At full blast

Tuesday, January 15th., Yacht Club, London.

We came to London this morning, dog, Richard, cook, Marguerite and me. Lunch at the Webbs. Serious and intense as usual. I'm not sure I have ever seen Beatrice smile. Then I hurried back to the Reform Club to join after lunch 'The Writers' Group' - Paish, Gardiner, Massingham, Spender, Wallas, Murray, Dickinson, Hobhouse and Hartley Withers. A peace campaign is afoot ie. peace with the German people. Naive. Spender as usual had the most information to give, and it seemed very well-founded. Of course I can't fault the sentiment that the war must be brought to an end as soon as may be, but we writers have very little contribution to make however highly we value ourselves.

After dinner to "Sleeping Partners" at St. Martin's.It still seems so terribly strange to me that here we are, dressing for dinner, going out to the theatre, laughing at a light-hearted comedy, and in the meantime young men are crouching in trenches, perhaps dying. Are people like me going to the theatre in Berlin? I suppose they must be. The play is adapted from Sacha Guitry. Slow at first but very adroit and amusing indeed as it progressed. Seymour Hicks had all the jam, and was marvellously good. We all really enjoyed it. I met Lucas in the entr'acte and he took me round to meet Hicks whom I instantly liked and decided to ask for lunch. When we came out of the theatre there was 3 inches of slush on the streets, and snow driving in every direction. No taxis of course. Women, equally of course, in satin shoes. I had the snow shoes that Uncle John Bennett gave to my father in 1880 - that is planning for you!

I picked up a copy of "The Diary of a Nobody" the other day and have started to read it. I doubt that I will get much further as the humour appears to be eluding me. I can see that it is satirical in intent but Pooter's misfortunes have already become tedious to me and I am barely half way through the book. The fault may be in me. I know people who swear that they find it extremely funny. Could it be that I am, or have been, the object of the satire? 

I am now on the last week of "The Pretty Lady", and really in full blast. I have written seven or eight thousand words in three days. Exhausted. But the publishers have seen the first half of the novel and are deeply struck by it. In fact they call it 'tremendous'. That is usually a bad sign but this publisher is a writer himself so may know what he is talking about.