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CHAPTER 18
Long, long ago, I was moved to study the work of Freud — I didn't get very far with it — but I learned that one's memory was largely conditioned by one's will. That if I forgot to post a letter it was because it was one that I disliked writing. Now, that seemed to me to be mere poppycock, for I always forgot to post all my letters whether I had liked writing them or not. Even my early love-letters were found in my overcoat pocket days afterwards.
But while it is evident that I have remembered quite a lot of things about my past film-life, I am hanged if I can remember anything at all about the end of it — the part which I certainly disliked intensely. It is a sad story of seemingly unreasonable failure bearing down with cruel insistence upon the very peak of my greatest success. It must have had its beginnings during that time of apparent triumph — somewhere there must have been a wrong turning taken blithely in the happy sunshine, and I have been searching through the published records of the times to see if I can trace it. The pages of the trade papers, notably the Kinematograph Weekly and its Tear Book have been laid open for me and I have been raking among the ashes of past times to see whether I can find an occasional piece of bone to give me a clue to the mystery.
The first thing I found which seemed to have any bearing upon the matter was the record of the purchase in or about July, 19 19, of the Oatlands Park Estate at Weybridge which was near enough to our place at Walton to be very convenient for all sorts of exterior work. This was at the time when James Carew joined our stock-company and Anson Dyer — 'Dicky' Dyer, another good friend — signed a contract with us as Cartoonist. It was the time when two leading Swedish picture-producing companies amalgamated to enter the foreign market. In short it was the time of considerable European prosperity, the boom after the Great War.
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