A Celtic Temperament: Robertson Davies as Diarist

by Robertson Davies

  Our first visitors, Wednesday night, were Hart and Ron Thom, and for the first time I truly liked Hart: his level-headedness in dealing with what his father and Lionel confuse with emotion, and his charm and courtesy as a guest, are winning. We shall be friends yet. Ron tells me a carpenter rushed to him, saying, “You know that nice room we fitted with all those nice clean shelves? That fella’s put a dirty old brown bookcase in it!” My fine 1800 bookcase! My study is indeed a fine room and the whole house is beautiful, though plagued by the ills of new houses—doors that bang or won’t open—doors that won’t shut—no space for food in the kitchen—the stairs still naked concrete. But we are here and College life has begun.

  Bickersteth has written most kindly, asking a blessing on Brenda and me, and our work here. I take this seriously, for without God we shall do nothing—“Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it.”22

  MONDAY, JUNE 17: I called Claude Bissell and visited him at 12, and for half an hour we discussed Lionel Massey’s crise nerveuse. He is sympathetic but annoyed that Lionel called Vincent Massey and made a to-do, and indeed it is rather shrieking for Daddy. Claude is willing to help Lionel save face and shows me the letter he is sending; together we tinker it, offering Lionel the title of associate director of the museum, which he will love, and a good leave of absence. I think this generous of CB.

  To Stratford with Brenda. We picnic in the motel. The eleventh Stratford Festival opens with Troilus and Cressida. A good production by Michael Langham but perhaps not enough emphasis on Troilus’s disillusion, which may have had something to do with Peter Donat, who is not really a romantic actor—just a handsome man. He thinks a man in love shows it by clumsy tumbling about and being tongue-tied. He fumbled and left out some of his great Act 1, scene 2 speech: “O Pandarus, I tell thee, Pandarus, etc.” He was often out in his lines, and missed “heel the high lavolt,” a favourite phrase of mine. He was coltish, rather than a young prince. Martha Henry as Cressida worthy of a better partner: delicate, wanton, fresh, and enough to rouse the desire of every man in the house. But Diana Maddox as Helen was a Welsh tub and James Douglas as Paris laughable—insignificant, petulant, and meanly colloquial. As Nestor, Bill Needles was just as he was last year as Gremio: presume this was Michael Langham who seems to have Tony Guthrie’s obsession with youth—old age always contemptible; but there is more in Nestor than this. Max Helpmann a good Agamemnon, Leo Ciceri an excellent Achilles, and Douglas Rain brilliant as Ulysses—spoke the “degree” speech and “Time had, my lord, a wallet …” superbly. What a good actor but how unsympathetic! Hutt a very good Pandarus—epicene, wincing, but coarse as hemp underneath. Had shaved his arms; some of the others very woolly for Greeks, especially Garrick Hagon as Patroclus—a masculine whore should not be so goatish about the legs. Tony van Bridge played Ajax rather like Bottom. Eric Christmas admirable as Thersites—a man consumed with spleen but a sort of left-handed moralist. Beautifully dressed, and good music by Lou Applebaum. On balance very good. The audience were not greatly pleased, but they must learn to know a great play that is not an obvious favourite. They accept disillusion in modern drama: let them savour it in a great classic.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 19, STRATFORD: The Comedy of Errors produced by Jean Gascon. Play begins: zanni enter to pleasant music; one gestures us to our feet as “The Queen” begins in seventeenth-century manner—but stops just before “Long to reign over us”: audience sits, puzzled, then the orchestra plays last seven bars of “O Canada.” A good joke though some took it in bad part. Play done commedia dell’arte style and perhaps a little too much so: a great deal of shouting, falling about, and precious capering, but no moment of poetry, no lull in the storm. Eric House and I agreed afterward that it was a mistake to be as funny as one can at all times. They created in me, at least, a sense of wearisome strain. Kate Reid good as Adriana; Martha Henry, as Luciana, was so tidied and primped that she looked commonplace; her beauty is of the now fashionable just-out-of-bed kind. Donat stylish as Antipholus of Syracuse, and Christmas a good clown as Dromio of Ephesus. As Pinch, Hugh Webster had a wig that caught fire, a good device. After to the cast party and had a pleasant talk with Michael Learned, Donat’s wife, who is truly beautiful and charming, and she flattered me so that I quite lost my heart to her for half an hour. She is a natural blonde, with an exquisite skin and easy, endearing manners.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 21: There are mice in this college, and very impudent mice, too. We must get a College cat. Intruders still frequent, though not as bad as a week ago. But signs of Private and No Admittance mean nothing to the university community. There is water at the base of the dumbwaiter shaft. Colin Friesen has made peace with Commercial Caterers, so that is settled. Finch is having some work done in his rooms and his carpenter—a German—says the College work is very shabby. How ready people are to complain and sow dissent! Received today H.W.C. Davis’s revision of A History of Balliol College and read with amusement about its founding and the period before 1283 when money was always in doubt. History repeats herself, though never word for word. Bill Broughall still worries that the Masseys might desert the College but I have more confidence: for their family name they dare not do so. But if they do I shall not hesitate to make public comment, and the university could not let us down. It may be rough, but I think we shall manage somehow.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26: We see Miranda off to Jamaica.23 Then to Peterborough for an Examiner directors’ meeting and to close 361 Park Street. Feared we might be deeply depressed, but as soon as we entered the old house we knew it had gathered itself together and knew us no more: it had that indescribably Victorian smell, of damp chimneys and old plaster, not disagreeable, but old and private. It did not remember us, and was back in some dream of the earlier owners, the Dennes and the Gilmours. When we returned to our brand-new, unfamiliar, and untamed house, we knew that we were home, or in the place we must make home.

  SATURDAY, JUNE 29: Yesterday Swinton was announced as director of Royal Ontario Museum and Lionel Massey as associate director. I saw Lionel last night at the Balliol College dinner at the York Club and he seemed very pleased, but did not want to discuss it and even brushed aside a man who congratulated him, as though modestly dismissing any thought of honour. Ha ha! Trouble with cheeky visitors continues. At 5 this afternoon I challenged a young man who was taking pictures in the quad. Yes, he had climbed the barrier, disregarding the sign: he was an architecture student and such notices were not for them. Said he knew Thom and a building belonged to the architect in a truer sense than it could ever belong to anyone else. And more, in the same vaunting vein. Had to be stern with him.

  I blush to record that since coming to this building I keep seeing, from time to time, little black figures running from my approach—about eighteen inches high, with goat hindquarters and tails—heads are horned. I glimpse them out of the corner of my eye. Devils, plainly. I know there are rats here, but these are not rats. What does it mean? Am I visited with Luther’s capacity to see devils, or is my sight amiss, or is this exhaustion?

  THURSDAY, JULY 4: Tonight Brenda and I go for a holiday; got none last year so we look forward to it eagerly. We leave things here in pretty good condition—gates going up, water going into the pool, etc. Glad to get away. I need time to think of what the College really means, and how it can be made to do its best work.

  Now that Rob and Brenda were installed at Massey College, and with the College opening scheduled for September, they departed for an extended European holiday, travelling by sea on the outward journey.

  FRIDAY, JULY 5, MONTREAL: To the Franconia and find our cabin, M29, more like a hotel room than quite becomes a ship. Breakfast heavily, as we are very hungry, and establish ourselves as senior inhabitants of the ship. We are put at the captain’s table, a dubious distinction, with Mr. and Mrs. Higgs of Worcester—steel-rolling machinery, and Mr. and Mrs. Blake of St. Louis—administrator of a music school. Mrs. Blake a compulsive talker and boasts about her only daughter,
who is twenty-three and has a Ph.D.—all but dissertation. In the afternoon to film, Some Like It Hot and were refreshed by Marilyn Monroe’s soft beauty, so unlike the metallic lustre of many screen idols. We eat, fashionably, at the second sitting, and finish dinner in time to stagger to bed. Brenda looks better already and I think I do so, as well.

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 10, LETTER TO MOIRA WHALON

  Dear Miss Whalon,24

  … I see the carpenters’ strike is on; I hope it is not holding up our carrels or the finishing work. Did Gord and Fred complete the list of minor jobs in the Lodgings? Staining the floor inside the heating case in my study, for instance, and making the windows work properly. Their intentions were excellent, I am sure; but their execution was sometimes weak.

  We are having a calm voyage: just enough movement to be pleasant, though a few people have been ill. Mrs. Davies and I have slept day and night, recovering from rather a lot of worry and dashing to and fro, of which you know the details. Did the Porter tell you we have a raccoon in the College? The sooner you get that cat the better, and it should be a BIG cat, or a kitten with unusual promise, and we should give it a fine College name, such as Diogenes, Socrates, or Hodge—Dr. Johnson’s cat was called Hodge and it was a very learned cat. Of course, if it is female it will need to be called Saint Catherine—Kitty for short. If a eunuch, call it Nathan Cohen.

  Enough of this frivolity. When you send the mail to Leighton, would you include a line to say how things are going? I hope all goes well with you.

  RD

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 10: Land fever begins to possess the ship. Cocktails with Captain R.J.N. Nicholas, who has been invisible because of two cracked ribs. He is a roundabout, nervous man with no social sense, and seems to have memorized every conversational cliché, which he yelps in a high, cheerful voice. Why do big steamship companies make their expert navigators double as salesmen and greeters? Our mysterious table steward, who looks like a bargain basement Laurence Olivier and has a soft, palavering voice, proves to be an Irishman named Kennedy.

  THURSDAY, JULY 11: Wake when we anchor at Cobh, Ireland, and the wonderful “otherness” of Europe hits me again, and strongly. It is a sensation of a world I long for, and love, and partake of in part, but which is never mine. Where am I at rest? Not here and certainly not at home.

  SATURDAY, JULY 13: Dock at Rotterdam in heavy rain and debark with the minimum of trouble about 12; the taxi to the station tries to cheat me but I am getting better at this sort of thing and circumvent him. To Amsterdam by train and gape at the rapidity with which we dash through virtually all the principal cities of Holland on our way. To Hotel de l’Europe, an old-fashioned, nice place, and are put in 213, which one enters oddly through the bathroom. Late lunch in their excellent restaurant, a little daunted by mail from home. Four airmail letters from Miranda in Jamaica about la vie diplomatique chez McInneses, which make up, I think, the best-written letter I have ever received in my life. She has great gifts of observation and expression.

  This was a holiday, but both Rob and Brenda were serious tourists, and Rob again maintained a detailed travel diary of their holiday trip to Holland, Denmark, and Scotland, including Shetland, and then to Wales, where they stayed with Rupert and Margaret Davies at Leighton Hall. Jennifer joined them there, and then she and Brenda visited Brenda’s aunt in Cornwall while Rob went on his own to Oxford for a few days of contemplation and practical research for running Massey College.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 6: We leave Leighton, and I am saddened to say goodbye to WRD on the platform at Welshpool, for these partings in Wales cannot be many more, and I have come to associate him with that country more than with my childhood. At Shrewsbury I wait—it seems for hours—for my Oxford train. Once aboard I settle down to my task for this part of the journey: an examination of my life and an attempt to clear the decks for the next developments. I have some success, but so intimately does this sort of thing affect me that I become rather ill, and arrive at Oxford with a headache and some sensations of a cold.

  Oxford station is bleak as ever, and had some trouble getting a cab. To the Mitre and I am taken back to my first visit to this hotel, when I “came up.” What a place it is! Leaning heavily on its 500 years as an inn, quaint, uncomfortable, and smelly, the only modern thing being the offhand slovenliness of the staff. Set out to walk the High and looked in at the Examination Schools and revisited the Schola Magna Borealis, where I used to hear Tolkien, and the room where I had my viva from Chambers and Simpson.25 I visited All Souls, and the University Church and Jesus College. Did it all with thoroughness and was footsore by dinner. Afterward walked Beaumont Street, which I greatly admire, then to Nuffield College, the quad of which has ornamental water like ours, and down to Folly Bridge. Back to the Mitre very tired; hot bath and asleep by 11. Why do I feel ill and apprehensive here? The town is somewhat disappointing: dirty and squalid and noisy: the noble buildings seem to sit in a trash heap. And such crowds! Also the shops do not seem to be so good as in my day. I wander like a ghost—or no, I do not wander, I pelt doggedly along, like the Wandering Jew—seeking not only my past, but my present and my future—indeed myself.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, OXFORD: Woke feeling heavy and depressed. But after breakfast my day takes a sharp upward turn. I phone Peter Swan,26 and his wife tells me he is expecting me at the Ashmolean: go there, pausing at St. Giles for a moment, and find him very agreeable. We talk of the Royal Ontario Museum and I tell him he is talked of to follow Swinton as director: we discuss matters very frankly and openly for an hour. Then to Balliol and have a thorough look at the chapel and hall, and look again at No. 8, Staircase 22, my old room: new furniture, which is not surprising after twenty-seven years. Thoroughly enjoy my visit.

  Swan picks me up at the Mitre at 12:45 and we go to St. Edmund Hall, of which he is a professorial fellow: sherry in the Senior Common Room and lunch with the dons in an upper room. VERY pleasant and I am amused at the combination of squalor and splendour: two dusty Anglepoise lamps and some paper parcels in the Senior Common Room—over-driven boy in a dirty white coat serves a poorish lunch. But who cares? The spirit and the conversation are good. Swan is a good example of the Oxford type I like—learned, merry, and easy. Tells of a remark of Sparrow, warden of All Souls, deploring the marriage of some of his Fellows: “Imagine”—looking around Hall—“imagine giving up all this, for a single body!” Swan is married to a very good ’cellist and has three daughters, the eldest nine. Says Lionel Massey is a very good fellow “but a dreadful snob.” Yes.

  Swan walks me up to St. Antony’s, in a former Anglican nunnery, to meet its bursar, an agreeable man who tells me how they cope with Junior Fellows’ wives and advises against too many rules, with which I wholly agree. Gives me their statutes. By cab to Nuffield and meet B. Keith-Lucas, who gives an excellent account of how they manage small conferences there, usually Friday to Sunday and get first-rate people to sit in with their students. All of this very encouraging and crystallizes things I had dimly apprehended. He shows us the college and I think it not so fine as ours. See Piper’s27 chapel and do not much like it. His bulbous candlesticks quarrel with the scrap-iron cross and reredos: good stained windows, the Damned and the Blessed, but who can say which is which?

  At 7:15 to the New Theatre to see Wildest Dreams, Julian Slade’s new musical comedy, and advertised as successor to his Salad Days and to The Boy Friend: indeed it is so—an innocent charade, amateurish in production, unsophisticated in humour, literate but not adventurous in its music—and savouring very much of a rather better-than-average university show. But the English love this sort of thing, and not all the West Side Storys and Pal Joeys to come across the sea can shake them. And have they not much right on their side? This was a jolly, agreeable evening, putting no strain on the ear or the intellect, and the well-to-do innocents around me were loving it. But one felt that one was too old for such artless nonsense. Back to the Mitre and had fish and hock and Stilton, and so to bed.

  THURSD
AY, AUGUST 8, OXFORD: Stirring with the lark, and buy ties, handkerchiefs, and whatnot, and at 10:30 to the pen-maker, R.C. Phillips in Oriel Street, who listens patiently to my difficulties and says he will make a pen to suit my needs. Then to Blackwell’s and buy some nineteenth-century stuff, including sets of Barrie and Wilde. Then to Balliol and looked at the new and good arrangement of the library, then to visit Corpus and Merton, got my tailor-made pen from Phillips, and to Evensong at Christ Church Cathedral, in the chapel in which I was confirmed.28 Found all of this peaceful, restorative, and productive of ideas useful to Massey College. I have an opportunity to reconsider what Oxford is, and to see its grubby and commonplace side, as well as to recapture its charm and richness. And I wonder if, after all, we cannot, with diligence and luck, get some of what is best to flourish in Toronto. It would never be Vincent’s dream Oxford, but that does not exist here, now, and perhaps never did. But the attitude toward learning, and toward life, may be transplantable in the special circumstances that confront me.

  This evening again to Wildest Dreams because there is nothing else to do, and because popular entertainment is now my line. It stood up to a second viewing better than I would have expected, and some of the songs are really very good. So back to the Mitre for another ghastly supper, and to bed happy that my visit to Oxford has fulfilled my hopes of it so well. Impressed that at the bottom of the Balliol war memorial appear the names of five Germans; one, von Bohlen und Halbach, was up with me. That is the proper spirit—the feeling of “all my sons” proper to a great house of learning.