Sneeped

Sunday, December 19th., George Street, London.

Here's a good story. A Captain Griffin, from Walsall, wounded nine times in the war, and then a prisoner in Germany. Was reported dead. After he returned to life, and came home, his solicitor among other bills forwarded the following: "To Memorial Service (fully choral) 3 guineas."

The last few days, having delivered the film, I have read through the first instalment of "Mr. Prohack", and been inspiring myself for the next instalment. Inspiration is certainly needed. The writing is workmanlike, but lacks a spark. I think that I am simply too tired, mentally, as a result of domestic conflict and too much work. Some sort of break is needed, perhaps a change of scene, or a sabbatical.

George Moore sent me his play, "The Coming of Gabrielle" in the edition de luxe. The idea is very ancient and the plot very clumsy; but there are bright distinguished things in the dialogue; it is readable without being fireworky. Rather like my stuff at the moment. I wrote back in a positive vein and reminded him that I consider him to be the 'father' of my Five Towns novels.

I gave permission to the Everyman Theatre to do "The Honeymoon". They did not consult me in any way about casting, scenery, or production. The first word I had from the theatre was 2 tickets for the first night. I returned them. In the first place I had a curious absence of all desire to go, and in the second place I thought it was a darned cheek to ignore me completely until the first night. The thing has been played in Harrogate and Manchester before the London production tomorrow. I only know of this from the papers. I don't know why this has put me out of sorts. Why should they consult me anyway? If they did, they would feel obliged to follow my advice and I don't feel that is worth much at the moment. I just feel sneeped!

Malicious mischief-making

Sunday, November 24th., Cadogan Square, London.

I seem to have upset Richmond Temple, publicity agent for the Savoy group of hotels and an acquaintance of mine. Or rather his friends have upset him by suggesting that Morfey, a character in "Mr Prohack", is a caricature of him. I understand that Temple has not seen the play himself but is, as it were, upset at one remove. Morfey is described in my notes for the play as 'nervous, mincing, intelligent; very much groomed, eyeglass, gardenia and all'. I did not have Temple in mind when I wrote those notes but I must admit to myself that his reaction is just what I might have expected from Morfey, were he not a fictional character, in similar circumstances.

The character of Morfey is taken from my book "Mr Prohack". I admit that his profession would not have been what it is in the play if I had not heard of that profession from Temple himself; he happens to be the chief exponent of it, as far as I know. Still, as the profession exists it surely cannot be barred from imaginative literature. In my opinion no offence whatever can be found in the play. Morfey is even a more sympathetic person in the play than in the book. He comes out on top every time, and gives a lesson in manners to the Prohacks every time. He is beautifully played by Frederick Cooper.

This is a clear example of malicious mischief-making. I suspect that ass Swaffer who writes in the Express to be behind it. I am very cross with the mischief-makers and would cheerfully break their heads whoever they are. That said, I think Temple is being oversensitive and rather 'precious'. It is the sort of reaction that gives homosexuals a bad name.
 

Yesterday I went by bus to Trafalgar Square, to the National Gallery, to get ideas. And I got them. I spent some time looking at Turner's "Rain, Steam, Speed - the Great Western Railway" which had not previously struck me as deserving its reputation. The more I looked the better it seemed to get. After a while I had the strangest sensation of the train coming out of the painting towards me. Tremendous effect. Shows the necessity of taking time to appreciate works of art. All too easy, particularly in a place like the National Gallery, to glance at a painting and move on.

Neuralgic

Tuesday, January 20th., Cadogan Square, London.

One of the main things at my age is to avoid strain - 'pushing forward' (as you do when you are in a taxi and are getting late for an appointment). Nearly all my life I have been keeping to a time programme, and I have been doing it until quite recently, and have carried programmes through in spite of neuralgia and such obstacles. I think that now this method results in less instead of more work.

On Sunday afternoon, after two hours work with Knoblock on "Mr. Prohack" in the morning (with neuralgia) I gave up the bit of rewriting that I had meant to do in the afternoon, and stayed in bed all afternoon, and of course felt much sronger. In fact, towards 6, I was really inclined to clear off some small oddments, including a 300 word appreciation of Thomas Hardy for Harpers, which I did, all right.  

Yesterday my scheme was to rewrite the end of Act 2 of "Prohack" in the morning. However, I had a sense of rush and strain even before breakfast, and so I became placid and gave myself all day to finish Act 2, and telephoned to Knoblock suggesting that he should put off our appointment tp proceed with Act 3 from 3 p.m. yesterday to 11 a.m. today. He agreed. After all he is not getting any younger himself. I finished the Act easily at 7 p.m. and in the meantime had read the whole of Johnson's little book on me, which isn't bad. The sense of strain had gone, and though I had neuralgia all day, I felt better, and had quite a fair night and began to do letters and oddments at 8 a.m. in good form. 

Dorothy is much on my mind and I find myself expecting letters at every post. I am often wondering what she is doing. Our correspondence is full of trivialities and gentle teasing which, on my part at least, does insufficient justice to how I feel. Am I being a stupid old fool? I am nearly 60 and she is 30 years my junior. I don't think she will tolerate the role of 'mistress', but there is no prospect of Marguerite agreeing to divorce, so she cannot be a 'wife'. The question is, if I were free to marry her, would I?

Period piece

Saturday, January 7th., Cadogan Square, London.

Sir Charles Cochran

At Dorothy's urgent request, I went over to the Court Theatre where "Mr. Prohack" is in performance. The atmosphere was of the last night of a run, but, although no other theatre has yet been obtained, we trust it is not the last night of the run. Evelyn Cochran came round after the performance, and Charles was really enthusiastic about the play. He said he hadn't liked a play so much for years. Evelyn said she had never seen Charlie so happy in a theatre, which is certainly saying something. He also liked the acting, especially Laughton. It seemed impossible not to believe that this play, in the West End, and kept on for a bit, should not develop into a very great success. And yet, I wonder if we have not been left behind, Knoblock and I, by changing taste in drama. When I look at this play I have to admit it could have been put on ten or even twenty years ago; it seems to me now a sort of period piece. I suppose I am something of a period piece myself! 

All the packing up had to be finished in Dorothy's dressing room. More goodbyes. Sally, the dresser, is really a very nice old woman, with a voice as thin as a piece of paper. We got home at midnight. Then searchings in the larder for food for Dorothy. If I am honest, I feel too old for this sort of thing. If not for Dorothy and the child I would be leading a simpler, quieter, and more dignified life than I do. The expense of this household is staggering, but not through my extravagance. Where will it all end?

Getting together

Tuesday, December 27th., Cadogan Square, London.

Bad night. Enfeebled. Forty minutes talk with Dorothy about the fortunes of "Mr. Prohack". Then I walked in snowy Battersea Park, which cleared my head. Family gathering with a sort of running buffet this afternoon. Fortunately I managed a short sleep, or rather a doze, in my chair before evryone arrived so was able to enjoy it. Plenty of light-hearted banter interspersed with personal observations and some sentimental recollections. Noisy and tiring but good. Essential for family cohesion to have a get-together now and then, and what better time than Christmas.

Later I sat down to draft a letter to authors urging them to subscribe to the National Book Council. It is suggested that this appeal should be signed by Hardy, Shaw, Wells, me and two or three others. I shall send it tomorrow to Willie Maxwell for his consideration.