A Celtic Temperament: Robertson Davies as Diarist Read online

  Will let you know my London address as soon as I have a confirmation from the hotel. I too find this parting long, and look forward eagerly to getting back—though not back to work. This has been fun, but very taxing. I hope London may be a few days of holiday—but one never knows. Will write again soon but must get on the treadmill now.

  Hugs and kisses to all, and special intimate sorts to you, my dearest,

  Rob

  SUNDAY, JULY 26: After tea began reading my Leaven of Malice play, but Mrs. Tyner came and the Guthries had forgotten they had asked her, which was a little awkward. But she stayed for supper and Tony and I finished reading the play. It went very well, and Scaife was most complimentary about it. Judy coughed maddeningly: curious how unsympathetic one can be toward such an obvious affliction, but she roars on and on at odds with one’s efforts to amuse. Discussion afterward, much of it valuable, and particularly grateful for Scaife’s sympathetic criticism.

  MONDAY, JULY 27: Work on reshaping the first part of the play. The work goes surprisingly easily. In the afternoon with Judy to Newbliss, taking Old Becky, Tony’s partly paralysed nurse, who lives with her daughters in an outlying wing of this odd rookery. God knows how many hangers-on there are. Before dinner James Forsyth,33 the playwright, arrives with his young son Richard. Judy very strange: tonight in reply to some very simple question I asked her (why she held some opinion, or something) she replied, “Because I’m high-born, and not common and vulgar and sex-obsessed like you”—and then kissed me. Whether this is her notion of pleasantry, or a real belief, I don’t know, probably both, but sometimes I am uncomfortably conscious that Judy could topple over into madness very easily: sometimes she looks very oddly, and I have always thought it fatigue. This attitude is not to me alone: Scaife is “a dirty Levantine.” At lunch both Guthries carried on with childish spleen about the vulgarity of American pronunciations—yet Tony pronounces “minute” as “minyit”—which is bog-Irish.

  TUESDAY, JULY 28, LETTER TO BRENDA

  Dearest Pinkie:

  As you requested I am trying to get some Irish linen napkins to replace our threadbare fishnets at 361 Park. Like a fool I asked Judy to tell me of a good shop. At once the Guthrie parsimony was evoked: I mustn’t dream of it, for they would cost the earth! (In actual fact they would cost 75 shillings a dozen for the best quality, 22 inches square, which I do not call a lot.) But no, she will get a friend of hers to ask a friend of hers to get me seconds at the factory for next to nothing. I cannot make it clear without being nasty that I do not want fucking seconds—I want the best and am ready to pay the shop price. The upshot will probably be that I shall get them in London and have them sent, and when the duty is paid they will cost plenty but we’ll have them and they’ll be good and last forever.

  Today, Tuesday, I went to Dublin where I hadn’t expected to get, with Tony, Joe Hone, and Christopher Scaife. Lovely drive and Dublin is a charming city, but smaller than I had foreseen. The Liffey is a dirty creek. Tony went off on business and Joe took Christopher and me to Trinity College Library, a superb building, where we saw the Book of Kells, one of the greatest of all illuminated manuscripts—a thrill. Then we went to the National Gallery, which was not very good—too many pictures of not very famous Irishmen by nobodies. Then to a very good bookshop. Then to a famous bar, immortalized in Ulysses—Davy Byrnes—a dump. Then I took the lot to a very good restaurant for lunch and crammed them, and tanked them up with Canadian whiskey, and washed them all over in wine, while they exclaimed at my princely extravagance. Total bill £4, 15s, which I do not call a lot for a first-rate lunch and wizard booze-up for four!

  We dropped Joe, and rushed Christopher to the airport; then Tony and I drove home and he talked casting for my play. He thinks a Canadian cast, with a few of name, would have class. Tony will be in New York in late September and thinks we ought to see the Theatre Guild together. Could we drive down then? or go by ’plane? You must come; can’t do any more on this play without you. It is practically done now, and much changed for the better: as you will see, Mrs. Bridgetower is in as a principal character and a good one. Tony has made me see it as a play and formerly I could not get rid of the idea of the novel. But what hard work it has been: I have really toiled, and I look forward eagerly to London for a rest and change.

  Good night, my dearest: in two weeks exactly I shall be home. Huge hugs and kisses

  Rob

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 29: Worked all morning and most of the afternoon with Tony on the play, cutting, tidying, and I hope improving. He wants one more sequence, a series of dreams which I suggested, and I must do it tomorrow. In the morning there arrived Dr. and Mrs. Steele and their young sons Jonathan and Charles, who the Guthries thought were not coming until tomorrow. Steele is a dull, slow fellow, an anesthetist, given to ponderous, nit-witted generalization. They are friends of Bunty and the boys are her godsons; the wife, Meriel, is the more intelligent but a worthy dullard. A wasp has stung Steele in the groin and he is in some pain, and vulgar shame at the location of his wound. Their boys are beautiful, and one wonders if they will become grey and spiritless like Dad and Mum. English children are amazing: “non Anglos sed Angles,”34 but they say something dim whenever they open their lips. Later, Dr. Steele, a keen gardener, confesses that the secret of his success with dahlias and tomatoes is that he brings home from the hospital an occasional bucket of placentas, which he thriftily retrieves from the delivery rooms and which make, he says, a plant food unrivalled. All this told without a speck of astonishment at himself, or a crumb of humour, or even the suggestion that a placenta-fed tomato is a mite anthropophagous for the queasy.

  When the others have gone to bed, Forsyth and I sit up with Tony and talk about morality, art, and poetry, arising from the fact that Tony has accepted £125 payable to a charity to endorse Albany cigarettes: Forsyth and I say this is immoral and he makes a wildly erratic defence. I question the breeding of such an action and ask him why he makes such a fetish of it. He makes a good joke of it, but I do not believe anyone becomes so exacerbated about something which is no more than a joke to them. Speaking of Scaife yesterday, Tony made as near an admission of his homosexuality as I have heard. Said he admired Christopher because “he had made life serve him,” had gone east where he could live as he pleased. Tony, I fear, does not live as he pleases.

  THURSDAY, JULY 30: At breakfast Tony hears from his publisher, McGraw-Hill, that his first sixty galleys have not arrived and to hasten with his spare copies thereof. Reason: Joe Hone posted them in the old envelope in which they came and seeing “Return postage guaranteed” on the label, popped them in without stamps. He and Tony crowed about this as £1 saved in postage. But of course it went to the dead letter office. So we had to set to work at 9:30 and with a lunch interval slaved till 7, getting the work done all over again! I insisted Tony pay some tribute to Fagan35 and he said, “Oh, you do it!”—so I did. He owed much to Fagan. I was glad to be of help, but thought it the wages of penny-pinching. About 6:30 a transatlantic call and I feared some calamity: but it was Brenda calling to be cheerful. I was inhibited by having to shout, and troops of people rushing about and obviously listening, so could not say much. But a great thrill and comfort to hear her.36 Tonight pack to leave Annagh-ma-Kerrig and not sorry, for while I have enjoyed it here I have worked very hard, and look forward to some pleasure in London, and a few days when I am not either working on the play, or put to weeding or berry-picking.

  FRIDAY, JULY 31: Up at 4:30, breakfast in kitchen (the one warm and dry place in the house), and away to Belfast in Dr. Steele’s big Citröen, a nice car, but he is an enthusiast, so Tony and Judy took against it: it has front-wheel drive and goes round curves very fast.

  Fly to London at 8:30. Tony and I share a taxi to Drury Lane, then I to the Norfolk Hotel, Surrey Street, which proves quite different from what I expected, and remembered that the one I had in mind was the Howard, in Norfolk Street. My room is a dingy kennel. Depressed, and reflect that I have tw
elve days of this room, this hotel, and loneliness before me, because I have come to London a few days before I expected.37 Have lunch at the Café Royal, and rejoice in mixed grill, a banana and a pear, and a half carafe of a good red wine and real coffee: best food in three weeks! Then buy some theatre tickets and to Mr. Franklin’s,38 which is lucky for he closes today for a fortnight. Looked at a lot of things and dawdled over an Elizabethan pendant, a relief portrait of Elizabeth Regina in gold knot, and several dingy, old-cut diamonds. But it was curious rather than beautiful. At last bought a pair of seventeenth-century Spanish earrings, gold and enamel, and a silver gilt box, 1800, of curious interest and beautifully made. Tramped till I was footsore and dined at the Norfolk, bad. Then to the Wyndham and saw The Hostage by Brendan Behan, much praised but to me a mish-mash of jokes, songs, and Irish whimpering and growling about the Troubles. And this charade is hailed as a masterpiece!

  FRIDAY, JULY 31, LETTER TO BRENDA

  Norfolk Hotel: Surrey St.

  London W.C.2.

  Dearest Pinkie:

  Hope my cable about the phone call got to you in good time and was reassuring. I know I sounded idiotic on the phone, but I could hardly hear you, and a horde of people were milling about, excited by a call from Canada, and I could not say anything but grumpy nonsense. But I was thrilled to bits to hear your voice, and thank you for calling.

  I am at the Norfolk, which is a mistake because I thought it was the Howard. It is smaller and dumpier, but what the hell, Archy,39 it is very clean. Will write again soon, so great big hugs and lewd massagings. I count the hours till we are together again—

  Rob

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 1, LONDON: Changed my flight from Aug 11 to Aug 8, which gives me a week in London, which is all I want alone; family life and travel with Brenda has ruined me for lonely pleasures; I want people with me—the right people. After a dreadful lunch to the Coliseum and saw the Sadler’s Wells people do Lehar’s Land of Smiles: very poor house in that vast, ugly place. The operetta, written in 1929, is in the style of 1910 and they had taken it seriously—realistic scenery, follow-spots for the leads and all. Theme: renunciation, this time a Chinese nobleman giving up his Viennese bride because of East being East and West, West. (Specifically, she minded him having four other wives.) Full of ambassadors, heel-clicking, Oriental splendour, and loud, tuneful music. Sat among old ladies, who adored it. “She’s goin’ back to England, dear,” screamed one to a deaf beldam, though the heroine had just said she was going back to Austria. This is identification indeed: the heroine had golden hair and was In the Right: ergo, she was English.

  To make up for my terrible lunch dined at the Café Royal and then to the Royal Court to Noël Coward’s Look after Lulu, adapted from Feydeau. Not good Coward. Of Lulu when she is in bed with her lover in the next room: “Afraid she can’t see you; she’s on the telephone.” Comic Old Man: “Ah, I hope she’s making a good connection.” The kind of thing Tony tried in Haste to the Wedding, better done. Vivien Leigh is very beautiful and very funny; Tony Quayle funny, but falls on his behind rather too often; Max Adrian not quite up to scratch, in a rather bad part. But one rarely sees a good dirty farce.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 2, LONDON: To Matins at Southwark Cathedral and took Communion; very high, but not fancy-dress. Quite good sermon by the precentor about the Transfiguration. Then looked at the cathedral, which is handsome, but essentially a fake. It claims acquaintance with St. Swithin, St. Olav, Chaucer, Gower, Shakespeare, Jonson, Fletcher, Massinger, Goldsmith, Bunyan, etc. but the nave dates from 1890 and most of these are “associations”: i.e., they believe these men worshipped here. There is a bad Shakespeare window and below it a big stone Shakespeare looking as if he had been knocked down by a ’bus. But it is a fine church, even if it makes worldly claims that ill become it. Gave 5 shillings; should have been £5; it is a poet’s church.

  Tea at Royal Festival Hall, nasty; then to a Russian film of Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin, very well done, with actors acting and singers singing, as in Tosca. But I do not like it so well as on the stage; filmed opera is so restless; the camera must be bobbing about and the pace established by the music is disturbed. It set my own works going, and on return to the Nasty Norfolk wrote the whole dream sequence of the play at a sitting.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 2, LETTER TO BRENDA

  Dearest Pink:

  I have lopped three days off my intended stay here as I am not keen to spend two weekends in London and anyhow I want to get home. The play needs quite a bit of tinkering before it can be typed and I can’t do it here—too much to see and do. Also, I want to get back to you, as I miss you all the time, at plays, and sights and meals and in bed and everywhere. The fun of everything is cut in two. Only a week and we shall be together! I can hardly wait. My love to Jenny and the others when you write (I send them postcards) and huge hugs and kisses to you my darling from

  Rob

  MONDAY, AUGUST 3, LONDON: Worked from 10 till 1:15 revising my dream sequence and copying it to send to Tony. I like it and if he does not I shall be disappointed, but what is probable is that he will want some changes. Lunched at Café Royal (mixed grill and a pear washed down with lager, and a Martini of a type unknown to me), then to National Gallery, which was very crowded and smelly; took time and looked only at my favourites—Veronese Darius and Alexander, some Titians, some Dutch, and my never-failing delight, the Bronzino Allegory of Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time,40 which I examined at leisure and in detail; had not before noticed that Venus has her tongue thrust into Cupid’s mouth, or that the Sphinx is so oddly drawn. Then to St. Martin’s for rest and quiet for half hour and to the Mermaid Theatre, which is behind the dilapidated rookery which houses the mighty Times. The Mermaid is an attractive theatre, but Lock Up Your Daughters was not good. Those who have compared it to The Beggar’s Opera at the Lyric in the ’twenties are claiming too much. There are good performances by Harry Locke as Justice Squeezum and Stephanie Voss as Hilaret, but the rest were coarse and loutish and it often sank to college dramatics. The open stage is good but they do not use it well: one does not want to see the electrician and the red-legged stage manager at their necessary but undramatic tasks. This jolly amateurism extends everywhere: the ushers are enthusiastic girls, the bar has no ice and no gin, the shop which sells records has no wrapping-paper. And as for the play, these indecencies must be done with style, not raucous romping. Had dinner at Maxim’s and as it was still only 9 walked Regent Street and saw condoms in a window as “The Working Man’s Friend, extra strong English make.”

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 4, LETTER TO BRENDA

  Dearest Pink:

  No use writing anymore after this, as I shall be home on Saturday and the letter would follow me. Certainly I shall be glad to be back: London is wonderful, but not alone. Curious the feeling you mention in your letter that I might be so taken with the joys of solitude that I would not come home: nothing could be less likely. I am a domestic creature, quite apart from love for you, and the children. I quite like travel, but don’t really know how to do it. I can’t joy in travel when my heart is elsewhere. And my heart is where you are. In future we must avoid these partings whenever we can—it may not always be possible but we must try. But as you say, your childhood did not dispose you to think of husbands as home-loving creatures. Maybe home wasn’t as happy for them as mine is for me.

  Got a handsome present for WRD—a pair of William IV wine coolers, designed like our salts, beautiful melon bottoms, and a nice simplicity. Wish they were for us? Should we bag them and give him something else? They would look marvellous on our sideboard and just the thing for flowers. What do you say? Got them in the Silver Vaults: what awful trash most of the stuff down there is! Victorian junk. But these have the real look. I’ll ponder the matter, but we’ve liked those salts so much that I know we would like these too. And they would be a nice reminder of my journey—I MUST stop selling myself those coolers! When I began to write to you there was no such notion in my head—honest!
/>   How would it be if, when I get home, I get the play all corrected and ready for Miss Whalon, and then read it to you and Jenny? It will take a few days, but not too long. I like it very much in its present form.

  Great hugs and kisses and I shall be watching out at Malton:41 if I’m long in Customs don’t worry—no exemption and I’ll have to declare one or two things.

  Rob

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 5, LONDON: Woke at 6 and could not sleep again, which was a nuisance: have slept badly the whole of this trip. To Kensington Church Street to look for silver but the shops there have gone down, and except for two or three good antique furniture places they deal in trash jewellery or wretched china figurines. Did see an original Augustus John drawing—Dorelia in her usual dress and turban—at £70. But would WRD think it was anything? No. Nor was it a particularly interesting example of his work. At last found, in Victor Crichton’s in the High Street, a pretty pair of Sheffield sauce-boats—little charmers—and bought them. Shall ask Brenda to choose which of the possibilities we shall keep for ourselves. Then to Zwemmers, and bought two Ardizzone lithographs. Lunched at the Café Royal, then to Alec Clunes’s shop42 in Cecil Court and chatted with George Hart, but must return. To a French film, Mon Oncle, in which Jacques Tati is very funny. At 8 to the Cambridge Theatre in Seven Dials and saw Lonsdale’s Let Them Eat Cake, vintage of 1913: a trivial piece, but very well made in a manner no longer fashionable, but not without value. Michael Denison and his wife, Dulcie Gray, played the leads: Michael is not a good actor, but he is handsome and has great charm. But he seems to have learned nothing since he played Orlando for the Oxford University Dramatic Society. Miss Gray is better but shows the distressing leading lady’s tendency to laugh archly, and play tricks. Got some dinner at Maxim’s. Was hailed in the street by some woman who knew who I was: English, not Canadian; also stopped by an intensely embarrassed youth who thought I was Edward Hyams.43