A toad

Monday, November 29th., Cadogan Square, London.

I didn't finally wake up until 7.58, a very rare occurence, as I had had very few breaks during the night. I don't expect I shall ever have another uninterrupted night's sleep, at least not in this life. So I was calmly browsing in the Daily Mail when I came across an article by Birkenhead on me, in which he practically accused me of lying. The toad. I went downstairs and wrote my reply to Birkenhead in the form of a letter to the Mail. When I took it to Miss Nerney she said that the Mail had phoned for an article: so I crossed out the Sir and Yours Truly, and called it an article, and charged £60 for it. I could do with a few more eminent persons taking a public stance against me!

A beautiful day at last, after so much rain. I had to get out this afternoon and walked up to Kensington Gardens. I walked right round the Serpentine, glanced at the Albert Memorial, and came home feeling revitalised and refreshed. Everywhere I walked people were smiling because of the sun. It was rather cold and I fancy there may be frost tonight.

The other day Eric Kennington was here and showed me Lawrence's £30 book, "The Seven Pillars". It is not very good book-making; very fine illustrations in it, many of them coloured, and lots of lovely drawings by Roberts. But most of the illustrations are thoroughly out of place in the book and spoil the look of it. It seems that Lawrence has kept Kennington and Roberts, not to mention Wadsworth, pretty busy on it for several years.

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.

To the Other Club

Thursday, December 2nd., Cadogan Square, London.

As I had not got my ideas clear for the next chapter of the novel, I went out for a walk after finishing correspondence and oddments, and walked to the XXI Gallery in Durham House Street, Strand. I found my idea all right. The gallery is very dark, appropriately in the circumstances as it has an exhibition of Cosmo Clark's pictures of the Black Country. I wasn't awfully pleased with them, but I bought one because I had known Cosmo as a baby and was an old friend of his father's.

I walked all the way to the Savoy Hotel for the dinner of the Other Club. Birkenhead came in, and we were very affable to one another, and everybody laughed about the just-finished scrap between us in the Daily Mail. Afterwards he was most friendly and asked me to lunch with him alone. Reading was in the chair and the dinner was the most agreeable that I remember of this Club. I sat next to Charles Masterman and opposite Alf Mason, and we had a great time. Afterwards I went and sat next to Jim Garvin. He talked exceedingly well, and is full of knowledge and ideas. Churchill and Jack Seely came in very late, long after dinner. Churchill said to me: "Receive the congratulations of Tom Hogarth" (over my row with Birkenhead). There was a great deal of "Raingo" throughout the evening.

Looking back

Wednesday, December 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

When I opened the Daily Mail this morning I found that Birkenhead had made no further answer to me; so the incident is now, I suppose, closed. The press has been very generally in my favour. I had prepared some heavy artillery to kill him if he had continued to fight.  Woke up with a stiff back this morning and couldn't get comfortable in any sitting position. Fortunately it seems easier following my afternoon nap.

Mary Borden wrote an article in the Standard (as a retort to my criticisms of her) advising the young to take no notice of the work of H.G. Wells and myself. She is a clever woman, and was clever enough to ignore my criticisms of her. 

Five years ago yesterday my mother died and I never thought about it all day, but this morning it came into my mind. I looked back through my journals to find the relevant entry; didn't have much to say. Then I browsed a bit in the journals. They are interesting, I think, and varied. My recurring themes seem to be my health, and going out. I don't write much about the process of creation of my novels which is a pity. It would probably be interesting to anyone reading my journal in the future. Which begs the question, will I leave my journals behind when I 'go'? Who am I writing them for? I suppose I may one day have a biographer - who knows?

Getting about

Thursday, November 24th., Cadogan Square, London.

Chores this morning after some letter writing. I had some trouble concentrating as my mind kept turning to the unemployed miners who arrived in London yesterday having walked 180 miles from the Rhondda Valley. Baldwin refused to meet them. Later there was a rally in Trafalgar Square - they marched to the Square carrying lighted lamps, knapsacks and mugs, and supported by brass and fife bands. I wish had had been there to see it. Apparently Arthur Cook, Secretary of the Miners' Federation, told them that "unless the government faces up to the problem of unemployment, a revolutionary situation will be created in this country which no leader will be able to withstand." Strong words for strong men but unlikely to move Baldwin who has probably never seen a mine. I don't suppose anything will come of it. The people in this country are too docile and well fed.


This afternoon I took D. to the Guildhall Art Gallery which had been recommended to me. Mainly Victorian paintings but some good quality works. I was particularly struck by John Collier's "Clytemnestra". In fact I kept going back to look at it again. Highly dramatic. Tells the whole story in one unforgettable image. Collier has made her look proud, immensely strong and slightly deranged all at the same time. Blood dripping off the axe is a nice touch. And behind her is a mysterious light which draws the observer into the murder room in imagination. You feel as if Agamemnon is lying there, just out of your sight. Worth the visit just for that as far as I was concerned. D. was less impressed than me.

Lord Birkenhead

Went to the Savoy this evening for "The Other Club" dinner in the Pinafore Room. 15 minutes late which is regarded as rather bad form. Alfred Mason in the chair. I sat near to Lutyens, Jos Wedgwood, Hamar Greenwood, Birkenhead, William Berry and Anthony Hope. I had some sparring with Birkenhead, rather loud and abusive, but good natured. However, I could be just as abusive as he could. It was Birkenhead (F.E. Smith as he was then) who founded the club with Churchill. They put it about that it was because the old clubs would not accept them. Too brash. I don't believe it myself - they are both arch self-publicists. Supposed to be a limit on the number of politician members, but it seems to have been forgotten. I should have asked Birkenhead if he had spoken at the rally. He would have had apoplexy.

Loot of Cities

Monday, November 29th., Cadogan Square, London.

I didn't finally wake up till 7.58, very rare occurrence, as I had very few breaks during the night.

Daily Mail article by Birkenhead on me, in which he practically accused me of lying. 
Also see 'Storm in a political teacup', November 23rd., -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/storm-in-political-teacup.html

I went downstairs and wrote my reply to Birkenhead in the form of a letter to the Mail. When I took it to Miss Nerney she said that the Mail had telephoned for an article; so I crossed out the Sir, and Yours truly, and called it an article and charged £60 for it.

I have been re-reading "The Loot of Cities". Very imaginative idea of mine, and an engaging read. However, I don't think the series of stories fulfills the promise of its beginning. The story "Lo! 'Twas a Gala Night!" is rather weak, and the character of Cecil Thorold is sadly diminished by his being made to fall for Miss Fincastle; nor does she demonstrate the independence of character implied in the first story. My favourite story in the eponymous volume is "Mr. Penfound's Two Burglars". A very satisfying construction and consistently amusing. The ghost story, "The Episode in Room 222", is probably best overlooked.

Additionally for November 29th., see 'Byways of literature' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/byways-of-literature.html

Mrs. Devereux had been to hear the trial of a crime passionel. A man had cut his wife's throat with a razor from ear to ear, but, through some fortunate movement of the woman, had only severed the skin. "A close shave!" said Schwob at once. I could see that he was extremely pleased with this really admirable comment. He beamed after he had said it.

Storm in a political teacup

Tuesday, November 23rd., Cadogan Square, London.

Showery. Bleak. No rain later. Misty. Chilly evening.
Chores in early morning.
I wrote a letter to the Daily Mail in reply to Birkenhead's criticism of "Raingo" in that paper, and I signed it before I left home.
Birkenhead suggested that Raingo was modelled on an actual statesman, took 'profound objection' and accused me of 'overweening conceit'.
I wrote as follows:
"... The character of my Lord Raingo was modelled on no statesman, and is the result of no attempt at portraiture. I have said so in private ten thousand times, but it is not my custom to deny misstatements about my books in public. If it was, I should have to give my life to the business. As regards the deceased statesman whom doubtless Lord Birkenhead has in mind, I may say that I have never had the slightest acquaintance with him. It is apparent from his concluding remarks that the author of Famous Trials was for some undisclosed reason getting a bit cross. His emotion led him to the use of certain vituperative cliches. The vituperation one can excuse and enjoy; but the cliches will afflict the lettered."
After I left the Mail telephoned that they would like an article at 2 shillings a word, as well as the letter. They said the letter was too good to lose. So, by telephone form the theatre, I agreed to both. I much enjoyed writing both the letter and the short article. I love a friendly scrap in the press.

The Rt Hon. Frederick Edwin Smith, 1st Earl of Birkenhead, GCSI, PC, KC (1872 – 1930), best known to history as F. E. Smith, was a British Conservative statesman and lawyer of the early 20th century. He was a skilled orator, noted for his staunch opposition to Irish nationalism, his wit, pugnacious views, and hard living and drinking. He is perhaps best remembered today as Winston Churchill's greatest personal and political friend until Birkenhead's death at age fifty-eight from pneumonia caused by cirrhosis of the liver. In the opinion of Winston Churchill, "He had all the canine virtues in a remarkable degree — courage, fidelity, vigilance, love of chase." For Margot Asquith, who was not a friend, "F. E. Smith is very clever, but sometimes his brains go to his head." Of Birkenhead's loyalty, Churchill added, "If he was with you on Monday, he would be the same on Tuesday. And on Thursday, when things looked blue, he would still be marching forward with strong reinforcements."