Gloom

Wednesday, December 19th., Yacht Club, London.

Yarned at Reform Club with Harold Massingham and a few others. Then finished Sardonyx article, and then saw Gardiner who said the "Thugs" were after him now. Apparently all to do with his recent attacks on Lloyd George interpreted as meaning that the Daily News is pro-German and represents nothing in England. What poppycock! Just wartime hysteria which will blow over, but I can see why he is anxious about it.

Then to Turkish Baths. Masterman and Squire. Masterman told us that the new Allied Military Council at Versailles is an absolute farce. I am not surprised. Seemingly their main concern is to get equal representation of all the allies on the Council. Nobody would guess there is a war on! Turkish bathing is very civilised. No wonder it was so popular with the Romans. Squire is something of a scholar and tells me that the Roman bigwigs would regularly meet in the Baths to talk politics and business. And they had a system of being oiled (by slaves presumably) all over and then 'scraped' with a special instrument called a strigil to remove the oil and dirt at the same time. I wouldn't mind trying it, especially if I had the right sort of slave to rub the oil in.

I was wakened out of my after-bath sleep by news of an impending air-raid. This made me feel gloomy. I didn't mind missing dinner at the flat, or anything - I was merely gloomy. As soon as I got out into Northumberland Avenue I heard guns. Motors and people rushing. Then guns very close. I began to run. I headed for the Reform Club, and abandoned idea of reaching the flat. Everybody ran. Girls ran. However, I found that after the Turkish bath I couldn't run much in a heavy overcoat. So I walked. It seemed a long way. Guns momentarily ceased. So I didn't hurry and felt relieved. But still prodigiously gloomy. When I reached the Club the hall was in darkness. No girls in the Coffee Room. The menservants manfully tackled the few diners. Nothing could be had out of the kitchen as it is under glass and deserted.

All clear at about 9.30. I heard later that there were five bomber planes and that ten people were killed and a lot more injured. Oddly that made me feel less gloomy.

 

Scandalous

Friday, November 15th., Yacht Club, London.

My resignation from Ministry took effect yesterday. Buchan, the liquidator, came down to see me and was very explanatory and apologetic. The behaviour of the Cabinet to me was of course scandalous. But they have treated many others similarly so I was not surprised. The only notice I got was a Roneo'd copy of the War Cabinet minute. I was never consulted in any way. Well, that is another, and most unexpected, phase of life behind me. It will be a relief to resume my normal working habits. The only negative is that I will have no further reason to keep these rooms at the Yacht Club, and I have enjoyed my 'bachelor' status while it lasted; back to being a full-time married man.

Sir Robert Donald

Luncheon to Robert Donald at Connaught Rooms. 400 there to honour him because he had not sold himself to the new proprietors of the Chronicle, a consortium centred on Lloyd George. He says that Ll G. is "trying to corner public opinion". The toastmaster in a red coat was the cream of the show. He had a terrifically bland manner, especially with his supplicating hands. And having prayed silence for toast of King he rushed madly right round the room and played "God Save the King" on the piano.

At night, dinner to American editors of Trade Journals at the Savoy. Smuts in the chair. Nothing special except that Smuts claimed some German colonies for British dependencies. I doubt the wisdom of that policy. It is one thing to defeat an enemy; it is another to humiliate him and thereby sow the seeds of future resentment.

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.

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.

Something wrong with the world

Saturday, March 31st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

I came home yesterday morning. Beautiful day. Snowfall and a lot of rain in the morning. As soon as the rain ceased at noon, the whole landscape began to steam, even before the sun had got fairly out. I find myself admiring the natural world, and then it comes back to me that only just across the sea, men are crouching in trenches, exposed to the elements I am admiring, and being shot at. There is something wrong with the world! I have read accounts of people with mental disorder who have a sort of 'split' in their personality, and that is how the world is at present, from my point of view anyway.

For example we were at the theatre in London the other night laughing and enjoying ourselves. It was the best evening I have had at the theatre for I don't know how long. Then you come out with nothing on your mind except the play you have seen, and maybe there is an air raid; immediately you must switch to a different state of mind. All this must be having a tremendous impact on the nerves of the public. 

The play was Pierre Veber's "Gonzague", a common farce of intrigue, but ingeniously constructed. There is nobody in England (whether or not as bereft of genius as Veber is) who could construct a little farce so well. Nothing to it but very agreeable to witness. Excellently produced and excellently played.

As regards the war, Donald said that the Russians would make no offensive this year, and that had it not been for the Revolution they would have made peace. He also said that he was getting some men to write messages to Russia for cabling, but that he had to obtain Lloyd George's approval first. During the afternoon he sent me up a note to say that he had obtained the approval and would I send in 500 word message quickly.

All based on copulation

Wednesday, January 2nd., Yacht Club, London.

Came to London yesterday. George Paish's Food Question lunch arranged for yesterday had been put off without warning me. Rather irritating. So I lunched with Ross at the Reform.

Afterwards turkish bath with Masterman. who said that the shine of the present Honours List would be nothing to that of the List when Ll. George quitted the Premiership. He would have everything to wipe up then. What a travesty the whole business seems to me, and so many otherwise sensible men (and their wives) are consumed by it. To think that at this stage in the twentieth century, and with the greatest war the world has ever endure still going on, titles which belong in the Middle Ages are being dispensed as 'rewards'. Surely success in your chosen field of activity is sufficient reward? I would like to be offered an Honour so as to have the great pleasure of refusing it.

On reaching the Club I read the Book of Esther in the Eversley Bible which I have newly bought. A good Eastern story, exceedingly ingenuous, all based on copulation.

A funeral

Monday, November 21st., Cadogan Square, London.

Disturbed night; dreamed much. I seldom dream. 
I did some work today for a change.
I began my new short story at 10.30 after a walk, and wrote 600 words of it in about an hour. 

I then set off in the rain to St. Margaret's for the funeral service of Charles Masterman. A lot of people there. Ll. George following the coffin. I didn't like the sight of him there. 
At 9 I was at Mrs. Masterman's discussing her affairs with her. I promised to set on foot a scheme for collecting £4,000 for education of the three children, all of whom I saw. I shall write to H.G. to ask if he would contribute.
Also for Charles Masterman see 'Writing for victory', September 3rd., -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/writing-for-victory.html

Additionally for November 21st., see 'Night thoughts' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/night-thoughts.html

Walking last night for exercise along the Station Road (6.30 p.m.) I saw the light of Clacton (not the lights - the light) and of Frinton, over the brows; a reflection in the sky ... Idea of a desolate coast (relatively) with human settlements rather precariously here and there upon it. Darkness everywhere and just those lights on the clouds from below. Sense of the adventure of living on the earth at all; and of the essential similarity of all human existences.

A matter of loyalty

Thursday, July 18th., Royal Thames Yacht Club, London.

Minute from the War Cabinet yesterday censuring me for my most successful pro-France article in the Observer on Sunday. It had been used on Monday by Daily Mail as an axe to hit the government with about 'baleful secrecy'. Lord B. was furious, and asked me to write a pungent letter in reply, which he signed. By evening Ll. G. had apologised and promised to have a new minute of the Cabinet prepared.

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:

Two of our gardeners have already died in the war defending us. Lockyer is now going into the army. It would not have been difficult for me to keep him out of the army. But I didn't want to keep him out and he didn't want to be kept out. He is quite as patriotic as either you or me. He is under 45 and a Grade 1 man, and he will almost certainly go out to the front where he will risk his life defending us. If he is not killed he will come back. I have already told him, of course, that the situation will be kept for him, and by God I will keep my word whatever the consequences are. Make no mistake. There would never have been any question of his leaving the situation if he had not to go into the army. Well, he goes into the army, he leaves his home and his family, he risks his life, and according to you his reward is to be that I shall say to him: "Of course you can't come back. The recompense of doing your duty is that you will lose your situation, and you will have to leave your house, and the village where you have lived so many years." (For there is no other situation that would do for him in Thorpe.) Am I going to say this to him? I am not! I have said to Lockyer as I have said to every man who has left us to go into the army: "The place will be open to you whenever you want to return." It is a little enough thing.

I am not going to commit an infamy. And if you understood me as you say you do,if you realised the depth of my feeling on such matters, you would never suggest such a monstrous thing. I never interfere with you in the house, and I beg you not to interfere with me in the garden. I have found a woman-gardener solely to please you; but the situation is going to be kept open for Lockyer, if he lives. You have no right whatever to say to me: "I am - not - going to have - Lockyer - back." I warn you in the most solemn way that there will be the most serious trouble if you reopen this question.

Election day

Thursday, May 30th., Cadogan Square, London.

Day memorable to me because this evening before dinner I finished Act II of the play the idea for which had forced me to break my oath never to write another play.

To the rest of the British world, however, the day was memorable as being Election Day. I went to an enormous election party in the evening and found dozens of people seriously disturbed at the mere possibility of Labour getting a clear majority. The rancour and asperity of party politics was exposed naked in speech, tone, and gesture. Still the food and the champagne were admirable.

The 1929 United Kingdom general election was held on 30 May 1929, and resulted in a hung parliament. It was the first of only three elections under universal suffrage in which a party lost the popular vote (i.e. gained fewer popular votes than some other party) but gained a plurality of seats. In 1929 that party was Ramsay MacDonald's Labour, which won the most seats in the Commons for the first time ever but failed to get an overall majority. 

The Liberals led by David Lloyd George regained some of the ground they had lost in the 1924 election, and held the balance of power. The election was often referred to as the "Flapper Election" in that it was the first election in which women over the age of 21 were allowed to vote, under the provisions of the Fifth Reform Act. It was fought against a background of rising unemployment with the memory of the 1926 General Strike still fresh in voters' minds. 

Foreign policy also took prominence in the campaign, with Austen Chamberlain's record as Foreign Secretary contributing to the Conservative defeat, as he was perceived as being "pro-French". By 1929 the Cabinet was being described by many as "old and exhausted". 

The Liberals campaigned on a comprehensive programme of public works under the title "We Can Conquer Unemployment". The Conservatives, under Baldwin,  campaigned on the theme of "Safety First".

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Kingdom_general_election,_1929

Some people have reproached me for being too concerned with rare editions, first editions, beautiful editions, the argument being that such matters have no relation to literature itself, and that what counts in a book is the stuff in it, not the presentation of the stuff in it. To my mind the argument is ridiculous. A book is a physical object as well as a medium for the transmission of thought, emotion, and information. And the attributes, including the historical attributes, of the physical object react upon the person to whom the thought, emotion, or information is being transmitted.

Many people read Dickens with joy, still more people assert (without adducing proof) that they read Dickens with joy. But it is an absolute certainty that the first category, if not the second, would be tremendously diminished if Dickens were only published in folio volumes like pulpit bibles - were the price per volume only sixpence, were even the volumes given away.

But even were the argument not ridiculous, it would still be beside the point. The point is that our age is a collecting age. And why should it not be? Only rare, beautiful, historical, odd or scandalous objects are collected. To collect them is a virtue - for which the next generation will thank us.

I am currently re-reading Conrad's "Victory" in a beautiful Folio Society edition. Conrad's prose is marvellous as ever, and the subtlety of his characterisation has a tendency to turn me green with envy, but my reading pleasure is enhanced by holding a beautiful object as well as a work of art. I love the sensation of taking the book from its slip-case; I love the heft of a hard-bound book in my hand; I love to feel and even smell the paper; I love the way a properly bound book stays open at the page you are reading ... I could go on, but if you are a bibliophile you get my point.

Understanding life

Tuesday, April 24th., Yacht Club, London.

Great creative weekend. I wrote over 3,000 words of novel on Saturday and Sunday. This novel is to be called "The Roll Call".

I went to town this morning and lunched with the Webbs. Webb told me that Lloyd George, contrary to the usual habit of ministers, would not deal with papers. He preferred to be talked to. Webb said that most ministers were followed about by despatch boxes full of papers which they had to approve and initial. Sometimes hundreds of papers. He said there were several grades of keys; the highest would open all despatch boxes. When he was at the Colonial Office he had a second-grade key, which would open some despatch boxes but not all.

He said that ministers were still unable to get anything done as Ll. G. would not face the labour of deciding and giving authority. Mrs. Webb, who had just returned from a meeting of the Reconstruction Committee, said that at one meeting recently at 4 p.m. just before the meeting started, the Marquis of Salisbury went to the mantelpiece and prayed aloud. She was talking to somebody else and could not hear what he said, but he was certainly praying aloud.

Webbs told me that Russian sailors, fleet enclosed in ice, had put a lot of their officers through the ice, and the ships were therefore useless. Germans knew this and were preparing expedition accordingly. Talk of British and French naval officers going over to take charge, but these officers said they would prefer to take their own crews.

The Webbs live in a house entirely constructed of Blue bricks, a marvel of ingenuity recalling the labours of beavers and coral insects. I get on very well with the Webbs but they do not understand (what I call) life. Squire, now editor of the New Statesman, wants me to gather material on the Russian situation. He also is an A1 chap. But he is a vegetarian & he doesn't understand life either. And either he or his wife doesn't understand shirts!

J. C. Squire (1884-1958) was one of those published in the Georgian poetry collections of Edward Marsh. His own Selections from Modern Poets anthology series, launched in 1921, became definitive of the conservative style of Georgian poetry. He began reviewing for The New Age; through his wife he had met Alfred Orage. His literary reputation was first made by a flair for parody, in a column Imaginary Speeches in The New Age from 1909. His poetry from World War I was satirical; at the time he was reviewing for the New Statesman, using the name Solomon Eagle (taken from a Quaker of the seventeenth century) - one of his reviews from 1915 was of The Rainbow by D. H. Lawrence. Squire had been appointed literary editor when the New Statesman was set up in 1912; he was noted as an adept and quick journalist, at ease with contributing to all parts of the journal. He was acting editor of the New Statesman in 1917-18, when Clifford Sharp was in the British Army, and more than competently sustained the periodical. When the war ended he found himself with a network of friends and backers, controlling a substantial part of London's literary press. From 1919 to 1934, Squire was the editor of the monthly periodical, the London Mercury. It showcased the work of the Georgian poets and was an important outlet for new writers. Alec Waugh described the elements of Squire's 'hegemony' as acquired largely by accident, consequent on his rejection for military service for bad sight. Squire's natural persona was of a beer-drinking, cricketing West Countryman; his literary cricket XI, the Invalids, were immortalised in A. G. Macdonell's England, Their England, with Squire as Mr. William Hodge, editor of the London Weekly. In July 1927 he became an early radio commentator on Wimbledon.

A parliamentary occasion

Friday, April 5th., Yacht Club, London.

Yesterday I was at the House of Commons.
Lloyd George's introduction of Man Power Bill, for conscripting Ireland and raising military age etc. See also 'War Nerves' - March 27th. <http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/war-nerves.html>

From early 1918, the British Army were dangerously short of troops for the Western Front. In addressing this grave military situation, Prime Minister David Lloyd George and his coalition Government decided to extend conscription to Ireland and to additional older men and workers in Britain, conscription in Great Britain having started in January 1916. The goal was to reach into an untapped reservoir of manpower through a new Military Service Bill. The intent was to connect the conscription legislation to a new Home Rule Bill. This had the effect of alienating both nationalists and unionists in Ireland. Despite opposition from the entire Irish Parliamentary Party, conscription for Ireland was voted through at Westminster. Though large numbers of Irishmen had willingly joined Irish regiments and divisions of the New British Army at the outbreak of war in 1914, the likelihood of enforced conscription created a backlash. The linking of conscription and Home Rule outraged the Irish nationalist parties at Westminster, who walked out in protest and returned to Ireland to organise opposition. Although the crisis was unique in Ireland at the time, it followed similar campaigns in Australia (1916–17) and Canada (1917). 

Policeman looks at card outside. Then you go up in a lift. Through an outer room with one or two journalists, hat pegs, etc. Then an inner room, with two Morse instruments tapping, and then into Gallery, at entrance of which your ticket is looked at again by an official (very friendly with all reporters, and doing their little errands etc.) in evening dress with large insignia on his breast.
Two rows of seats with narrow desk all round. A few standing at either corner, including Spender, (see also 'Writing for Victory - Sept. 3rd. http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/writing-for-victory.html and 'Writers for Peace - Feb. 11th. http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/monday-february-11th.html ) Gardiner and me. Reporters passing in and out all the time, crushing past; a horrible lack of space. No light in House of Commons except through glass roof. No repose in Press Gallery. Sharp corner of elaborate wood carving against which you knock your head if sit or lean in corners. Glimpse of Ladies' Gallery above, with glimpse of a smart woman, past first youth, with complexion soigne but going.

Lloyd George and Churchill

Looking from left, I could just see Ll. G., Churchill, Bonar Law, Cecil, Balfour etc., on right. House full. 12 or so standing between cross benches. (Gallery opposite full. Side galleries half full.) Two M.P.s wearing hats. As the M.P.s left they bowed awkwardly to Speaker in getting up if in front rows or on reaching central space if not; and on coming in they bowed either on entering, or on reaching open space. Speaker under a canopy.


Cheap effects of Ll. G. looking round as if challenging; trick of dropping his voice for last, rather important word of sentence. Unpleasant Noncomformist voice. He did not know his case, and having made a muddle deliberately left the muddle. Truisms about values and will-to-win cheered. Proposal to conscript Ireland loudly cheered a long time by Tories. No applause as he sat down.

Herbert Asquith

The whole thing a vast make-believe, with an audience of which a large part was obviously quite unintelligent and content with the usual hollow rot. Ll. G.'s oratorical effects very poor - like a Lyceum melodrama. Asquith with long hair very dignified, at home, persuasive.