapped up and pale after a long attack of influenza, told me something of his life. After leaving school at seventeen, he came to London and entered an insurance office. His first idea was to be an actor. He studied elocution etc. at the School of Dramatic Art, and after two years found he was unfitted entirely for acting. Then, having already written a little, he turned to literature with seriousness. For eight years he wrote from 6 to 9 in the evening. At the end of that time he could earn £400 a year by his pen. He left the insurance office, married, and lived by his pen comfortably till Black and White offered him, through his agent, the post of assistant editor. As this meant an assured revenue he accepted it. He works three days a week, machine-writing, free from responsibility, and the rest of the time he gives to novels and short stories.

Eden Phillpotts (1862 – 1960) was an English author, poet and dramatist. He was born in Mount Abu, British India, educated in Plymouth, Devon, and worked as an insurance officer for 10 years before studying for the stage and eventually becoming a writer. He co-wrote two plays with his daughter Adelaide Phillpotts. 

He was the author of many novels, plays and poems about Dartmoor. His Dartmoor cycle of 18 novels and two volumes of short stories still have many avid readers despite the fact that many titles are out of print. Phillpotts also wrote many other books with a Dartmoor setting. He was for many years the President of the Dartmoor Preservation Association and cared passionately about the conservation of Dartmoor. 

Today I publish my first book, "A Man from the North". I have seen it mentioned in several papers among "Books Received". Beyond that, I have scarcely thought of it. The fact has not at the moment interested me. But during the last few days I have been several times naively surprised that some of my friends are not more awake and lively to the fact than they seem to be. Perhaps it has interested me more than I thought?
Drove to Monmouth yesterday and stopped en route at Ross on Wye. Grey, cold, bone aching sort of day. S. not feeling too well but being brave. Hoping for a pleasant weekend exploring the local area in spite of the weather!

A weak spirit

Sunday, January 31st, Menton.

Having nothing to do yesterday afternoon, and Eden being at work, and two others being out, and the day being wet, I could not resist going over to Monte Carlo in the tram.

I lost money at the tables and came home depressed. In the evening I played billiards, practically for the first time, Eden teaching me.
Today, bad weather again. I wrote an excellent T.P. article on Monte Carlo.
But at present my interest in this journal is not what it was. Monte Carlo and other things have disturbed it.

Heading south

Thursday, January 14th., Menton.

I left the rue de Calais yesterday, depressed, at 5 p.m. after having lunched with C. The drive to the Gare de Lyon along the interminable length of the rue de Rivoli got on my nerves. And I was decidedly excited and 'wrought-up' when the train de grande luxe came up and I saw Philpotts. Much talking and mutual satisfaction. (I have a sore throat now) The train left sharp at 6 p.m. and arrived here at Menton sharp at 9.56 a.m. this morning. On the whole a really good sound train. It would be almost perfect if it had a drawing-room car, as it certainly ought to have.

The Calais-Mediterranée Express was a luxury French night express train which operated from 1886. It gained international fame as the preferred train of wealthy and famous passengers between Calais and the French Riviera. It was colloquially referred to as Le Train Bleu in French (which became its formal name after World War II) and the Blue Train in English because of its dark blue sleeping cars. The height of the season for "le train bleu" was between November and April, when many travellers escaped the British winter to spend time on the French Riviera. Its terminus was at the Gare Maritime in Calais, where it picked up British passengers from the ferries across the English Channel. It departed at 1:00 in the afternoon and stopped at the Gare du Nord in Paris, then travelled around Paris by the Grande Ceinture line to the Gare de Lyon, where it picked up additional passengers and coaches. 

It departed Paris early in the evening, and made stops at Dijon, Châlons, and Lyon, before reaching Marseilles early the next morning. It then made further stops at all the major resort towns of the French Riviera, or Côte d'Azur, before reaching its final destination, Menton, near the Italian border. The sleeping cars had only ten sleeping compartments each, with one attendant assigned to each sleeping car. Early passengers included the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VIII), Charlie Chaplin, designer Coco Chanel, Winston Churchill and writers F. Scott Fitzgerald, Evelyn Waugh, Somerset Maugham, and Arnold Bennett.

 The ceaseless noise and jolting did not noticeably affect me much. I took a sedative and slept very well, though mostly conscious of the action and the din. Coming along the coast I had my first glimpse of Monte Carlo and the salons thereof. I was duly impressed by the beauty of the coast, and of Menton in particular.

Menton 1904

But my thoughts were chiefly occupied with the idea of the train, that luxurious complete entity - running through a country and ignoring it. I seldom had the least idea where the train was. Space, as a notion, had vanished for me. I might have been in the void.