Sentimental worries

Wednesday, November 25th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

It was a thoroughly wet and rotten day yesterday. After noon the streets became impossible. I did not work at all. Couldn't concentrate in the least. I had to go out and lunch with a companion, and to suffer all sorts of sentimental worries, and to argue closely in French, and to write a long letter in French. 

Afterwards I played Bach's Preludes and Fugues till I couldn't play them any longer. I read Casanova, "L'Etui de Nacre", Maupassant's "La Vie Errante", and Le Mercure de France. I went to bed at 10.15 and arose at 8.30 this morning thoroughly well in all ways.

After a sluggish beginning, the ideas for my sixth and last Windsor story, "Lo! 'Twas a Gala Night", came with much freedom this afternoon and evening. It occurs to me that I am almost happy, strolling about Paris, and calling in at a cafe occasionally, working out the ideas for my fiction. Tonight also, I sleep early, preparatory to writing 3,000 words tomorrow.

Additionally for November 25th., see 'A lone and wonderful genius' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/a-lone-and-wonderful-genius.html

Last night, as I sat alone in the house, reviewing there was a strange knock. I went to the door, and saw old Mr. Boulton in the fog; a hansom was just driving away. He came in, and sat down in my easy chair; a tall, slightly bent figure, with a creased benevolent large face, and the whitest, silkiest hair and long beard: the most venerable and dignified person that has ever sat in this room of mine. I felt proud of the slight connection between us.