Conscientious objector

 Friday, January 22nd., Cadogan Square, London.

Well, this is a pretty pickle! It appears that, through an attempt to be helpful, I am to financially embarrassed, or at least substantially out of pocket. 

At Masterman's funeral last November I promised to set on foot a scheme for collecting £4000 to ensure an education for her children, Charles having neglected to make provision for them. One of the people I approached, and who agreed to contribute to the extent of £1000, was Beaverbrook. He now tells me that he will not contribute because he has a 'conscientious objection' to trust funds. A conscientious objection to killing people I can understand, but to trust funds???

Since the funeral I have discussed how best to help Lucy and the children with numerous people, but especially with Reginald Bray and John Buchan. We all agreed that a trust fund was the best method. One of the chief reasons for having a trust is the extremely unbusinesslike character of Lucy Masterman. She is an excellent woman, but has no notion of money or even of paying bills when she has money. The Trust has in fact been formed, and I think it will work very well. It will assuredly work far better than any other scheme, The problem is that Beaverbrook was to contribute £1000, and seemingly is not now willing to do so.

I find this hard to understand. When I broached the subject with him in the first place, and he offered to contribute, he said he would give me a free hand as to how the money should be used. To be sure of this I asked him twice if that was what he wanted. He was clear. In the meantime I have had no opportunity to consult him as he has been away for some months, and have acted as I thought best. Well, there it is. I wrote to him yesterday to set out the situation and to attempt a little emotional blackmail. I said that if he did not now feel able to contribute then so be it, but that I felt morally bound and would find the extra £1000 myself. I hope to God that he relents!

I am still getting over Hardy's death and funeral. It seems to have hit me unexpectedly hard, and I don't know why. Thinking about it this evening whilst walking about in Battersea. What a different world from the one Hardy conjured so marvellously well. The streets are drab, the tenements repulsive, and the people mean. I saw an open gramophone shop with a machine grinding out a tune and a song, and an open 'Fun Fair' sort of place with a few small boys therein amusing themselves with penny-in-the-slot machines. What a life!