Authors: Henry Williamson
The paper will have to be much more full of items and italic paragraphs in future. It has become obvious that the crushing increase of expenses will necessitate the devotion of more space to advertisements. I have held out against this procedure as long as possible, but we must either increase the price of the paper or increase the amount of advertising. Of the two expedients I am decidedly in favour of giving more advertisements. I doubt if the newspapers of Great Britain were ever in such a bad way as they are today. The selling up of Hassells is a sign of the times. I hear that other such sales are coming.
We went into the astounding editorial expenses of
The
Weekly
Courier
yesterday and I cannot understand why Bloom, who is naturally for many and obvious reasons, a keen man of business (and is paid by results, and partly paid by commission on the profits) should encourage such wastefulness.
In the case of
The
Weekly
Courier
it was put before me yesterday whether it should be reduced to twelve pages or should give more advertisements, but at Bloom’s present rate of expenses the paper can never pay in any circumstances.
The Editor stood at the door of his glass cage and addressed the three men and one woman of the reporting team. He was as usual laconic and to the point. “Two of yer will have to go. I’m sorry but I can’t help it.” He went back to his desk.
Phillip knew that one would be himself, and another the Anglicised-French woman reporter, Miss Vivienne Lecomte, a spinster half-way through life, who seldom was visible in the office, being on space for special woman-appeal articles. And so it turned out.
“I’ll take yer
Light
Car
Notes
,” said Bloom to Phillip, “but after this week yer’ll have to go.”
“Merely out of curiosity, may I ask how the fact of two unsalaried reporters leaving will help to cut down the ‘astounding’ editorial expenses, Mr. Bloom?”
“Don’t ask me, ask the Chief! I’ll tell yer what, I’ll take yer to Heath Hosken, who does the serials, and ask him to look at yer novel. Are yer still writin’ fiction?”
“Yes, but I don’t suppose it will be the sort of thing the public will want.”
“Well, yer writin’ for the public, ain’t yer? Come downstairs and meet Hosken.”
Mr. Heath Hosken was an educated man, quiet and kindly. He wrote serials jointly with his wife, with romantic scenes in France, and motoring on the “great open road”. He took the Tss home which Phillip brought up the next day, and after two further days said that it was the wrong form for a serial, which had to have a curtain at the end of every instalment, but it should do well with a publisher.
Sept. 28. Willie, walking with me in the Adelphi Gardens this afternoon, suddenly fell down in a fit. He has been sleeping out at night on the Embankment, and eating almost nothing. An ambulance took him to Charing Cross Hospital, where I waited until he regained consciousness. He goes home to Uncle John (he asked for his father when he first opened his eyes) tomorrow.
As for me, I am out of work but trying to free-lance. What hopes?
I am held up over my country novel.
Oct. 1. Cannot write. No inclination. Leaves of the forest trees changing colour: oak leaves buff; elms patchy yellow; ash streaked with vermilion.
Oct. 5. What is the use of writing in this journal?
Oct. 16. My first novel, the one I began at Shorncliffe, which Anders Norse says is ‘a beautiful book’—has been turned down by Rabbitsons. It is only fair to say that Anders had nothing to do with the Tss being sent there. I’m glad Rabbitsons won’t have it. Of all the slap-dash dismal-looking offices in the shade of St. Paul’s! Twice I went there, and waited ¾-hour on both occasions, having stated my business to a pig-tailed flapper who was eating sweets in the Enquiry Box.
Eventually a fat, clean-shaven youth of 20 or so, pince-nez’d and with brushed back tresses, came out and condoled with me. I suggested to him that he would be sorry. He agreed that he might, saying that they had turned down Ian Hay. “But I haven’t read your book myself,” he explained. I imagined that it would not interest him, since he wore a blue serge suit, pink shirt and
collar,
and black butterfly tie. His face had the pink of a well-scrubbed pig’s cheeks—after the pig’s death. But I am prejudiced to write like this; I needed only to pull out that ready-made bow-tie on its elastic, in the manner of Dr. T., say “You nasty fellow!” to round off my snobbish superficiality.
Anders is sending the novel to Dipp, Sons, and Peddle, publishers of medical books who are going in for fiction.
On going home, I found a proof of
A
Devon
Night,
from Austin Harrison. Good!
In Monks House today one of the Chief’s hard-baked Scottish business directors came up the lift with Herman L., occasional space-reporter on
The
Weekly
Courier.
He asked him if he was a Jew. Later Bloom said to Herman L., “You’re sacked.”
“Why, Mr. Bloom?”
“Because yer a Jew.”
“But—aren’t you a Jew, Mr. Bloom?”
“Yes, but the difference is that I’m a Jew with a contract!”
This hard-headed Glaswegian edits some of the weekly two-pennies in the
Conglomerated
Press
in River House. North and others in Monks House write occasionally for ‘Robbie’ Black. Black pays 15/-a column on condition that they pay him 2/6 a column secret commission. Black runs a Rolls-Royce and talks
about ‘dirty little Yidds’—another robin furiously pecking its own image in a looking-glass.
Oct. 20. There has been a FOR SALE board outside in the front privet hedge for a few weeks now. Mother says she has had a good offer. I gave her this journal to read. Mother—whom I imagine to have been like Spica when a young woman, but without Spica’s strength of mind—said that “Spica must have a beautiful and understanding soul”, and that she has many times a more genuine affection for me than I have for her.
Oct. 22. It is foggy and cold: I shall soon be homeless (for I don’t like to ask to be allowed to go back next door).
Nov. 1. Austin Harrison has published
A
Devon
Night
in
The
English
Review
! I get no payment for it, but want none. MacSwiney, Lord Mayor of Cork, died on 25 October, in Brixton Prison.
Nov. 7. Still doing Motor Notes, and have had two articles (£2/2/-each) in London evening papers. Fine day, so motored down to Hastings, for an essay on
The
Sea.
Rough
Notes.
Ripples sliding and slipping in silver plashings on edge of shingle. Sea calm and level, ships seem to float on air just above mist-silver sea-sky line. Breath of summer wind, summer’s ghost wind grieving for lost migrants fallen in the sea, wind of swallows’ wings in memory.
On the way home I diverted to Westerham and went into the Park where Desmond and I were so very very happy as boys together. ‘Only my own ghost to meet me by every hedge’.
Notes.
Dislustred gold of oaks in distance—birches graceful, white boles distinct—songs of robins—oval slips of willow leaves in water recently fallen, those sunken, brown or green—sycamore seeds twirling down with every drift of wind—reeds bent and like old Roman swords, or rather the spears of Britons thrown like Arthur’s sword into the lake—water clear and deep, sunlight showing decaying leaves, moist velvet—ripples of moorhens in the middle, silent and feeding—jay screaming like tearing linen—drooping arch of bramble, some leaves red and wine-stained—willow vands (Canadian) turning yellow-red, the colour of the sun through the mist, their buds sheathed with dot-like insects lying against them—no spiders, but an occasional wasp and bluebottle fly—elms yellow
(lutreous) scales or flakes of gold dropping from the branches—wren like a moth fluttering silent through them, then
chit-chit,
the fieldfares and redwings are here. Flocks of goldfinches sip and twitter as I walk up the hill from the lake, to the solitude of the forest, silent save for a leaf falling, quite a noise when it was from a chestnut. I saw a big dandelion beside a withered mushroom in the rusted, saturated grass. Looking up under a beech tree, veins of each leaf were distinct, a rich brown, crisp—while above a family of longtailed titmice was roving.
As the night drew down, a moon rose over the downs like a barn-owl’s face peering from the rafters of heaven, the stars like chinks in the roof.
“Mother,” said Phillip, one evening, “What do you
really
think of me? My character, I mean. Tell me,
truthfully
! You won’t hurt my feelings. A good writer has to learn two things. First, may I read to you what I have just written? Here goes.
“‘The first thing a writer has to do is to discard all commonplace attitudes of thought about people. He must be able to see the truth, which means he must shed all prejudices formed in childhood, boyhood, and early manhood. Even if it means turning against, at least outwardly, his own people and surroundings. That is what Jesus did.
“‘The second thing is to learn how to put down words to convey the simplicity of truth. But it is essential’”—as he sipped the cocoa his mother had brought to the garden room—“‘to know himself. This involves, or rather devolves, a recognition in himself of those traits which he specially dislikes in those about him. The old glass house, in other words, and no stones thrown’. Tell me, Mum quite honestly, where d’you think I deviate from that
apologia
?”
“I think perhaps you are at times a little intolerant, dear.”
“You mean about things I don’t like? But I try to keep that to myself.”
“I know you do, but others feel it all the same, you know. Perhaps you are too wrapped up in yourself, and so give the impression of not being interested in other people’s lives.”
“Did you get that impression from reading this journal—in regard to Spica, I mean? Please say exactly what you think. I am not Father, remember, who scorns all opinions except his own.”
“That isn’t fair to your Father, Phillip. He has had a lot to contend with.”
“Including me, I suppose?”
“Well dear, he naturally feels anxious about his son. He is getting on in life, you know, and a parent wants to feel happy about his or her children. Small or grown-up, our children are still our children, you know.”
“I understand, Hetty. Now tell me your true opinion about what is wrong between Spica and me.”
“I think that she is worried because you sometimes appear to be wasting, instead of conserving, your energy, by girding against things you cannot help. You do, you know.”
“But things are so terrible! People lack vision! Look at this report on my novel from Dipp, Sons, and Peddle, to whom Anders Norse sent it. My book tells the truth about the war, which the publishers say people are no longer interested in. But people know nothing about the
real
war! They were pap-fed on romantic or idealistic lies while it was going on! However, this is what Anders told me, ‘The Managing Director of Dipp, Sons, and Piddle—beg pardon, Peddle—wrote, “I agree with you that one day Mr. Phillip Maddison will write a very great book.” However, he returned the Manuscript, partly because it is about the war, for which there is no public today. He told Anders he would like to see another novel of Mr. Maddison’s …’ etc. etc. etc. But Mr. Piddling Dipp damn well won’t! Now don’t laugh, Hetty. Be serious, please.”
Hetty went on laughing. What a mixture he was—far too serious one moment, and ribald the next. He was her brother Hugh all over again.
“Just a minute, Hetty! I finished another country story six weeks ago, and Anders has read it. He says, ‘It is a novel of the first rank’. He adds that he is leaving Whelpton Redd in Henrietta Street—that’s the literary agency for whom he works —and setting up on his own, and would I like him to act for me. He says that, if so he will send my new novel to Hassels, and expects Septimus Petal, the head of the firm, to take it.”
Hetty began to laugh again. “Please be serious, Mum! Septimus Petal is the correct name. He’s a cousin of Quintus Pistil, the father of Octavius Pollen. But please be serious! The point is that Septimus Petal will turn down my novel. I’ll tell you how I know. Anders Norse is too enthusiastic. He showed me a chapter of the novel he’s writing, and asked for my opinion. There was a man and a girl on a cliff in Cornwall, and when a stoat runs past them to seize a rabbit
by
the
throat
—note that
point—the sight rouses the man’s primitive nature, which affects the girl, so they, well—anyway, Norse said it brought out the pagan in both of them. I told him the sight of a stoat—which anyway doesn’t seize a rabbit by the
throat,
but bites into the jugular vein on the neck, being a hot-blood-drinker—I told Anders that the sight would arouse horror in the girl, and rage in the man, who would try and save the rabbit. He replied that he was trying to convey how primitive feelings of lust in the animal world affect human beings. Before this, he said to me, ‘I’m a great novelist, too, you know!’. Well, if that’s his criterion, then I don’t feel sure of him in judging my stuff. So, I think, Hassals will turn down my book, although it has no war in it!”
“I see your point, dear, but perhaps your agent is only trying to be encouraging.”
“I don’t want to be ‘encouraged’! Not like that, anyway! As I told you, one should never try to please people directly, it’s a kind of pandering to them. One should try and see people as the effects of causes—that is true sympathy.”
“Drink your cocoa while it’s still hot, dear. You must build up your strength, you know.”
“Oh, I’m all right. Well, thanks for coming in. I must get on with my work now. Take Zippy with you, will you? He comes in here through that broken window. He or it brought in a wretched hen sparrow the other morning. I must stick some brown paper over the hole. I think I’ll ask Norse for the book back, and send it to Spica.”
A week later he called on his agent, who had moved to a basement room in the Adelphi. Anders Norse had decorated it himself; the rent, he told Phillip, was five shillings a week. He also told him that Hassells had turned his novel down, saying that it “fell between two stools”.
Meanwhile Hetty had sold the house left to her by her father, and by February of the new year, completion-of-sale day, Phillip would have to give up the garden room.
Christmas
Day, 19
20
A lovely day, serene high blue sky and silver sun. Thrushes singing. Walked into Kent, this side of Biggin Hill. The wind was from the south, warm and gentle, and it seemed like Spring again. My spirit soared with a burning happiness. So vivid was my joy that distinctly I heard the corn sighing in the wind, and the hum of insects
at high summer. The wheat in reality was 1½ ins. out of the earth, and so fragile and gentle. Air near Downe, where Darwin lived, was warmly crystalline, with far sounds clear. Cocks crowing, cows lowing (big farm in valley) tomtits calling, the drumming flutter of goldfinches’ wings passing over, robins’ trickles of song down below; sunlight gleaming on the stubble through the hedge, and making translucent the ryegrass and clover growing among the bleached stalks—the hay of next summer. One side of the hedge in white light, the other in darkness. The stubble and clover and thin grass blades lay at all angles, throwing slight silver gleams as I walked down the lee side of the hedge. The warm weather had brought innumerable gnats to life, to dance their feeble maze in the sunshine.
I went on to the deserted chalk quarry on the Westerham road, and getting through the open window of the lime-burner’s cottage, now empty, made a fire of sticks in the grate.
It was better than many a billet in the war, for the roof was intact. If the worst comes, I can easily live there, on bread, cheese, butter, and apples. And to sleep in my valise would be no hardship at all.
I sat happily by my fire, reading Spica’s letter again and again. She says,
‘I have read the MSS twice, and in parts several times. You have treated it very well, keeping up the simplicity and the interest. I like the school part the least.’
(
Note.
I was never happy about the school part. I feared it might spoil the first part. But it is done now.)
‘I love you hero and heroine; some of the descriptions are very vivid. The chapter where they are in the wood, lying beside the fire, and the nightingale is singing, has all the force and flicker of fire: it is very beautiful. I like the way you have a few characters and bring them in again and again—the minor characters—it is a valuable addition to the simplicity of the story. The hero’s disappearance, and the cause, is a most artistic stroke; it has the suddenness of a blow, but not the heaviness of tragedy that would be too much for the book. It is the clearness, the simplicity, that is attractive; the humour and descriptions have the limpidness of running water.’
Note.
The hero is meant to be me, a man who cannot fit into normal life. The girl’s creation was influenced much by Spica herself,
or
my
conception
of
her.
Spica has said that she does not love
me
; but I have made my heroine love the hero. I am also all the other characters, including the small boy and the girl who feels that the boy is somehow part of herself, her secret inner life. Now that I have written even this little book (how my heart jumps and bubbles!) I can die happy. At the beginning of this journal I have stated that it is to be given to Tabitha Trevelian if I die. She may
use any notes she likes for herself; she may have it published if it has any value. I should also like Anders Norse, my agent and friend, to read it.
Dec. 27. Today a letter from Willie, who is now back at Ypres, or what’s left of it. I copy parts of it into my journal:
‘The next time that Christ comes on earth; otherwise, when the spirit that inspired the man called Jesus of Nazareth to the exclusion of all instincts and desires inspires another man wholly: he will suffer until he sees death as a release from frustration into the heaven of his own spirit. Orthodox Christians will reject him, saying, ‘There is only one Christ, and He is in Heaven with God the Father’: your ‘vision’ comes solely from the hysteria of ill-health.
‘I was standing at Tyne Cot cemetery, just below the village of Passchendaele, talking to some German ex-soldiers, when the idea came to me suddenly that the next Christ will appear very shortly: that I shall be the one to bear the message. At any rate, I shall try and give my convictions to the world. I am sure that Jesus has been misrepresented, and that many people now profess atheism because of the fables of His birth and physical resurrection—‘Impossible’, they exclaim. But these fables are the poetical visions of the people who wrote the New Testament, a century and more after Jesus was crucified—the spirit rather than the letter of fact, as you once wrote to me about your Donkin books. One thing occurs to me, in this patina of bright visions. The walking on water—might not this have been the equivalent of our English ‘treading on air’, expressing great spiritual accord and happiness among the disciples when the celestial power was on their Leader’s face, making it to shine with supernatural joy, so that they all felt that nothing could stop the Truth preached by their beloved prophet in the Beatitudes?
‘Richard Jefferies had touched the circle of Christ’s ideas when he died. It is apparent in his
Story.
Did he know it? I don’t think so. For Jefferies thought he died an atheist; even one of his present-day disciples, Henry S. Salt, protests vigorously that Jefferies was
not
a Christian. Mr. Salt does not see that it is the
idea
that counts. I hope to prove this. What an ideal! What a hope to hand on to millions of people! If only I could be at the head of the world, I think I would try and make a universal brotherhood. If the human race, which is one species, could act together, what might not be achieved: what happiness for all upon this beautiful planet!’
Strange perhaps, but Willie’s letter makes me fear for him. I have recently been reading
The
Idiot,
by Dostoieffski. How far is a tendency to fits involved with intense religious aspiration?
Anyway, we both have our complexes, as Mrs. Portal-Welch would say. Willie to save the world: I to re-create the essence of the world of 1914–18.
And yet—is not the world but a man’s own personal thoughts or impressions?
I will now try to describe
my
idea of artistic genius. It is the power to give form to sublime emotion. What sublime emotion is one cannot say, except that it is bound up with the subconsciousness, as Freudians infer. Perhaps I should say rather the supra-consciousness, from the enlarged and numerous senses of the poet, in William Blake’s words. I am not a genius, although I thought once that I might be. I think that Willie has a streak of genius: his account of the German Concentration Graveyard has a unity and power that floats off the earth into the air. At the same time it is entirely human. If only he would write a book in those terms, instead of trying to save the world in one go, as it were! (Crude, but it conveys my meaning.)
Most bodies are not sturdy enough to house genius—whence hysteria, madness from venereal disease, and, in sudden abandonment, suicide; and what is worse, dissipation and reversion of all virtue—to live without honour, in one’s
own
judgment, is the worst thing that can happen to a born artist.
One thing I do know: that to reduce
all
aspects of art-creation, as do Crowe & Co. at the Parnassus Club, to subliminal sexual impulse, is merely the philosophy of their own barrenness. Of course the flower comes from the root; but also from the air; and to deny root or air is to be dead, actually and metaphorically speaking.
To come down to mundane things; Mother says that Father is quite willing to let me go back into the house next door (odd: once
this
was the house next door) but he says I must be indoors by 11 p.m. and would I remember that. I thanked him, but said that I was thinking of taking a room somewhere in the country, near Reynard’s Common: a statement which I made up as I haven’t the slightest idea where I shall go after the Old Year is rung out.