1) I was offered two guineas to read one act of one of my own plays. Whether this was an attractive proposition for listeners-in is not for me to say, but how could anyone think that it was an attractive proposition for the author? Let anybody consider what, in the way of preparation and performance, the author would have to go through, and ask himself if the offer was likely to be accepted.
2) On a very special ‘Gala Night’ I was asked to read something of my own during the Children’s Hour. I was offered five guineas, and it was explained to me apologetically that the Children’s Hour had to be run cheaply. (As if that was any reason why I should help the B.B.C. to run it cheaply!) I replied that I didn’t want to read my work aloud. An Editor, a Manager, a Publisher, would then automatically have said, ‘Would you do it for ten guineas?’ or ‘What would you do it for?’ – or something of that sort. The B.B.C. voice at the other end of the telephone said in heartrending accents, ‘Not even for the sake of the Little Ones?’
3) I was asked, in common with, I think, every known dramatist from the highest downwards, if I would write an original one act play for the Company. I said that, apart from anything else, it would be impossible for the B.B.C. to pay a fee at all comparable with the royalties one might expect from a stage-play, and that, in this case, such a fee would be necessary, seeing that there were no subsidiary stage-rights to be got from a play specially written for listeners only; I was told proudly in reply that, indeed and on the contrary whatever, they were prepared to pay as much as fifty pounds . . . !
4) And finally a letter from America; for indeed the Broadcasting Manner knows no frontiers. But in this case there is a difference. An author, to the American B.C., is, at any rate, an individual. In a letter to my agent the A.B.C. says lyrical things about me, such as the B.B.C. never felt about any author. Why can’t they broadcast my plays – those lovely, adorable things? What can they do to persuade me? Are tears, prayers, quotations from Ella Wheeler Wilcox, letters of introduction from the President, alike useless? ‘What is the next step we can take? What is there I should do?’ It is a cry from the heart.
And then, suddenly an inspiration occurs to him. Can it be? Absurd! Still – you never know. Just worth trying, perhaps. So he tries,
‘Is it a question of royalty? You have but to say the word if that is what is holding him back?’
Yes, it was. Fancy! An author wanting money, just as if he were a real worker! What on earth does the fellow do for it?
Milne was much in demand. A film producer telephoned to ask if he could come and film the author at work: ‘Entering the Library after Kissing Wife Farewell – Deep in Thought – Interrupted by Prattling Child – Takes Child on Knee and Pats Head of Same – Sudden Inspiration – Throws Child Away and Seizes Pen – Writes – Fade Out.’ Milne said he did not think it was much of an idea, whereupon the producer, almost like the B.B.C., brought up the educational effect, if not on the Little Ones, then certainly on the Lower Classes. The producer then brought out his most compelling argument: ‘In fact, Mr Milne, I assure you that I would sooner – you will hardly credit this but it is true – I would sooner film a really great artistic genius than an Earl.’ To clinch the matter he then added that he had already got Gilbert Frankau. And Milne rang off.
Milne also refused the blandishments of an envoy of Pears’ Soap. They had had a tremendous success years earlier when they had bought Sir John Millais’ Academy painting Bubbles and, inserting a cake of soap into it, had created the most widely known advertisement in the world. Now they wanted Milne to follow his contribution to the previous year’s Christmas Annual with a story actually tailor-made to their product. They had wined and dined him in a private room in the Ritz with the other distinguished contributors to the Annual (E. V. Lucas and Heath Robinson among them). Might not this have softened him up for what they really wanted – a children’s story about soap bubbles? Clara Hawkins, who had edited the Annual, recorded her visit to Mallord Street, which she apparently thought to be a great deal older than it really was:
A. A. Milne lives in Chelsea, and there I went upon appointment. The houses of Chelsea are old and gracious of manner; with the classic red brick and white paint austerity of their Georgian origin relieved by brilliant doors of primary reds or blues or yellows – the happy inspiration of their present day bohemian owners. Mr Milne’s doorway was a brilliant blue. There was a little stoop in front of it where I stood for one moment to catch my breath. I rang. A maid admitted me and led me into a grey, orange-curtained little room that was austere and cold. I was glad I had an appointment. This little room had an atmosphere forbidding to autograph hunters or timid maiden writers seeking comfort.
At last the maid returned and led me down a little hallway to a room at the end, the door of which she opened, at the same time announcing ‘Miss Hawkins’. Inside the room there was a bluish haze of nice-smelling pipe smoke, and inside the smoke there was a lean, pleasant young man. He got up lazily as if he were a little tired after a long tramp on the moors. That was my impression of him – tweeds, dogs, gorse, and a pipe. As a matter of fact I don’t believe he is especially any of these things; I just thought of them as he stood up to shake my hand. [Later he said] ‘Are you interested in houses?’
I answered, ‘I have been envying you this one ever since you have been talking to me.’
He looked pleased and said, ‘It really is a nice one isn’t it? Would you like to see it? It’s rather a hobby of my wife’s and mine.’
I followed him up the stairs, little winding stairs that led a charming way up to the second floor. He opened a door and out came a shower of golden light. We entered the drawing-room. It was a perfect little room, with Georgian panels and original cornices and a fireplace in the manner of William Kent. The whole of it had been painted a brilliant glowing yellow, with the mouldings picked out in gold. On the walls, in the centre of each panel, there were pictures that were great blobs of red and yellow and orange done in the modern manner and extraordinarily effective. The room was a burning sun in the middle of grey and sober London! Milne looked at me and I nodded my head.
‘You like it?’ he said. ‘Now come and see my wife’s room.’
Down a narrow passage we went, through a door, and again gold flooded out upon us. Only gold this time with a glowing rose-colour mellowing it. There was a great Italian four-poster, painted Italian chairs. It was a curious combination of modernity and ancient grace, very well done.
‘My wife rather goes in for this sort of thing,’ he said. We returned to his study.
‘You’re an American,’ he said. ‘Of course you must be, else you wouldn’t have been so interested in my house.’ And then abruptly he turned to me:
‘You want me to write about soap bubbles, do you, as an advertisement?’
‘For children, Mr Milne,’ I said pleadingly.