On form

Thursday, February 1th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

I have struck a good seam of form. In the last month I have finished my serial and have written two short stories, one of 4,000 words and one of 5,000. They are pretty good I think. The serial is 'sensational' of course but there is money to be earned from sensational serials and I cannot afford to spurn any opportunity to earn. If I continued to write psychological treatises like "A Man from the North" I might earn some sort of reputation but I would most definitely not earn a livelihood. And in any case I have today read through as much as is done of the draft of "Anna Tellwright". It is not sensational. It is, I think, good. Perhaps even very good. I am drawn to finish it.

At the moment, in between work, I am in the act of discovering W.B. Yeats, the Irish poet, whose prose, to my mind, is just about equal to anything going round. I have been fascinated by "The Celtic Twilight", a little volume of essays about fairies and spirits. I wrote to Frank to recommend it to him only to find that he bought it when it came out and has admired it for six years now. He might have told me! I intend to get Yeats' complete works. It dawns upon me that he is one of the men of the century, so aloof, so spiritual, and with a style which is the last word of simplicity and natural refinement.

Tomorrow I am going down to Torquay for a weekend with Phillpotts and expect to have some jolly good jaws beside the whiskey bottle. He is a man who really can't argue. I can't argue myself, but I can argue him off his legs; yet he is always in the right ultimately. He is like Sharpe in that he feels, and what he feels he absolutely relies on, knowing that arguments are merely the refuge of the clever.

Phillpotts has a new play at the Court called "For the Love of Pim". It was very well done indeed, simple, direct and strong; and damn well acted too. In the main piece at the Court was our adored Miriam Clements, as regally lovely as ever, and just as bad an actress. She was playing the sister of Louis X1V and the role suited her appearance to perfection.

Almost happy

Monday, February 1st., Victoria Grove, London.

Today I took up my novel again, and after roughly scribbling 2,300 words in three hours, began actually to have a dim vision of some of the characters - at last! To 'get way on' there is nothing like seizing the pen and writing something, anything about one's characters. The blank page is such a daunting thing to contemplate and it seems to grow in size the more one looks at it. It is a mistake to try to get everything right before starting. 

If I could spend every day as I have today spent today, happiness would be almost within grasp. A couple of hours editorial work at the office in the morning. After dinner I read myself to sleep with d'Annunzio's "Annales d'Anne", and when I woke I went to pay some money into the bank. Then I schemed out in my head the next chapter of my novel. Before tea Mrs. Sharpe came upstairs for a talk, a talk which continued for some time after tea was over. We talk entirely in French. Her suggestion, to improve my conversational ability as I have confided to her that it is my intention one day to live in Paris. She speaks French very well and I feel that I am improving under her tutelage.

From six to nine I worked fairly easily at my novel, drafting 2,300 words - a complete chapter. After supper, I opened a new copy of Arnold's "Essays in Criticism" (Second series) and read the essay on Tolstoy. I shall read myself to sleep (for the second time today) with Maria Edgeworth's "Belinda".

In spite of the laziest liver in the world, I am well nigh content with myself tonight.

Journalistically speaking

Saturday, January 15th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I went to London Wednesday and returned Friday and was ill nearly all the time with dyspepsia. Edward Garnett lunched with me on Wednesday.  He said he had an important matter to discuss. It was a project for a weekly 1d. political paper to tell the truth about politics. He wanted me to give up everything and edit it; also to start it and organise it. He had the title and a plan of contents, including chiefly a series of "Fables for Liberals". He had written the first fable himself. When I asked him what he would do, he said he only meant to contribute himself. He was quite sincere, and had not begun to suspect that the scheme originated in his idea for a fable about Liberals who had lost their trousers. 

From the Reform I went to the Statesman to discuss with Sharp the notion of some plainer writing about political facts. I had previously seen McKenna's brother, who told me that Reginald was still quite determined to leave the Cabinet if it tried to outrun the constable. He indicated that the financial situation was exceedingly grave.  

At night I dined with Atkins who told us he had met an old friend that day, an American journalist named Marshall whom he had known in the Cuban war, and who had been shot in the spine in a very interesting way, so much so that it ought ot have been impossible for him to live, and two medical books had been written about him. He walks with a stick or sticks. This man was coming to Europe journalistically, and Bernsdorff had him in at the Waldorf-Astoria, and said to him: "You can have £50,000, not dollars, before you leave this hotel if you will go to Europe in German interests." Marshall refused. Bernsdorff then went further and told him that he could have the biggest journalistic scoop that any journalist had ever had. Namely that he should be taken from Belgium to Berlin in a Zeppelin and there have an interview with the Kaiser, and be brought back. Marshall refused. Atkins said he knew Marshall very well and vouched for his honesty. The Zeppelin excursion was afterwards accepted by another American journalist, whose name I forget, but he died in the Zeppelin on the way. Atkins seemed to genuinely believe all this twaddle.

He then told us that Lord Cromer had told him that an English officer out in Russia on military contracts business found himself absolutely unable to do the business without backsheesh to officials, which he refused to give. He then managed to see the Tsar, who affected great surprise and went over the heads of the officials - but how long the Tsar's arrangement 'worked' Atkins couldn't say. Atkins is certainly an entertaining dinner companion; I wonder what he will do for stories after the war?

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.