Imaginings

Saturday, January 23rd., Hotel Russie, Rome.

I didn't begin work until 6 p.m. Lunch at the hotel. Then we went for a drive, Dorothy's idea. Right down the right bank of the Tiber to the place where I moored the Velsa before the war. Much interested to see this again. It was a good spot.

In conversation Dorothy asked me an interesting question: "If you could go back in time for one day, in Wells's time machine say, where would you choose to go?" I found this difficult to answer because there are so many things to consider. To gain time I asked a few clarifying questions: observing or participating, visible or not, all day or just daylight hours? Then I settled on Athens during the Greek 'Golden Age' with the Parthenon just built and philosophers aplenty. She opted for Rome at the time of Augustus. Predictable choices.

But since then I have been thinking it over, and have changed my mind. Of course I would love to see Athens in its glory, and Rome. And I would like to visit Elizabethan England, and Florence during the Renaissance. But I know quite a lot about these places and times, and they would, in a sense, be familiar. So, if asked now I would settle instead on one of the Mayan cities in Central America, Palenque or Copan. I well remember reading, and being enthralled by, John Lloyd Stephens' account of his travels in that region, especially the arrival at Copan. It seems to me that to spend a day in one of those places would be quite alien, exciting and unlike anything I could imagine. I salivate, metaphorically, at the prospect!

Of course Haggard, and similar 'romantic' writers imagined such places and peopled them, but generally it seems to me the people were really modern day people transposed. I don't think any author has successfully imagined himself into a different way of seeing and living in the world; perhaps it is not possible to do so. Certainly I could not do it.

 

Booming

Wednesday, January 20th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

On Monday we had lunch at the hotel . Tea at Frank Schuster's apartment in the Palazzo Cini. Schuster is a friend of Sassoon and particularly of Elgar. His country retreat in England is known as 'The Hut', and has acquired a certain notoriety. Afterwards he and we went to a concert in a drawing room in a palazzo in the Piazza Paganica. We got there at the stated hour, 5.30 precisely, and the concert had begun. This upset me considerably. Why give a time and then ignore it?

It was to boom Mark Raphael, a young East End Jew, with a nice voice and no distinction. The concert party consisted of Raphael, Roger Quilter, and Maude Valerie White. The last accompanied several of her own songs sung by Raphael. She is a very old woman, certainly over seventy five, particularly seen in proximity to the youthful Raphael, but plays with immense brio and decision. Her eyes flashed and she sometimes said or sang the words to herself, with her witch-like fallen-in mouth closed. Also she would look full at the singer sometimes, as if to admire or inspire him. She became extraordinarily young, fiery, and quite humorous while playing, and made a fine sight. Quilter seemed quite a sympathique person. The only good items in the programme were a Galuppi, a Salvator Rosa, and two songs by Schubert and two by Schumann.

Seeing White put me temporarily into a melancholy mood. I thought about my "Old Wives' Tale", and wondered how she felt now looking back at life. Apparently she was the first woman to be awarded the prestigious Mendelssohn Scholarship and perhaps foresaw a life as a classical concert pianist. Then again she has evidently been a spirited and independent woman and I admire that. Regrettably we had no time to chat after the concert. My mood was quickly restored once we were out into the soft Roman night air, and we determined to walk back to the hotel. It was lovely.

Dissatisfied

Tuesday, January 12th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

I began to revise recently written bits of "Raingo" at 7 a.m. 

We went to the Doria Gallery this morning. Badly hung pictures. Badly lighted. The galleries narrow and terribly over-decorated. The collectors seemed to have had a sure taste for the second rate. But there were several very fine Breughels, some small second rate Claudes and Titians, and a lot of filthy stuff. The Velasquez portrait of Pope Innocent X 'hung in lone spendour' was pretty good. Hard to understand some of these galleries. They seem to have the idea that if a painting is well known, or by a famous artist, then it presents itself. Quite the opposite is true.

Home at 4.10, had tea, and had written 1,000 words of "Raingo" before 6.30, although I was rather depressed about the general 'feel' of the end of the book. I fear people (discerning persons) may ask: "What is the book about?" and I mayn't be able to answer them. I don't know, articulately, what the 'idea' of the book is. It doesn't matter, I am just a bit dissatisfied with life. If asked I shall say: "It's about human nature; what else?"

I picked up a volume of Hardy's "Wessex Tales" last evening and ended up reading two stories: "The Three Strangers" and "The Withered Arm". They held me. Strange thing about Hardy's story-telling, sign of his genius I suppose, that the contrivances and coincidences of his plots are obvious when thought over later, but do not detract from the actual reading. At least not for me. I would have enjoyed a talk with him about his work, and could have had one I expect had I made an effort pre-war. I know he has read and enjoyed my novels. Too late now though.

Sights of Rome

Monday, January 11th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

We did a bit of sightseeing yesterday, mainly for Dorothy's benefit. We had a driver and went first up the Janiculum Hill. Suddenly, despite protests, the driver got out and said in Italian: "House of Torquato Tasso, author of 'Jerusalem Delivered'. He enjoyed the sun, meditated, and then he wrote." I thought this wonderful; it was so naive and so direct, with a smile. Then we descended to the Tiber and saw the outlet of the Cloaca Maxima, and the Temple of Vesta and Fortune, and home along the left bank of the Tiber. It was good, though I thought later that it was a bit odd to 'see' a sewer outlet, however ancient. As for Tasso, he obviously wasn't writing to maintain an income; lucky him!

Difficult to have gone today because of the Queen Margherita funeral. The maitre d'hotel had seen it and he described it to us. The electric street lamps on the route were draped in crepe and lighted. A good scheme that London would never have thought of. The walls of the streets have been covered with large black appeals to members of various societies to honour the mourning for the queen. This afternoon crowds back in the streets. Shop shutters lowered but the majority of shops open, with a gloomy, holiday air. But no sign of gloom in the demeanour of the thousands of saunterers.

I hear that a new king has been proclaimed in Arabia, and is to rename the country after himself, or his family at least. I don't know much about it but it seems that there has been fighting going on to gain supremacy, and this is the final stage. The muslim holy sites seem to be important in all this but probably they are used as an excuse for action by both sides as and when necessary. I hope this does not presage a resurgence of militant Islam.

Grumbles

Saturday, January 2nd., Hotel de Russie, Rome.

 

1,070 words of "Raingo" this morning 9 - 11 o'clock. Good effort. 

 

At 11.45 we went for a walk. Plenty of people about, mainly tourists. Sky cleared and the sun shone. Surprisingly warm in the direct sunshine. Walked as far as St. Peter's and entered the basilica which is huge; remarkably huge! It is a miracle in stone and I can't imagine how it was built. We both felt uncomfortably dwarfed and only got about half way to the altar area before turning back. Keen to get outside. I suppose the dwarfing is part of the purpose so that those who are vulnerable to impression are put into a frame of mind to believe that miracles can happen.

Called at American Express Co. to get some cash. Grumbling American woman, repeating grumbles, about not being served quickly at the teller's desk. If things don't go smoothly American women usually frown and change their sweet tone for a sour. I have noticed this before. Americans in general seem always to be in a hurry, as if they haven't enough hours in a day. Some of my self-help books sold well in America so perhaps I have contributed to this in my own small way?

I finished Baring's "Cat's Cradle" at 5.45 p.m. 720 big pages. Its curious fault is that it reads as if it really had happened: a report of actual events. I say fault but it may be that there is potential for a novel approach to fiction there somewhere; readers might be attracted to a book when they don't quite know if what they are reading is fiction or fact. It has taken me 14 days, about, to read. But I have only fitted it in between other things. Probably not a good use of my time but I won't grumble about it.

Going out to dinner. Passing a barber's shop. Vision of the barber standing quite away from the half-shaved customer and flourishing his razor in argument. Given the excitable nature of Italians it might be a risky business having a shave here.

The last time

Sunday, February 14th., Hotel Nettuno, Pisa.

We left Rome this morning.

Yesterday was a lovely day and Dorothy would go out for a drive along the Via Appia Antica. I told her it would tire and upset her, but she wanted to go, and we went. She was correct. The advantages of seeing the Campagna on such a day were obvious. The views were marvellous, especially the skies and other distances. Dorothy said she wanted to see it 'for the last time'. She repeated the phrase several times during the afternoon. Lots of people take a keen pleasure in the supposed sadness of seeing a thing for the last time. In fact I do myself. How many times have I revisited a favourite place, by the sea or out in the country, by myself, and wallowed in the thought that this might be my last time; it enhances the experience I think. And there seem to be no limits on how many 'last times' can be enjoyed!

I find that this year I have written more words than I have spent lire, and as a lire is worth 2d. and my words ought to be worth nearly 2s. each, I should be all right on balance.

We left Rome easily and comfortably for the 11.55 lusso to Paris, and got off the train at Pisa punctually at 5.25. A marvellous, cloudless, sunshiny day, with ditto scenery the whole way and smooth travelling. Descended at the Nettuno at Pisa. The plumbing in these Italian hotels is barbaric. Hot and cold water in each room and private bathroom (140 lire per day the lot), but the water running away out of the basins makes a perfect hades of a row - so much so that they cannot be used at night without waking the person in the next room. And single doors between rooms!

When in Rome

Friday, February 5th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

I spent a lot of the morning at the top of the hotel garden, which I had never discovered before, after having been here over seven weeks. Marvellous view over Rome, of which I made a sketch. I thought about my new novel, had quite a lot of excellent ideas concerning it. I expect to make a start this week.

After siesta we took a taxi and drove along dusty and dull and very bad roads to Tre Fontane - the place where Paul's head jumped three times after being cut off, at each place producing a fountain. There are three churches, and if they locate the fountains, Paul's head must have very considerably bounded. Two churches were open, both very poor and odd and neglected. In fact - no interest at all - yet it is a place one is supposed to go to!


Septimus is much on my mind, and I doubt that he will live much longer. Under 7 stones now apparently. Should I return to England for a last word with him? It would mean leaving Dorothy here and, though she is very well, I don't think it would do in her present condition. In any case I doubt if Sep would know me, or even be conscious. 

I found myself in a headline of the Continental Daily Mail and have since had trouble with journalists. Especially female American journalists. They are very determined and not above using their 'charms' to get me to do an interview. Of course I don't mind being 'charmed' by an attractive woman, but I am not in the mood to talk and if I gave way to one then that would open the floodgates.

Anyway, there is, as they say, no place like Rome. It is 13 years since I was here last and I feel that I am only just beginning to see what Rome is. I must admit that this is partly due to Dorothy who has a genuine passion for archaeology and has communicated some of her enthusiasm to me. Perhaps I should forget about the writing for a bit and just absorb the place. To think that I could not have imagined having this opportunity all those years ago in Burslem.

Seeing Rome

Saturday, January 23rd., Hotel de Russie, Rome.

I didn't begin work until 6 pm. Very near the end of "Raingo" now; shall finish it in a couple of days. And I already have a good idea for my next novel which I hope to start before we return to London. 

Septimus is declining further I hear. Now under 7 stones. He craves food, and needs it, but can't assimilate it. I am afraid the end cannot be far off, but it is infeasible for me to go back to England at the moment given Dorothy's condition. I have arranged for a specialist to see Sep. but more to mollify Maud than for any idea that it will do good. 

After lunch at the hotel we went for a drive. Right down right bank of the Tiber to the place where I moored the Velsa before the war. Much interested to see this again, It was a good spot. It was a good boat. I sometimes wish I had concentrated on boats to the exclusion of women. Then we drove round seeing Jewry, including the Marcello Theatre, with little shops in its ground floor arches, odd dwellings above, and apparently large flats in the superimposed modern part - by modern I mean 30 or 40 years old. Then to varied odd remains, and we came to an enclosed space where 'excavation' was actually in process of being done. This was thrilling. There is much to see above ground here in Rome but it strikes me that there is probably as much, or more, still buried.

Since the 1st of January the street, traffic-controlling police, newly initiated by Mussolini, have been very proud of their new uniforms and mackintoshes. In the Corso the horn-hooting seems to me to be less. But I must inspect this more closely after my novel is done.

I have just finished reading an excellent book, "Days Without End" by Sebastian Barry. In fact it has delayed me slightly in finishing "Raingo". A sort of Western. The central character is an Irishman exiled from his native land as a boy because of the famine, and growing up in America before and during the Civil War. He is homosexual and forms an enduring relationship with another young man. Together they join the Union army, experience great hardship, and eke out a living post-war as 'entertainers'. It turns out that our hero prefers to dress and act as a woman. They are involved in Indian wars, see and take part in acts of extreme brutality, and eventually have the opportunity to settle as farmers on land in Tennessee. There is much to admire in this book. The characters are convincing, the descriptions of weather and scenery poetic at times. There is a sense that the author has captured and conveyed something of the essence of what humans are, and can be, whatever the context. Little more can be asked of any author.

When in Rome

Thursday, December 28th., Hotel de Russie, Rome
 
I have just finished a letter to Thomas Bodkin who has been kind enough to send me a Christmas gift which awaits our return. I told him I am looking forward to his book "The Approach to Painting", which I know will be original. Here in Rome there are pictures aplenty, but sculpture reigns. I have been to Rome twice before but I'd never grasped until now what a terrific monument the place is. I shouldn't now were it not for the tireless resistless enthusiasm of Dorothy. I don't think I ever had so much energy, even in my 'prime'.

I drove along the Appian Way yesterday afternoon - all among the tombs and other ruins, with hills in the distance and aqueducts in the half distance. Never have I had such sensations! No, never!

I am also finishing my new novel.

 

Through Italy

Saturday, April 16th., Grand Hotel Continentale, Rome.

Lovely morning. Environs of Turin, 8 a.m. The journey passed without incident. The train was always punctual and arrived at Rome exactly at the appointed hour, 8.10 p.m. Not a bad achievement for an international train. I got a porter at once and he carried my stuff across the Piazza to this hotel. I was served by a middle-aged kindly waiter evidently alcoholic, though not drunk at that moment.

Then put on my overcoat and went for a walk round the big church S Maria degli Angeli close by. Squeaking trams on curves. many hotels here near the station. Then I walked into the station, in which one of the chief departments was apparently the Militia 'Commando'. I went to bed at or before 11, having eaten a bit too much. Nothing much on the train journey here, except that I read "Brothers Karamazov". Third or fourth time of reading. Yes, fourth time. I read it slowly to savour it. It is very great and masterful. An Englishwoman, fattish, sixtyish, very energetic, had the cabine next to mine. She talked at length to anyone she could get hold of about Mussolini and her interview with him, and the greatness of Italy, rottenness of France, and muddleness of England. Loud voice, very tedious. A fascist, carrying the insignia, and the official card with photograph. I had to sit opposite to her at lunch. She tried hard to get up a talk but I beat her off. All her ideas were wrong. But if anything evil happened to her in Italy she might well change them all. Her acquaintance with Italian customs and Italian was such that when she got her lunch bill and saw "Tassa di Bollo" at the foot of it, she called the waiter and said that she hadn't had any tassa. She talked French volubly and not well. 

The sunset round about Civita Vecchia was richly marvellous. Such a thing as you couldn't see in England. The whole day was lovely and quite warm. Lovely bright leaves and blossoms on the trees everywhere. Especially after emerging from the Mont Cenis tunnel, and later it was marvellous.

Additionally for April 16th., see 'Making adjustments'

These days, going to bed early, I arise at 6.30 or 6.45, or even earlier, and do an hour's work or so before breakfast, and in addition am dressed for breakfast. I didn't dress for breakfast for years because the masseur came after breakfast. I don't have him at present , as my health is so much better (owing to him). Much of my time now, while Dorothy is in the maternity home, is taken up with her and with arranging things for her. I wrote 700 words of novel "Vanguard" in the morning and 800 in the afternoon. I was at the Home by 12 o'clock, and stayed until after 1 o'clock. Then at two I drove home - (these days I have to drive everywhere to save time; if I can manage to walk to the top of Sloane Street it is all I can do) - and slept and went on with my novel till 4.30. Then I had chores to do.

Disappointment in Rome

 Friday, February 5th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

I spent a lot of the morning at the top of the hotel garden, which I had never discovered before, after having been here over seven weeks. Marvellous view over Rome, of which I made a sketch. I thought about my new novel, had quite a lot of excellent ideas concerning it.

After siesta we took a taxi and drove along dusty and dull and very bad roads to Tre Fontane - the place where Paul's head jumped three times after being cut off, at each place producing a fountain. There are three churches, and if they locate the fountains, Paul's head must have very considerably bounded. Two churches were open, both very poor and odd and neglected. In fact - no interest at all - yet it is a place one is supposed to go to!

Additionally for February 5th., see 'An intoxicating day'

The ski-ers started, under guidance of the Professor, and I and Peter (Huxley's dog) kept near them in the sleigh. We met every now and then, and I saw several fine runs and several falls. Dorothy was doing very well. They were all enjoying themselves enormously. I got home first. Dorothy said it was the finest day she had ever had in all her life. Certainly a most marvellous day, even for me, with air, sunshine, superb landscapes, and a universal clarity.

Roman New Year

Friday, January 1st., Hotel de Russie, Rome.

The Hotel de Russie is a luxury five-star hotel located in the heart of the beautiful city of Rome between the Spanish Steps and Piazza del Popolo on the Via del Babuino. The hotel is within easy walking distance of Rome's key attractions. The Vatican City, with St Peter's and the Sistine Chapel, is just a ten-minute walk from the Hotel de Russie while Piazza Navona and the Trevi Fountain are also within easy access. The most unique luxury hotel in Rome, Hotel de Russie provides a stunning feature - extensive, terraced gardens, the “Secret Garden”, so called, because hidden behind the building to provide a tranquil oasis amidst the bustle of central Rome

Santa Maria del Popolo

Three Madonna churches in Piazza del Popolo. I went into two this morning at 11 a.m. At S Maria del Popolo, fine church with two good chapels, lovely design, and some good baroque, mammoth music and choir. Quite a congregation. All the high altar lit up by electricity like a booth at a wakes. At S. Maria del Monte Santo, two altars were being served at once. More gorgeous priests. Congregation spread over the floor on chairs, anyhow, as at a drawing-room meeting. Collection being made by a dwarf in a short white thing over black; dirty face; very dark.

Later I went into the same church (S. M. del Popolo) again with Dorothy. Another mass afoot, but the electric illuminations of the high altar had been extinguished. Why? A larger congregation. We made out the paintings by Pinturicchio, Raphael, etc., and sculpture by Mino da Fiesole. This church ought to be seen again and again. It shall be. 

We drove up to the top of the Janiculum Hill, for the view of Rome at sunset. It was marvellous, rose-tinted; then the sun disappeared and the show was suddenly over. Crowds of people up there. Crowds everywhere for New Year's Day holiday. Then we came home from Janiculum and I wrote 1,000 words of "Raingo" in 90 minutes.

One of the chief curses of Roman street life is the hooting of the motors. Incessant and peculiarly strident. If isn't altered the population will develop some nervous disease.

I have just finished re-reading "The Sinews of War" by me and Phillpotts. Enjoyed it. Very well plotted, but the characterisation left something to be desired. The most interesting character was the villain Walter Pollexfen: amoral, charming, dangerous, a consummate actor; a sort of minor megalo-maniac. I began to think as I was reading that I had made him so interesting because I liked him best, and if I had to be one of the characters from the book I would certainly choose to be him. It is a good adventure yarn. I am not ashamed of it. Phillpotts provided the scenario, which took him I reckon about four days, and I did all the writing; seems unfair that his name gets priority on the spine!

Additionally for January 1st., see 'Measles' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/measles.html

Mrs. Kennerley was here today to have tea with Ma. She said, speaking of the diseases of children: "We never used to think of having the doctor for measles. I had all my children down at once. We kept them in the sitting-room during the day, and carried them upstairs at night. They went on quite well. It is different now. People seem to be more afraid, but we never used to think of the doctor in those days."
"Those days" would be 15 or 16 years ago.

Roman Easter

Sunday, April 17th., Rome-Taormina train.

I had another good night, despite trams and other things outside. It was Easter Day in Rome and I hired a car after lots of various letter-writing and note-making, and drove to S. Maria Maggiore.

Just inside the main entrance of this large and imposing building a nun, or perhaps a lay-sister of some sort, was asking alms for charity. She had probably been standing there for hours. Round about the altar rails, and in front of a side-chapel, thick crowds clustered. Some had climbed on benches in order to get a view of the choir. From the choir came gleams of flickering candles, and of a medley of whitish ecclesiastical garments, and the sound of mediocre organ playing and very bad, perfunctory singing.

Then to St. Peter's, S. Giovanni Laterano and Santa Croce.
Here, established under the portico, a merchant was selling rosaries, images and photographs. Big crowds surged outwards - middle class and lower middle class. And they were determined to get away without loss of a moment; they were mad to get away as if fleeing from some frightful peril.




I also drove up to the Garibaldi Monument (Monte Gianicolo). All this in two hours. I did not feel like lunching wholesale in the hotel, so I went out and found a little trattoria, and ate there. About a dozen customers. Two clerkly young men with gay neckties, in confidential discussion. A group of three: an oldish, shabby, tousled woman with back so bowed that her head was almost at the level of the table; an old man, her husband with a hooked nose, very shabby and untidy, who smoked small cheap cigars the whole time; and a chocolate-uniformed friend who looked like a sleeping-car conductor but was not. The hooked nose and the chocolate person argued incessantly and raspingly; but they were excellent friends; the chocolate person felt the old man's pulse and the glands of his neck, and sneered, while the old woman grinned and steadily ate.

Then hired a horse cab, and went to the Pincio Gardens. Very dusty everywhere in Rome.
Paid bill and made arrangements, and then went for a walk. The Terme in front of the station was closed, but the church (I forget the name) was open, and I went in there and found in the vast place a congregation evidently waiting for a sermon. When I looked at my watch it was 5.25. Train due at 6. I hurried off. I only caught the train by six minutes. It left one minute late, but got to Naples on time.

An atmospheric setting

Wednesday, February 3rd., Rome.

Reflecting on the different ways people choose to live their lives. For some, fulfilment arises from activity, experience and sensation; for others from personal reflection, tranquillity and detachment. Of course they are not mutually exclusive, nor can they be consistently successful as routes to contentment.

After tea I went into S. Maria of the Miracles in the P. del Popolo, because it was open, and I was too feeble to walk.

Twin churches in Piazza del Popolo - S. Maria del Miracolo on the right
<www. gizmoweb.org/>

All at once in a different world (with the lounge of the Russie just across the street). Church scarcely lit. A few people, chiefly old and poor. A choir boy or acolyte moves about, bowing to altar every time he passes in front of it, lighting a bit of electric light. The a bigger acolyte, a tall man, appears, and climbs up and does things to the altar. people come in, like the others chiefly old and poor and mainly women, but a few aged men. The priest comes with hands together, and kneels at altar, and begins to chant and the congregation gives the responses. I should say quite twenty minutes this goes on. It is wonderful how the congregation remembers the responses. meanwhile the boy, having left bell-ringing to the priest, begins to light tall altar candles by a light on the end of a long stick. He has difficulty with some of them. Somebody hidden behind the altar helps with a still longer stick - uncanny effect of this longer stick moving about without hands. At last all lighted. An older priest, only in black - no ornaments, has come and sat at a desk within the choir. Church now lit. Very effective. Then an organ (?American) in a gallery strikes up. It is awful. Also a small hidden choir, equally awful. A tremendously long and monotonous choral business. I left before it was over. I had been in the church fifty minutes at least.

Santa Maria dei Miracoli and Santa Maria di Montesanto are two churches in Rome. They are located on the Piazza del Popolo, facing the northern gate of the Aurelian Walls, at the entrance of Via del Corso on the square. The churches are often cited as "twin", due to their similar external appearance: they have indeed some differences, in both plan and exterior details. The origin of the two churches traces back to the 17th-century restoration of what was the main entrance to the Middle Ages and Renaissance Rome, from the Via Flaminia (known as Via Lata and Via del Corso in its urban trait). Pope Alexander VII commissioned the monumental design of the entrance of Via del Corso to architect Carlo Rainaldi. Both were financed by cardinal Girolamo Gastaldi, whose crest is present in the two churches. Santa Maria dei Miracoli was begun in 1675 and finished in 1681. With a circular plan, it has an elegant 18th century bell tower by Girolamo Theodoli and an octagonal cupola. The interior has a rich stucco decoration by Antonio Raggi, Bernini's pupil. At the high altar is the miraculous image of the Virgin which has given the church its name. The first chapel on the right-hand side has an altar dedicated to Our Lady of Bétharram, named after a shrine near Lourdes. The order of Priests of the Sacred Heart was founded at Bétharram. There is a reproduction of Renoir's Madonna at Bétharram.