SATURDAY, JUNE 16, TORONTO: At 12:45 to the lieutenant governor’s luncheon for the Queen Mother: she speaks very charmingly of the College. Away at 4. Jenny joins us and we dine at the Simcoe and go to an adventure film; restful simply to enjoy oneself. Already feel the benefit of rest or, rather, a lightening of responsibilities: my imagination begins to stir: ideas for novel 5B surge up.
On Sunday, June 17, Rob and Brenda drove to Stratford for the opening of the festival season. Miranda was in the company, and Davies as a governor was much concerned with the question of who should succeed the very effective Michael Langham as artistic director. He wrote reviews for the Examiner, and for himself in his theatre diary.
SUNDAY, JUNE 17, STRATFORD: To the dress rehearsal of Macbeth: director, Peter Coe. Macbeth, Chris Plummer, Lady M., Kate Reid. A misconceived production: Coe wanted to show a “classless society” with dog-eat-dog morals, and the Jacobean play cannot be bent to this, hack and rearrange as he will. This is as much “historical reconstruction” as anything of Charles Kean. Result: there was no tragedy, for Macbeth had no stature and gained nothing by his crime except, apparently, Malcolm’s old clothes. Plummer’s tricks were many: a high, singing delivery with big pauses between each word, e.g., “Come—seeling—night,” all on a high F. Kate Reid was good in terms of the production, which stressed Macbeth’s dependence on his lady—falling on his knees and gripping her loins, kneading her buttocks while butting her in the vulva. But in the sleepwalking scene she overacted, as has every Lady M. I have ever seen. Some accidents: in the fight with Macduff, Macbeth’s sword flies into the well. Witches done as earth-creatures, almost mushrooms. All the “double double” stuff cut, and the King’s Evil, and telescoping of battle scenes and the death of Young Siward. On the whole, a mud pie, and not good enough for Stratford. But let us see what tomorrow night will bring forth.
MONDAY, JUNE 18, STRATFORD: H.t.d. on waking. Breakfast, a walk, lunch at Miranda’s flat, and a good sleep: dine, a picnic with the Harrises and Stewarts. The election returns the Progressive Conservatives with a scant majority.
First night of the tenth Festival. Macbeth seemed better than last night but some of this must be attributed to sitting in a governor’s seat. Am struck with the uncoordinated air of the production, and silly tricks like rearranging the lines in the “England” scene; Plummer says “my may of life” instead of “way.” Plummer ages Macbeth greatly in Act 5, but makes him a complacent, tooth-sucking dotard, rather than an old lion, and this gives an air of farce to his donning of his armour. He only shows his former spirit when he hears of the moving wood. Macduff kills him in a short-sword fight and when both are disarmed, disables him with wrestling tricks and at last stabs him and Macbeth falls headlong into the well. So—no severed head, and what happens to the prophecy. But though the production is “up” and the audience is better than last night’s come-all-yez, it is not a thorough success. Evidence: the standing ovation usually granted after a tragedy was withheld; I met no one who really liked it. Curious that the excitement attending today’s general election, which might have been harmful, was well controlled and could have worked for the play, but did not. It is extraordinary that Coe should have fumbled it so. If he succeeds Langham as artistic director we shall be in serious trouble.
TUESDAY, JUNE 19, STRATFORD: The Taming of the Shrew directed by Michael Langham. A different kettle of fish from last night—strong, clear line, firm character, and splendid detail subordinated to the main action. John Colicos as Petruchio, to my mind, is a better actor than Plummer—technically a master, and warm: an admirable voice and no tricks. A gentlemanly, swashbuckling, humorous performance. Kate Reid played Katherina in C major, fortissimo. A bad actress; how does she get away with it? Fine minor roles: Eric Christmas a real clown as Grumio; Bill Needles a rare pantaloon as Gremio; Toby Robins a sweet bitch as Bianca; Hugh Webster a touching Sly. Michael Langham’s passion for clarifying the text was very apparent, however, especially in the first scene of the induction, where they used scraps of the induction from A Shrew.38 I do not like it. The induction scene was in eighteenth-century commedia dell’arte dress to some degree.
The Coe mess makes it imperative we do all we can to keep Michael; I will see him tomorrow to do what persuasion I can. Tonight a standing ovation, which must be bitter to Coe and Plummer.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20, STRATFORD: Saw Michael at 1:15. He says he is emotionally attached to Stratford but not intellectually persuaded it is good for him or the theatre that he should stay. I urge him to heed his emotions: the theatre is not built on intellect. Then Webster, Hemphill, and Polley39 join us, and we almost convince him. I urge that he stay till 1967, to cover the Shakespeare four-hundredth anniversary and the Canadian centenary.
Tonight The Tempest magnificently mounted by Desmond Heeley, less well directed by George McCowan. The first twenty minutes were very slow going, Bill Hutt doling out Prospero’s narrative as dully as may be; he was nervous, and it took him in stupid pauses. But after the interval it was much better. Prospero was never greatly magical but Bruno Gerussi as Ariel and John Colicos as Caliban almost made him seem so—two first-rate performances, especially Colicos. I wept at the end, for the reconciliation theme was finely brought out, the forgiveness was not easily achieved, and the release of Caliban and Ariel was splendidly touching. The masque was exquisite; Miranda was one of the sea-nymphs and one of the dancers with the reapers. I have never seen anything that came so near the splendours of a Jacobean masque. At the cast party after I met George Hayes, my first Hamlet, now rather a sad old actor, fruity and “laddie-ish” in manner. Tanya told Brenda that Michael did not know what commedia dell’arte was or understand her costumes for Shrew; incredible what theatre people don’t know about their own job. I said to McCowan, “A great night for the Jungians,” which seemed to please him. That was how his production of The Tempest struck me—the integration of Prospero.
SATURDAY, JUNE 23: Busy morning. Sent letters,40 reviews to several at Stratford. In the afternoon helped Brenda in the garden, very pleasant. In the evening read Edmund Wilson’s Patriotic Gore with pleasure and chatted with Brenda. Webster wires from Stratford that Michael Langham is remaining. I am rejoicing in my freedom, but freedom from pressing tasks is confusing. Dr. Manette41 misses his cobbler’s bench: improvement in health and spirits already perceptible.
TUESDAY, JUNE 26: To Toronto and the College committee on fees: A.R. Gordon, Roper, and I lunch at the University Club and decide that $800 is not too much for Junior Fellows, and $125 for non-residents. Also that Senior Fellows’ rooms should rent at prices comparable to bachelor apartments in Toronto. This raises College income a little above what I foresaw, but expenses are mounting as well. Look at the College, which waxes, and at new Jags with Brenda and Rosamond; home by 6 and read and chat.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 27: Lunch at the Golf Club with Arthur and Kit, and we have an Examiner directors’ meeting where we discuss what action we should take if we have an International Typographical Union strike about hours.
FRIDAY, JUNE 29: The last two days made miserable because of College finances: Vincent Massey thinks Canada is headed for a depression and sticks his head in the sand. But the time has come for a firm commitment; I cannot, and will not, go on any hand-to-mouth gentleman’s agreement. The Masseys are fantastic: I suppose they are unconscious of the fact that they want me to pledge fifteen years of my future to a venture which may turn out to be a nightmare of cheese-paring and begging. I shall have to face them with this, and soon. Fortunately, Bill Broughall understands my position. But both Bill and Lionel are at work on VM and want figures from me. So I work out a dummy budget, thus: income—$69,000; costs (catering, cleaning, staff and running expenses) at $144,800; leaving a deficit of $75,800 of which the university is obligated to pay no more than $25,000. And this includes not a penny of any of the luxuries they want, or books or even a bunch of flowers! Hope it knocks some sense into their stupid heads. I have pitched a note high, o
f course, because I do not trust my budgetary powers and have undoubtedly left a few things out. But if they leave things to a fiscal innocent like me they must expect bad figures; they need a bursar, right now. This is the shadow-side of the Masseys—their ostrich-like escape from definite discussion of money, their neurotic attitude toward it, their belief that gentlemen don’t talk of such things. They know nothing of colleges, and obviously have no notion of the great land and property holdings and the generations of legacies on which their beloved Oxford stands. But I won’t despair: they have set this in motion and involved too many important people (including their friend HRH) in this thing to let it die. But apart from dying it mustn’t have fiscal anemia. I’m not going there to worry about stamps and sugar in the maid’s tea.
SUNDAY, JULY 1, DOMINION DAY: About twenty Philadelphia42 readers have written to say nice things about the cessation of the “Diary”—and not one Canadian. That is why Canada has so little literature. A dull and unappreciative audience. (P.S. Some Canadian letters came later.)
TUESDAY, JULY 3: In the evening an impromptu h.t.d., then read Dryden’s Tempest. I dream of my mother, mocking and harassing me.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 4: I dream Fred43 lives again and is harassing me—a night of gloom and oppression with some hope in sight.
THURSDAY, JULY 5: Bill Broughall retails to me this morning in a thirty-five-minute phone call that he spent most of yesterday with Vincent Massey, working to persuade him that the College must have some firm money commitment from the Foundation to meet the deficit I foresee. VM was reluctant to commit himself; then says, “Why have you not brought this to my attention earlier, Bill?” (This, after eighteen months!) He complains he is unwell: has shingles, poor man. At last he agrees that something must be done.
VM calls about 6—can I go to Batterwood after dinner? Brenda drives me down. Hart is there, concerned about Thom’s new plan for the lower library. He is right: Ron Thom’s plan makes poor use of the space. We agree on a change. VM in good spirits and talks very interestingly about his book, to be called What’s Past Is Prologue.44 James Eayrs is doing some research for him in his seventeen filing cabinets: I want these eventually for the College. VM assures me he has taken steps to make the College secure!
FRIDAY, JULY 6: I dream of an obscene dwarf. A third “big” dream: my shadow? We drive to Toronto, to UCC and talk about my Punch play with Stephen, head of the Prep; Vernon Mould, art teacher doing the scenery; Michael Carver, director; and Henry Atack, composing the music. Drive to Stratford, dine at Miranda’s flat and to the opening of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Gondoliers.
The director, Leon Major, knows nothing of G & S and has no English background, and his approach is thus different from that of Tony Guthrie, who knew very well what Pirates and Pinafore were about, even if he chose to disregard it. But Leon Major had missed the fact that Gondoliers spoofs opera and melodrama all through, so he produced it straight. Result, two plays which never meshed: a satire performed by actors—Jack Creley, Douglas Campbell, and Ann Casson—and a heavy muddle in which hooknosed, liquid-eyed opera singers sang splendidly (though one couldn’t tell the words) and acted after the vehement, vulgar Mittel-Europa style of their absurd kind. Realistic settings, à la Zeffirelli, with an occasional flash of good fantasy as at the end, when the Venetians leapt into a hastily constructed boat and set off for home. But The Gondoliers is English and Victorian: forget this, and its intentional absurdities are lost, and a host of unintentional ones arise to mock the actors. And the pronunciations! “A-RIS-tocrat,” sung in the very teeth of the music. John Cook tried to persuade me it is thus in the score but I have checked and it is not.
SATURDAY, JULY 7, STRATFORD: Board of governors’ meeting at 10: a lively discussion about the dedication service this year (Rabbi Abraham Feinberg had spoken too long). Lunch at the Country Club, where I chat with Michael Langham who plans to reform the speech of Stratford.
I saw Lionel Massey at the board meeting. He has urged his father to make a pledge to the College and thus he has done the deed! Frankly I don’t care who has the credit so long as the College does not make me a yearly beggar, whimpering to the Foundation and Simcoe Hall for funds to keep the place going.
On July 8, Rob and Brenda again drove to Arlington, Vermont, for a week of Alexander Technique lessons with Lulie Westfeldt.
SUNDAY, JULY 8: Leave at 11 and reach Saranac, New York, at 6:15. At the motel, h.t.d., not very satisfactory, then a vivid Anima dream: I am twenty, have pursued a girl of great charm, eighteen, and never met her. In a house, suddenly she comes downstairs, sees me, cries “There he is!” with great joy, and we embrace. Later, I am in an old-fashioned hotel not unlike the one in Bussaco, Portugal, in a lover’s bed with her: pretty, as she was in youth, a fair, dark-eyed, soft-mouthed beauty with long golden hair, but mature and a practised lover, for we kiss and coit and she responds excitingly. Later, I am walking with hotel guests. We are an invited group. I see an elderly woman in Edwardian dress and rather reluctantly walk with her, giving my arm. But she is delightful, witty, and enchanting and I am very glad I approached her. The Anima: Virgin, Bride, and Wise Woman, in one night’s dream!45
FRIDAY, JULY 13, ARLINGTON: A good lesson. We make progress: Lulie Westfeldt joins us for a picnic lunch above Sandgate, then we walk in the graveyard. The restorative power of the Alexander Technique is always a surprise. It acts this time remarkably, as we both were in a poor way. We have now had about sixty-six lessons and Lulie Westfeldt treats us as old hands.
MONDAY, JULY 16: Back to work and a host of nuisances assert themselves. Many letters. Bill Broughall calls to say he has sent Vincent Massey an eight-page memorandum on Foundation investments, showing it can easily assure the College of $65,000 p.a. and recommending it pay this to the Master in trust, so Simcoe Hall cannot discover the exact sum from the books. VM then calls and tells me we are still stuck over the College arms, for Governor General Vanier has had a fit of scruples and referred it to the secretary of state, who may take it to the Cabinet, who won’t know beans about it but may well be obstructive to show how alert they are. If I had my way we’d go ahead, and then let anyone with enough heraldic nous to detect a discrepancy between our arms displayed and our grant from the heralds make what he could of it. I blame Esmond Butler, who seems a well-meaning, overgrown schoolboy, delighting in complication.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 18: Tom Symons46 calls this evening to discuss buying this house and tells me a good deal from his experience as dean of Devonshire House, a tale of gloom. Graduate students are hard to get into residences, as they are always on the lookout for something free; he wonders if we shall be able to fill the College. Counsels against Frank Stone, the black pope of the U of T, an Eric Phillips appointee and responsible to Eric Phillips and not to Claude Bissell. Tom says Andy Gordon and Claude are both out of touch with the graduate students. He says there are many at the university who dislike the Massey College idea, regarding it as a citadel of tawny port. All this Job’s comfort given with great good will and, I believe, considerable realism. But we shall see: I am grateful that he has pointed to the dark side, for I have been (except for Broughall) very much among the Pollyannas.
THURSDAY, JULY 19: Bill Broughall calls in the morning, almost distracted by Vincent Massey’s attitude toward money. VM has vetoed his $65,000 and thinks $60,000 enough. Considering the time and expert knowledge Bill put into his memorandum, this is cavalier. Bill is very angry. He rails against all the Masseys. I understand him better now: he dotes on the College and is deeply involved. Brenda says it is a child to him. Bill says the Foundation could afford $75,000 p.a. He says Lionel pleads with him not to excite VM about money, as Lionel has an overdrawn account with National Trust he wants VM to cover. Who would believe people would set out to found a college with such a poor grasp of what is involved? I would, for one. Nobody with his head screwed on would involve himself in anything so hare-brained. I tell Bill of my talk with Tom Symons, and the upshot is I write VM s
aying the College may not be easy to fill to begin with and this makes financial independence doubly important. Hope this saves the day. Yesterday I sent him a sketch of a possible Senior Fellow’s gown; the only person who really wants one is that poop Lionel, who has no gown and hankers piteously for one.
Where do I stand? I have been named as Master in an Act of the Legislature, and by the university, but so far I have not taken a penny of money for my services: so I feel that if things become intolerable I could still back out without a breach of faith.
In the afternoon I get down to writing my Stratford seminar.47 Hard work and I am tired in the evening and lie on the sofa and read Nabokov’s Pale Fire and discuss the terrors of the College situation with Brenda.
FRIDAY, JULY 20: Vincent Massey calls this morning to say he appreciates what I said in my letter, and would be discussing finance with Bill Broughall next week. I take this as promising and call Bill to say so. He is pleased. He says Hart had said he wanted the Foundation to be in funds in twenty years or so to build something he was interested in: but this cannot be so if they support the College whole-souledly. Bill was indiscreet; says Lionel and Hart will not inherit half as much as they expect; they are so silly about money I think it very likely they have unrealistic notions of their father’s fortune. Bill says if I want the College to be a success I must resign myself to fifteen years of kissing the Masseys’ arses, as it was thus Griffith48 made a success of Ridley (licking the Gooderhams’). He mistakes me: I will lick nobody’s arse and I will make it a success without. He expresses himself foolishly, but I know what he means. Bill has the highest motives and methods and always attributes the basest to himself and everyone else: an idealist and ashamed of it. He called me twice in the afternoon: he is sending Vincent Massey what he calls “another rocket” to reach him tomorrow, as Brenda and I go to Batterwood for the weekend.