An umbrella story

Friday, December 9th., Les Sablons.

Glad to be here again. Stormy weather. I have been out and about in my big overcoat, rain or shine, and feel how splendid it is to be in the country. 

Stll working on "Sacred and Profane Love" and making steady progress. I was extremely pleased with what I did yesterday, but when I read part of it this morning my enthusiasm was a little dampened. 

Martin, who I met in Paris the other day, 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 (not by design) at Maxim's. He just had sense enough to take a cab to the rooms of a mistress he had then. She received him, undressed him, and put him to bed. But he would not leave go of his umbrella in 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. "She became very angry with that umbrella", he said. He did not vouchsafe me whether there were therefore three in the bed! A good basis for a farcical story.

For myself I rarely get drunk, and never now so drunk as to be incapable. Not for any moral reasons, but purely because alcohol has a detrimental effect on my sleep which is already bad enough. As a young man if I drank too much I found that I slept heavily and woke up feeling unwell; unable to keep anything at all in my stomach. Somebody advised me (Shuff. I think) that the thing to do is to drink at least as much water before retiring as you have taken alcohol, so you do not dehydrate. Good advice, which works well, but that means getting up several times in the night for bladder relief. On balance, I prefer to stay sober.

A good friend

Friday, November 18th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I spent Wednesday evening with Emile Martin. I should say he is the best friend I have made in Paris. We seem to get on well together, chatting amiably about life and, in particular, women. Emile is older than me and rather experienced. He has put me in the way of several 'obliging' young women, thereby advancing my education considerably. I think that at first he thought I was atypical in my naivety, but I have convinced him that most young middle-class provincial Englishmen (and probably Londoners as well) are just as ignorant and bumbling as myself. He shrugs gallicly.

He explained to me pretty fully the financial working of his club, the Cercle de la Rue Volnay. It had 1,800 members who pay 150 francs each. But the expenses are 600,000 francs a year; the rent is 100,000. The deficit is chiefly made up by the club's profits on baccarat. he seems to be au courant of everything. I hope one day to have the same casual confidence of manner.

Last night Brieux's "La Petite Amie", in 3 acts at the Comedie Mondaine. It wa astonishing to me how this play 'got hold' of the crowded audience. Tears and violent applause were plentiful. It is not a good play, in my opinion, but it is tremendously effective, and sometimes extremely true.

Not skating

Wednesday, November 30th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I met Emile Martin by appointment at the Palais de Glace, Champs Elysee, yesterday. A large circular place: curiously ghostly effect of the electric light on the powdery surface of the ice. Apparently the site used to be the setting for occasional bullfights, and was remodelled for this new recreation in 1890. My first visit. It is now evidently the resort of high class cocottes, rastas, and rich wastrels. Some of the women were excessively chic. I enjoyed observing them.

Martha Brandes in L'Escalade

I spent most of the day yesterday searching for an idea to take the concert chapter of my novel "Sacred and Profane Love" forward. I found it towards evening. Then I went to "L'Escalade" by Maurice Donnay, at the Renaissance. This is quite a minor piece with insufficient material, and what material there is not too well arranged. It is surprising to me how a man like Donnay could let such a work go out of the manufactory. Guitry and Brandes were magnificent, full of distinction; Guitry's son had also his father's distinction. It must be a source of grave anxiety to fathers how their sons will turn out. Especially if the father is himself distinguished. How often I have noticed that sons who take up the same career as their father prove to be lesser figures.