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This blog makes liberal use of AB's journals, letters, travel notes, and other sources.

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Monday, 21 July 2014

Mixed response

Wednesday, July 21st., Cadogan Square, London.

We went to the Ruth Draper matinee. A packed and putrid matinee audience at the Garrick, nearly all women. Laughing in all the wrong places - giggling, whispering. Tea-drinking. Ruth is very clever. She is a wonderful imitator, but not much of a creator. Some things however, such as the Englishwoman showing her garden were splendidly cruel. Others feeble and formless. The observation seems to be exact but superficial. She is highly skilled and looks nice.

Ruth Draper (1884 -1956), American monologuist and monodramatist whose art was acclaimed throughout the United Statesand Europe. Draper was of a well-to-do family. Her career grew from a habit of writing sketches about persons she knew or had observed and performing them at parties. In 1911 she began performing professionally at clubs and schools. In 1917 Draper made her New York debut as a monologuist in a programme of one-act pieces, all of which were failures except for the one she had written entitled The Actress. She thereafter performed only her own material. Her London debut in 1920 in a bill of her own works was a great success and established her as the pre-eminent practitioner of her art. Draper’s monologues and monodramas were delicately crafted works that revealed a deep understanding of human character, which she conveyed with great skill and deft suggestion. She used a minimum of stage props, no scenery, and little in the way of costume change, yet she could people the stage at will. Her repertory eventually grew to 39 pieces with such titles as Three Generations at a Court of Domestic Relations, At an English House Party, The Miner’s Wife, A French Dressmaker, Opening a Bazaar, In County Kerry, The Italian Lesson, At an Art Exhibition, and Vive La France. In them she conjured up some 58 principal characters, endowing each with full individuality. A command of languages and dialects played a large part in her characterizations as well. 

I am still reading "Sous le Soleil de Satan". It is definitely not good, but I mean with Gods' help to finish it. Unintentional irony there, as the devil is a character in the book which has caused a stir in France.

"Under Satan's Sun", by Georges Bernanos is a powerful account of intense spiritual struggle that reflects the author's deeply-felt religion. The work develops a theme that persistently inspired Bernanos: the existence of evil as a spiritual force and its dramatic role in human destiny. This haunting novel follows the fortunes of a young, gauche, and fervent Catholic priest who is a misfit in the world and in his church, creating scandal and disharmony wherever he turns. His insight into the inner lives of others and his perception of the workings of Satan in the everyday are gifts that fatefully come into play in the priest's chance encounter with a young murderess, whose life and emotions he can see with a dreadful clarity, and whose destiny inexorably becomes entangled with his own. A film based on the novel won the Palme d'Or prize at the 1987 Cannes Film Festival.

Friday, 18 July 2014

Simple pleasure

Monday, July 18th., Brittany.

My sister Tertia told me once that my mother, on seeing "Carmen" at Hanley Theatre said: "I don't like that woman at all". Just the sort of thing she might say!

It rained all day yesterday, and was raining heavily when we went to bed. Rain appalling. The employes du Louvre discovered the gramophone at night and danced to it.

By the way, the chief point about the gramophone performance was the intense and simple pleasure of the people in it. The two men bent over the instrument smiling as they might have done at a baby that was crooning. How I envy people who are able to immerse themselves without self-consciousness in the moment. For myself I find that I cannot get beyond thoughts of my own dignity, and appearance, which of course I know rationally is of no interest to anyone but myself. I am afraid that self-consciousness will be a burden to me throughout my life, unless it falls away as I descend, heaven forbid, into senility. Rather dark thoughts for a holiday - must be the effect of the weather!

Additionally for July 18th., see 'A matter of loyalty'

While all this is going on I have more trouble to contend with from my wife. She resents my 'other' life in London and fails to understand that I have an immense amount of work to do and considerable responsibility. Hence she contrives problems to gain my attention. For example, she has conceived a thorough dislike for our gardener Lockyer and is manoeuvring to have him replaced: what a time to become preoccupied with such trivia! I have written to her as follows:

Thursday, 17 July 2014


Sunday, July 17th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Yesterday at 7 p.m., after a week of slogging, I finished "Hugo" which I think is my eighth novel. I have got that off my mind and now this morning I lose a front tooth, just to be supplied with a new worry. 

Five years ago I would have looked on my life, as I am living it now, as the ne plus ultra of paradisiacal bliss, but I am no more content than I ever was. In fact life is a devilish odd thing. I think I have learned more about it in the last three years than ever I knew before. I have books planned that will keep me employed till the end of 1906. But if I am any happier than when I used to cycle down to Farnham & Witley after a week of rottenness in Fleet Street, I do not know it. My belief is that some people are born happy and some aren't. 

I like Paris tremendously. Indeed I can't imagine myself living in any other city. It has spoilt me for London. What I secretly desire is a fine house in the seaside country near Folkestone for the summers, and this flat (which suits me excellently) for the rest of the year. And these things I must have and will have!

Additionally for July 17th., see 'Adrift in Austria'

I went out and bought some cigars. About 4.30 went up to Hoher Salzburg. A very Margate-ish crowd; indeed the same sort of crowds everywhere. They stream into the town daily. Coming home, I met Kommer; or rather he stopped me and offered me a piece of paper. For a second I didn't know him. He had inquired at all the hotels for me (including this one) without success. He had then gone to the police, who informed him at once thatE.A.B. was staying at the Oesterreichischer, and gave him a bit of paper to that effect; this was the paper he was exhibiting to me in the street.

Wednesday, 16 July 2014

A stiff climb

Thursday, July 16th., Oesterreichischerhof, Salzburg.

Salzburg from the Kapuzinerberg
Walked up to the top of the Kapuzinerberg yesterday afternoon. The entrance begins only about three minutes from this hotel, and the distance of climbing is only about a mile I should think. But it is very stiff work indeed. The path is stepped and tended and signposted with great Teutonic care and thoroughness. Some English say it is too well done. How absurd! (In the war we copied everything but German thoroughness - I mean in the press) These signposts indicating distance in time are most useful. At the top (it took me an hour with frequent rests) a cafe, tout arrange, for tourists, with 'fine' views of the Alps. These aussichts of Alpine stuff leave me definitely rather cold. Visited the Kurhaus on the way back to the hotel. Vast and gloomy - especially the restaurant where an 'Alpine evening' was to take place last night. Feared it and avoided it, and dined at the Mirabell Garden Restaurant where I had also lunched. At lunch, Jerskny, director of the Blue Bird troupe had a table with several of his artistes; they were extremely jolly and giggled like anything.

At night: music. Waltzes and operatic selections. Electric light; hence theatrical trees; dogs playing with each other; outsiders staring; girls carrying beer all the time; a girl wheeling round and round a thing like a perambulator containing all sorts of confectionery; she did this for two hours and was still doing it when I left.

I finished Hamsun's "Segelfloss Town" last night. It does not hold together very well, and is inferior to his best work; the interest is allowed to shift too much from character to character. The characters are apt to appear and then fade. But it contains four really splendid things, and some fine humour and ditto wit. There is a tirade against actors and actresses which is devastating funny and true. The translation is very good indeed.

Additionally for July 16th., see 'Home from the front'

I returned home from the Front yesterday, after two nights in London at the Savoy. By the evening I had dealt with all the arrears.

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

Drama in Brittany

Friday, July 15th., in Brittany.

Fete yesterday. Alcock left at 5 p.m. in a most ancient wagonette, and we drove with him to the top of the village. Although there were three windows open in the wagonette it was hotter inside than outside - stuffy. Horse-collars of straw; harness chiefly of rope. In speaking of the horses Alcock again called them 'cat's meat'. In the morning we went sailing for one and a half hours - only 5 francs. We were carried into a small boat, and then rowed to the smack, which was in the charge of two men. 

After dinner I walked about a mile up the estuary of the Penze on the sands, and back, and then up to the village. Chinese lanterns, band, dancing, silhouette of large church, silhouettes of figures, Bengal fires, very noisy fireworks. Hotel very bright with lanterns. Parading about in adjacent lanes, the Parisians and other visitors, arms entwined sometimes, women in white wool loose jackets, as in Switzerland in winter. Moon through clouds. Not quite dark. I came home at 9.50 quite recovered, and read "Eugenie Grandet".

We were wakened up in the night by a very heavy thunderstorm. The thunder really was dramatic; quite as good as Drury Lane.

Additionally for July 15th., see 'Busy in Salzburg'

The scenery around is wonderful. There must be about a dozen 10,000 ft. mountains in the region. But we soon tired of this imposing, picturesque scenery. It is as if it was done on purpose - some tour de force of a creator. Sunday was a fete day here - the fete of the fire brigades. They came from all around including adjacent Germany. The cafe-restaurants were full of firemen, in poor ill-fitting uniforms, at lunch. Procession very long. Full of engines and ladders, and one very old engine, and banners and bands. One brigade was headed by a girl in white; at least she seemed to be a girl; but she might have been the wife of the huge, framed, glittering man who was walking by her side. The affair had a certain medieval or renaissance quality, but lacked both vitality and efficiency. After it we drove in a little victoria to see the castle (Lustschloss) at Hellbrun, a few miles off, along a monotonous road, chiefly quite straight. This castle has lovely gardens; but the 'practical joke' quality of the fountain-work (designed to soak the king's guests by surprise) and the childishness of the working, water-driven models in the garden, gave you a sinister insight into the mind of a foolish king.

Monday, 14 July 2014

Bastille day

Thursday morning, July 14th., Bastille Day, Rue de Calais, Paris.

Although I rested well last night, I heard the music of the feteeach time I wakened, so at 4 a.m. I persuaded myself to get up and take a look at it. There was one roundabout going in the Place Blanche. Everything else was closed. A bright, hot morning. All the greatrestaurants de nuits were closed, but one cafe, the Coquet, next to the Cyrano, was open and had tables in the street. The stout lady in the cash-desk seemed just as usual. The 'place' was thick with serpentins. A few cabs waiting about, and a few idlers like myself. The women on the roundabout screamed just as they always do. They did not look very tired. There were four on one pig.

I then went towards the Opera. I saw that the footpaths were swept by women in blue - with magnificent carriage and figures. I suppose that is due to the magnificent gesture of the broom. On the Boulevard des Italiens, three of them abreast were sweeping the broad trottoir. It was  fine sight. At the Opera a large crowd for the matinee gratuite had already gathered - some hundreds; policemen to keep order.

This was the real people - dirty, stinking, brutal, importunate; the scum! nearly all men but just a few women. Some persons were lying asleep on the pavement. I noticed many other early morning items and fete day items: such as omnibuses passing, full of policemen in spotless white trousers; a cavalry officer in full splendour walking to his rendezvous; many people beginning the day's enjoyment on their way to railway stations etc.; the women dozing in the newspaper kiosks awaiting the morning papers; a youth walking along the middle of the road smoking a pipe a yard long; a drunken man trying to get up a fight with a barman concerning a small tricolour which he carried. Many bars were open. I returned home at 5.5 and wrote this at once.

Thursday, 10 July 2014

Strange ideas

Saturday, July 10th., Cadogan Dquare, London.

Y. came at 6.55, leaving a bag marked in large letters "Foreign Office". In some talk after dinner I found that he had strangely unscientific ideas. Some pamphlet of Haldane's had actually persuaded him that there was a prospect in the future of making synthetic babies, and he really believed that some very low form of animal life had actually been made by synthesis. He stuck to it. It had not occurred to him that any such feat would have made an absolutely unique stir in the world, and make such a step in knowledge as no other step could be compared to. He began to argue like this: "But nobody thirty years ago would have believed about wireless." He hadn't seen that the two things were not comparable, wireless being purely a mechanical affair. In short I was shocked by his attitude. later, he gave in.

Additionally for July 10th., see 'Meeting Miss Thomasson'

I went to tea at Miss Thomasson's on Saturday and met Hofbauer one of the most famous young painters in Paris today. A handsome, very blond man of about 30, and fully aware that he is handsome. Vain, and yet charmingly so, and not too much so. He spoke scarcely any English, and had better manners than most painters. Afterwards at the Cafe de Versailles, Kelly told me that he was inordinately and devilishly clever, but idle; also that his big picture in this year's Salon, 'Coin de Bataille', bought by the state, was painted quite without models.

Wednesday, 9 July 2014

So German

Thursday, July 9th., Salzburg.

As soon as we had got into Germany (Kehl I think, about 4.30 a.m. yesterday) the country began to be German, quite conventionally. 

There is no doubt you can get a more intimate and romantic view of a strange country early in the morning. You then know when people actually get up, and what they look like when they are up. Putting bedclothes out at windows. Pensive girls at windows. Men and boys loitering in lanes, and waiting to begin to work. A curious softness and humanness over everything.

Sudden increase in Germany of official uniforms. The railways seem to have got back to decency and efficiency. Munich. Great lakes and mountains east of Munich. Wonderful to regard; and, with thin tapering spires of churches, quite conventionally German. The German of opera scenery. Sunday when we got into Salzburg - Tyrolean hats and garments. It seemed comic - nature imitating art.

To think that only ten years ago I was at the Western Front, looking across to the German lines and damning the whole nation to hell. Such is human nature.

Additionally for July 9th., see 'Parisiennes'

Speaking of 'Parisiennes', I took a turn through the Parc Monceau to the Etoile, and back through the Champs Elysees on Friday night between 9.30 and 11 in order to clear off a headache. Honest lovemaking in the Parc Monceau. In the Champs Elysees, I saw four girls aged 14 or less - one didn't seem more than 11 or 12 being taken about by older women for the excitement of senile appetites. Some day soon there will be a tremendous outcry concerning this procuring of children. The police will become suddenly active in arrests - and then things will settle down again.

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

A prisoner of war

Thursday, July 8th., Near Ablain.

Young prisoner, 21, just caught. Trousers and coat pierced by a bullet. Consumptive, enfeebled. Called up in December 1914. Somebody had given him a large hunk of bread, which he had put within the lining of his tunic; it bulged out in front like a paunch. Examined by an officer, then went off with a soldier. While the officer was cross-examining him a curio-hunting soldier came up behind and cut a button off the tunic. Had work in paper factory. Infinitely pathetic. Scared little consumptive. Why military ambition? He tried to exhibit gloom but it was impossible for him quite to conceal his satisfaction in the fact that for him the fighting was over. The wretched boy had had just about enough of world dominion, and he was ready to let the Hohenzollerns and Junkers finish up the enterprise as best they could without his aid. No doubt some woman was his mother. It appeared to me that he could not live long, and that the woman in question might never see him again. But every ideal must have its victims; and bereavement, which counts chief among the well-known advantageous moral disciplines of war, is, of course, good for a woman's soul. Besides, that woman would no doubt be convinced that her son died gloriously in defence of an attacked fatherland.

Ablain seen from here is merely rafters.

Passage of wounded.

After car came to road at Souchez Germans began to fire on road 78 high explosives. Searching road at 50 yards distance or 100 up and down each shot. Almost every two minutes and one minute sometimes. Tremendous waste of ammunition. The things burst before sound of sizzling has finished reaching your ears.

Nearest shot 100 yards.

Additionally for July 8th., see 'Derailed at Nantes'

On Thursday I went to see the Wellses at Pont de l'Arche. I came back yesterday and found myself in a railway accident at Mantes, six wounded.

Monday, 7 July 2014


Saturday, July 7th., Charlton Arms Hotel, Ludlow.

I am here for a few days painting. The beds are rather hard but I had a good night last night in spite of slight dyspepsia owing to cider. I have done my first watercolour of the castle, a ruin. The hotel is on the high bank of the river and the sound of water can be heard night and day. there are two dams just nearby. The food is good. We are served by a young person who looks 16 but is really 22. She is married (to a soldier) and has a daughter whom I often fondle. She is nice. I have an excellent bathroom (with a geyser) and had a hot bath at 6.45 this morning.

There is another painter at the hotel. He has been here for a month and is, I think, a fool. There is also an American woman who arrived here, I am told, from Paris this week. They go on excursions together and eat together in a private room. Possibly she is his mistress. Certainly a Frenchwoman would deduce so! But with these American women it is always possible that she isn't. I saw her in a dressing-gown this morning. She could be between 35 and 40 and is fairly ugly. Definitely not a virgin I should say.

The weather here is marvellous at present. Seems a long way in every way from London, but I shall have to be back there on Thursday when I think I must go to see Galsworthy's new play "The Foundations" at the Royalty.

I hope to complete another watercolour this afternoon.

Additionally for July 7th., see 'In Arras'

When you actually reach Arras you cannot be deceived for an instant as to what has happened to the place. The first street you see is a desolation, empty and sinister. Everywhere the damage of shells is visible. In the brief intervals of the deafening cannonade can be heard one sound - blinds and curtains fluttering against empty window frames. As we went further into the city we saw sights still stranger. Of one house nothing but the roof was left, the roof made a triumphal arch. All the streets were covered with powdered glass.

Sunday, 6 July 2014

Out and about

Wednesday, July 6th., Cadogan Square, London.

I walked quickly, with perspiration, in hot sunshine, to get ideas for "Accident", and reached the Tate Gallery. I thought I would look at the Conders. No sooner was I in the Conder room than Aitken, the director, who is a very nice fellow, came along. He took me along to see the big wall decorations, by a young man named Whistler aged 21, in the refreshment room - decorations still far from finished. I enjoyed them.

The Expedition in Pursuit of Rare Meats
When Rex Whistler’s mural was unveiled, the restaurant at the Tate gallery was described as ‘The Most Amusing Room in Europe’. It was completed in 1927 by the 23-year-old student from the Slade School of Art. Whistler had been recommended by Professor Henry Tonks, and after submitting sketches of the design in 1926 began work in the restaurant. 
The idea for a mural painting had come from Joseph Duveen, whose intention was ‘to induce big caterers such as Lyons etc, to give similar commissions to young artists.’ He donated £500 towards the scheme, which supported Whistler at a rate of £5 a day over a period of eighteen months. Whistler devised the subject of the mural in collaboration with the novelist Edith Olivier. The story was ideally suited to a restaurant, recounting the expedition of a group of seven people who set out in search of exotic meats. They leave on bicycles, carts and horses from the ‘Duchy of Epicurania’, and travel through strange and wonderful lands encountering unicorns, truffle dogs and two giant gluttons guarding the entrance to a cave. The story ends with the travellers returning to a joyful homecoming, and the diet of the people, which had previously consisted of dry biscuits, is transformed.

I got outside and walked around. Finally into a tram to Victoria and thence by bus to Sloane Square. By good chance I found the ideas I wanted, and wrote them for three quarters of an hour. Then taxi to Reform Club for lunch.

Went on to Holland Park Hall with Spender, Roch and Earl Russell, to see Lenglen play tennis. Sparsely filled. The men's singles (Cozelin and Kinsey) were fine. Women's singles poor, because Lenglen (v. Dewhurst) had nothing to do. Cozelin is an exceedingly fine player. I should like to see him against Tilden. Another thing I should like to see would be Lenglen against a man - I mean a really good one, a first-rate man. She would be beaten but it would make a fine show, and would restore the public perspective. Lenglen is short and walks well, though with a rather peculiar step.

Suzanne Rachel Flore Lenglen (1899 – 1938) was a French tennis player who won 31 Championship titles between 1914 and 1926. A flamboyant, trendsetting athlete, she was the first female tennis celebrity and one of the first international female sport stars, named La Divine (the divine one) by the French press. Universally recognized as the greatest woman tennis player of the first half of the 20th Century, Suzanne Lenglen combined ballet and tennis strokes into an irresistible art form. A baseline perfectionist, Lenglen’s astonishing ball control and uncanny accuracy made her nearly invincible. She won six French Championships and half a dozen more at Wimbledon. The lissome, charismatic Frenchwoman died at 39 with an unparalleled record, which rendered her an authentically legendary figure in the history of women’s tennis. 

Additionally for July 6th., see 'Fellow travellers'

I came to Ludlow today. Fat female aristocrat in train. Dust cloak. Flower outside it. Jewel to fasten it. Many rings. Manicured. QueenTatler. Ethel M. Dell's latest novel. 3 cushions in a decided leather 'envelope'. Elaborate lunch basket. Greedy. When ticket collectors came, she referred them, with an apprehensive gesture, to her maid, lest she might be bothered. Two of them knew of her maid. The third said roughly: "I suppose your maid has your ticket?" Her fear about being worried about anything was obvious. At Shrewsbury she held 'envelope' whilst maid put cushions into it. Maid got her out of train and transferred her to Ludlow train. There was another and older and worse woman, with an aged maid in the same compartment. very hard. She was met by a companion sort of girl at Birmingham.

Saturday, 5 July 2014

The disposition of furniture

Thursday, July 5th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

My wife thinks that I am sick of her! Of course I have written to reassure her that this is not so, but perhaps she has a point. Certainly she takes too much upon herself and I have told her so. If I behaved to her as she behaves to me there would be dreadful scenes. Her complaint is that I will allow her to do nothing of her own volition in this house, which is simply not true. For example she has decreed that trees in the garden will not be cut down though several are dying and it is apparent to me that they need attention. Similarly she has completely altered the furniture of the small drawing-room, in defiance of my wishes, and I have held my tongue. We held a ball which I hate but she wanted and she completely changed the disposition of furniture in two rooms and the hall without consulting me at all. I will readily admit that I have very particular views as to how furniture should be arranged, but I am far from being the tyrant she suggests.

We have been married now for more than ten years and she is increasingly exasperating, but that is no doubt the experience of married couples everywhere. Some married people have told me that my descriptions of married life in "These Twain" are so true to life as to be painful, and I have no doubt drawn from my own experience. In any case I have told Marguerite that she should not imagine that I am sick of her, even for an hour. But at intervals she obliges me to explain to her that there are certain things I will not stand.

Additionally for July 5th., see 'Mundane matters'

Friday, 4 July 2014

Men of business

Thursday, July 4th., Cadogan Square, London.

Men of business are baffling creatures. Today I invited to lunch at a grill-room a prominent business man, because I wanted to straighten out certain obscure matters. A man accustomed to thinking in millions - other people's millions! He arrived a few minutes late, saying that he was excessively busy and had enough work to occupy two men. We drank cocktails. We then lunched - excellently. From time to time he repeated that he was an excessively busy man. We talked small talk about everything except our joint business. Again and again I led him gently to the brink of our business, but he could not persuade himself to plunge. Possibly the water looked too chilly. At 3 o'clock we were still conversing at large. At 3.15 I said to myself: "When does this fellow intend to go?" At 3.30 I said to myself: "This fellow will just have to go soon." At nearly 4 o'clock I said to him: "I'm very sorry but I must go." "So must I," he said. He went. And I doubt not that during the rest of the day and during all succeeding days, he would be assuring people that he was an excessively busy man. As for me, I had wasted two and a half hours of life's brief span, and about a couple of pounds.

On reflection, perhaps instead of just leading him to the brink I should have simply pushed him over the edge. He may well be wondering why I invited him to lunch and then failed to raise the matters of concern; though being 'excessively busy' he may have forgotten me already.

Additionally for July 4th., see 'Americana'

Thursday, 3 July 2014

At the exhibition

Saturday, July 3rd., Victoria Grove, Chelsea.

At Earl's Court Exhibition. It is good to bear in mind that all these vast vulgarised crowds of people are being subjected to the same influences which one feels oneself - the influences of bright colour and music, al fresco gaiety, and sex; that all the men enjoy more or less the close presence of these thousands of girls in their summer attire and white shoes, the smiles and light laughter coming from behind veils of spotted muslin; that this assemblage has not got itself together simply to provide a pleasurable humanising sensation for you, but that each unit of it revels in just that same sensation and will go away the better and the happier for it.

The Victorian Era Exhibition 1897; was held to commemorate the Diamond Jubilee, and the overall Victorian Era of Queen Victoria, celebrating her 60th year on the Throne. (1837–1897), the exhibition was held at Earls Court, and was opened by HRH The Duke of Cambridge, May 24, 1897. Unlike the later, "Earls Court (1) and current Earls Court (2)," this venue was mainly an outdoor arena, housing the Great Wheel, largest Ferris wheel in the world, from which you could see Windsor Castle on a clear day, the largest Water Chute in the world, and also including exhibitions of the equestrian Cowboy and Indian marvels of the entire Buffalo Bills Wild West show, a favourite of Queen Victoria. The indoor exhibition; was housed in a building approximately 360 foot long x 70 foot wide. The West-wing housed the Historical and Commemorative Section, consisting of the Historical Room, the Dickens and Thackeray Room opposite the Royal Room, and the Military and Naval Room, the East-wing housing the Fine Art Section.

Additionally for July 3rd., see 'Bibliophiles delight'

I have bought the hundred books which Bells allows you to select from the six hundred volumes of Bohn's Libraries. They stand in a long beautiful row, houseless on the top of my shelves. Arriving late last night from Witley, eager to view them - they had been delivered in my absence - I cut several of them and looked through Juvenal, Suetonius, and da Vinci.

Wednesday, 2 July 2014


Tuesday, July 2nd., Yacht Club, London.

Last Friday, for Ministry. I saw generals Macdonogh and Macready (first visit to War Office) and Albert Thomas, the French Socialist politician. 

Saturday I learnt at home that Lockyer was called up for medical exam.

Last night I dined with Beaverbrook, the Edwin Montagues and Diana Manners being of the party, at the Savoy. Dinner arranged for 9 p.m. At 9.15 Montagu and I having waited, began. The rest arrived at 9.20. When the conversation turned on Diana being the original of Queen in "The Pretty Lady" my attitude was apparently so harsh that Beaverbrook changed the subject. It may be that I was still a little cross from the late start. I cannot abide unpunctuality. We afterwards went five in a taxi to B.'s rooms at Hyde Park Hotel. After a time Diana and I sat on a window-sill of B.'s bedroom, looking at a really superb night view over the park. One small light burning in the bedroom. B.'s pyjamas second-rate. Some miscellaneous talk about life and women. After they had all gone but me B. asked me what I thought of Diana. I told him I thought she was unhappy through idleness. He said he liked her greatly. This may be ominous for her though I think she will prove more than a match for him. She has, apparently, described B. as “This strange attractive gnome with an odour of genius about him”. Interesting.

See also 'A visit to Berlin'
and 'The Wrong Lady Diana'

Additionally for July 2nd., see 'Feeling better'

Sprightly. I then went out for a walk in the fair but unsatisfactory weather. Returned by bus. Dined alone with Dorothy. We played the greater part of Schubert's Octet - pianoforte 4 mains. Great noise and fun, which did me much good, for I had been depressed.

Tuesday, 1 July 2014

End of war

Tuesday, July 1st., George Street, Hanover Square, London.

David Lloyd George, Vittorio Orlando, 
Georges Clemenceau, and Woodrow Wilson
Peace with Germany was signed on Saturday. So, the end of "the war to end all wars" - a likely prospect. Regrettably, wherever there are people so there will be conflict, and given a critical mass of people there will be war.

On 28 June 1919, Germany reluctantly signed the Treaty of Versailles as part of the Paris Peace Conference in the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles – exactly five years on from the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the spark that had ignited the First World War. However, the conditions in the treaty were so punitive upon Germany that many believe the Versailles Treaty laid the groundwork for the eventual rise of Nazis in Germany and the eruption of World War II.

Where does it all begin? History has no beginnings for everything that happens becomes the cause or pretext for what occurs afterwards, and this chain of cause and pretext stretches back to the palaeolithic age, when the first Cain of one tribe murdered the first Abel of another. All war is fratricide. There is therefore an infinite chain of blame that winds its circuitous route back and forth across the path and under the feet of every people and every nation. So, the people who are the victims of one time become the victimisers a generation later, and newly liberated nations resort immediately to the means of their former oppressors. The triple contagions of nationalism, utopianism and religious absolutism effervesce together into an acid that corrodes humanity's moral metal. 

I heard an ambassador answering questions this morning about the likely response of his nation to an apparent terrorist attack. He indicated that 'action' would be taken so as to punish the perpetrators, by which he meant not the actual people who carried out the attack but their host population. It was put to him that by responding to violence with violence only perpetuates the conflict. His response was to draw a distinction between his democratically governed nation and the terrorists. It strikes me that his government are democratically elected terrorists.