Sightseeing

Tuesday, February 16th., Hotel Nettuno, Pisa.

At 8.30 a.m. I received a note from C.K. Scott Moncrieff asking to see me and offering to show me things in the town. He came at 11.30. Lame, quick, fussy. Very talkative (smartishly) and rather nervous at first but not later when we became used to each other. He was lamed in the war, and converted to Catholicism whilst at the Front. Not married. I think he may be homosexual judging by the acquaintanceships he has had. But that is no problem for me. He tells me that he had a rather snide letter from Proust about his translation of Proust's "Swann's Way". I told him that I found Proust impossible to read, which he seemed to appreciate.

He said that Lucca was only twelve miles off. This was on our way to the cathedral here. I wanted to turn back at once and get a car for Lucca, which had always been romantical to me on account of a chapter in Heine's "Reisebilder". We couldn't get a car in the town. All had gone or were going to Viareggio for the carnival. However, after an early lunch, we did get a car and set off together.

At Lucca we got a carrozza, and went through the town at walking pace, and saw cathedrals and churches. Very fine and distinctive and Moncrieff a good guide. A rich town, prosperous, clean, self-contained, and self-sufficient. More so than Pisa. The oil business and farming must be money-making. But I asked for the Bagni di Lucca, made fascinating to me by Heine, and found they were twenty miles off. So I was baulked there. At San Frediano, Lucca, it was interesting to see the altar where Frankia's "Entombment" once was. Who pinched it and put it in the National Gallery I don't know.

The news of Septimus is no better. In fact worse. His weight apparently is under seven stone! he needs food but cannot assimilate it. Letters I have had from his doctor and from Maud convince me that there is very little hope of saving him. What a shame! In some ways I am glad not to be able to be over there to see him. Cowardly I know but it would be very upsetting for him as well as me, and what good would it do?

Going strong

Thursday, January 21st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

My brother Septimus is working in Sheffield and seems to have become convinced that the city is critical to the war effort. I don't know why. I told him that, whilst its productivity is clearly very important, so is the output of ten other cities in this country. Coventry for example. Last week I was in Glasgow (another of the ten) with Richmond, managing partner of Weir's, one of the largest munition firms on the Clyde. I suppose he thinks they are critical as well, but didn't say so. In fact he seemed quite cheerful and said that the labour situation had never been so good since the war began.

The weather in London has been quite awful. Roll on Spring! When we came out of the theatre last Wednesday there was three inches of slush on the streets and snow driving in every direction. No taxis of course. And the women all had satin shoes on, of course. I had the snow shoes that Uncle John Bennett gave to my father in 1880, and they were just the job. Shows that you should never throw things away. I paddled Marguerite back to the flat. I think she enjoyed it. We had been to see "Sleeping Partners" with Seymour Hicks in it. It is funny, and improper, and he is simply great. We met afterwards and I liked him, against all expectation. He is lunching with me and Lucas next Wednesday.

M. was interested to hear about Uncle John. I told her, embellishing as I went along, that he was the eldest son of a pottery-painter. The Potteries being too small for him he went to London, to a cottage in Lambeth. He exhibited one of his pottery-paintings in the parlour window and Sir Henry Doulton, strolling that way, saw it and engaged him for his Lambeth works. Then, Doulton's being too small for him, he migrated to America where he succeeded and made money. He had a powerful, stimulating, and unconventional individuality. Full of more or less original ideas, he talked like an artist, and was one. But lack of education vitiated his modes of thought, and his taste was deplorable.

I am in the last week of "The Pretty Lady". The publishers have seen the first half and are deeply struck by it. Though I say it myself, it is good and original work. I have written seven or eight thousand words in the last three days and am exhausted, but content. But I am sticking to my half-day a week devoted to art. Specifically I am finishing the eight full-page colour illustrations for Atkins's new book about the Thames Barge. I think he intends to call it "A Floating Home" or something like that. The publishers say that having my name on the cover will considerably boost the sales.

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.

On edge

Saturday, March 6th., Winter Palace, Menton.

I have returned to reading Stendhal's "Promenades dans Rome". Then I sat in garden and thought out next chapter of my novel. We just got back to the hotel at 1 p.m. for lunch. Neuralgia. I slept 15 minutes and woke acutely nervous and still neuralgic. I went in to Dorothy and said: "I can't sleep and I can't work either." She said: "Perhaps you can begin packing my valise." She was sewing. As only sarcastic responses occured to me I made no reply but returned to my room and began to write. I wrote 1,100 words, a complete chapter, in 75 minutes, and then felt better. Writing as therapy.

We set off back to England tomorrow, in time for Dorothy's confinement. I have a lot of things on my mind, apart from impending fatherhood I mean. Particularly the situation with Septimus who is dying of consumption in North Wales. I must go to see him of course, but how to handle the situation I know not. Also I have heard from Ida Godebski, who has seen Marguerite and tells me that she would not on any account agree to a divorce. 

We are returning in short stages, for Dorothy's benefit, to Paris and then via Calais to London. I intend to stay at Claridges for a week or so when we get back and have written to Miss Nerney to that effect. I don't want to go back to Cadogan Square until after the child is born. Then my life really will change. I am nearly 60 - can I adapt to the new circumstances? Only time will tell.

Trouble in paradise

Saturday, February 27th., Winter Palace, Menton.

Reflected in garden for 40 minutes after I was dressed. I sat in the sun without moving and yet I perspired. Lot to think about at the moment. There is the business of Richard's engagement for a start. I have written to his 'intended' and invited her to stay at Cadogan Square. Haven't met her yet. Looks pretty. Mostly on my mind though is Sep's illness. Latest from Tertia gives me the impression it is just a matter of time. Here am I, literally sunning myself on the Riviera, and he is dying in a nursing home in North Wales. But I can't simply abandon Dorothy in her condition, and what could I do if I went there? I could write to Sep, but it seems so impersonal, and what could I say? Some admission for me to be lost for words!

At noon we started to drive over to La Turbie to lunch with Max and Gladys Beaverbrook. Magnificent drive along the Grande Corniche. It was a good luncheon party in strong sunshine with a tang in the air. As well as the Beaverbrooks there was William Gerhardi and a fellow named Mayhew (with a most singular overcoat) on the staff of the Chicago Tribune. Max was restless, but that is normal. Gladys was delightful. Gerhardi in better form than usual. Gerhardi had met Rothermere last night at dinner for the first time. Max asked him what he thought of him. Gerhardi side-splittingly replied: "I think he has a sweet nature". Max roared himself red in the face.

Max asked me how much I would take for the film rights of "The Pretty Lady". I said I had got £2000  for "Sacred and Profane Love". He said he would pay this if he produced the film. I hope to god he will as I could do with the money!

Spendthrift of pity

Saturday, February 10th., Maldon, Essex.

Maldon

I am here with my father and my brother Sep. Father has had a very serious nervous breakdown and is staying with me at Fulham Park Gardens for a complete rest. He seems better at the moment but in my opinion (and his own) he will never be the same man again. Fortunately his business can go on in his absence. Frank has taken up the strain. Strange thing to be looking after one's parents rather than being looked after. Even the way we adfdress each other is changing. I am paying close attention to the details of the change as it occurs to me that they may be useful at some time in the future, professionally I mean.

I am very much focused on short stories of the Five Towns at present. There seems to be a rich vein of material which is unexplored by other authors, though some have touched on it. I think I am on to something. The Five Towns is a great place, full of plots. My father's reminiscences have livened me up considerably. I have also been working on a play, in collaboration with Arthur Hooley, called "The Chancellor". I can never tell if a play is going to do well or not; don't think anybody can until it is actually produced somewhere and even then it may not last.

This evening we stood on a bridge over the Blackwater at the bottom of the town. There was snow everywhere, a very keen frost, and a bright moon approaching the full. On either side of the river, the wharves and warehouses were silhouetted in deep tones. The tide was comig in and we could hear a faint continuous crackling, or mysterious rustling as the ice, constantly forming, was crunched and crumbled gently against the projecting piles of the wharves. We stood quite still in this silent town and listened to this strange soft sound. Then we threw tiny pebbles over the bridge and they slid along the surface of the river. The water froze in broad areas as it passed under the bridge.

We saw a very fat and aged woman walking home, very carefully. The road was extremely slippery and a fall would have been serious to one of her age and weight. To me she seemed rather a pathetic figure, balancing herself along ... And yet, if I have learned anything, it is not to be a spendthrift of pity. She would be all right.

 

Disgusted

Wednesday, April 27th., 12b George Street, London.

By the last post last night I received the proofs of the first instalment in The Delineator, of "Mr. Prohack". To my intense disgust I saw at once that they had cut it. Considering that the number of instalments and the precise length had been agreed by me in accordance with the editor's own suggestion, this absolutely disgusted me, and I have written to Pinker that I don't want to correct any more proofs.

In the night I finished the tenth volume (just out) of Tchekoff. Apart from "Ward No. 6", the only long story, I think the best thing in it is "The Frost". It struck me on re-reading "Ward No. 6" (for the third time) that this tale is not at all like any other tale in the volume, and that there are very few Tchekoff's like it in manner in any volume. In places it seems to have been written under English influences. It is a most terrible story, and one of the most violent instances of Tchekoff's preoccupation with Russian slackness, and corruption.

I have sent my brother Septimus a cheque for £30, to keep him out of immediate danger, but fear for his future. He says that the financial situation in the Potteries is bad but it is just as stringent here. I know that I make a lot of money, but it is by dint of hard work, and my life is so arranged that I also spend a lot. Nor can my dispositions be altered at short notice. It was most unfortunate for example that I bought my new yacht just before the slump began, but there it is, and I have no intention of laying her up unless I am absolutely compelled to. The fact is that Septimus is not suited to the pursuit of an independent mercantile career, and I have told him so. He is a good and hard worker but has failed, even in times of relative commercial prosperity, to make profit on his capital, and now it is all gone. I think he would be better off and much happier in a salaried position.

Additionally for April 27th., see 'Not seeing Florence'

Munich Orchestra, conducted by F Loewe at the Teatro della Pergola on Saturday evening. "Till Eulenspiegel". I began to understand it. The intense vivacity of the thing proclaimed itself. The performance was magnificent. On Sunday I was ill, but I had determined to go to "Aida" at the Politeamo Fiorentino, and I went with Mr. Mock in a shower of rain. We saw three acts, & I enjoyed it very much, though ill. Vast interior. All the cheaper parts crammed; heads stretching away into distances further than at Covent Garden. Then I spent Monday & yesterday in bed. I could not read on Monday, but yesterday I read I don't know how many newspapers, all "Ce Cochon de Morin" and a lot of a new French novel by Jean Canora, sent to me for review. This morning I wrote my Chronicle article in bed, before 8.30. So that seeing Florence has stood still for a time.

Life in wartime

Monday, October 4th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Mrs. Green today said that she had been talking to a young Sub. at Queen Alexandra's Hospital, Millbank, wounded in Dardanelles. He told her that one day they had to put up wire entanglements and there were no posts. A number of stiff corpses of Turks were lying about. They upended them and stuck them into the ground like posts, and fastened the wire to their heads. Mrs. Green said to us: "What will the youths of 19 be like afterwards, who have been through this kind of thing, and got used to it?"

I should say that in most respects, and to all appearance, they will be like others who have not been through it.

Started 6th. instalment of "The Lion's Share" today.

Owing to the war, Septimus has closed his studio and is working in Sheffield for the Vickers company, where he is supervising a group of women producing shells. He has left his family in the Potteries. He works 11 hours a day on the day shift, 13 on the night shift (from 5 p.m. to 6 a.m.). He writes that he is "... mightily sick of the whole business. I could put up with days but the man who started night work ought to be shot. The strain is too great. The living and working in false light & rotten atmosphere and sleeping while the sun shines is as fatal to the strongest constitutions as it would be to a flower. The work itself has its picturesque side. The interior lit up by large electric arc lights, & small individual bulbs on each lathe, the hum of the machinery, the noise of hammers & the anvil, the clink of shells, people going to and fro with trucks loaded with shells & someone active at each lathe, produces a wonderful effect seen through an open doorway from across the yard, on a dark night."

Additionally for October 4th., see 'Parisian views' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/parisian-views.html

I then came out and surveyed Paris from the front. I could distinguish most of the landmarks - Notre Dame, Pantheon, Invalides, Gare de Lyon, St. Sulpice, and Louvre. Never before had I had such a just idea of the immense size of the Louvre. I could also see the Opera, (that centre of Paris qui s'amuse) with its green roof (? copper). And it looked so small and square and ordinary. And I thought of the world-famed boulevards and resorts lying hidden round about there. And I thought: Is that all it is? For a moment it seemed impossible to me that, as a result of a series of complicated conventions merely, that collocation of stones, etc. (paving stones and building stones) could really be what it is - a synonym and symbol for all that is luxurious, frivolous, gay, viscious, and artistic. I thought: "Really, Paris is not Paris after all; it is only a collocation of stones." The idea, though obvious enough, was very striking for a minute or two.

Family tragedy

Friday, September 3rd., Waterloo Road, Cobridge.

Tertia Bennett

I went into the breakfast room at home, scene of a thousand love-makings. Tertia, dressed in black, sat in an easy chair in front of the fire. It was cold. She got up.
"Poor old girl!" I said as I kissed her. She cried a moment. Then we others began to talk of common affairs. Tertia sat silent.

See also 'Death by drowning' - 
September 2nd., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/death-by-drowning.html

Septimus Bennett

Afterwards, in the dining room, Pater recounted his version of the accident; how Sep had struggled out of the water, and running towards him had shouted something which the high wind had carried away. "Pa, if you don't get a boat quick you'll never see our Frank again"; Pater's run of over 500 yards of loose sand to the nearest boat, and the long-drawn delay of launching; the appearance of Tertia and Florrie on the beach, and the altercation between him and Tertia as to whether it was Frank or Willie who was in danger - an altercation of dreadful pathos; how all the boys had remained cool throughout, and how Willie had struck out strongly, after our Frank had told the others to leave him to float on the current till a boat could overtake him; how Frank had somehow contrived to reach land, and how he thought till long afterwards that Willie was safe, taking it for granted ...

Additionally for September 3rd., see 'Writing for victory' - http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/writing-for-victory.html

Conference at Wellington House of 'eminent authors'. Hall Caine, Zangwill, Parker among them. Masterman in chair.