Going strong

Thursday, January 21st., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

My brother Septimus is working in Sheffield and seems to have become convinced that the city is critical to the war effort. I don't know why. I told him that, whilst its productivity is clearly very important, so is the output of ten other cities in this country. Coventry for example. Last week I was in Glasgow (another of the ten) with Richmond, managing partner of Weir's, one of the largest munition firms on the Clyde. I suppose he thinks they are critical as well, but didn't say so. In fact he seemed quite cheerful and said that the labour situation had never been so good since the war began.

The weather in London has been quite awful. Roll on Spring! When we came out of the theatre last Wednesday there was three inches of slush on the streets and snow driving in every direction. No taxis of course. And the women all had satin shoes on, of course. I had the snow shoes that Uncle John Bennett gave to my father in 1880, and they were just the job. Shows that you should never throw things away. I paddled Marguerite back to the flat. I think she enjoyed it. We had been to see "Sleeping Partners" with Seymour Hicks in it. It is funny, and improper, and he is simply great. We met afterwards and I liked him, against all expectation. He is lunching with me and Lucas next Wednesday.

M. was interested to hear about Uncle John. I told her, embellishing as I went along, that he was the eldest son of a pottery-painter. The Potteries being too small for him he went to London, to a cottage in Lambeth. He exhibited one of his pottery-paintings in the parlour window and Sir Henry Doulton, strolling that way, saw it and engaged him for his Lambeth works. Then, Doulton's being too small for him, he migrated to America where he succeeded and made money. He had a powerful, stimulating, and unconventional individuality. Full of more or less original ideas, he talked like an artist, and was one. But lack of education vitiated his modes of thought, and his taste was deplorable.

I am in the last week of "The Pretty Lady". The publishers have seen the first half and are deeply struck by it. Though I say it myself, it is good and original work. I have written seven or eight thousand words in the last three days and am exhausted, but content. But I am sticking to my half-day a week devoted to art. Specifically I am finishing the eight full-page colour illustrations for Atkins's new book about the Thames Barge. I think he intends to call it "A Floating Home" or something like that. The publishers say that having my name on the cover will considerably boost the sales.