Theatricals

Wednesday, February 18th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Returned from London today.

"Rivals for Rosamund" received with amiable indifference at Palace Theatre on Monday night. Last night I went to see it myself with J. Atkins. The first half was quite well received; the second half coldly. This was right. It is no real good, and if I had realised this earlier I would not have let it be done. Production and acting goodish. Mildly amusing at times. I don't imagine that it will have much of a run.

Characteristic of theatrical methods. My name was misspelt on the painted notice in front of the Vaudeville Theatre, and the title of the short play was given wrongly in the illuminated sign in front of the Palace Theatre. 

Dress rehearsal of "Helen with the High Hand" on Monday night was good. The original end had been restored, with my chief emendation preserved. How will it go? I wish I knew. My time seems to be oriented increasingly towards the theatre these days, socially and professionally. Of course it is in the theatre that real money is to be made and I have established a life style which demands real money, and lots of it. A reputation is all very well, and is of great assistance in getting anything published, but it doesn't count for much when the public (and the critics) have taken their seats. Are treadmills still in use in prison? I feel sometimes as if I am on one.

Writing to death

Good Friday, March 25th., Hotel Belvedere, Switzerland.

Six days of perfect weather, with a N. and N.W. wind and nothing visible all day in the strong sunshine. I was able to begin the final chapters of the second part of "Clayhanger" without much difficulty on Tuesday, and I have averaged over 2,000 words a day of it. I finish tomorrow. The second part will be 50,000 instead of the estimated 40,000 words.

It is surprising that, a fortnight ago at Brighton,I could have thought it possible to finish the second part there. I had only allowed 2,000 words for the most important series of scenes - love scenes - in that part. On the whole I think it is fair. Anyhow it is honest and conscientious. I wrote 3,200 words yesterday, and pretty near killed myself, and was accordingly very depressed at night. This morning I went for a long walk and wrote 1,000 words in an hour this afternoon.

What I am led to wonder is, whether the context in which something is written has much impact on the finished product. So, would the version of this part of "Clayhanger" I have written here be the same if I had in fact written it at Brighton? I think not. Obviously the general development of the novel would have stayed the same but surely the 'tone' would be different. Here I am writing surrounded by mountains with sunshine and clean, fresh air, rather than by the sea in gloom and rain. Interesting to think about.

Reviews of "Helen with the High Hand" strangely kind. William Morton Payne in the Dial of Chicago describes it as: ".... capital fooling, humorously charming from start to finish,and we are glad to have it as a pendant to Mr. Bennett's gloomy large-scale depiction of the Five Towns." I could ask for no more.

Writing furiously

Monday, May 11th., Villa des Nefliers, Fontainebleau.

Since Tuesday last I have written an average of over 2,000 words a day, including 12,500 words of "The Old Wives' Tale". I finished the second part this afternoon at 6.15 and was assez emu. This makes half of the book, exactly 100,000 words done. I had a subdued bilious attack practically all the time since Tuesday, but just managed to keep it within bounds. With all this I naturally shirked journalizing. I must not forget that I also corrected in this time, more than 250 printed pp. of proofs. I had three books to correct at once: "Buried Alive"; "How to Live on 24 Hours a Day"; and "Helen with the High Hand".

Additionally for May 11th., see 'Reflections on the writer's craft'

I read through in the type-written copy some of the later chapters of my novel, and they seemed to be ineffective and sketchy. Which severely depressed me, and to recover myself I had to read certain other chapters which I knew would not come out badly. I happened to see in an old Idler today "Q's" article on his first book. In it he says that he wrote "Dead Man's Rock" without a trace of feeling. His view is that if on revision, the work moves its author, then there is surely some good in it. Amen! Parts of my novel have had that blessed effect on me.

Joy of writing

Good Friday, March 25th., Hotel Belvedere, Lausanne.

Six days of perfect weather with a N. and N.W. wind and nothing visible all day in the strong sunshine. 

I was able to begin the final chapters of the second part of "Clayhanger" without much difficulty on Tuesday and I have averaged over 2,000 words a day of it. I finish tomorrow. The second part will be 50,000 instead of the estimated 40,000 words.

It is surprising that a fortnight ago at Brighton, I could have thought it possible to finish the second part there. I had only allowed 2,000 words for the most important series of scenes - love scenes - in that part. On the whole I think it is fair. Anyhow it is honest and conscientious. I wrote 3,200 words yesterday, and pretty near killed myself, and was accordingly very depressed at night. This morning I went a long walk and wrote 1,000 words in an hour this afternoon.

The reviews of "Helen with the High Hand" are exceedingly polite and kind, but they do not gloss over the slightness of the thing. For example William Morton Payne writing in The Dial (Chicago) opines that it is "capital fooling, humorously charming from start to finish, and we are glad to have it as a pendant to Mr. Bennett's gloomy large-scale depiction of the Five Towns."

Additionally for March 25th., see'The triumph of beer'

The news of the triumph of beer in the Peckham election this morning really did depress me. I understood, momentarily, the feelings of the men who give up politics in disgust; and I also understood the immense obstinate faith of those who fight for Liberalism all their lives. It is the insincerity and the deliberate lying of the other side that staggers me. I read in the Daily Mail this morning that when the news of the triumph of beer got into the music-halls last night there were scenes of wild enthusiasm, and perfect strangers shook hands with one another.