When in Rome

Friday, February 5th., Hotel Russie, Rome.

I spent a lot of the morning at the top of the hotel garden, which I had never discovered before, after having been here over seven weeks. Marvellous view over Rome, of which I made a sketch. I thought about my new novel, had quite a lot of excellent ideas concerning it. I expect to make a start this week.

After siesta we took a taxi and drove along dusty and dull and very bad roads to Tre Fontane - the place where Paul's head jumped three times after being cut off, at each place producing a fountain. There are three churches, and if they locate the fountains, Paul's head must have very considerably bounded. Two churches were open, both very poor and odd and neglected. In fact - no interest at all - yet it is a place one is supposed to go to!


Septimus is much on my mind, and I doubt that he will live much longer. Under 7 stones now apparently. Should I return to England for a last word with him? It would mean leaving Dorothy here and, though she is very well, I don't think it would do in her present condition. In any case I doubt if Sep would know me, or even be conscious. 

I found myself in a headline of the Continental Daily Mail and have since had trouble with journalists. Especially female American journalists. They are very determined and not above using their 'charms' to get me to do an interview. Of course I don't mind being 'charmed' by an attractive woman, but I am not in the mood to talk and if I gave way to one then that would open the floodgates.

Anyway, there is, as they say, no place like Rome. It is 13 years since I was here last and I feel that I am only just beginning to see what Rome is. I must admit that this is partly due to Dorothy who has a genuine passion for archaeology and has communicated some of her enthusiasm to me. Perhaps I should forget about the writing for a bit and just absorb the place. To think that I could not have imagined having this opportunity all those years ago in Burslem.

A toad

Monday, November 29th., Cadogan Square, London.

I didn't finally wake up until 7.58, a very rare occurence, as I had had very few breaks during the night. I don't expect I shall ever have another uninterrupted night's sleep, at least not in this life. So I was calmly browsing in the Daily Mail when I came across an article by Birkenhead on me, in which he practically accused me of lying. The toad. I went downstairs and wrote my reply to Birkenhead in the form of a letter to the Mail. When I took it to Miss Nerney she said that the Mail had phoned for an article: so I crossed out the Sir and Yours Truly, and called it an article, and charged £60 for it. I could do with a few more eminent persons taking a public stance against me!

A beautiful day at last, after so much rain. I had to get out this afternoon and walked up to Kensington Gardens. I walked right round the Serpentine, glanced at the Albert Memorial, and came home feeling revitalised and refreshed. Everywhere I walked people were smiling because of the sun. It was rather cold and I fancy there may be frost tonight.

The other day Eric Kennington was here and showed me Lawrence's £30 book, "The Seven Pillars". It is not very good book-making; very fine illustrations in it, many of them coloured, and lots of lovely drawings by Roberts. But most of the illustrations are thoroughly out of place in the book and spoil the look of it. It seems that Lawrence has kept Kennington and Roberts, not to mention Wadsworth, pretty busy on it for several years.

To the Other Club

Thursday, December 2nd., Cadogan Square, London.

As I had not got my ideas clear for the next chapter of the novel, I went out for a walk after finishing correspondence and oddments, and walked to the XXI Gallery in Durham House Street, Strand. I found my idea all right. The gallery is very dark, appropriately in the circumstances as it has an exhibition of Cosmo Clark's pictures of the Black Country. I wasn't awfully pleased with them, but I bought one because I had known Cosmo as a baby and was an old friend of his father's.

I walked all the way to the Savoy Hotel for the dinner of the Other Club. Birkenhead came in, and we were very affable to one another, and everybody laughed about the just-finished scrap between us in the Daily Mail. Afterwards he was most friendly and asked me to lunch with him alone. Reading was in the chair and the dinner was the most agreeable that I remember of this Club. I sat next to Charles Masterman and opposite Alf Mason, and we had a great time. Afterwards I went and sat next to Jim Garvin. He talked exceedingly well, and is full of knowledge and ideas. Churchill and Jack Seely came in very late, long after dinner. Churchill said to me: "Receive the congratulations of Tom Hogarth" (over my row with Birkenhead). There was a great deal of "Raingo" throughout the evening.

Looking back

Wednesday, December 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

When I opened the Daily Mail this morning I found that Birkenhead had made no further answer to me; so the incident is now, I suppose, closed. The press has been very generally in my favour. I had prepared some heavy artillery to kill him if he had continued to fight.  Woke up with a stiff back this morning and couldn't get comfortable in any sitting position. Fortunately it seems easier following my afternoon nap.

Mary Borden wrote an article in the Standard (as a retort to my criticisms of her) advising the young to take no notice of the work of H.G. Wells and myself. She is a clever woman, and was clever enough to ignore my criticisms of her. 

Five years ago yesterday my mother died and I never thought about it all day, but this morning it came into my mind. I looked back through my journals to find the relevant entry; didn't have much to say. Then I browsed a bit in the journals. They are interesting, I think, and varied. My recurring themes seem to be my health, and going out. I don't write much about the process of creation of my novels which is a pity. It would probably be interesting to anyone reading my journal in the future. Which begs the question, will I leave my journals behind when I 'go'? Who am I writing them for? I suppose I may one day have a biographer - who knows?

Newspapers

Beaverbrook

Thursday, December 7th., Cadogan Square, London.

Max recently bought the Evening Standard and I have hopes that he will make something of it. I wrote recently offering him a few suggestions. But what concerns me at the moment is the Express and I am gathering my thoughts to write about that.

The fact is that I can't understand the paper's current policy, nor do I know anybody who can. It seems that the editorship (Max?) have conceived two policies, and haven't chosen between them. No doubt Max would say they are not mutually exclusive, and perhaps they are not, but I doubt that it is politic to run two war-cries side by side. They have an 'Imperial' policy and an 'anti-labour' policy and in order to back the latter they encourage voters in certain circumstances to vote against the former. Quite possibly there is a third unstated policy which is to bring down Baldwin at any cost.

I don't think that the Express has yet justified its Imperial policy. For example they have not disposed of the British criticism that the colonies want something for nothing, or something positive in exchange for something highly problematical. Nor have they answered the criticism that Colonial preference will still the retail price of goods affected by it just as high as if there were no Colonial preference. Nor have they done anything to soften the British impression (doubtless false) that the colonies are a damned grasping lot of coves.

I may also mention headlines. Considering that they have an immense psychological effect I think the Express should be handling its headlines better than it has been of late. As for the Daily Mail, I can remember in the popular press no such sustained exhibition of dishonest fatuity as it has given to the world during the last fortnight.