Beaten to the post

Monday, December 12th., Cadogan Sqaure, London.

Mrs. P. Campbell came for tea yesterday at 5.30 and made a terrific outpouring. She said: "If you want to keep me quiet give me a cigar." So I gave her one. Later she went out into the Square and smoked it. Her energy seems quite unimpaired. She now wants to produce and play in "Flora". I discussed a few things with her and left the rest to Pinkers. 

Two or three years ago when Carter et al discovered Tutankhamun I said to one or two people that it didn't seem quite right to me to disturb him after all these years. I thought of writing an article on the subject but forgot and now the Bishop of Chelmsford has beaten me to it. It appears that Tut's mummy has now been unwrapped and scientifically examined. The Bishop writes, in the Times, "I wonder how many of us, brought up in the Victorian era, would like to think that in the year say 5923 the tomb of Queen Victoria would be invaded by a party of foreigners who rifled it of its contents, took the body of the great queen from the mausoleum in which it had been placed, and exhibited it to all and sundry who might wish to see it. ... I protest strongly against the removal of the body of the king from the place where it has rested for thousands of years. Such a removal borders on indecency." He has a point! I wish I had made it first!

I have finished my re-reading of Hardy's "The Woodlanders". Of course it is overblown at times, and some of the conjunctions that progress the plot don't stand up to scrutiny, but a magnificent book nevertheless. The whole atmosphere of the woodlands is marvellously created and sustained; it is the core of the book, almost a character. And in Marty South, Hardy has devised one of the noblest creations in fiction.

A giant

Monday, December 2nd., Chiltern Court, London.

Browsing in my library last evening I took up Hardy's "The Woodlanders" and began to read. Two hours later I came to my senses and went off to bed. To my mind it is the most successful of Hardy's novels; successful in the sense of style, construction, characterisation, 'pattern'. "Far From the Madding Crowd" is a close second and, for dialogue alone, is the superior. Of course Hardy had his faults, as have we all, but what interests us with Hardy, as with Shakespeare, is not his defects, but his positive qualities. There are times when he shows a sustained power of writing which has not, in my opinion, been surpassed by anybody anywhere.

His observation of the natural world is remarkable to my mind. Perhaps those persons brought up in a rural world are naturally more aware of the vegetable and animal life which surrounds them, but I cannot think there have been many, if any, observers more subtle than Hardy. When his characters go off into the woods, which would merely be a setting for plot development for most authors, they enter a new world, a sort of magic kingdom for those with eyes to see. And Hardy had the eyes, and used them. And what is more he had the language to communicate what he saw to we lesser mortals. I like to think that I am observant, but to read a passage of Hardy is rather dispiriting.

When I last saw him, in London, Hardy was nearly eighty, a spare man, very young and active indeed for his age, who chatted and chattered away quite cheerfully and - thank heaven - quite ordinarily. He talked about anything, and nothing long. He had authority, but did not show it, perhaps hardly felt it. No nonsense about him. No pose. No secret but apparent preoccupation with the fact that he was the biggest living thing in English literature. It was a large gathering, no chance of a tete-a-tete. He knew who I was but never said if he had read any of my books. I desperately wanted to ask him, but had no opportunity and, in any case, would I have wanted to risk having him cast about for something politely vague to say? Best to remain in ignorance.