Family matters

Sunday, January 17th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

I was much disquieted today by Tertia's letter in which she said twice that our mother was 'extremely ill'. Deep down in everyone's mind will be the idea that I am 'enjoying myself on the Riviera' while she is extremely ill. It is the address of the absent son that matters on these occasions. But I should be a fool to go to London unless she was much worse than she is. And I know she wouldn't want me to. I can't blame Tertia. She is a sensible woman and will have reasoned that she could prove to be at fault whether she told me or not; so she left the decision to me. I would have done the same.

However, I managed to do a good day's work, and finished Chapter 5 of "A Great Man", 5,500 words.

Frederick Hanbury, of Allen and Hanbury's Foods, and the great botanist, editor of "The London Catalogue", came to lunch. He is staying with his cousin Sir Thomas Hanbury, the Lord God of these parts. Sir Thomas apparently has the finest private garden in the world, 100 acres, 5,000 species (some absolutely unique) and 46 gardeners. Quite what criteria have been applied in coming to the conclusion that it is 'the finest' were not vouchsafed. One suspects family pride may be a significant factor. We were not invited to visit which I am glad about as formal gardens leave me rather cold.

Speaking of Monte Carlo, Hanbury told us of how he was at the tables 30 years ago and saw two Russian princesses there losing heavily, but keeping stoical silence, the tears streaming down their cheeks. He is emphatically not a man of the world and his Russian princesses were probably French whores, but nevertheless his picture of the women playing and losing, in silent, irrepressible, hopeful despairing tears, was an effective one. He is fgar from an ordinary man, and I rather liked something at the root of him, but soon after lunch I stole away to sleep.