Theatricals

Thursday, March 3rd., George Street, London.

I reached home from Liverpool late on Tuesday night and was run off my brain-legs yesterday until 7 p.m. The play went most excellently in Liverpool, and the house was full, and I went before the curtain and so on. The mischief was that Tayler and I had to go out to supper afterwards to meet the whole company. This feast lasted until 2 a.m. I was most gratified by the attentions of some of the young lady cast members; I think it must have gotten about that I am restored to bachelorhood (or thereabouts).

On reaching Euston on Tuesday we found Herman Finck, the music hall composer, had come to meet us, so the least I could do was ask him to come with us to the flat. He stayed yarning, being a good yarner, until 12.20 a.m. By that time I was dead with fatigue, though diverted by the yarns. Finck has been a prolific composer for the last twenty years and must have pots of money I should think. Apparently he conducted the first phonograph record of Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker". A few risque stories about the famous 'Palace Girls' when he was conducting at the Palace Theatre which we were in a mood to enjoy.

Yesterday I was determined to lunch quietly at home, which I did. But there was a Lyric Theatre meeting in the afternoon and in the evening I dined with Beaverbrook at Fulham. Couldn't get away from there because I had promised to deliver home in my brougham Helen Drury, B's sister, and Eleanor Smith, daughter of the Lord Chancellor. These young girls definitely refused to move until midnight, and I had to keep my end up. So bed at 1.15 for me. However I slept well which surprised me. 

Off to the theatre yet again tonight for a first night of a David Garrick opera. Not looking forward to it, but what can you do?

Conscientious objector

 Friday, January 22nd., Cadogan Square, London.

Well, this is a pretty pickle! It appears that, through an attempt to be helpful, I am to financially embarrassed, or at least substantially out of pocket. 

At Masterman's funeral last November I promised to set on foot a scheme for collecting £4000 to ensure an education for her children, Charles having neglected to make provision for them. One of the people I approached, and who agreed to contribute to the extent of £1000, was Beaverbrook. He now tells me that he will not contribute because he has a 'conscientious objection' to trust funds. A conscientious objection to killing people I can understand, but to trust funds???

Since the funeral I have discussed how best to help Lucy and the children with numerous people, but especially with Reginald Bray and John Buchan. We all agreed that a trust fund was the best method. One of the chief reasons for having a trust is the extremely unbusinesslike character of Lucy Masterman. She is an excellent woman, but has no notion of money or even of paying bills when she has money. The Trust has in fact been formed, and I think it will work very well. It will assuredly work far better than any other scheme, The problem is that Beaverbrook was to contribute £1000, and seemingly is not now willing to do so.

I find this hard to understand. When I broached the subject with him in the first place, and he offered to contribute, he said he would give me a free hand as to how the money should be used. To be sure of this I asked him twice if that was what he wanted. He was clear. In the meantime I have had no opportunity to consult him as he has been away for some months, and have acted as I thought best. Well, there it is. I wrote to him yesterday to set out the situation and to attempt a little emotional blackmail. I said that if he did not now feel able to contribute then so be it, but that I felt morally bound and would find the extra £1000 myself. I hope to God that he relents!

I am still getting over Hardy's death and funeral. It seems to have hit me unexpectedly hard, and I don't know why. Thinking about it this evening whilst walking about in Battersea. What a different world from the one Hardy conjured so marvellously well. The streets are drab, the tenements repulsive, and the people mean. I saw an open gramophone shop with a machine grinding out a tune and a song, and an open 'Fun Fair' sort of place with a few small boys therein amusing themselves with penny-in-the-slot machines. What a life!

Hindsight

 Monday, December 5th., Cadogan Square, London.

Gloomy. I haven't yet got over the funeral of Gladys Beaverbrook on Saturday. These funeral rites in an English winter are absolutely barbaric. And what good do they serve? None that I can see.

Yesterday and again today I went for a long walk in darkness and mist. Suited my mood.

Also, thinking about Marguerite. Perhaps she doesn't know about Gladys' death yet? Would I go to M's funeral if she died before me? Probably not. In any case I wouldn't be invited, and I wouldn't be welcome. Over the course of this last week I have been signing 500 copies of the luxury facsimile deition of "The Old Wives Tale". Of course I was writing it when we were first married and I have been debating with myself the propriety of sending Marguerite a copy of this new edition. Today I decided I would and I have inscribed it with "Best Wishes". What a thing to write to someone you have been married to for 20 years! But I thought about it for a long time, and it was the best I could do. What will her reaction be when she opens the parcel? Tears I should think, then anger, then (hopefully) a sort of resigned acceptance of the spirit intended. We will see.

I find that I increasingly blame myself for the failure of our marriage. The fact is that I am a difficult person to live with. Just ask Dorothy! Of course M. was wrong to get involved with Legros but I should have seen how things were going and done something about it. We were happy with each other for the first few years and perhaps could have been again. To be honest it was a mistake buying the country house in Essex. Marguerite wasn't cut out for that sort of life and was never content there. If I had any sense we should have stayed in France where she had her family and I had the whole Parisian cultural landscape to explore; not like stuffy London! And I could have found an amiable young "friend" quite naturally and without recrimination. Hindsight is wonderful.

Hell with the lid off

Monday, November 11th., Cadogan Square, London.

Chamberlain

Just back from Beaverbrook's where I wrote 3,900 words of a story from Saturday evening until this morning. Bit of a hairy drive back with high winds and rain. It hardly seems to have stopped raining for months now and there is much evidence of flooding in the fields. Apparently they are having it particularly bad in Yorkshire where whole villages have been evacuated. One good thing about living in a big city is that one feels somewhat insulated from the weather.

Birkenhead

It has been a very political weekend, consorting with Austen Chamberlain, Birkenhead, Churchill and Lloyd George, not to mention Lord Walgrave, Sir Edward Hulton and Evelyn Fitzgerald. I like the name Evelyn for a man; I shall use it for one of my characters when the opportunity arises.

LLoyd George

Chamberlain, Birkenhead, Churchill and Lloyd George are a self-seeking crowd plotting and conspiring against the government under the benign influences of Max. I never heard pronciples or the welfare of the country mentioned. It is all about personal power and influence. To be honest I think they all have their best days behind them but cannot accept the fact that the country has moved on.

Churchill

Churchill had too much to drink last night, which is not unusual, and was quarrelsome with Birkenhead who is himself quite a tippler. Lloyd George and Chamberlain were quite restrained. On the whole it was a pitiable spectacle and not in the least reassuring. It was a pleasure though to see them all squinting askance at me when they said something to judge what effect they were making on me, and fearing my fountain pen. So, I had a great lark all-in-all. Max said to me this morning: "Arnold, you've seen hell with the lid off." Well, I had.

Passionately interested

Monday, March 3rd., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

On the 1st. I began my book on women but I only wrote about 100 words. I think I may call it simply "Our Women". I meant to go on with it yesterday but couldn't. After muddling about nearly all day I began again at 5 p.m. and wrote 600 good words before dinner. The book is now really begun. I must admit to some misgivings and I expect to get a fair amount of criticism when it is published, but something needs to be said about the changing role of women and if not by me then who?

I have written to Max Beaverbrook today about theatrical matters. I need some advice. For a man who has two telephones in his office he is singularly difficult to get at. It is all to do with the affair of the Hammersmith Theatre lease. If I don't get hold of the lease Horne will assuredly sell it to one of the theatrical rings, who, I think, would give him an appreciable profit. At the moment he is prepared to sell to me for the amount he paid originally. I don't want to miss the chance. I have now, to my immense chagrin, become passionately interested in it. People have told me this is what happens when you get mixed up in the theatrical business - it gets hold of you.

The theatre has been closed for over a year, and before that it had a bad melodramatic reputation. We have undoubtedly put it on the map, and unless the wild sensationalism of the Daily Express, the Daily Sketch and the Daily Mirror plunges this millionaire-ridden country into anarchy, we have an excellent chance of accomplishing something permanent and valuable. The artistic credit will be Nigel Playfair's. The credit on the practical side will be mine and Alistair Tayler's. The press has been exceedingly kind on the whole, and already our prestige is unquestionable. So much so that we have been invited to take sole charge of the Shakespeare Memorial Week at Stratford.

Fearing the worst

Thursday, March 1st., 75 Cadogan Square, London.

I dined with Beaverbrook at the Vineyard, Fulham. He has given up his office on the top floor of the Express building. Nobody but me and Max. We grew rather intimate again. He said that I seemed not quite myself. He is right. I felt able to share some thoughts about why I am feeling the way I am at present. I think it has done me some good. At any rate I have written a letter to Dorothy in France to clear up a few things between us. I have been feeling very 'flat' lately, which is what Max recognised. Not depressed. Just lacking in any cheeriness, good humour, optimism .... that sort of thing.

I told Dorothy in my letter that she has a general tendency to exaggerate troubles and inconveniences, and that she still has a lot to learn about human relations. She asked me, quite seriously, before she departed why I'm not the same bright thing at home that I am in company. I really marvel at the question and told her so in my letter. I am not for the same reason that she is not, and that everybody is not; it would be absurd even if possible. Then there was the recent incident with Miss Nerney. I was staggered at the scene she made with Miss N. over something so trifling that I cannot even recall it. It was all because D. was in a temper. Now Miss N. has her faults, as do we all, but she has much common sense, is completely devoted and trustworthy and faithful. Frankly I would be lost without her. The way D. spoke to her was extremely painful to me and Miss N. was upset for days. There was no justification for it, and I have told her so. Regrettably I am put in mind of the letters I used to write to Marguerite when she behaved badly. I always feel that to write things down, soberly, is so much better than getting embroiled in argument with its attendant blame. Of course it never works, not with women. I can be sure that at some time in the future, when we are arguing, D. will quote extensively from my letter to demonstrate just how 'inconsistent' I am. I fear the worst.
 
I stayed talking to Max until 11.53, and arranged to go down to Cherkley on Sunday for the night. I think I will look forward to that.

Raingo

Wednesday, November 10th., Cadogan Square, London.

I finished Part I (including all the political stuff) of "Lord Raingo" on Monday afternoon, to my great relief. While doing this I could not be bothered to write journals or do anything that I was not absolutely compelled to do. 83,000 words of the novel are now done. Beaverbrook has read all but the last four (short) chapters, to vet it for political correctness, and he is enthusiastic about it, thrilled by it. He only found one small slip in it (about the time it would be possible for Raingo to leave the House of Commons after hearing a debate). He found another slip; but it wasn't one. He made two suggestions: one for altering the wording of a telgram; the other in a form of address. It is marvellous to me that I have been able to do all these complicated politics without once getting off the rails. I can scarcely believe it. 

Beaverbrook said he would guarantee the rightness of the politics, though quite what that means in practice I don't know. he has a tendency to over-enthuse. he said it was the finest thing he had read for years. Miss Nerney also describes it as "a very fine book". I rather value her opinion more and so am rather reassured. My misgivings continue to be whether it is of any interest outside that small group of people who have an active interest in political affairs? Will the average reader find it tedious? I don't know.

I have put it to one side now while I write an article and work up the libretto of the "Bandits" which Phillpotts and I are doing for music by Austin.

Today I corrected the typescript of a short story "The Cornet Player" which I think is the most original story I have ever written

Coming to an end

Tuesday, October 22nd., Yacht Club, London.

The war is drawing to a close, thank god! In fact last week there was a very strong rumour, apparently emanating from the Foreign Office, that Germany had capitulated to all Wilson's terms and that the Kaiser had abdicated. Proved not to be true, so a few more soldiers will die whilst the politicians pontificate and delay. Surely they could call a truce whilst the preliminary negotiations take place? Too simple an idea for the political mind!

Not surprisingly there is a deep-seated resentment towards Germany and an overt desire to inflict punishment. What those who advocate this miss of course is that it will not be the political classes in Germany who suffer but the ordinary people. It is always the way. For myself I have no resentment towards the German people, though I would be happy to see the Kaiser hung from a lamp-post. My magnanimity in this respect surprises me somewhat as I am, by nature, a person who bears a grudge. If someone gets on the wrong side of me then, as a rule, there is no getting back. There are people who I have not spoken to for years, and who have probably forgotten what precipitated my hostility; but I do not forget, or forgive! Not a pleasant aspect of my personality as I freely admit, but it is my way and I don't expect to change now; indeed I don't intend to.

I have slept at the flat since the end of last week. Very exciting and rather uncomfortable with a mad servant aged 70 in the place. Of course, once this is over, I will have to resume 'normal' life which means returning to the rigours of marriage. I dread the prospect. Unless Marguerite moderates her behaviour (which is less likely than me abandoning a grudge) I see no alternative to a further deterioration in our relationship culminating in a separation. The only question is how long it will take.

Saturday night: "AsYou Were" at the Pavilion. A few fair jokes (verbal). As a whole, terribly mediocre. Every scene turned on adultery, or mere copulation. Even in a primeval forest scene, and adultery among gorillas was shown. This revue is the greatest success in London at present, and is taking about £3000 a week. So much for popular taste.

In bed all day Sunday with neuralgia. Pored with rain all day. It now appears that Beaverbrook, more and more ill, will resign. Conflabs daily in the Ministry which is steadily being restructured.

Wartime worries

Wednesday, April 10th., Yacht Club, London.

Too much occupied and preoccupied with the British defeats, the government proposals for increasing the army, the publication of "The Pretty Lady", political journalism, the gardening and household difficulties, chill on the entrails, neuralgia, insomnia, Marguerite's illness, the nightly rehearsals in the small drawing-room of a play for the Red Cross performance at Clacton, and my new play - to be bothered with this journal or notes of any kind. However, I did at last, in spite of all distractions, get my play going, and it is going. 

Meeting of British War Memorial Committee this afternoon. Beaverbrook arrived. He told me that he liked "The Pretty Lady" better than any other book of mine, and better than any other modern book. Needless to say, I took his praises with a pinch of salt but praise is praise. As regards sales, I hear it is 'doing very nicely'. With Beaverbrook I am trying to ensure that young artists, including those seen as modernist or avant garde, are commissioned by the Committee over older artists with nothing original to say.

Maurice Baring

Maurice Baring and Frank Swinnerton dined with me tonight at the Yacht Club. After F.S. had gone Maurice grew communicative about the war. Knows Haig. Thinks him a real personality with grit, decision, and power of command. Never rattled, a good soldier, but not a genius. No reserves in France. Depots empty. Lloyd George always refused to look at facts, but liked ideas, grandiose etc. for a new stunt. Cabinet did not believe in German offensive. Soldiers did. Haig told Cabinet long ago facts as to inferiority of manpower, and expected them to be frightened out of their lives. They were not as they did not believe in the possibility of an offensive. Maurice expects an attack on Haig next. He didn't think we should lose the war - we could hold on and Germans would crack. He said that Haig had no desire to conceal the facts as to lack of troops, and spoke freely of them and permitted others to do so. Unfortunately of course one can't print the facts; although the Germans probably know them pretty well.

Trouble in paradise

Saturday, February 27th., Winter Palace, Menton.

Reflected in garden for 40 minutes after I was dressed. I sat in the sun without moving and yet I perspired. Lot to think about at the moment. There is the business of Richard's engagement for a start. I have written to his 'intended' and invited her to stay at Cadogan Square. Haven't met her yet. Looks pretty. Mostly on my mind though is Sep's illness. Latest from Tertia gives me the impression it is just a matter of time. Here am I, literally sunning myself on the Riviera, and he is dying in a nursing home in North Wales. But I can't simply abandon Dorothy in her condition, and what could I do if I went there? I could write to Sep, but it seems so impersonal, and what could I say? Some admission for me to be lost for words!

At noon we started to drive over to La Turbie to lunch with Max and Gladys Beaverbrook. Magnificent drive along the Grande Corniche. It was a good luncheon party in strong sunshine with a tang in the air. As well as the Beaverbrooks there was William Gerhardi and a fellow named Mayhew (with a most singular overcoat) on the staff of the Chicago Tribune. Max was restless, but that is normal. Gladys was delightful. Gerhardi in better form than usual. Gerhardi had met Rothermere last night at dinner for the first time. Max asked him what he thought of him. Gerhardi side-splittingly replied: "I think he has a sweet nature". Max roared himself red in the face.

Max asked me how much I would take for the film rights of "The Pretty Lady". I said I had got £2000  for "Sacred and Profane Love". He said he would pay this if he produced the film. I hope to god he will as I could do with the money!

Newspapers

Beaverbrook

Thursday, December 7th., Cadogan Square, London.

Max recently bought the Evening Standard and I have hopes that he will make something of it. I wrote recently offering him a few suggestions. But what concerns me at the moment is the Express and I am gathering my thoughts to write about that.

The fact is that I can't understand the paper's current policy, nor do I know anybody who can. It seems that the editorship (Max?) have conceived two policies, and haven't chosen between them. No doubt Max would say they are not mutually exclusive, and perhaps they are not, but I doubt that it is politic to run two war-cries side by side. They have an 'Imperial' policy and an 'anti-labour' policy and in order to back the latter they encourage voters in certain circumstances to vote against the former. Quite possibly there is a third unstated policy which is to bring down Baldwin at any cost.

I don't think that the Express has yet justified its Imperial policy. For example they have not disposed of the British criticism that the colonies want something for nothing, or something positive in exchange for something highly problematical. Nor have they answered the criticism that Colonial preference will still the retail price of goods affected by it just as high as if there were no Colonial preference. Nor have they done anything to soften the British impression (doubtless false) that the colonies are a damned grasping lot of coves.

I may also mention headlines. Considering that they have an immense psychological effect I think the Express should be handling its headlines better than it has been of late. As for the Daily Mail, I can remember in the popular press no such sustained exhibition of dishonest fatuity as it has given to the world during the last fortnight.

Adultery everywhere

Wednesday, October 30th., Yacht Club, London.

Lord Beaverbrook

I was summoned by Beaverbrook yesterday. He was in bed, bandaged, depressed, having been told by the doctor in the morning that he had septic poisoning. This results from an operation he has had for some unspecified (at least to me) condition. Of course he has had to resign as Minister of Information and I am de facto holding the fort. I said that I would go if he did, fearing the terrible politicking which afflicts every aspect of governmental work. It is all about personal status and prestige, so it seems to me. Any good achieved seems more or less accidental, arising because it happens to be useful to one of the actors in the drama. I doubt that I could contrive a plot from this experience which anybody would find credible. But I may try one of these days. Somebody once told me that "everything is material", and they were right.

When Lady B. and Needham, B's Secretary at the Ministry, had left the room, he began to smoke and to talk intimately, and said: "You know, Arnold, my life has been all crises. I was worth 5 millions when I was 27. And now this is a new crisis and it is the worst." However, he cheered up.

Bonar Law came in and was very courteous and cautious to me. He said that his sister had been a very great and constant admirer of mine, but since "The Pretty Lady" she had done with me. Quite why she should have been so upset I felt it inopportune to enquire. In any case, I am unconcerned. It seems to me that "Pretty Lady" is rather tame by current standards. The sensual appeal is now really marked everywhere, in both speech and action, on the stage. Adultery everywhere pictured as desirable, and copulation generally ditto. Actresses play courtesan parts (small ones, often without words but with gestures) with gusto. I suppose in years to come when historians are writing about our times they will see the slackening of morals as a consequence of the war.

Woman scorned?

Friday, September 26th., Cadogan Square, London

Lord Dewar made a speech at the anniversary of the Savoy Orpheans Jazz Orchestra on Wednesday night. It had a lot of wit. He said, for example "It is fortunate that our jazz bands only use blank cartridges."


Max Beaverbrook rang me up last night and said "Arnold, I want to tell you that the Daily Express has been offered a biography of you written by Mrs. A.B. They wanted to make it a condition that we should treat the offer as confidential, secret; but I absolutely refused to do any such thing. So I'm telling you. Our man has read it all through and likes it. Says he wouldn't mind anyone saying of him in his lifetime what is said of you in the book. If you have any objection I won't buy it; but if you haven't I'd like to."

I reasoned that if the Express or any other paper refused it, M. would put the refusal down to me, and would be accordingly resentful. She would never understand the awful bad taste of the whole thing, whether accurate or inaccurate, praising or blaming, etc. It is bound to be published somewhere; it is bound to make people think that I am partner in the bad taste. But if it is to be published I would sooner it be published by someone who is very friendly and who will take care that nothing offensive appears in it.

And today I have been to see my consultant about a long standing problem (it was diagnosed 5 years ago). I have been advised that although treatment is possible the side effects may be as bad as the condition itself, perhaps even worse. There is a good chance that there will be no deterioration and that I will die with the condition, not from it. The term used is "active surveillance" and it means I get checked out every few months to see if there has been any change. So far so good. Apparently a lot of men find it impossible to live with the uncertainty, and demand treatment as soon as possible. It doesn't seem to be bothering me, which I am pleased about. Perhaps my avowed stoicism has some basis after all! On the positive side I think that the knowledge that I have a potentially life threatening condition has made me appreciate the time I have more. I don't see life as a cumulative affair - the longer you live the "better"; what is important is how you live today.

Socialites

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.

Impressions

Wednesday, May 5th., George Street, London.

I went for weekend to Beaverbrook's on Saturday and returned on Monday. Max has now two crazes - playing tennis all day - and sleeping at night in the garden. He gave me the full history of his relations with his father, as material for my next 'big' novel. (But I am afraid that I shall have to write a little one first) he also promise to tell me stories of 'deals' as material for short stories. Especially Strathcona's life in England.
For more on Beaverbrook see 'A visit to Berlin' and 'Leading the high life'

He had a series of Mutt and Jeff cartoons in which Ll. George and Bonar Law were Mutt and Jeff, and Ll. George was always playing tricks on B. Law. Ll. George expressed curiosity earnestly to see these things, and so Max asked him and Mrs. Ll. George to come to Cherkley to see them on his private screen. It was an ordeal. practically the whole Bonar Law family came down in batches while I was there. All perfectly delightful - papa, two girls and two boys.

Monday night: "Mary Rose", Barrie's new play at the Haymarket. Tedious. The papers for the most part hailed this work as a great masterpiece.

Mary Rose is a play by J.M. Barrie, who is best known for Peter Pan. It first played in London in April 1920. It tells the fictional story of a girl who vanishes twice. As a child, Mary Rose's father takes her to a remote Scottish island. While she is briefly out of her father's sight, Mary Rose vanishes. The entire island is searched exhaustively. Twenty-one days later, Mary Rose reappears as mysteriously as she disappeared ... but she shows no effects of having been gone for three weeks, and she has no knowledge of any gap or missing time. Years later, as a young wife and mother, the adult Mary Rose persuades her husband to take her to the same island. Again she vanishes: this time for a period of decades. When she is found again, she is not a single day older and has no awareness of the passage of time. In the interim, her son has grown to adulthood and is now physically older than his mother. Barrie, who normally wrote with his right hand, wrote Mary Rose with his left hand due to a "writer's cramp".

Last night "The Skin Game", Galsworthy's new play at the St. Martin's. This play may be a melodrama, but it is a very good one indeed and it holds you absolutely. It is very well acted. It is a tale, an incident, whose effect depends on coincidence, and it has no general significance. The writing and the observation are excellent.

The Skin Game is a play by John Galsworthy. It was first performed at the St Martins Theatre, London in 1920. It was included in Burns Mantle's The Best Plays of 1920-1921. The plot tells the story of the interaction between two very different families in rural England just after the end of the First World War. One, the Hillcrists is “old money”, although their finances are at a bit of low ebb. The other family is the “nouveau riche” Hornblowers, headed by the single-minded and rich industrialist Hornblower who plans to surround the Hillcrist’s rural estate with factories.

Lillah McCarthy

After this show we went to Lillah and Fred Keeble's reception after their marriage. Lillah most beautiful. Lady Wyndham was there; aged. I thought: "Lillah will be like that one day." But perhaps she never will be like that. And how do I appear to others? Do I look my age, or older, or younger? The mirror fails to enlighten me on this important subject. 
For more on Lillah McCarthy see 'Indecent exposure?'

The usual crowd.

Additionally for May 5th., see 'The noble savage'

I have been reading some Rider Haggard. Though a popular and sensational writer there are good thing in his work. He can certainly tell a tale. "King Solomon's Mines", for example, carries the reader inexorably forward and is hard to put down. He is at his best when writing of the Zulus. Though he retains some of the prejudice towards 'natives' which characterise the white man, he is clearly an admirer of the Zulus. There is real poetry in some of his descriptive passages and my sense is that this derives from his knowledge of Zulu language and culture. Women are incidental to the story. Even "Nada the Lily" for example is about the hero Umslopogaas, not about Nada, and he is prone to idealise white women. Overall not to be sniffed at;  a useful relief from 'literature'!

Chinatown

Tuesday, April 28th., Cadogan Square, London.

Limehouse Police Station

I went to Chinatown last night with Beaverbrook and Ashfields. Pennyfields is the name of the chief street, Limehouse. We went to the Limehouse police station first. It took us exactly 15 minutes to drive there from Ciro's. Great change in a short time. We saw some 'curios'( as the Chief Inspector called them) first. Expanation of "Fantan" and "Pluck Pigeons". the first seems a purely childish game in which the bank pays 2 to 1 winnings on a 4 to 1 chance.

Then out with the Inspector to Pennyfields. No gambling after 8 o'clock he said, usually not later than 7. We entered two Chinese restaurants (11 p.m.) where lots of people were drinking tea. Humble people. All very clean and tidy indeed, and the people looked decent. A few nice-looking prostitutes - chiefly Jewesses. Nearly all houses closed. Some windows, said the Chief Inspector, were always shuttered. "They don't like the light". Glimpses of curtained bedrooms higher up. We went into a Chinese Music Club, where four men were playing Mah Jong and one strumming a sort of Chinese guitar, with very large string-pegs. Their singing nights were Wednesday and Saturday. A suggestion that they should sing was not well received. They were very polite but didn't want us. We were to have seen the Chinese Chapel, where the religion of Confucius is practised; but it was locked up. 


Then we went into a pub (closed) and found one or two old topers (friends of proprietor's) drinking stout after hours. We were taken upstairs and there saw a wonderful collection of Chinese carving of all sorts - chiefly picked up from sailors. lastly, return to Police Station. No prisoners. Cells marvellously clean and sanitary. Steam heating. Temp. must be 63 at least. Plank bed, white as a yachts forecastle, but a pretty comfortable pillow; one rug. On the whole a rather flat night. Still we saw the facts. We saw no vice whatever. Inspector gave the Chinese an exceedingly good character.

Has any district of London attracted as much attention as did Limehouse between the Great War and the 1930s? Limehouse, and its ghostly double ‘Chinatown’, figured as a dangerous and exotic place in a whole series of novels, films, magazines, even in popular songs. Public responses to several drug scandals, to interracial marriage, to housing shortages and unemployment, contributed to an enduring myth: the idea of a Chinatown in Limehouse that never really existed. Before the First World War there were never more than a few hundred Chinese people in London - and many of these were transitory sailors. 

http://untoldlondon.org.uk/articles/read/the_chinese_in_limehouse_1900_-_1940

Additionally for April 28th., see 'Backwards in time'

We dropped anchor in the Candia roadstead about 8.30 a.m. Knossos is the magnet that draws the inquisitive tourist to Candia. You drive two or three short miles, past Venetian fortifications and past vineyards, under a most fervent sun, and are immediately moved backwards several thousand years. The excavations and reconstructions have evidently been carried out with the greatest skill, judgement and imagination. Their achievement is to make you see and feel what at any rate the latest palace actually was.

Beaverbrook

Tuesday, February 23rd., Hotel Winter Palace, Menton.

Beaverbrook arrived with Morris Woods from Nice. Max talked with us for about an hour, and then Max dashed off again, to Cannes, to meet his mother and Gladys. He said his heart gave an extra beat now and then; but he wouldn't have a big (or a little) doctor for the disease. He had bought James Mackenzie's book on the subject, and stood by that. He said that he was a sure mark for any big and strong-willed doctor, and feared to enter on the career of an invalid. I suggested that he should visit a doctor anonymously; he agreed that that might do. He was playing golf daily. Freddie Lonsdale was with him. Max was going on an Eastern Mediterranean tour in the Mauritania on Saturday night from Villefranche. He had taken five cabins and hadn't yet invited any of his guests. He meant to invite them tonight.

Additionally for February 23rd., see 'Writing for a living'

Today I publish my first book, "A Man from the North". I have seen it mentioned in several papers among "Books Received". Beyond that, I have scarcely thought of it. The fact has not at the moment interested me. But during the last few days I have been several times naively surprised that some of my friends are not more awake and lively to the fact than they seem to be. Perhaps it has interested me more than I thought?

On tour

Tuesday, August 19th., Aberdeen.

I am on a motor tour with Beaverbrook.
See also, 'A visit to Berlin', September 13th., http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/a-visit-to-berlin.html

I only saw Max afraid or out of feather once, and that was when we landed in a poor hotel at Perth on Sunday afternoon for the night. He could not stick it. We went on to Aberdeen.

We travelled up to the rate of 75 m.p.h. Passed a racing Mercedes at 69 and somewhere near Forfar on the way to Sterling, killed three partridges on the windscreen out of a covey that was picking in the middle of the road and failed to get up quick enough.

Max's interest in the Border - chieftain robbers and their keeps and methods - was very noticeable. He returned to the subject again and again.

He told me that someone said of him: "He began at Halifax and Halifax wasn't big enough. He left Montreal because Montreal wasn't big enough. He went to London and London wasn't big enough, and when he gets to hell he'll be too big for hell."

At Perth, we met Lord Dewar. Excessively rich but won't spend money. He said sorrowfully that he would have to spend 7 hours the next day in order to get to Harrogate. The idea of having a car had not apparently occurred to him.

Thomas Robert "Tommy" Dewar, 1st Baron Dewar (1864 – 1930) was a Scottish whisky distiller who, along with his brother John Dewar, built their family label, Dewar's, into an international success. They blended their whisky to make it more appealing to the international palate and Dewar demonstrated particular skills in marketing, travelling the world to find new markets and promote his product, exploiting romantic images of Scotland and tartan in his advertising.

Max gave me the history of the last 15 years of his father's life, beginning with the old man's phrase when he retired from the pastorate at the age of 70: "The evening mists are gathering," meaning that doubts had come to him about the reliability of the doctrines he had been preaching. He died at 85, and in his last years he spent 55,000 dollars of Max's money. It is a great subject for a novel.

Life and death

Monday, June 4th., Cadogan Square, London.

I worked in the morning on proofs and instructions concerning my Mediterranean book. Good sleep after lunch. I went on with work on the Mediterranean book. At last decided on a title for the book, "Mediterranean Scenes". Then I finished up the proofs, illustrations, etc.

I've been reading "Endymion". Opening too descriptive and too generally narrative, not individual enough in event and description. But it can be read.

Yesterday Dorothy and I went down to Beaverbrook's at Cherkley for lunch, and found a lot of gloomy and silent people there. We enlivened them somewhat, but not enough. However we had a nice drive.
See also, 'Leading the High Life' - September 18th. http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/leading-high-life.html

It was a great relief for me to learn from the managing director and the producer, Dupont, of British International Films Ltd. that "Piccadilly" the film which I have written for them is absolutely perfect from their point of view. I have never before seen men so enthusiastic about any work of mine as they were. They immediately asked me to write another film for them. But my policy in such a case is always to hang fire, to make difficulties, to say that I cannot etc. But I shall probably write them another film all the same. The difficulties and the delays only whet their appetite.

Piccadilly is a 1929 British silent drama film directed by Ewald André Dupont, written by Arnold Bennett and starring Gilda Gray, Anna May Wong, and Jameson Thomas. The film was produced by British International Pictures and released by Wardour Films Ltd. in the UK, and distributed in the US by Sono Art-World Wide Pictures. It is best remembered for the performance by Anna May Wong as a vamping dancer, Shosho, who becomes the star of the Piccadily Club and the obsession of Valentine Wilmot (Jameson Thomas), the owner of the club.

I had an article in the Daily News on Saturday entitled "Where are the Dead?" It amounted to a sort of response to, an article the previous day by E. A. Knox, formerly Bishop of Manchester, who propounded a conventional Christian view of the 'afterlife'. I of course expressed little interest in congregations of spirits. Believing, as I do, that matter and spirit are inseparable, two sides of the same coin, I conclude that dissolution of material organisation means dissolution of spiritual. It seems to me that any normally intelligent person, not unduly constrained by social convention, can see at a glance that ideas of resurrection and 'eternal life' are laughable. The stories of organised religion would not deceive a sensible ten year old child were they not wrapped up in an envelope of  ritual, tradition and mumbo-jumbo.

The Daily News was a national daily newspaper in the United Kingdom. It was founded in 1846 by Charles Dickens, who also served as the newspaper's first editor and was conceived as a radical rival to the right-wing Morning Chronicle. The paper was not at first a commercial success. Dickens edited 17 issues before handing over the editorship. Charles Mackay, Harriet Martineau, George Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, G.K. Chesterton and Arnold Bennett were among the leading reformist writers who wrote for the paper during its heyday. In 1901, Quaker chocolate manufacturer George Cadbury bought the Daily News and used the paper to campaign for old age pensions and against sweatshop labour. As a pacifist, Cadbury opposed the Boer War – and the Daily News followed his line. In 1906, the News sponsored an exhibition on sweated labour at the Queen's Hall. This exhibition was credited with strengthening the women's suffrage movement. In 1909, H. N. Brailsford and H. W. Nevinson resigned from the paper when it refused to condemn the force feeding of suffragettes. 

A "Judas" sort of day

Friday, May 16th., Cadogan Square, London.

I was in the park yesterday thinking about a short story, and saw a woman on horseback with an old man who had a striking resemblance to Cunningham Graham. The woman stopped her horse and spoke to me. She said I shouldn't remember her name and I didn't. She then introduced me to Cunningham Graham. C.G. didn't hear. "Who are you?" he asked. "Ah, " he said, "I didn't recognise Mr. B. in a hat. The photos of him - " I took off my hat and showed my hair, and said: "Is it true to the photos?" I complimented him and asked how he was. He said, "As well as possible under the reign of MacChadband." Prejudice against Labour showed itself instantly, and you could see that the Labour regime was very much on his mind, since it leaped out at the first opportunity. I stuck up for Ramsay MacDonald. He said that the Clydesiders, and especially Kirkwood, always called him MacChadband (because he preached so much). I said he was a very decent fellow. "So was Judas - a very decent fellow!" said C.G. and went on a bit about Judas, larkishly. "Who told you that, C.G., about Judas?" I asked. He hesitated and said, "I - I got it out of the Talmud." I said, "I see, I withdraw. You have the better of me." He stretched out his hand to say goodbye. A sporting sort of cuss.

Robert Bontine Cunninghame Graham ( 1852-1936) - known as the Gaucho Laird and nicknamed Don Roberto - was a Scottish politician, writer, journalist and businessman. Although born in London e was raised in Renfewshire and Dunbartonshire, and later studied in Brussels before moving to Argentina to make his fortune in cattle ranching. This was not entirely a success, and he was even kidnapped by rebels. After some time in Mexico and Texas, he returned to Scotland in 1883 following the death of his father, became interested in politics and was the first Socialist Member of Parliament, although he was elected as a Liberal Party candidate. He was also the first MP to be suspended from the House of Commons for swearing, using the word damn on an attack on the House of Lords in 1887. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries he wrote a number of books, from short stories, biographies, history and travel books, particularly on South American subjects. Graham also wrote on a number of political subjects, increasingly radical and liberal, and co-founded the Scottish Labour Party with Keir Hardie. In 1892 he stood in the general election as a Labour candidate, but was defeated. A strong supporter of Scottish independence, and helped establish the Scottish Home Rule Association. In 1934, two years before his death, he was the first president of the Scottish National Party. Robert Cunningham Graham died in 1936 in Buenos Airies, Argentina, while visiting friends. 

Last evening Max Beaverbrook was telling us a story which he had bought from a divorce detective for £50 but dare not use. It was all to do with a woman who engaged the services of a private detective, ostensibly because of apparent infidelity by her husband. In the end it turned out that the husband was a murderer, and was given-away to the police by the detective. Another sort of "Judas"!