TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3: Reached a low ebb, and wondered seriously whether I had not made the mistake of my life in coming here. Processions of people, many of them on the most trivial pretexts, occupied my time; I shook hands till I was distracted. Chatter, chatter! Had much business to do; Miss Whalon got no lunch; I do not think I had ten uninterrupted minutes from 9:30 to 6. By nightfall I was too broken to read or recreate myself in any way, and told Brenda of my despair. We are both suffering from the public character of our life. I think with awe of the master of Balliol, whom we so rarely saw when I was there, and of Dr. Homes Dudden of Pembroke College, who sat in his study editing Fielding, and appeared like Jove, from time to time. But I am always on call, and if I do not do what is wanted, who will? I must find a way out of this labyrinth of tiresome detail, or it will kill me. Was I a fool to give up the dullness, with retirement, of Peterborough, for this frantic place?
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4: Remarkable contrast: a day in which all goes well and much is achieved. An architect, Professor Acland, comes to see the College and write a piece. How brash, possessive, and patronizing architects tend to be toward another man’s work! I got a walk in the afternoon and went to Britnell’s, where Roy Britnell entertained me with tales of the vanity and impudence of the late Perkins Bull.38 Returned and shortly Vincent and Lionel Massey appeared. VM ages apace; dodders slightly, but rallies quickly; forgetful in an old man’s way; tells you something twice in five minutes. Also: “Everyone is astonished at our fees; we must raise them.” And: “Rob, are we going to have to call all these young puppies of Junior Fellows ‘Doctor’? What nonsense, when the president of Princeton is always called ‘Mister.’ ” I hope VM is not going to become a pest about such things. But he approved the lectern with canopy! And was philosophical and sensible about the likelihood of thieving of silver and china. Old men are extraordinary; they go soft in patches and are admirable in other realms.
A cat joined us today, a gift of Bette Hooper of Peterborough, grey with pretty white markings. I name it Hodge, after Dr. Johnson’s great cat, and Miss Pat Kennedy,39 of the Library, has taken it to her heart. It slept on the shelf beside the Oxford English Dictionary, a good omen.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 5: Colin Friesen and Douglas Lochhead give me their introductory letters to the Junior Fellows: DL’S is good, but CEF no stylist, so I do a lot of work on it and remove the business clichés. Spent some time with him allotting rooms to the Senior men; how good they are! Lionel appears with Lilias and his daughters to look at the building and come in for tea; I tell him what Claude Bissell and Ernest Sirluck said might come of the Library and he was delighted—truly enthusiastic. Says also that a man who has left his all to the College is sick of a cerebral hemorrhage. God, what vultures we become in such cases! I do not even know the man—I think his name is Hudd40—and wish no harm to him but—how much has he? Lionel says “a small estate” but however small, it is more than we have now. These are vile thoughts.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 6: Sinus headache. Morning on College affairs. Ron Thom sets the lectern in train at last. Then to Stratford to see Cyrano41 with John Colicos in the lead: better than Plummer—more chivalry and high breeding, as with the Orange Girl in Act 1, and he can do adoration as Plummer could not. Also he was more repellent in appearance—grotesque sausage of a nose and huge eyebrows, creating a fox’s mask. Diana Maddox very good as Roxane, for she makes sense of her words and is not so trivial and selfish in impression as Toby Robins. Eric Christmas played Ragueneau and had blunted his naturally sharp nose, so that he looked like all the really French actors.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, STRATFORD: H.t.d. Visit Dama Bell. Matinée of Timon of Athens: a triumph in modern dress. Langham has created a corrupt timeless society of opportunists, among whom Timon is a rather vulgar tycoon. Some minor liberties, not so much with the text as with interpretation, but justified. Imaginative business, as when Lucius is importuned for a loan in a Turkish bath; Lucullus (in a hairnet) as he admires a fine bronze in a crate marked “Sotheby’s” which has just come. Alcibiades’s revolt cast in the uniforms and mould of Castro’s. Apemantus played by Douglas Rain as a newspaper correspondent, with fine compassion. Do not know why Duke Ellington had to be got for the music, which sounded exactly like what Lou Applebaum has been writing for every tragedy for the past ten years. Fred Euringer played Cupid rather as Dr. Stephen Ward,42 but had not the art to project it sufficiently, and his clumsy step was out of character. Colicos splendid as Timon: magnanimous, brainless, proud, and at the end, a disintegrated wreck. Admirable variety of voice; it is here he so far outshines Plummer.
Rest at the motel and h.t.d. To the evening performance of Troilus and Cressida again. Now much firmer—William Hutt and Martha Henry and Douglas Rain all much improved, as was Garrick Hagon. Peter Donat not. The pathos of the play more marked. Both Timon and Troilus productions are very modern in spirit, but on the same day such a dose of cynicism and misanthropy is strong.
Afterward to the Bells. I hear Comedy of Errors is all to bits, and very coarse and disordered now. It was headed that way. Alf Bell says Peter Hall43 ill and Michael Langham may be offered Stratford England and what will Stratford Ontario do then, poor thing?44 Helen Langham dislikes Stratford Ontario (very provincial, she says, with some reason) and will be strong to change.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 8: All my married life I have suffered occasional brief periods of impotence, always associated with stress. I can never convince myself that they will pass. From August 21 to September 6, I was powerless and this was distressing both for Brenda and me. Night of September 6—no go; then in the night an emission; lay with Brenda on waking and again later in the day, very powerfully. The holiday at Stratford did it.
The weekend was splendidly restorative. We must find a way of coping with this place so that we are not exhausted and maddened by it.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9: I was amused this morning by Ron, who appeared in the quad at 9, fussing and making a show of efficiency. “Nobody returns my phone calls: nobody keeps appointments: nobody does what they promise,” etc. The pot calls the kettle black. The ineffable Lorimer fusses most of the morning because his firm has not had enough garden party invitations and think themselves slighted. Lionel Massey comes at 10:30 to discuss parties: he looks better. Peter Swan comes to lunch. I hope he may succeed Swinton at the ROM. Doug Ambridge wants to be shown the College just when I have settled for a rest. Colin Friesen discusses his problems of maintenance staff: I insist that we need weekend porterage. Colin Friesen creates confidence: a very good man.
I call in Robert Dinsmore, a Junior Fellow in English, and discuss with him the terrae filius wheeze for our October 4 ceremony. A pleasant young man and I think he will do it and do it well.
In the evening to the opening of the refurbished Royal Alexandra Theatre, which has been rescued from demolition by “Honest Ed” Mirvish, the discount-store man. A handsome restoration by Herbert Irvine in deep reds, white, and gold. Makes it look bigger, and the foyers also, as a lot of partitioning has been taken down and original fine proportions restored. The ushers wear tawdry livery: velvet coats, silk breeches and slippers—but badly cut and poor in finish—and the doorman looks like something from an ice carnival topper. These stupidities are not Herbert Irvine’s but the inspiration of a friend of Mirvish. There is even a foyer for the second balcony, decorated with pictures of those who have played at the Royal Alex—only one of Martin-Harvey, and that bad, in The King’s Messenger.
But the play! Never Too Late by S.A. Long, a vulgar trifle about a couple in late middle age who are about to have a child. Produced by George Abbott in his run-about, shouting style of the ’20s: a bathtub and toilet on stage, a drunk scene, a dully lecherous young woman—nothing spared us. So truly vulgar—and everybody belting out comedy lines facing over the footlights. Brenda and I were almost dropping with ennui by the first interval and would have left if we had not been invited guests. Champagne afterward and many professed themselves delig
hted with this trashy thing. There are a lot of rich rubes in Toronto.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10: In the midst of the hubbub began writing my lecture on La Bohème. At 3 p.m. Vincent Massey brought in his friends the Airds and Mme. Roy to shake hands. The Masseys met in the Senior Fellows’ Dining Room at 4, with Friesen and Ron and Miss Whalon as secretary. I was not present. Miss Turpin, Vincent Massey’s secretary, phoned at 4:30 to know if VM had taken his 4 o’clock pill! They appeared in my study at 6:30 greatly exhausted, having harried Ron to their satisfaction. Gave them a drink and they lingered till after 7, by which time the Architectural Conservancy people were assembling, almost a hundred strong. Let them in, gave them a talk about the building, and let them wander. Got some dinner about 8. Got the Conservancy people out by 9:30, by blowing a whistle in the quad and turning out the lights. Then with Brenda to the Faculty Club to a party given by D.C. Williams45 for Boyd Neel, Geiger-Torel,46 Mavor Moore (who could not be there), and me. Very agreeable.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11: Took an hour to get my hair cut. One cannot be consumed by this place. Howard has very skilfully accentuated the coats of arms in the Round Room. The Masseys come to my study to discuss the ceremony of October 4, and of course Hart, that Friend of the Minimum, is against a terrae filius. So I argue, and it appears he is afraid it might fail! Of course it might, but I shall take care it doesn’t. Poor wee man, failure is so much bigger to him than to the others. But Vincent Massey is on my side, and it is to be, though they don’t like the notion of the bull’s head: how they fear mockery! But I shall contrive something.
In the afternoon a meeting of the ROM committee, which at last begins to look as though it might wind up. When Peter Swan lunched with us he confided to me that on this continent he tends to eat too much and becomes constipated—the English preoccupation. But he ate a lot of our home-made bread, and three peaches, casually, after downing a lunch that was sufficient for me.
Lionel called after dinner about College details: the stonework is going up over the gate and the Founders’ Plaque has been redone. Tells me not to worry about Hart, who has quarrelled with Ron and with his father.
In the evening visited Rosamond in hospital, who had her tonsils out earlier in the day.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 12: In the Round Room this morning find a red velvet chair for the Master; Howard tells me it was ordered some weeks ago; only yesterday Vincent Massey asked me what I thought about such a chair and I said I was against it. How arbitrary the Masseys are, and I think quite unconsciously. Well, I shall have to accept it, I suppose, as I beat them about the lectern, and Lochhead needs another display case in the Upper Library. Ron’s is too small and, as it only opens underneath, ridiculously inefficient. VM has sent in what he called “quite a short list” for October 4. With the Senior Fellows and Junior Fellows it would be about 250, and the Hall will not hold so many. He has all sorts of Port Hope neighbours and such nincompoops as Esmond Butler on it. How do I cope with the growing tendency of the Masseys to domineer in this place and intrude their silly social pals into it? Must find a way. Tanya Moiseiwitsch arrived at 10:30 and is organizing work on the chapel. Delightful person: she stays with us, and she and I play duets after dinner.47
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13: Most of the morning in chapel with Tanya and Howard, then Coughey, the picture framer, who is framing the cross, then a man from Strand Electric about lights. I surreptitiously coloured the pool a blue-green with ink, to its great improvement and Friesen’s delight. At 4 a meeting in the chapel, where a wall has been painted. Vincent Massey: “Well, Hart, what do you think?” (Pause, longer than Olivier in Henry V film when the French ambassadors bring the tennis balls), then, “Well, I think I preferred it without the paint on the pebbles.” (This in the grinding, icy voice of a hanging judge.) He continued to be negative throughout, saying at one point that he thought the whole chapel fake and theatrical in concept and design. Ron was shot down about his design for a light fixture. Fool, he had no model, only a mechanical drawing, and tried to show what it was like with his hands. Of course it failed, and of course they ate him. I am now heartily sick of these nervously exhausting meetings about architecture; they disgust me, as shows of wilfulness and caprice, and ill-understood personal animosity disguised as taste and principle.
In the evening we had the party for the workmen: I think they all came and it was a considerable success. Only one or two embarrassments, as when the Masseys had forgotten to provide cigarettes and Jenny had to rush out for a carton, and when Kendall the metal man cornered Vincent Massey and lectured him on Ron’s shortcomings and why he, Kendall, was late with the ironwork. I was very pleased that of our Senior Fellows, Gordon Roper, John Polanyi, Tuzo Wilson, Bill Dobson, Caesar Wright, and Robert Finch all came. The College is quite a different place with people in it—the Hall truly beautiful and the quad at night splendid. Made a blunder in supposing VM sufficiently softened by success to be persuaded to leave the fountains alone; but no—he went off like a bunch of Chinese crackers. True, they are not the best, but what he proposes will be vastly worse.
To bed very tired. It is not the work, it is the expenditure of tact, the holding of the tongue, that makes this a job that would be a challenge for Sisyphus. VM asked me what I thought of the Round Room with all Ron’s huge square pottery ashtrays on the table. “It looks as though someone had laid covers for the Last Supper,” said I. A joke softens him a little, but not for long.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 14: The Masseys on one of their tours in the morning, and after came to my study to discuss the list for our October 4 ceremony. Vincent Massey very understanding and cut his list heavily. The Harrises are to be asked because of Norah’s gift, which pleases me.
Our garden party from 4 to 6 for all the university and civic officials who had been involved in settting up the College was a great success: splendid autumn day and the College looked as if it had been here for a century. Guests wandered at will, and had a very bad tea and chatted, and seemed to enjoy themselves: compliments about the building on all hands and the Masseys so far reconciled to Ron that I hope the fountain matter may be resolved. Afterward VM and Lionel, Lilias, and Evva, their daughter, and John Polanyi’s wife, Sue, with us and Tanya Moiseiwitsch into the Lodgings and had well-earned drinks, and VM gave his impression of the action of a drum majorette, lying on his back on the sofa, to amuse Tanya. She has made a conquest of Bill Broughall, who wants to know where she has been all these years! He knows nothing of the theatre. He had to tear himself away as one of the Pekes is due to whelp and he must cut the cord as it seems these undershot-jawed creatures cannot do it for themselves.48
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15: Michael Langham calls at lunchtime in a swither because Jack Winter of York University attacked him in the Star last night. The usual nastily worded stuff; says some things I have said—Donat a cloddish Troilus, Kate Reid a gorbellied roarer—but in hurtful terms and Michael is stung. He talks of libel and urges me to reply on behalf of Stratford! As if any libel of a creative or performing artist were recognized by the courts, and as if I were a mastiff to be released against enemies. Just like Alec Guinness during the first year of Stratford, whom I was called in to advise when he got so hot about a spiteful article in Maclean’s. Have written a letter to Michael advising masterly inaction. He is oddly unworldly: was it his long term as a prisoner of war that made him so?
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18: Enjoyed this morning for it was the kind of work I can do for the College better, I think, than anyone. Talked to Robin Green, a Southam Fellow, about his work—he wants to be a drama critic; talked to Jack Best, a Southam Fellow who thinks his journalism degree (Western, under George McCracken) was wasted time and is going to do political economy here. Talked to Duncan Fishwick, who is to be don of Hall and is composing our Latin graces. At 12:15 to Hall and ate lunch—an invited group including Lilias, Misses Leavings and Whalon, Brenda, Jennifer and Rosamond, et al. Very good: juice, soup, steak and kidney pie, two vegetables, salad, and choice of pastry
, pudding, or fruit—all excellent quality. A great success. After lunch Lionel comes in. He wants to persuade his father the chapel should be non-denominational: Sirluck has put a bug in his ear. I encourage this and it may come off. But Lionel says he and Hart are concerned at the change in VM during the past six months—intransigent, forgetful, capricious, in fact an old man. This could make great difficulties in the years to come.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19: Junior Fellows come in all day, in drenching rain. Talk to Robert Abra, one of the Southam men, a good chap but nervous as he is not a university man. First dinner, and I go up with Fishwick, who gives them Hall rules and reads the anteprandium.49 He is nervous and speaks of “Massey Hall.” A good sight to see them at table in their gowns, and all very decently dressed. Take the family to dinner at the University Club.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20: At last some information about our licence: Judge Robb well disposed, and says I can dispense liquor from my house, and is there no way by which I could sell it there! A typical civil service notion—turn my house into a blind pig on the q.t. because the regulations are so stupid! But the word is still the same: a licence late October or early November. At 5:15 assemble most of the Junior Fellows in the Common Room and talk to them about the College and the hospitality in our house, and the College Conversation,50 which I began today. It seemed to go well, though everything is a bit sticky—all new men, no friends re-met after vacation or any of what greases the wheels in such places. But a beginning has been made and one must work slowly. Speed will only bring mistakes.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21: Our first strictly College lunch in the Lodgings. Robert Finch, Duncan Fishwick, Blake, John Rigby, and Smith. Give them sherry, trout, salad, a Bavarian cheese, fruit, and coffee. None of them smoke: it goes more and more out of favour. All goes well, except that Smith had not acknowledged his invitation and had to have his intentions inquired after by the porter. Offered cheese, he said, “Aye, this is the cheapest kind you can get in France.” A Methodist, from Blackpool, and a mathematician, he has spent all his spare time working in settlements. Fishwick socially skilled, Rigby a jolly parson’s son and deft, and Blake a medieval-English man. Finch, of course, a great help.
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