A Celtic Temperament Read online

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29, BOSTON: Last night hyssop and gall; this morning dove’s milk. The Guild people met Tony and me in the downstairs foyer, amid the stink of disinfectant from the lavatories, and bullied sweetly about cuts. I was desperately depressed for the first time since all this began. For twenty years I have been a writer, and never before have I been in a milieu where every consideration came before literary considerations, and the opinion of anybody—the humblest actor, money counter or baggage man—weighed equally or heavier than that of the author. My disgust is like a cap of fire bearing down on my head. Why would an author of any pride submit to the impertinences of theatre people?

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 30, BOSTON: Rehearse this morning some fairly extensive cuts: learn this evening that they take a scant three minutes off our playing time: let the Guild take note. This afternoon our company was asked to be the guests of Do Re Mi, Garson Kanin’s musical starring Phil Silvers at the Colonial. One ought not to see plays when one has a play in production. I could not abandon myself to enjoy it, for they have flash-backs: we have flash-backs. They have some newspaper montage: so have we. They have a couple in bed: we also. The resemblances are not great but enough to make me glad we go to New York first. I thought the piece full of clever things, but not a unity, and Silvers has not enough variety to carry a show. I cannot bear all that Jewish sentimentality about failure; it cringes so.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1, BOSTON: A cold impends: psychosomatic, I suppose. To the art museum and the Isabella Gardner Museum where music and pictures soothed me. This evening to the play and sat at the back of the top balcony with Brenda and Tony and made notes. King has been compelled to drop some of his enormities but he still gives a vain, selfish performance. I am not reconciled to it—only quiescent. Tomorrow we do final touches and arrange a new curtain call.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2, BOSTON: Rehearsal at 12:15 where Tony gives notes and arranges a fancy call: what lesser folk delight to call “sealing” or “freezing” the production, though he scorns such terms. In the afternoon George and Norah Harris’s daughter Adrienne shows Brenda and me the new Loeb theatre at Harvard—a costly toy for amateurs: she says the engineers take great delight in it, but the work is poor. Later we go to cocktails aboard the visiting HMCS Bonaventure, courtesy of Captain O’Brien. Lee Martinec corners me and says if we do not have rave reviews in New York, we are through, because “we have nothing to sell”; if we get the reviews we are still in trouble as Dennis King is not a draw, and Tyrone Guthrie is thought “arty.” So, with the best possible luck, we need a gigantic publicity campaign. All the Way Home52 opened Wednesday and closes tomorrow, and we can do the same. (Later note: No, the producer Arthur Cantor saved it by a brilliant defiance of the critics and a direct appeal to the public.) All this depresses me, though I know Martinec loves drama and with him as with so many people, drama means gloom. I judge the play’s chances to be about 1,000 to 1, or roughly none at all. But if it fails I may hope for something short of All the Way Home’s débâcle. Have a very bad case of cold feet, not improved by news that the Harrises, Stewarts, and Gordons are coming to New York for the opening. Post scriptum: Slept wretchedly, dreaming I was being chased through slum alleys full of barriers and barbed wire by fat dwarfs dressed in black, long overcoats (the Theatre Guild uniform). I am in a bad way.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3, BOSTON: See the play through tonight with Tony. It goes well. Elliot Norton comes for the third time! Johnny Milligan cannot consolidate his effects. Dennis King cannot or will not shake off his gags and enormities. Tony says he is a fine talent but he has no industry or taste. Whatever happens in New York, Boston has used us well. This morning I revised and strengthened Cobbler’s last speech in the bedroom scene and gave it to Dennis King. Hope he can manage it by the dress rehearsal in New York.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4: Train call at 9:30. Roberta Kinnon loses her ticket and has sent all her money ahead in her trunk; Judy says this is an attention-getter and she may be right. Pleasant journey to New York: Tony shows us plans of the theatre in Minneapolis which is to be named after him; very splendid inside and ugly outside. Madeleine Christie, Jim Edmond, and Tony van Bridge get drunk in the restaurant car, with Madeleine singing drunk. On the journey I had a long talk with Gene Saks about the Method, which makes excellent sense as he describes it, as a search for truth and a rejection of cliché. My name appears thrice in the New York Times. We stay at the Dorset Hotel as usual. Tonight at dinner at the Russian Tea Room, Brenda scolded me for my gloom about the play and says that if it fails the world has not ended: no, but twenty-five years’ work and hope have been rebuffed, and I grow no younger or more eager for the struggle.

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 5, NEW YORK: A dies non respecting Love and Libel. To Lulie Westfeldt, whose teaching did much to allay my anxiety. At Argosy, the rare-books store, we bought for Tony a playbill of his great-grandfather, Tyrone Power. Tonight Brenda and I went to Anouilh’s Becket at the St. James, and admired Laurence Olivier in the title role, but was not really interested in the play, a homosexual nonesuch. Then to the Algonquin for drinks with Barbara Hamilton and Charmion King, very pleasant. This morning we surveyed the Martin Beck, a Moorish theatre, like a large Turkish bath and rather too big for our play, in my view. Tonight Brenda said that, from what she hears and judges, the play will do pretty well and not be a shaming muddle and flop. This is comforting. This morning as we passed the door of Hugh MacCraig, the astrologer, I thought of asking him, but rejected the notion as futile. We shall know soon enough. I should report that Willis Wing says the talk around Broadway that he hears is good, and much of it comes from movie people.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6, NEW YORK: At 12 noon I went to the Guild offices having been summoned by Don Herbert, and find him with Philip Langner, who gives me a great rigmarole which summarizes thus: (1) They have spent all the money collected for the play. (2) If we get anything short of rave notices we must close Saturday, or carry on for two weeks with a fund of $20,000, and will I put up $10,000 of it? All this muddled with such bypaths as (a) Langner and Herbert are not sleeping from worry; (b) Lawrence Langner won’t put up any more money as he is providing for his old age; (c) playwrights have sometimes made more from plays than the producers, which is, of course, contrary to God’s will, and they ought to take some of the financial risk. I heard all this with an impassive countenance and said I would think about it. Talked to Brenda who said Nothing Doing, and to Willis Wing who said the same. They must think me a gull. Among other Langner proposals is that I take no royalties for a while: that might make some sense.

  We rehearse at 4 and I meet Stuart Little of the Herald Tribune at 6 for a brief interview, then to a press cocktail party at the Canadian consulate. A preview at 8:30 to an audience chiefly of secretaries. The play goes encouragingly well and is well received by the odd, inchoate house. If we fare so well tomorrow night our chances are good, I should say.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 7, NEW YORK: Rehearse at 12 for a few notes, then a splendid lunch and excellent talk with Tony and Judy at the Famous Kitchen next door to the Martin Beck. We also dined with them at Café de France and then to our first night. The audience laughed in all the Boston places, but less heartily; some scenes, notably the Act 2 bed scenes and the Oedipus scene, went admirably, but on the whole my impression was of an audience unwilling to commit itself. Afterward we went on to Philip Langner’s apartment at 135 Central Park West to wait for the notices: an excellent party, but no notices. Reason: it appears that a strike of newspaper distributors impends and we may get no notices at all—a frustration nobody had foreseen.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8, NEW YORK: Slept poorly, anticipating bad news, or perhaps no news of any kind because of the strike. However, it delayed the papers but did not quash them. Willis Wing called about 10: Taubman in the Times did not like the piece. Irvin Dorfman called a few minutes ago: Times and Herald Tribune bad; News and Mirror good and quotable. I am to lunch with Willis Wing and will learn more. But I do not feel so downcast a
s I well might: relieved rather than otherwise. All the reviews, though not bad, were heavily qualified and all faulted the play.

  We dined with the Harrises at the Baroque, then to theatre. The Notice is up for Saturday: no time lost there. Thankful for friends. We took leave of Judy and Tony, who says it’s time to “get on to the next thing.”

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9, NEW YORK: We dine with Jackie Davie and others, then go to the theatre and take farewell of actors, who are delightful.

  Davies posted this letter at the theatre after “the Notice” went up:

  December 9, 1960

  My dear friends

  It is too bad that our venture should be so soon over, but—never explain, never apologise. It has been a great pleasure to work with you all and I hope that I may do so again—soon, and under more favourable stars. Brenda and I wish you all the happiness you so plainly deserve.

  Robertson Davies

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, NEW YORK: To Lulie Westfeldt at 9:30 a.m. for an excellent lesson. Then pack and away on the 2:45 flight. At Toronto we find there is no 6:30 train so we get the 6 p.m. ’bus and are home by 8:30. Everything looks very good and welcoming and Mrs. Pedak has lots of food. We revel in the space and the cleanliness!

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 11: Lay late and finished Trollope’s The Three Clerks. In the afternoon, read Bracebridge Hall by Washington Irving for a Star column. At 8:45 p.m. the Thompsons come to the house—they had been to the train to meet us! But a day late. We went home with them for drinks and gossip and are pleased to be so kindly treated.

  This is failure. But so many people have been so kind it is almost better than success; and A Voice from the Attic has done well, and a writer to the Globe says my novels approach genius, so life is not really black and I begin to recover.

  Some later notes: After the débâcle, Lee Martinec informed whoever would listen that the moment he set foot on Broadway, he had a premonition that Love and Libel would never do. All the Way Home fought bad notices courageously, and won. Do Re Mi has been acclaimed as a golden musical by Taubman, who found my fun dusty and professional. After the failure Hume Cronyn and Irene Worth went out of their way to be very kind, and said the Guild was a bad management. Tony Guthrie said, “Well, this settles it; none of us will ever work for the Guild again.” But how, then, have they been in business, and good business, since 1920? By failing in courage? By asking authors for $10,000 the day before opening? People behaving very characteristically, as when Dennis King gave an interview to the Herald Tribune, in which he said that if he had not been wasted, the play might not have come to grief. As WRD, asserting that if he had known $10,000 was wanted, he would gladly have furnished it. As when Brenda and I took farewell of the actors on Friday night, and they showed the greatest courage, kindness, and humour; a much-abused and decent profession. As when we returned to Peterborough, and found that Ruth and Ross Thompson met us, to show friendship and bid us to a meal, lest we should feel unwelcomed. Everything considered, everyone has behaved well.

  For some months, the Guild talked with enthusiasm of trying the play in London, but the plans fell through. They were pressing Tony too hard and on April 26 he wrote me, saying he had withdrawn from the whole affair. What irks me is that he writes: “If it had meant that you and your wife and Little Ones would otherwise have starved, of course I’d have been proud to bow the knee to Mr. Herbert, but as you’re nicely fixed as the Biggest Fraud in the Academic Racket, I feel I can consult my own wishes. I hope, nay feel confident, dear Meliboeus, that thou wilt not chide.” I do not like to have it put on this level—“you have a job, so I don’t have to provide for you.” Tony has never understood why I want a theatre reputation—or perhaps he does, and seeks thus to tramp on my ambition. The truth is, he hates redoing a show, and I fully understand why. Nor do I think it wholly desirable that he should do Love and Libel again. But why phrase it as he has done?

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 12: Return to the Examiner and am happy to find it in excellent condition, and I am greeted by many friendly and sympathetic words. I grapple with accumulated mail, talk to department heads, write a Star column on Washington Irving, and in the evening work on a lecture on As You Like It. Home is very clean, convenient, and delightful.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14: To Toronto and lecture at Trinity on As You Like It at 12 and then farewell to those fatheads. In the afternoon shop very hard, then have dinner with Brenda and Miranda and we go to The Seventh Seal, another fine Bergman, then to Hawthorn Gardens and chat with Margaret till 11:30. Admirable h.t.d.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, TORONTO: To Trinity for lunch and talk about next term’s work, and lecture from 2 to 4: Gordon Roper declared this a great success. To the Bishop Strachan School Nativity. Jenny sang Second King. We dine with the Stewarts, very jolly but I drank too much.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16: Bad night and hangover. To Peterborough on train with Kit for our Examiner directors’ meeting and year-end business. Very weary. Brenda, Jenny, and Rosamond home about 7, very jolly, and we have an uproarious dinner. I then read and plan what must be done in the next few days, which is plenty, and I must take care not to rush and destroy myself.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 25: Up at 9; breakfast and the tree take ’til 12 with many handsome gifts. In the afternoon we walk in the woods near Chemong Lake, very fine. Christmas dinner, then Miranda reads a “consequences” story to which we have all contributed. We read aloud, then to bed at 10:45.

  I took Xmas more lightly this year than usual, with good effect. Did not strain to enjoy, nor agonize over gifts, yet all has gone well. So much of my life has been darkened by anxiety and the wish to excel!

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 26: Write a Star column on Beerbohm in the morning. Then in the afternoon, Vincent Massey calls, very mysterious, wants to see me on Saturday. Is this anything to do with the university? We go to parties at Curriers’, Mort and June Knox, and Thompsons’, and then dine and play games till 1. To bed but cannot sleep: could Vincent Massey’s call signal escape from Peterborough? The thought unsettles me.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 27: Took the afternoon off and slept. Brenda has read my mind about Vincent Massey and we discuss the matter, but I have not one crumb of reason to hope or believe in such an appointment. Nonetheless, I am much stirred and cannot control my fancy. I did a little work on lectures but am out of sorts.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 28: To Toronto at 8:45 for radio and TV meetings,53 and then WRD and Arthur lunch with Brenda, Jenny, and me at the Club; we are home by 7. I work on lectures and the others skate. WRD is getting discursive but looks very well; I continue to stew unwarrantably about Vincent Massey’s call.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 29: Work hard and make headway with first lecture:54 what hard work! In the evening the girls give a party and sleigh ride for ten. Brenda and I lurk in the study, and they go home about 1:30 and seemed to have a good time. I still stew about Vincent Massey. Foolish.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 30: Complete first lecture and Brenda says it is good, and funny, which had not occurred to me. In the evening WRD calls to say Tyrone Guthrie has been knighted—he heard it on radio. This is recognition long deferred and greatly merited.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 31: Work at the Examiner till 11:30; wrote an editorial about Tony. Vincent Massey’s chauffeur collects me at 11:45 and I drive to Batterwood with a heavy heart. It cannot be. But it is! He and Claude Bissell want me to be the first Master of Massey College and have no other they want. We discuss this from 12:45 to 5:45 and are at one on many of the things, great and small, which would shape such a venture. I return home elated and tell Brenda. The family drinks 1961 in with champagne.

  What a year! I am really too fagged to rehearse it. The appearance of A Voice from the Attic meant a quantity of proof-reading, indexing, and fussing beyond my previous experience, and from May on the play was always with me. A failure at last, but I do not count it lost, nor shall I give up hope of the theatre. But such a blow is bound to depress and affect my health. Curious: in Detroit I went to the Episco
pal cathedral and prayed that I might be given grace to take success or failure with courage and decency of behaviour. And I was! First time, to my recollection, that a prayer of mine has been answered. Then—yesterday, before going to Batterwood to see Vincent Massey, I consulted the sortes virgilianae55 with Mencken’s Dictionary of Quotations and hit upon Veni, sancte spiritus.56 Now, does this mean that religion, with which I have so long struggled, is at last asserting itself more directly in my life? But then I went to Vincent Massey who asked me to be first Master of Massey College! This means escape from Peterborough, from newspaper life, of which I have had enough, and a new beginning in that academic world which has so long attracted me—entering it at the top! My life becomes, more clearly, a strange, phantasmagorical externalizing of my dreams! But a dream that comes true, as I know from experience, is always the matter, or substance of one’s dream, reworked so that it takes some penetration to recognize it for what it is. Our decision is made, but I expect details will take some time to work out, and being head of a new college cannot be beer and skittles; but it should undoubtedly be interesting.

  My resolve for 1961 must be to fit myself for my new work. I think I have done pretty well with my 1960 resolve, which was sharply tested by the Love and Libel adventure: I tried to be a reed, bending but not breaking. If I am to be master of a college my sense of hospitality must be improved: if I cannot really delight in people, I can at least learn to be civil, and let them talk, which I believe is the great secret.