GLR May-June 2026

open arms by Benson’s mother, finding her a “witty old dar ling” whose “understanding touched me … deeply.” She fully supported their relationship—sometimes, to the point of intru sion. Back in London, their lives were so entwined that Benson would drop into Plank’s studio after his evening engagements. That summer, when Benson bought the house at 25 Brompton Square that he would keep for the rest of his life, he “insist[ed] that [Plank] move too, so I am within an easy distance”—this being five minutes away, rather than the intolerable fifteen that would have separated them otherwise. More romantically still, they decorated the new house together, a process lovingly de scribed in Plank’s letters and by Benson in UpandDown (1918) as “a delight,” “halcyon days.” Plank’s letters are full of Fred— “I grow fonder of him each day” and “he’s a good wholesome companion, very amusing and kind.” Even the war didn’t in trude as much as it might have. Benson was too old for military service, although he volunteered for communications work and often had to travel. Plank was turned down by the army and did art and charity work instead. Soon Benson was “making plans like a youngster of twelve”—for travel, adventures, and simply being together. In summer 1916 they were separated—Benson in Capri, Plank in the States—but as soon as they returned, they took Lamb House in Rye together. Plank wrote to his sisters that he was “so much

ing, reassuring: “bestest love” and “I thought of you with every step.” He worries about Benson’s work and well-being: “Dear Fred, are you well? are you happy?—you can’t possibly be as discontented and wretched as I am, but I pray that you are get ting some fun. HAVE you started that book?” Love and longing drift from the pages. These years saw both men produce some notably queer work. Vogue was “howling” for Plank’s subversive, playful cov ers and his stylish black-and-white drawings, and he “nearly busted [his] eyeballs” meeting all his commissions. Benson wrote his schoolboy romance, David Blaize (1916), blending their names in that of Frank, David’s sexually fallen love inter est. (To Fred, George was always, affectionately, “Plankino.”) They combined their talents on The Freaks of Mayfair (1916), Plank’s sharp Beardsley-esque drawings illustrating Benson’s social satires—“rather cruel, but oh, such fun!” The Freaks of Mayfair is noticeable not just for placing queerness at the heart of high society—æsthetically as much as satirically—but for the appearance of Aunt Georgie, arguably an early version of the character from Benson’s later Mapp & Lucia novels. Their closeness was widely recognized socially. Even Lady Churchill, initially a relatively distant acquaintance making a professional request of Plank, accepted their intimacy unques tioningly. She teasingly sent messages to one via the other and invited them as a pair to a select dinner party where the only other unrelated guests were women. and even caring, patient Plank felt the responsibility: “I must look after him as much as he will let me … but he is a queer fish at times and it is hard work.” Plank’s friends Mildred and Jimmy Whitall, with whom he moved to England, “don’t like Benson,” so he couldn’t ask them to visit; Benson’s brother Arthur was hospitalized with depression; Mrs. Benson’s de clining health didn’t stop her from pestering Plank for infor mation about Benson that he didn’t want to share; Plank’s war work periodically prevented him from making art. When Benson’s mother died in June 1918, Plank immedi ately left to be with him. He visited regularly but refused to stay all summer while Benson sorted through her extensive posses sions, which Benson experienced as akin to desertion. He was clearly deteriorating. Mutual friend Pauline Pappenheim asked Plank, after they visited together: “What on earth is the matter with him?—he seems like a tired old man, all the life gone out of him!” Benson could be irritable and emotionally demanding. Even the time they spent together—Plank working, Benson sort ing, celebrating the Armistice, visiting friends, traveling between London and the countryside—didn’t seem quite enough. Nevertheless, they had some “perfect” times together, “ab solutely fun days.” Plank returned from America in 1919 to find a telegram from a stricken Benson asking him to come at once. They went to Norfolk and had a glorious time, spending so much time swimming and sunbathing naked that Plank kept los But tensions started to creep in. Benson had always been wealthier, and lavished with gifts and luxuries, but Plank refused to be kept and worried about staying in Lamb House unable to pay his way. By late 1917, he was “depressed and worried” about Ben son’s fragile mental health. Several times he had to rush across the country to tend him,

in love”—with Rye, and implicitly with Ben son—that he felt “like staying here for ever and ever,” and to Lady Randolph Churchill that “I am a widow for two days—Benson has gone to town.” For the next few years they spent much time together—in London, in Rye, on week end visits and longer trips to Cornwall and Sussex—and often Plank’s happiness bursts

Homoero ti cism abounds in Benson’s fic ti on: bronzed youths bathing naked, Greekness, wildness, nudity, and sensual indulgence in drink, sea, and sun.

from his letters home. “I am moved to prayer every time I go out-doors, so glad to be alive, and so lucky to be in the coun try in this lovely house with a good friend.” “I have had such a nice holiday with Benson.” “How I wish I could stay here all summer.” Letters between them are both loving and haunting. Benson yearns: “This scrawl must go: it carries with it a great many wishes that you were not away, & when the telephone bell rings, I miss your voice”; and “The point is, I wish you were here … I want you.” He imagines them walking together to “the bed where the violet grows. … Life is full of poetry.” Plank is car

TheG & LR

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