‘So Teach us to Number our Days’: diaries & diarists

At the year’s end it’s always a pleasure to read the latest excerpts from Alan Bennett’s dairy, published annually in the London Review of Books. There are things one always looks out for – name dropping, for instance. 2017 is a vintage year: Bennett begins with ‘Tony Snowden and Princess Margaret’ and ends with ‘the (much missed) Debo, Duchess of Devonshire’.  In between come Gielgud and Guinness, Derek Jarman and Patrick Garland, Cecil Beaton and Coral Browne – a veritable dramatis personae.

Bennett is surely the Eeyore of modern letters. He notes with equal resignation and pleasure that The Oldie has called him ‘trademark lugubrious’, but at the same time he can be endearingly funny. Reading in bed one night he contrives to fall asleep ‘with a very uncomfortable bunch of keys in my pyjama pocket’, the consequences of this left to the reader’s wincing imagination.

I enjoy spotting Bennett’s other trademark: his habit of ending sentences with an added, abbreviated, comment – abbreviated because the author has left out the verb one would expect to find there. Here are two examples from 2017:

(9^th June, about Theresa May): Notable that she keeps referring to ‘our country’ whereas an ordinary person as distinct from a politician would say ‘this country’ – ‘our’ paradoxically not an inclusive term.’

(29^th August, in Paris): ‘We go into a creperie opposite the St Germain covered market hoping for some tea, in the window a solitary piece of cake.’

What is missing from these examples is the active voice. I used to assume that this was just a form of diarist’s shorthand, thoughts and observations tagged on rather than incorporated into the sentence. But it crops up in different contexts too – in The History Boys (2004) for instance – where Hector is arguing with his VIth Form students about how to write an Oxbridge entrance essay on the Holocaust. ‘Why can’t you simply condemn the camps outright as an unprecedented horror?’ he asks. Lockwood cockily replies:

‘No point, sir. Everybody will do that. That’s the stock answer, sir …  the camps an event unlike any other, the evil unprecedented, etc., etc.’

Here Lockwood uses the Bennett ellipsis quite appropriately, as if reeling off headings for an essay. But Hector replies:

‘No. Can’t you see that even to say etcetera is monstrous? Etcetera is what the Nazis would have said, the dead reduced to a mere verbal abbreviation.’

‘Mere verbal abbreviation’ defines Bennett’s literary mannerism precisely, if inadvertently. But it’s when this ellipsis finds its way into the speech of other characters – albeit one such as Hector, in many ways a mouthpiece for Bennett himself – that I start to ask whether what began as diarist’s shorthand isn’t showing signs of repetitive strain. Might Hector’s denunciation not have been stronger if he’d actively condemned the Nazis for reducing the dead to an etcetera?

I have spent a lot of time with diaries recently. While writing my book on Charles Eamer Kempe* I have had access to the diary of Wyndham Hughes, a fine but forgotten artist, who was Kempe’s leading draughtsman during the 1870s. Hughes was a lifelong diarist, each volume prefaced with ‘The record of our days and years’ or ‘So teach us to number our days: that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom’ (Psalm 90). For me, his diary has been invaluable, describing his friendship with Kempe, listing many of his key commissions (previously unidentified) and sometimes containing precious ephemera slipped between the pages – this 1876 letter, for instance:

My dear Hughes

Thanks for the drawing which I hope, (& think it aught) will pass the Royal Critic. I think I should take with me in the morning the former drawing (charcoal) to remind H.R.H. of the architect[ural] background &c – as well as to show the changes in the figure. The Child is very successful now. Could you bring me the old drawing by 9.15. I have to be at the Palace by 10.

 Yours, C.E.K

This never-before-seen letter refers to the most significant commission Hughes ever undertook for Kempe: a memorial window for Queen Victoria’s grandson.^‡ The window established a friendship between Kempe and the Royal Family, his reputation thereby greatly enhanced. To find such a letter, in such a diary, is one of a biographer’s rewards.

The other diary I’ve been reading recently is my grandfather’s. Edward Barlow, a Baptist minister, was not a diarist by habit; however, in 1917 he went to France as a YMCA padre and kept a diary of the two most remarkable years of his life. Working in a transit camp near Rouen, he met and recorded conversations with ordinary soldiers on their way to the Front. Here is one such encounter, from 100 years ago today: 1st January 1918:

A draft of men from the Camp for Base missed their train by 30 mins. & consequently had a long wait in our Hut. One spoke to me in great trouble about his home in a colliery village (Northumberland). He showed me a letter from his wife’s mother which he received last Friday saying that his wife was going out with another man & cared no more for him than she did for her. The children had for a time been with her mother but now they were taken off by a black woman. His wife had gone to the dogs & was a disgrace to them. She hadn’t got any money but wasted it on dressing herself like a fairy & going with the man in the evenings to picture houses and the theatre.

The man was greatly upset & said he would try to get home without anyone knowing it & catch his wife with the man. It would pay the man to keep out of his way & he would get his wife, who was in munitions, out of the town. She was 29.

My grandfather never revealed that he had kept this diary; my father found it among his papers after his death, and I have it now.

Adrian Barlow

* Kempe: the life, art and legacy of Charles Eamer Kempe will be published by Lutterworth Press in Summer 2018. Further details to follow in due course.

^‡Prince Friedrich (Frittie) von Hessen-Darmstadt (1870-1873) was the second son of Queen Victoria’s daughter, Princess Alice, wife of the Grand Duke of Darmstadt and Hesse. A haemophiliac, Frittie was the first of Victoria’s grandchildren to die. He was buried in the Neues Mausoleum at Rosenhöhe, on the outskirts of Darmstadt, and it was for the window in the mausoleum that Kempe was commissioned to produce the stained glass designed by Wyndham Hughes. The commission was brokered by Alice’s brother, the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII) and he is the ‘Royal Critic’ referred to by Kempe in his letter to Hughes.

Illustrations] (i) Alan Bennett (National Theatre); (ii) Window (1877), designed by Wyndham Hope Hughes for the Royal Mausoleum in Darmstadt. The image of the child is a likeness of Prince Friedrich. (iii) Edward Barlow’s Diary for 1918, while serving with the YMCA at No. 11 Convalescent Depot, Buchy (Nr. Rouen).   Photos (ii) and (iii) © author

On Boadicea, William Cowper and Westminster Abbey

Boadicea and I first met sixty years ago. On my fifth birthday, my father took me to London ‘to see the sights’. He made it sound, and feel, like a rite of passage.  In addition to the Changing of the Guard, Trafalgar Square, Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, he made sure that I saw the statue of Boadicea in her chariot, which stands on a plinth at the Victoria Embankment side of Westminster Bridge. Dad had been born in London, and liked to think of himself as a Londoner, though he’d not been much older than five himself when his parents moved to Hastings, shortly after the start of the First World War.

Boadicea stayed in my memory: my father had a book he had somehow kept from his own childhood – a child’s history of London entitled London Bells and What They Tell Us (Blackie & Son, 1911) – and when we got home that evening, he gave it to me, and in it I found the chapter on Boadicea.  I had just learned to read, and this was the first bedtime book I ever read by myself.

I visited Boadicea again last week.  She still rises magnificently above the Embankment traffic, pointing towards Big Ben and urging her bare-breasted daughters and her unseen army onwards against the Romans. She is heading straight towards the Palace of Westminster, and the blades attached to the wheels of her (entirely non-historical) chariot would still easily scythe their way through the crowds that nowadays make Parliament Square all but impassable.

Forgotten (by me) and almost unnoticed by everyone else are two short lines on the river-facing side of her plinth:

REGIONS CAESAR NEVER KNEW

THY POSTERITY SHALL SWAY.

The message seems wholly inappropriate. Surely, Boadicea was revolting against oppressive imperialism? Yet here she is, apparently being celebrated as the mother of the British Empire. One has to remember that ‘Boudica’ means Victory, and that the memorial was originally designed as a tribute to Queen Victoria, who in all other respects (apart from a disposition to bad temper) resembled the Queen of the Iceni not at all. Prince Albert enthusiastically supported the project, even lending horses from the Royal Mews for the sculptor, Thomas Thornycroft, to use as models.  Thornycroft* had worked on this giant sculpture for many years, but it was not finally cast in bronze and presented to the nation until 1902, seventeen years after his death.

The lines on the plinth are by William Cowper, who seems an unlikely poet to have been attracted by Boadicea or indeed to have been an enthusiastic imperialist. But in an eponymous eleven-stanza poem, the Queen, having been humiliated by the Romans who beat her and raped her daughters, visits a Druid who predicts that the Roman Empire will be eclipsed by her glorious descendants:

Then the progeny that springs 


From the forests of our land, 


Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 


Shall a wider world command. 



Regions Cæsar never knew 


Thy posterity shall sway, 


Where his eagles never flew, 


None invincible as they.

This reassures Boadicea no end; and, although she is defeated in the ensuing battle, she dies (according to Cowper) hurling scorn at the Romans:

Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 


Heaven awards the vengeance due: 


Empire is on us bestowed, 


Shame and ruin wait for you!

Unexpectedly, I came across Cowper again later the same day, having gone into Westminster Abbey to look for a window depicting George Herbert. But here I must pause: it is many years since I last visited the Abbey, the place Joseph Addison once called ‘this great magazine of mortality’. I’ll never go again. After paying £18 admission – does any other cathedral or abbey, mosque or temple in the world demand such a fee? – everything conspires to make visitors feel unwelcome. We are herded like sheep; barriers everywhere pen us in, making it difficult to move from one part of the Abbey to another; and the rudeness of some of the vergers and guides shouting (“What makes you think you can use cameras in here? Can’t you read?”) at uncomprehending overseas visitors is as embarrassing as offensive. If the Abbey authorities treat visitors as tourists to be fleeced, they should at least allow them to do what tourists like to do: take photographs.

There are, of course, exceptions. A kindly green-begowned volunteer – taking several short cuts not permitted to lesser men - led me from one end of the Abbey to the other, where I eventually found George Herbert, sharing a window with William Cowper. Both poets in their time had been scholars of Westminster School.  This window looks down on St. George’s Chapel, which is where the Coronation throne has lately been re-sited – minus, however, the Stone of Scone. It used to be there. London Bells has a chapter on Westminster Abbey, about a group of small boys (“The children took off their caps and went in slowly”) on a visit with their teacher:

Then they saw the chair in which the King sits when the crown is put on his head for the first time.  “What is that big stone under the chair?” asked one child. “That is the stone on which the Kings of Scotland used to sit when they were crowned. An English king brought it here long ago. The Scots used to say that the Kings of Scotland would again be crowned on that stone. And that saying came true after the death of Good Queen Bess. For the King of Scotland became the King of England also. Ever since that time the two countries have had the same king.

Tactfully put. Writing this on the morning after Scotland voted No to independence, I am glad that what the author of London Bells, And What They Tell Us said in 1911, the year of George V’s coronation, still applies, for good and aye.

* Thornycroft was the founder of a family of sculptors. His wife, Mary, was a favourite sculptor of Queen Victoria, and his son, Hamo (also a sculptor) was Siegfried Sassoon’s favourite uncle. It was Hamo, indeed, who introduced Sassoon to Thomas Hardy.

[illustrations: (i) Boadicea and her daughters, by Thomas Thorneycroft; Victoria Embankment, 1902 (ii. & iii)  Title pages from London Bells

© Text and illustrations copyright Adrian Barlow 2014