An umbrella story

Friday, December 9th., Les Sablons.

Glad to be here again. Stormy weather. I have been out and about in my big overcoat, rain or shine, and feel how splendid it is to be in the country. 

Stll working on "Sacred and Profane Love" and making steady progress. I was extremely pleased with what I did yesterday, but when I read part of it this morning my enthusiasm was a little dampened. 

Martin, who I met in Paris the other day, described the general sensations of being well drunk as magnificent, splendid, "But", he says, "you mustn't set out to get drunk. It must take you unawares." He told me that when sober he frequently lost umbrellas, but when drunk, never. He made a special point of retaining his umbrella then in his hand; it became his chief concern in life. Once he got badly drunk (not by design) at Maxim's. He just had sense enough to take a cab to the rooms of a mistress he had then. She received him, undressed him, and put him to bed. But he would not leave go of his umbrella in the process. He passed it from hand to hand as she divested him of his coat, waistcoat and shirt, and he took it to bed. "She became very angry with that umbrella", he said. He did not vouchsafe me whether there were therefore three in the bed! A good basis for a farcical story.

For myself I rarely get drunk, and never now so drunk as to be incapable. Not for any moral reasons, but purely because alcohol has a detrimental effect on my sleep which is already bad enough. As a young man if I drank too much I found that I slept heavily and woke up feeling unwell; unable to keep anything at all in my stomach. Somebody advised me (Shuff. I think) that the thing to do is to drink at least as much water before retiring as you have taken alcohol, so you do not dehydrate. Good advice, which works well, but that means getting up several times in the night for bladder relief. On balance, I prefer to stay sober.

Change of scene.

Wednesday, December 1st., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

Arrived here last night. Noted for thrird novel in the trilogy the scene on the train, and Shields' dentist scene. All in my special notebook. Stoke station was packed with people and so was the loop line train.

Weather is wild. Glass lower than it has been all this year I think. I have been put in the big bedroom because Marguerite is expected on Friday. I am a little apprehensive about her advent. There is a good deal of semi-concealed nervousness about her and indeed she will certainly seem a rather exotic creature here amongst the potbanks. Florence has prepared a whole programme of introductions for next week - engagements every evening.

My mother seems fairly well though she cried this morning during breakfast because Frank wouldn't buy her exactly the kind of coal she needs. I have my meals with Frank and his family. One of the children is ill in bed. I risked going to look at him, but didn't get too close. Apparently there is a lot of flu about at the moment. "People are dropping like flies" Frank said. It was only nine degrees acording to the thermometer in my bedroom this morning so I fear getting a chill on the liver.

More tooth problems so I went to the dentist first thing. Spent an hour and a half there. He put a filling in a cavity. I have to go again on Monday. I have started taking Sanatogen Tonic wine, Shuff recommended it to me. Says it will be good for my nerves when I over-work. Quite a pleasant taste I find.


In the meantime I am going to a grand municipal dinner this evening; at least, grand by Burslem standards. I have also been asked to give out prizes at the Art School and make a speech on socialism. I refused.

War stories

Thursday, March 1st., Yacht Club, London.

Clifford Sharp, editor of the New Statesman, lunched with me at Reform Club. I seemed to be wandering about all day in search of ideas for novel. Went into the R.C. cathedral. Also Lanchester's Bond Street shop, clubs etc. By about 6.30 I had got them all. Whether they will prove to be good ideas is another matter. A Lieutenant Bayne (Gordon Highlanders, lost his left arm) dined with me and Shufflebotham at Cafe Royal - very well. I wanted to ask Bayne about the loss of his arm, how he felt about the war, loss of life, injuries, that sort of thing - but it didn't seem appropriate. 

Shuff told me that when he went into factory for lachrymatory shells at Walthamstow, the water poured out of his eyes and filled a jug. He does tend to exaggerate a bit.

Bayne told the tale of an Irish Company Sergeant-Major in the Gordon Highlanders, with a strong Irish accent, who said to him in the midst of the Loos affair (in reply to his question as to how he was getting on) - with enthusiasm, "Man, it's grand to be a Scotchman!" 

Marguerite has some daft idea in her head about 'closing up' Comarques. The problem is she hasn't got enough to do and she wants to be interfering in my business. She doesn't seem to realise that I cannot carry on my work without my books and without an office, and that to close Comarques would cause me grave inconvenience, quite apart from my health. Anyway, it will not be closed as long as I can afford to keep it open. I wonder what she will turn her mind to next? Somebody should warn you about this sort of thing before you marry!

Nervous reactions

Thursday, October 21st., London.

Rivers came to lunch at the Reform on Tuesday. He and Shufflebotham were talking about miners' eye diseases, etc. and Rivers said that the danger factor on the nervous system had never been properly taken into account. Shufflebotham said that he had been preaching it for years. Shuff said that you could always distinguish miners from potters on their way to early morning work. Miners had an apprehensive look. Potters would whistle on their way to work; miners never. It appears that someone has just pointed out in The Times that if you put the mines in order of frequency of accidents, and also in majorities for strikes. the two lists coincide! All this of course, so far as the miners are concerned, is chiefly subconscious. Shuff said that of course boys voted for strikes. They had not had time to become accustomed to the danger, and the instinctive reactions were very strong.

See also 'Laughing gas?', February 14th., -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/laughing-gas.html

W H R Rivers

William Halse Rivers Rivers, FRCP, FRS, (1864 -1922) was an English anthropologist, neurologist, ethnologist and psychiatrist, best known for his work with shell-shocked soldiers during World War I. Rivers' most famous patient was the poet Siegfried Sassoon. He is also famous for his participation in the Torres Straits expedition of 1898, and his consequent seminal work on the subject of kinship. Sassoon was deeply saddened by the death of his father figure and collapsed at his funeral. His loss prompted him to write two poignant poems about the man he had grown to love: "To A Very Wise Man" and "Revisitation".

I got frightened about the opening of my novel "Mr. Prohack" yesterday. But on reading it through I thought it wasn't so bad.

Additionally for October 21st., see 'Getting ready to write' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/getting-ready-to-write.html

I find that if I am to begin my new novel, "Clayhanger", on 1st Jan. 1910, I must make a series of preliminary enquiries. I do this perhaps at the rate of half an hour or an hour a day. I have read "When I was a Child", and all I need of Shaw's "North Staffordshire Potteries", and tonight I re-read the "social and Industrial" section of the Victoria History, which contains a few juicy items that I can use. I work on the plot itself about once a week when I have an hour and feel like it.