Hell with the lid off

Monday, November 11th., Cadogan Square, London.

Chamberlain

Just back from Beaverbrook's where I wrote 3,900 words of a story from Saturday evening until this morning. Bit of a hairy drive back with high winds and rain. It hardly seems to have stopped raining for months now and there is much evidence of flooding in the fields. Apparently they are having it particularly bad in Yorkshire where whole villages have been evacuated. One good thing about living in a big city is that one feels somewhat insulated from the weather.

Birkenhead

It has been a very political weekend, consorting with Austen Chamberlain, Birkenhead, Churchill and Lloyd George, not to mention Lord Walgrave, Sir Edward Hulton and Evelyn Fitzgerald. I like the name Evelyn for a man; I shall use it for one of my characters when the opportunity arises.

LLoyd George

Chamberlain, Birkenhead, Churchill and Lloyd George are a self-seeking crowd plotting and conspiring against the government under the benign influences of Max. I never heard pronciples or the welfare of the country mentioned. It is all about personal power and influence. To be honest I think they all have their best days behind them but cannot accept the fact that the country has moved on.

Churchill

Churchill had too much to drink last night, which is not unusual, and was quarrelsome with Birkenhead who is himself quite a tippler. Lloyd George and Chamberlain were quite restrained. On the whole it was a pitiable spectacle and not in the least reassuring. It was a pleasure though to see them all squinting askance at me when they said something to judge what effect they were making on me, and fearing my fountain pen. So, I had a great lark all-in-all. Max said to me this morning: "Arnold, you've seen hell with the lid off." Well, I had.

Gamblers

Monday, January 1st., Yacht Amaryllis, Monte Carlo.

Casino de Monte Carlo

We came here last Tuesday and I found that all the people I knew were confirmed bachelors and gamblers. So it has taken me some days, by various introductions, to find partners suitable to me. I met the chief one this morning on the Casino Terrace - aged 29, tres chic - and she said that she was just going to church, and wouldn't I go? And before I knew where I was she was telling me that once you had grasped the fact that the English are the descendants of the ten lost tribes the whole bible becomes perfectly clear. Also that the second coming was expected to occur in 1935, and that all the great dates in history, including this last, are to be found inscribed in a secret place beneath the Great Pyramid. Was I happy, she asked? If not, why not? She and her husband had been very happy since they found the truth etc. By this stage my interest, having waned, disappeared completely. I did not go to church!

Herbert Sullivan (right)

Bertie Sullivan is a confirmed gambler. I have joined the two private gambling halls run by the Casino, but I never play and have lost all desire to play. It gives much greater satisfaction watching other people lose. Winston Churchill was playing mightily last night. I asked him if he had won and he said he hadn't. His mother-in-law lives here and plays twice daily and, apparently, tries to cheat the whole time. The curious thing is that she looks almost exactly like his late lamented mother. I think he is a very great man but he spends fifty percent of his time being a super fool.

Chartres Biron

We have on board Chartres Biron, Chief Magistrate of Bow Street, and the destroyer of Bottomley. he is 57, a fine tennis player, a fine talker, very handsome, rather a dandy and as mean as Ephraim Tellwright. Bertie is very generous but not an organiser nor an anti-muddler. we are lying here beyond our time because he has muddled the engines, the engineer, and the electricity. Happily his housekeeper, a Belgian aged 60, runs the household part of the ship very well. She is a wonderful individuality, gambles frequently, and seldom loses. The Italian cook consistently gives us the best regular cooking I ever had.

As for Marguerite, her pen, like her tongue, runs away with her. She loses no occasion to write to me, good wishes, assurances of affection, readiness to come at once if I am ill etc. The mischief is that often what she says bears no recognisable relation to the truth whatever. My impression is that she wants to return, but I can't be sure. As things stand I can conceive of no circumstances under which I would have her back. In my experience, leopards never change their spots. And I am taking to the bachelor lifestyle, chic biblical nutcases notwithstanding.