Some silly things

Monday, December 31st., Hotel Belvedere, Mont Pelerin sur Vevey, Switzerland.

Dinner. Games. God save the Queen, and varied songs at the hotel. God save the Queen (or King) in various languages. Servants watching eagerly at nothing from behind a curtained window. I say 'at nothing', but the sight of a crowd of middle-class English people determined to enjoy themselves, and fuelled by over-indulgence in alcohol, may indeed be worth watching. I would rather have been watching than participating, but there you are; life is only occasionally what you make it.

I have never worked so hard as this year, and I have not earned less for several years. But I have done fewer sillier things than usual. It is a constant quandary for me, whether to focus on 'serious' writing which is professionally and intellectually rewarding, but unremunerative, or to write to make money. I have tried to do both. I will probably continue to do so because I do enjoy the rewards of financial success. Such as winter in this hotel. 

I wrote "Buried Alive", three quarters of "The Old Wives' Tale", "What the Public Wants", "The Human Machine", "Literary Taste: How to form it", about half a dozen short stories, including "A Matador in the Five Towns"; over sixty newspaper articles. Total words 423,500.

Looking back through my journals I see that it has become a habit to record the number of words written each year. I think this has been a record, but I have not been consistent in what I include, journal for example. Still my output is considerable by any standards. To think that if my working life extends to say forty years, at an average of 300,000 a year then I will have written 12 million words! That is a figure to conjure with indeed.

The turn of the year is a time to take stock and, for many, a time for new resolutions. I am not inclined to the latter, having seen so few actually carried through. I wrote in one of my self-help books this year that "the chief beauty about time is that you cannot waste it in advance. The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you, as perfect, as unspoiled, as if you had never wasted or misapplied a single moment in all your life. You can turn over a new leaf every hour if you choose." I still think that is good advice. I resolve to follow it!

Finishing things

Tuesday, December 18th., Cadogan Square, London.

Last evening, at home for once, I finished reading "The Sea" by John Banville. Whole thing in two good sessions. Frankly I think that it would have benefitted from judicious editing to become a 'long' short story. Very good, elegant writing; some of the lengthy, complex, sentences reminded me of Henry James. Themes are loss and memory, fairly common but well treated by Banville. Setting is Ireland, probably north of the border. I had a little trouble with the central character/narrator who is really too anguished by the death of his wife; it is made clear that she had been dying for a year, so he would have had time to get used to the idea. Present and past events are nicely juxtaposed, and the subsidiary characters are well done. Overall a good read.

Today I finished correcting typescript of "Punch and Judy" film.

Geoffrey Russell, F. Swinnerton came to lunch on business; also Elena Sullivan, our first view of her since Bertie's death about three weeks ago. She behaved with Latin calm and dignity. Exactly the right touch.

After lunch I formally gave to Dorothy 47 volumes of my MSS. (34 of Journal; 2 "Old Wives' Tale"; 1 "Riceyman Steps"; 1 "Elsie"; and 9 "Clayhanger Family") in the presence of MissNerney, Fred Harvey, Swinnerton and Geoffrey Russell.

Roger Fry, Mrs. Anrep, Francis Birrell and the Edes came to dinner. Very good evening. Fry and Birrell were fine.

Raining

Tuesday, November 26th., Les Sablons.

Yesterday I walked to Fontainebleau in the pouring rain, and walked in and about the town for over two hours with a house agent looking at possible houses. I saw one small one surrounded by a walled garden that might suit. Distinct pleasure in examining these houses. I fell immediately in love with the one I liked, and at once, in my mind, arranged it as it ought to be. Perhaps a little arrogant to make a bald statement like that but it is how I feel. I have a very strong belief in myself and always tend to think that my way of doing things is the best. It causes problems sometimes between Marguerite and myself as she also is quite strong willed, but not as strong as me!

I lunched at the Cygne, had coffee at a cafe, and walked all the way home - and it never stopped raining! Then after tea I wrote 1,300 words of the "The Old Wives' Tale". This morning while the whole place was being upset with preparations for our departure, I wrote 2 to 300 words more of the novel, and this afternoon I packed my trunk and arranged my papers. That I should have worked so easily at my novel in all this mess shows how it has got hold of me, or I of it.

Finishing things

Friday, November 11th., Villa des Nefliers.

Still unwell all week. Can't quite say what is wrong with me. Occasional light-headedness, unsettled stomach, urinary frequency. All minor symptoms, but contributing to my lack of well-being. Nevertheless I finished "The Great Adventure" this afternoon at 4.30 p.m., four days in advance of time. Actual dialogue 20,300 words. I shall doubtless cut it to less than 20,000. There are now two complete plays of mine - this and "The Honeymoon", renounced by Trench - for sale. 

At last completed and posted a letter to a cousin of mine who lives on the Isle of Man. We are occasional rather than regular correspondents. It was one of those letters which one never quite 'gets around to'. But today I exercised self-discipline, wrote, and enjoyed the writing. As well as family news, I told her of a plan I have for some creative biography; a relationship which might have happened, but didn't. A sort of 'what if'. Just for fun!

The two American reviews of "Clayhanger" to which I looked forward with the most interest (Boston Evening Transcript and Chicago Evening Post) are both absolutely satisfactory in their enthusiasm. Doran wrote me, in response to my query, that he had sold about 12,000 of "Old Wives' Tale" to date, and that the demand seemed likely to continue. I must say that it is something of a mystery to me why my books are so popular in America. The Five Towns must seem a very alien and outmoded place to modern Americans. Perhaps it is the contrast or perhaps, as I would like to think, I have touched upon some universals in Human nature which appeal to any thinking person.

Beginning again

Tuesday, November 5th., 14, St Simon's Avenue, Putney, London.

Yesterday, after having written about 6,000 words of my new novel, which I think I will entitle "The Price of Love", I decided to begin it again. I felt it needed to be done in a different 'key', but with exactly the same construction. And I did begin it again and at once felt easier in my mind.I also decided that I would not make a fine manuscript of it, as I did with the O.W.T. The regularity of the lines and handwriting does not seem to accord with the style in which this novel is to be written. A freer style than before - a little more capricious and swinging. Though the novel has an overall gloomy and pessimistic cast.

We are staying here whilst waiting to occupy our new country house in Essex, which will not be until January. The rooms of this house are dry, arid, ugly and as frigid as an old maid, but well enough for our temporary purpose. Much better now that Marguerite is with me. She was in Paris for some time and I was surprised by how much I missed her, physically I mean. She has taken a hold on me which is very unusual given my character. I told her in a letter that I should have a little tart to comfort me when she is away, and it seems the idea had a stimulating effect. On the day she arrived from Paris we were due to go to the theatre with the Sharpes but I made an excuse and we spent the evening much more enjoyably. As we are comfortably off at present I encouraged her to buy new undergarments and pretty things in Paris which I admired as she modelled them for me, and felt obliged to help her remove. Her body is a joy to me. I am a happy man at present.

I had to interrupt the work last week to do an article of reminiscences for the Metropolitan and the Strand, and again on Sunday to review Allan Monkhouse's new novel "Dying Fires" for the Manchester Guardian. This last is a good book. Also, I have begun to order a new library of music, through Sharpe, and the first noble batch of stuff came today. More in  few days. Another symptom of my present affluence.

Gloriously lost

Thursday, October 10th., Les Sablons

A magnificent October day. I walked 4 miles between 8.30 and 9.30, and then wrote 1,000 words of "The Old Wives' Tale" which I began on Tuesday.

This afternoon we penetrated into the forest with our bicycles and without a map! Had to walk miles, got gloriously lost, and at last reached home after 2 hours 40 minutes of labour. Far off, in an unfrequented path, we came across three old women sitting in the hedge and discussing mushrooms. I do so enjoy these brief glimpses into the lives of others.

I had hoped to have a quiet doze before dinner but the unexpected arrival of M. and his son put paid to that. The boy and I spent a very happy hour together making and demolishing castles we made from wooden blocks. In my view wooden blocks are the only indispensable toy for a growing child, and I welcome the excuse to play with them myself!

So, I am feeling rather tired this evening and anticipate retirement to bed with pleasure. I had hoped to devote some more time to my study of Oriental religions but the concepts I have come across so far are difficult to make sense of and I am unlikely to do them justice unless fresh and alert.

Contentment

Saturday, September 21st. at Les Sablons

Contentment has very little to do with prosperity. I mention this only because I feel rather contented at present, though I am far from being prosperous yet. I have hopes! I would like to go over to England for a week to introduce Marguerite to my sister and family but have neither the time nor the money.

I have just recovered from a mysterious malady which resembled influenza of the intestines. I have noticed that one tends to feel better having recovered from an illness than one would have done having not been ill in the first place, because feelings are relative. The malady did not prevent me from working each day. Today I finished the construction of the first part of "The Old Wives' Tale". I also conducted a sort of preliminary treaty with the Leberts and their architect for getting this house altered and taking on the lease.

My contentment has most to do with being married. The only worm gnawing at the root of my mind is that this business of being married cannot possibly last as it is. It can last perfectly well on my footing; but it cannot last on her footing. I am about a century older than my wife, though she is 32 and has been through pretty considerable things in the way of misfortune. It seems to me that she has steadily been getting younger during the last three months. I think that the establishment of regular sexual relations has been beneficial for us both. It is quite unnatural for human animals in the full vigour of life to abstain from sexual activity, and I feel sure that the suppression of the sexual instinct has an adverse effect on human nature and consequently on society.

Fatherhood

Friday, September 4th., 1925.
At Cadogan Square, London.

The big new French clock was on the floor in the box room. She said: "I put it away there because it stood out on the mantelpiece, and all the curves of the ornament, leaves and twigs and things, seemed to be the same as the curves of my nausea. So I put it away until the nausea has gone."

She saw two nice looking little boys in the restaurant at Harvey Nichols, and kept on referring to the extraordinary niceness of the face of one of them. At last she said: "I should like my boy to have a face like that." The secret was out. 

I have often written about babies and children in my novels and short stories. In fact one of my most successful short stories (I think) is "Baby's Bath" in "the Grim Smile of the Five Towns". Also I think I dealt well with the childhood of Cyril Povey, and sensitively with the relationship between Edwin Clayhanger and George Cannon. Indeed I am not without experience of children. However it is not quite the same as having a child of one's own. Will I show to advantage in this new role that fate has placed in my path? I hope so! 

There are other issues, and I am thinking particularly of the relationship between myself and Dorothy. She is an emotionally volatile person, by turns strong-minded and fragile. We have been content together for the last three years but naturally I have, as an older, more experienced and confident man, been the centre of her world; what now when I am displaced by the infant she is carrying and, subsequently, our child? I have already started to inform our family and friends, who have been supportive of our unconventional relationship. I hope and think that they will continue to be so. Nevertheless I cannot close my eyes to the fact that we will be parents to a bastard child, and all my best efforts will not shelter him or her from those who wish to be disapproving. Perhaps Marguerite will reconsider my plea for a divorce, but I doubt it.

To discover that I am to be a father has been a shock to me, though I think I have disguised it pretty well. I know it will change my life tremendously, and that is not an easy thing to contemplate at the age of sixty. But I have a curious feeling of elation, of response to a challenge from destiny. 

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.

Books and Persons

Thursday, March 12th., Rue d'Aumale, Paris.

I have tried for two days to find rhythms for two poems that I have found ideas for - one elegiac and the other Aristophanic, and can't.

I have read through the first part of "Old Wives'Tale", and am deeply persuaded of its excellence. Aussi ai-je pris mes dispositions pour commencer la deuxieme partie samedi. The ideas have come quite easily.

Today I had a notion for a more or less regular column of Literary notes - title 'Books and Persons' for the New Age, and I wrote and sent off the first column at once. I began to work this morning in bed at 6 a.m.

Yesterday I cycled in showers and through mud to Fontainebleau to meet the architect at the new house. Found it damp; but the works more advanced than I expected.

Been reading Lord Acton. I am driven to the conclusion that his essays are too learned in their allusiveness for a plain man. I should say that for a man specialised in the history of the world during the last 2,500 years they would make quite first-class reading.

Described as “the magistrate of history,” Lord Acton was one of the great personalities of the nineteenth century and is universally considered to be one of the most learned Englishmen of his time. He made the history of liberty his life's work; indeed, he considered political liberty the essential condition and guardian of religious liberty. Lord Acton is popularly remembered for his pungent aphorisms – “Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely” – but of far deeper significance was his lifelong study of the history of freedom.

http://www.acton.org/research/lord-acton

Additionally for March 12th., see 'Triumph of hope over reason'

I nodded acquiescence but I was nearly laughing aloud, and telling her that I preferred to dispense with these mysterious services. As I was arranging terms with her, 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.

Moving on

Friday, November 26th., Villa des Nefliers.

Exhausted. Especially with putting away books, dismantling the house, selecting all the necessary literary apparatus for our absence, packing it and my clothes, and smoking too much. 

After tea I went up into the town, to see the Foire de Ste. Catherine. Too idle and bored to note features. Except these: Men singing songs - in set fashion - in order to sell the music. One man sang and accompanied himself on a sort of little organ. Another - an oldish man - had an orchestra of two behind him: rather an elaborate apparatus for so small a 'commerce'. Secondly a female quack, in mourning, stumping it from the box-seat of a large gaudily painted and gilded chariot. She spoke well and clearly in a quiet, carrying voice. Just as I paused in front of her for a moment, she said, holding up a bottle: "Nous avons ici un ver solitaire sorti d'un homme de 42 ans, qui a quinze metres de longueur."

H. W. Massingham wrote me yesterday inviting me to contribute to the Nation. No editorial invitation has ever flattered me as much as this. I regard the Nation as easily the best weekly and it gives me the liveliest pleasure to glance through it on Monday mornings, especially the advertisement of new books. He said he considered "The Old Wives' Tale" to be one of the one or two really great novels of the last thirty years.
See also 'A curious mixture', March 15th., -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/a-curious-mixture.html

Additionally for November 26th.,  see 'Country house politics' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/country-house-politics.html

I read B.'s printed account of the conspiracy that overthrew Asquith in Dec. 1916. It was exceedingly well written, and showed great judgement of men and some sense of historical values. In fact it was remarkable and heightened my originally high opinion of Beaverbrook. The War Office and Ll. G. both came badly out of the account, especially the former. B.'s own share in the affair is kept very modestly in the background. He seemed almost inclined to publish it in the Daily Express. I advised him against this.

Inspiration

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

Last night, when I went into the Duval for dinner, a middle-aged woman, inordinately stout and with pendant cheeks, had taken the seat opposite to my prescriptive seat. I hesitated as there were plenty of empty spaces, but my waitress requested me to take my usual chair. I did so and immediately thought: "With that thing opposite to me my dinner will be spoilt!" But the woman was evidently also cross at my filling up her table, and she went away, picking up all her belongings to another part of the restaurant, breathing hard. Then she abandoned her second choice for a third one. My waitress was scornful and angry at this desertion, but laughing also. 

Les serveuses - Bouillon Duval

Soon all the waitresses were privately laughing at the goings-on of the fat woman, who was being served by the most beautiful waitress I have ever seen in any Duval. The fat woman was clearly a crotchet, a 'maniaque', a woman who lived much alone. her cloak (she displayed on taking it off a simply awful light puce flannel dress) and her parcels were continually the object of her attention, and she was always arguing with her waitress. And the whole restaurant secretly made a butt of her. She was repulsive; no one could like her or sympathise with her. But I thought - she has been young and slim once. And I immediately thought of a long 10 or 15 thousand word short story, "The History of Two Old Women". I gave this woman a sister, fat as herself. And the first chapter would be in the restaurant (both sisters) something like tonight - and written rather cruelly. Then I would go back to the infancy of these two and sketch it all. One should have lived ordinarily, married prosaically, and become a widow. The other should have become a whore and all that; 'guilty splendour'. Both are overtaken by fat. And they live together again in old age, not too rich, a nuisance to themselves and to others. Neither has any imagination. For 'tone' I thought of "Ivan Ilytch" and for technical arrangement I thought of that and also of "Histoire d'une Fille de Ferme". The two lives would have to intertwine. I saw the whole work quite clearly, and hope to do it. But I expect I shall have to do my humorous novel "A Great Man" first, not to mention other things.

Additionally for November 18th., see 'Leaving Chicago' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/leaving-chicago.html

Set out for Indianapolis this morning at 9.47.
Sort of accommodation train.
Niceish restaurant car. Niggers thereon. Nigger understrapper who shined boots, and knew all about the prospects of the C.H. and D. Rly. (Monan route.)
Chiefly flattish country (with welcome breaks), yellow stubble land. Occasionally a dark muddy river. Single track (after once clear out of Industrial Chicago, which seemed to be one vast shunting yard).
Arrived Indianapolis 3 (12 minutes late about). Maple streets in all streets. Monuments to sailors and soldiers. Dome of state house.

Promenading

Monday, November 15th., Villa des Nefliers, Fontainebleau.

A grand, wet, gloomy, foggy day. I went out at 4.30 for a walk for an hour and a half, and it rained nearly all the time. It was dark when I re-entered the town from the Carrefour de l'Obelisque, and got from under the dripping trees. I was damp, but I stood, chilling, to look at bookshops. During this promenade I cleared my ideas considerably for the novel - of which I still lack a title.

This morning I received a copy of the third American edition (the first printed in America) of "The Old Wives' Tale". Very ugly and they have had the damned cheek to put "A novel of life" on the title-page.

I have been re-reading "Teresa of Watling Street". The reviews when it was published rather surprised me. For example Today thoroughly recommended it as a pleasurable mystery story, and Black and White thought it was "well and vividly written". On the other hand the Academy said it was "a farrago of improbable detective adventure that the merest tiro might write ...", and the Manchester Guardian described it as "readable trash". It is readable; I found myself quite carried along by the fast-paced story, but trash (if well-written trash) it certainly is. At times, whilst reading, I thought it had comic potential, and once or twice I laughed out loud, which made me think that I might have actually made it a comic novel along the lines of "The Card". 


Additionally for November 15th., see 'Cast aside' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/cast-aside.html

My resignation from Ministry took effect yesterday. Buchan, the liquidator, came down to see me, and was very explanatory and apologetic. The behaviour of the Cabinet to me was of course scandalous. But they have treated many others similarly, so I was not surprised. The only notice I got was a Roneo'd copy of the War Cabinet minute. I was never consulted in any way.

Forest thoughts

Saturday, October 26th., Les Sablons, Fontainebleau.

The forest is now, for me, at nearly its most beautiful. Another fortnight and the spectacle will be complete. But it is really too close to our doors for us to appreciate it properly. if we had to walk 5 miles instead of 500 yards in order to get  into one of these marvellously picturesque glades, we should think we were exceedingly lucky in being only 5 miles off and not 50. 

On the whole a very wet month with , on days free from rain, heavy persistent fogs lasting till afternoon. The sound of voices is very clear in the forest in this mushroom weather. I have learnt a little about mushrooms. I have tremendously enjoyed my morning exercise in the mist or rain. But mushrooming only interests me when the sport is good.

Exposure to the natural world so regularly, leads me to reflect on Mr. Darwin's theory of evolution of species. I am sure he has the right of it. He says at the end of "On the Origin of Species" that,  " ... from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely, the production of the higher animals, directly follows. There is a grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved." Walking in the forest where death and decay are so much in evidence at this time of year, and knowing that life will be renewed in the spring, the wonder of nature is impressed upon the consciousness. Darwin writes about the contemplation of an 'entangled bank' but could, as easily, have drawn his example from this forest where the inter-dependence of animals and plants is clear to see.

In general, slightly too much work. 18,000 words of "Old Wives Tale" in 2 weeks 4 days.

Much tempted to throw up my Italian and my piano, on account of stress of work, but I still stick to both of them. 

Aesthetic ideas

Wednesday, October 9th., Les Sablons, Fontainebleau.

I have often thought, during the last year, upon the uselessness of trying to describe faces in literature. No vision is raised by particularization in words. I now find this minutely explained in Lessing's "Laocoon", which is certainly a most useful and illuminating treatise for a writer. Homer it seems never described Helen. He merely said she was beautiful, and kept insisting on the fact, and showing the influence of her beauty - as on the elders. This is the way to follow. Lessing's theory of the propriety of describing ugliness is ingenious, and perhaps good. The choice in subjects of a painter like Delacroix will not justify itself under Lessing's philosophy, and Lessing is undoubtedly right. Delacroix was great in spite of his choice of subjects. "Laocoon" has clarified and confirmed my ideas very much.

Lessing's book "Laocoon and the Limits of Painting and Poetry" is touted as the first systematized treatment of aesthetics during the Enlightenment and it is considered remarkable because it is one of the first works to articulate the difference between poetic production (art with words) and painting production (art with physical bodies, including sculpture, painting, and architecture, etc.). Prior to Lessing painting and poetry were considered to be relatively synonymous in how they were produced, not functionally, that is, not with the physical techniques, but aesthetically, with the intellectual consideration and aims. Lessing argues against this conflation by appealing to a particular ancient example that had been the subject of debate for quite some time: the Greek/Roman sculpture of Laocoön. Laocoön was a Trojan priest of Apollo who was destroyed (along with his two sons) by two giant serpents sent by the god Apollo. Variants on the details of the story exist, but the debate centres upon the account of Virgil in the Aeneid and the sculpture of Laocoön, whose date is also debated. The central debate is whether the sculptor relied upon the written record (Virgil's) for inspiration or whether Virgil relied upon the sculpture for his inspiration. Behind this seemingly insignificant question is whether poetry and painting are independent arts, dependent arts, or interdependent arts of aesthetic production and whether they should be judged by the same standards or separate standards. Lessing's work labours to prove that poetry and painting are not dependent upon each other (though they do have similarities). Painting can depict certain qualities that poetry cannot (examples are below) and poetry too can depict certain qualities that painting cannot. Overall, Lessing seems to elevate poetic production above painting because the scope of its production is greater as well as its imaginative appeal to the senses.

http://anotherreadersreview.blogspot.co.uk/2007/05/lessing-on-laocon-and-limits-of.html

Yesterday I began "The Old Wives Tale". I wrote 350 words yesterday afternoon and 900 this morning. I felt less self-conscious than I usually do in beginning a novel. In order to find a clear three hours for it every morning I have had to make a timetable, getting out of bed earlier and lunching later. 

This morning I calculated that I could just walk to the Croix de Montmorin and back in an hour. I nearly did it this morning without trying, in heavy rain. Tomorrow I may do it. A landscape of soaked leaves and thick clouds and rain - nothing else. But I like it.



Additionally for October 9th., see 'All at sea' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/all-at-sea.html

Our third day at sea.
Strange noises through the night. Tappings. Waiting for the dawn to come, forgetting that there could be no dawn. The dawn was the turning on of the electric lights on the corridor.
Lovely Sunday morning. Rippled sea as we left Ireland.

Parisian 'culture'

Friday, May 29th.,  Villa des Nefliers, Fontainebleau.

Just to note what the Bal des Quat'z Arts was in 1908. Calvocoressi went to this year's ball, being officially invited as a director of the Russian opera.
See also, 'Musical Evening' - November 2nd. http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/musical-evening.html

He said that there were a large number of women there absolutely naked, and many men who wore nothing better than a ceinture of bones which concealed nothing. Calvo said that on leaving at 4 a.m. he saw a naked woman calmly standing outside in the street, smoking a cigarette, surrounded by a crowd of about 200 people. He said he had heard that afterwards a procession of nudities was formed and went down the Champs Elysee. The ball was held at the "Bowling Palace" (or some such hall) at Neuilly, so as to be 'out of bounds' of the City.

Organised for the first time in 1892 in Montmartre , the Bal Quat'Z'Arts involved students in architecture , painting , sculpture and engraving . It was a great Parisian carnival feast prepared each spring by students of the National School of Fine Arts in Paris, created at the initiative of the architect Henri Guillaume. Participants came in costume but this tended to disappear over the course of the evening, which often took an orgiastic turn. In 1893 there was a protest against licentious behaviour on the streets, denouncing this "fact of extreme gravity and unacceptable ... shamelessness." A lawsuit was filed to the organizers of the ball by the President of the League for the Defence of Morality . The judge in the case asked about what happened and was informed that the ball was the occasion of the exhibition of decorative naked women practising the profession of models and not an orgy. As a result, the judge reassured and amused, condemned the organizers of the ball but imposed only a symbolic fine.

He took me yesterday afternoon to make the acquaintance of the Godebskis at Valvin. Husband, wife, two small kids. Poles. Among the most charming people I have ever met. Purely artistic. Godebski once owned and edited a little review. Looks like a Jew but is not one. I saw on a table a copy of Mallarme's "Divagations", with the envoi from the author "A son vieil ami, Godebski". Not interested in anything but artistic manifestations. I said I had gas and they hadn't. Godebski said he didn't like gas lamps. I said: "For cooking." "Yes", he said, carelessly, "but with alcohol and oil they can manage." Didn't care a damn about inconveniences. A whole crowd of artistic youth there; various French accents. A picturesque, inconvenient house, full of good and bad furniture in various styles. A large attic with rafters formed the salon; a good grand piano in it.

Godebski by Pierre Bonnard

Xavier Cyprien (known as 'Cipa') Godebski (1874-1937) was the son of a Polish-born sculptor. 'Cipa' and his family were at the centre of a large circle of artists, writers and musicians; one of the most devoted of their friends was Maurice Ravel. After the death of Ravel's father, the Godebskis became in effect his second family. He often stayed at their country house La Grangette, at Valvins near Fontainebleau, and it was here that Ravel completed his composition of Ma mère l'oye for Mimie and Jean. It was intended that the two children should give the work's first performance, but the terror of that prospect was too much for them. Although they were of modest means, living in the rue Saint-Florentin, and then in rue d'Athènes, the family was artistic and held Sunday evenings at home for many musicians and painters, including Roussel, and Florent Schmitt. Cipa had also given support to Toulouse-Lautrec, who painted his portrait. Ravel dedicated his Sonatine to Cipa and Ida. Mimie later recalled how her father and Ravel, close friends as they were, used to argue fiercely over musical matters, especially Mozart, who for Ravel was "pure genius", whereas Cipa loudly asserted his boredom with so many repetitions and elaborations.

Deodat de Severac played his new suite. He seemed a very simple sincere person, especially in his ingenuous explanations of his music: "J'ai voulu evoqure. J'ai voulu evoquer," again and again.

http://www.mqcd-musique-classique.com

Déodat de Séverac (1872 – 1921) was a French composer. Of aristocratic background, he was profoundly influenced by the musical tradition of his native Languedoc. He is noted for his vocal and choral music, which include settings of verse in Provençal (the historic language of Languedoc) and Catalan (the historic language of Roussillon) as well as French poems by Verlaine and Baudelaire. His compositions for solo piano have also won critical acclaim, and many of them were titled as pictorial evocations and published in the collections Chant de la Terre, En Languedoc, and En Vacances. A popular example of his work is The Old Musical Box in B-flat major, but his masterpiece is the suite Cerdaña (written 1904—1911), filled with the local colour of Languedoc.

Curious, everybody was enthusiastic about the inventive fancy shown in knockabout turns on English music halls. By chance this was all they found on this occasion to praise about England. But Mme. Godebski said to me, "I love the English language, and everything English."

I worked well at "Old Wives' Tale" yesterday, but indifferently today. I lack male society. A monotonous effect. Also the gardener spent too much money on stocking the garden. So that tonight I felt as if I wanted a change rather acutely.

Almost idyllic

Saturday, May 2nd., Villa des Nefliers, Avon.

Today I finished the death of Samuel Povey in "The Old Wives Tale". Thought it perhaps a shade too stiff, too severe, as a narrative; no little dodges to divert the reader on his way. The fact is: I have been influenced by Beyle's scorn of ornament and device. See also, 'Living for today' - April 3rd. <http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/living-for-today.html>

I haven't arranged my days here. I am doing no reading, no fine writing, no disciplinary thought of any kind. It is true that I still spend about two hours a day in working at the arrangement of the house, but then I get up at 6.30, and before 8 I have had my tea and read newspapers and correspondence. I am still hoping to keep this journal more fully; but I shall never do it in this format which is too small. I dream of a folio double-column page, and I will realise that as soon as I have finished the present volume, if I can find a good paper that is not too opaque. That is the sole difficulty.

We both enjoy ourselves tremendously here. I take pleasure that may positively be called 'keen' in walking across the park, getting a shave in a picturesque talkative barber's shop, and then strolling about the town. Our surroundings are certainly almost ideal; and the weather now is ditto. The fruit trees are in blossom. Lilac and peonies are coming. I startled a lizard yesterday in the forest. And there is a general cloak of thin green on the branches. We have tea in the kiosk, and eat our other meals with the door open. Today I had to close the persiennes of my study against sun and heat. And this month I shall be 41!