On form

Thursday, February 1th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

I have struck a good seam of form. In the last month I have finished my serial and have written two short stories, one of 4,000 words and one of 5,000. They are pretty good I think. The serial is 'sensational' of course but there is money to be earned from sensational serials and I cannot afford to spurn any opportunity to earn. If I continued to write psychological treatises like "A Man from the North" I might earn some sort of reputation but I would most definitely not earn a livelihood. And in any case I have today read through as much as is done of the draft of "Anna Tellwright". It is not sensational. It is, I think, good. Perhaps even very good. I am drawn to finish it.

At the moment, in between work, I am in the act of discovering W.B. Yeats, the Irish poet, whose prose, to my mind, is just about equal to anything going round. I have been fascinated by "The Celtic Twilight", a little volume of essays about fairies and spirits. I wrote to Frank to recommend it to him only to find that he bought it when it came out and has admired it for six years now. He might have told me! I intend to get Yeats' complete works. It dawns upon me that he is one of the men of the century, so aloof, so spiritual, and with a style which is the last word of simplicity and natural refinement.

Tomorrow I am going down to Torquay for a weekend with Phillpotts and expect to have some jolly good jaws beside the whiskey bottle. He is a man who really can't argue. I can't argue myself, but I can argue him off his legs; yet he is always in the right ultimately. He is like Sharpe in that he feels, and what he feels he absolutely relies on, knowing that arguments are merely the refuge of the clever.

Phillpotts has a new play at the Court called "For the Love of Pim". It was very well done indeed, simple, direct and strong; and damn well acted too. In the main piece at the Court was our adored Miriam Clements, as regally lovely as ever, and just as bad an actress. She was playing the sister of Louis X1V and the role suited her appearance to perfection.

Smitten

Tuesday, February 16th., Victoria Grove, Chelsea.

When I saw Miriam Clements as the Princess of Pannonia in "My Friend the Prince" at the Garrick tonight I realised that the story of Helen of Troy was potentially if not actually true. For the first few moments I was inclined to think the report of her extraordinary beauty somewhat exaggerated. Then I began to appreciate. Then shortly I could think of nothing else but her face and figure. She was dressed in a regal outdoor costume of blue velvet, with a large waving hat. Her dark hair, carried down from the forehead in a slight curve so as to cover most of the ear, half hid the most wonderful woman's face I have ever seen - not a face with regular classic features, but one finely, bafflingly irregular, full of lovely lines and firmly marked character, and the eyes with a strange, sad, imperious expression .... The sight of her gave me an understanding sympathy with the man who 'goes mad' about a woman, dishonours himself to possess her, and continues to worship her, let her be as contemptuous or as vile as she may. Previously, I had only a sneer for such madness.

The Princess, Miss Clements, is the handsomest person I have seen on the stage since Miss Millard acted in , "The Prisoner of Zenda," and looked the part so perfectly that one was not astonished at finding her professing to be a royal personage, except that so few royal personages possess her attractions. It seemed only right that she should wear a tiara of real diamonds and costumes that Empresses might copy.

From a review of  "The Princess of Pannonia" in The Westminster Budget 23/04/97