“Scalo: I may be poor but I love truth far better than gold—Misk?”
Under the influence of what jealous pangs came this to be penned:
“Ralph—Who is BABS—Remember Olga?” (The following, in a happier vein, tells presumably of a lovers’ quarrel made up:
“Whitewings. Darling you know really you are the only thing on earth I love. Snowdrop.”)
The big news columns tell us what our intellectuals consider it good for us to know, in the manner in which they consider it good for us to be told. The Ruhr Occupation, denounced by Mr. Garvin, upheld by Lord Rothermere—The Betrayal of the Country to Labour (in the Gospel according to Mr. Churchill)—The League of Nations—Bootlegging and Prohibition. But the Personal Column—ah!—the Personal Column gives us a peep into the throbbing lives of our neighbours; we become partakers in the bliss of Whitewings and Snowdrop, we share “S’s” apprehension of the Black Cat, and our hearts go out to Misk and Olga—poor forgotten Olga. Here are no world politics dished up by statesmen manqué, or camouflaged by great journalists, no subjects to be discussed in catchwords and manufactured phrases, but the myriad voices, from the streets around, crying out at the impulse of the eternal verities.
SOCIETY SIDESHOWS
Extracted from the Private Diary of the Hon. “Toothy” Badger
Dined at the House last night. Ridiculous party given by “Bulgy” Gobblespoon to celebrate his wife’s election: the first husband and wife to sit together. To everyone’s dismay, it proved that she had only scraped in by the Prohibitionist vote, to win which she had to pledge herself never to allow any form of alcohol on any table at which she sat. Very restrictive of her dining out, I should imagine, and utterly destructive of her own dinners, which used to be rather fun. Impossible to imagine the gloom of that gathering! Even old Bitters, who was wheedled off the Front Bench to come down and say something amusing, was quite unable to sparkle on Schweppes’ ginger ale. Hurried away with little “Squeaky” Paddington (old Ponto’s new wife) to sample a drink and a spot of foot shuffling at Sheep’s. Very stuffy and a lot of ghastly people.
Somebody, turning out their lumber-room, has presented a whole shoot of pictures to the National Gallery; so I went to see who was looking at them. What that place exists for I can never understand. Hardly anyone there except a herd of frowsy old women, with paint-boxes, who took jolly good care that nobody should come within a mile of anything worth looking at. One rather jolly girl—but very severe. The rest awful. A couple of anxious-looking people walking up and down, looking intense and making speeches about Ghirlandajo or Cimabue to an audience of yokels that doesn’t know either from cream cheese; and the remainder of London seems to use the portico as a convenient meeting-place, and never goes inside at all.