Tuesday 9 September 1924
There has arrived in the house one Emma Raban, an half-sister to my mother, who makes life very heavy to me. I cannot write or think or eat, I hate her so.
Yesterday the importunance of my mother induced me to suffer the degrading ordeal of being photographed. A place in New Bond Street called Swaine had offered to do it free. I think it must be the worst shop in London. I waited half an hour in a drawing-room furnished with enormous photographs of the Royal Family. Then I was taken up to the 'studio' where a repulsive little man attempted to be genial while two other men worked a camera. I am confident that it will be an abominable photograph.
I dined with Dudley Carew at his expense at the Previtali and went with him to the gallery at Covent Garden to see the first night of Pavlova's season. The seats were most discomfortable, and to see at all well we were forced to stand up. The theatre was inexpressibly hot. Mme Pavlova herself was of course enchanting but the big ballet Don Quixote did not seem to me very remarkable. I gained most pleasure from a tiny Chinese dance by two people whose names I have forgotten.
The audience was most curious. I think I have never seen so many repulsive people in so short a space of time as I saw in the gallery bar. There was one young Jew in sandals who caused comment.
Wednesday 10 September 1924
All day yesterday I read with great interest Harold Speed's book on Oil Painting. The horrid visit of Emma Raban continues and my nerves are stretched to a tension which makes all writing impossible.
Friday 12 September 1924
Emma Raban left us. I went to London in the hope of selling a book but ended in buying a set of Chesterton's letters to his son from Mr Hatchard at the price of 35S. I hope that the cheque will be honoured.
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