He doesn’t write home much. ‘After all,’ he says, ‘they know I am here.’ He often gets letters but hardly ever answers them. He told me of his father who seems a good man, not able to spell well, for example ‘colledge’ for ‘college’. I would have been ashamed to admit this: George isn’t. He invited me to their house for part of the holidays. What do you think? He is going with a girl called Fiona. I gather that she is very intelligent, and sometimes he talks as if he were her (at least that’s what I think) about the nuclear bomb. I think we need it. What else have we got? To defend our religion with. He smiled when I said this, clapped me on the knee, and told me to get up. We walked along the bank of the river (it was here that that boy was drowned) and saw a fisherman wearing thigh-length leathers, patiently casting in the middle. I thought for one horrible moment that we might find a body. Later we saw swans. They have a curious blunt blindness when seen close up. After a while I found I had forgotten my book and we went back to the park to collect it. We talked to two little boys. They were both very grave and very polite and told us all about themselves. They were dressed exactly alike in blue tunics and shorts, white shirts and blue ties. They were like echoes of each other. Eventually their nurse or whatever she was came to collect them. She frowned a little and I think they were very sorry to go, for George at any rate has the gift of friendliness. He makes fun of me sometimes—says I’m too serious. And I argue, he says, too self-righteously, especially with that college lecturer. My views on education are absolutely incomprehensible to him. Sometimes he asks me questions about home and confesses himself utterly perplexed. That people should be talked about for being out on a Sunday!
I hope this confusion of the church accounts will be sorted out. I’ve seen it reported even in the newspapers here. That’s what comes of living in a small village.
Don’t think I’m wasting my time. I’m working very hard and I know what has been done for me. I study for about seven hours a day. There is so much to be done. Recently my eye was caught by a book in the library by a man called Camus. It’s very strange but interesting.
I go to church here, but the minister Mr Wood isn’t very impressive. He is a small stout man who seems to me to have nothing to say. The church itself is small and quite pretty and fresh. But it’s his voice that I find peculiar … as if he could be thinking of something else when he’s preaching. He is not in his voice. It’s difficult to explain this. The flowers are beautiful, there are fine texts, fresh varnished tables, but he himself—he doesn’t bring these things together. All is forced somehow. I sometimes think we should have more sense of humour. George is very humorous. He kept us in stitches last night composing a romance between the shopgirl and our cyclist friend—the third in the eternal triangle was the motor bike. Actually however Joan and Jake quite liked it, I think, and apart from their being lodgers (whom I suppose she can easily replace) the landlady’s romantic soul appears to be touched. She seats them together at meals! And one day Jake took Joan to the shop on his motor bike. The trouble is he blushes too easily.
I’ve been invited to Mr Mulgrew’s house and I think I might go on Wednesday. George’s girl friend is coming for dinner soon.
It’s very late—11.30—and I must finish—I shall post this at 8.30: there’s a pillar box quite near.
I think I shall sleep better tonight: I feel much fresher.
Please remember that as I say again I know all that you have done for me.
Your loving son,
Kenneth
Last night I called on Mr Mulgrew our Greek lecturer. It was 7.30 when I arrived at the door of his house which lies in a quiet area about five hundred yards past a busy blue crossroads.
There were two bells, one a white one set in the stone at the side of the door, and the other a black one set in the middle of the door itself. First, I pressed the white one but sensed by the lack of pressure that it wasn’t working. Then I pressed the black one which also did not appear to be working. Finally I knocked on the door. There was no light in the hall. Then I knocked again more loudly.
I saw a light flash on—rather a dim one—and Mr Mulgrew himself came to the door wearing no jacket, but a blackish pullover and reddish slippers. Eventually he recognised me, his mouth closing as he did so and a light being switched on in his eyes. I have heard that he is very lonely and that he goes to the cinema regularly once a week no matter what the film is and that he prefers to sit in the same seat each time.
He seemed glad to see me and shepherded me into a room on the right which contained a lot of books, an electric fire (with the two bars on) two easy-chairs (both green) an electric lamp (lit) one table (heavy mahogany) and a smaller, flimsier one. He sat me down in the armchair opposite his own. Beside him on the floor was an open book.
We sat for some moments in silence, he with his legs crossed, dangling one red slipper uneasily, then he took out a packet of cigarettes which he offered me. He seemed surprised when I did not take a cigarette and returned the packet to his pocket. I have the impression that he bought that packet just for me! At the same time he said:
‘Very few young people don’t smoke nowadays, isn’t that right? You’re not afraid of cancer, are you?’ He looked at me steadily as if he himself was. I said No I wasn’t.
‘That’s a mistake,’ he continued. ‘We should be. I am. Very much. I find the thought unbearable. Of course it’s psychological.’ I didn’t say anything.
‘The reason I asked you here is that your work is good, you know, good. Honest. Yes I think honest is the word. Not slick. So little honesty now, don’t you agree. I mean real honesty.’
His eyes seemed to look at me then flicker away again so that I was uneasy.
‘Do you know that Wittgenstein used to read Black Mask?’ he asked suddenly.
I said I didn’t know anything about Wittgenstein (though I’ve found out a little since).
‘He was a great philosopher you know and he used to go to the cinema regularly—gangster films mainly he liked. Imagine that! You should read him, he was very honest.’
Then without transition he began to talk about Sophocles. ‘You know the thing I find extraordinary about him,’—for some reason he stood up and began to walk about the room—‘the thing I find extraordinary about him is that he did so much and especially—do you know what I find most extraordinary of all?—that he served in the army!
‘Nowadays people serve in the army and then they write a book about it. That’s putting it in reverse you know. It shouldn’t be like that at all. No, you don’t find anything about his experiences in the army in Sophocles. He doesn’t exploit them. He just lived.’
Abruptly he sat down again and leaning forward said, ‘He just lived. Isn’t that fine? To be able to do what Sophocles did.’
Of course I understood what he was saying but I couldn’t become enthusiastic—yet in a way he seemed to be enthusiastic—sometimes stabbing forward with his finger—but he didn’t make me enthusiastic. It was as if—like Wood—he could be thinking of something else while he was talking.
‘Nowadays they talk of their military experience and of women and of drink—but do we find these in Sophocles? No, we don’t. That’s what we must understand—what did make the Greeks great? He lived till he was 90—he took part in his civic duties, he served in the army and he wrote all these plays. That’s greatness. Especially serving in the army.’
At that moment I heard a tram rocking past into the blue lights and he himself stopped as if he had heard a gun exploding.
Then suddenly he began to talk about Gilbert Murray. ‘I once met him,’ he said, ‘an Australian. But I don’t like his translations. You know, he served on the League of Nations. He should have concentrated on his translations. Would you care to see …’ Suddenly he got up saying, ‘I think I have somewhere here a review I wrote for the Classical Studies on his …’ And he went straight to a magazine, took it out and it opened at the correct page. I read the review. It was I thought indecisive a
nd rather mean at the same time. ‘One is not sure that …’ However I said it was quite good.
‘About your own work, that’s reasonable. It’s got the classical … spirit, you know,’ said he, pleased with my praise. He was flattering me for some reason.
‘Excuse me a moment.’ He almost pranced out leaving me alone in the room. I felt desolate and an emptiness throbbed through me. I looked at the clock: it said 8.15. I looked at the books but had no inclination to read them. I noticed that the lamp-shade was red.
In a minute or two he returned. ‘I was ordering tea,’ he said.
Then for some reason or other I heard myself saying that I couldn’t stay for tea. I listened to my own voice with astonishment: it was creating a number of the most plausible lies, the main one being that the landlady had invited me to see TV and he himself knew as a student what these landladies were like. He was listening with his mouth open and agreeing now and then. Then I noticed a certain pride being drawn up over his face like a drawbridge.
‘Of course if you can’t stay,’ he began. I said I wished to but I couldn’t and then with an attempt at humour—there was that essay he had set us! He half laughed. I found myself walking to the door as if across a great space. He said he had been going to show me some of his translations, but of course …
I repeated I was sorry. At the door he began with a sudden curious depth to his voice but at the same time jocularly:
‘And what do you think of us?’
I stared.
‘Of the lecturers.’
‘Oh,’ I mumbled, ‘different from school … mature … more interesting … very different …’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘isn’t it? I remember when I went to university first …’ Then he stopped. ‘But I’m keeping you.’
He opened the outer door and we looked out into the night which had a chill dryness and a lot of stars.
‘The strange thing about Sophocles, you know,’ he said, ‘was that he served in the army. A man of action.’ He seemed to stand more upright. ‘Nowadays … he would have written his memoirs.’
I walked down the path to the gate, half-running. I turned to wave but the door had been shut.
Not very far from the crossroads I was approached by a big fat red-faced drunken woman who asked me for a shilling. I seem always to be approached by these people. I gave her the money and strangely enough I looked after her with pleasure as she rolled on huge and healthy and happy to wherever she was going. She called me ‘dear’.
So that was the visit. Peculiar. I doubt if I shall go again. I worked again after coming home but somehow … No, I won’t let you down. Still there was something odd …
George comes in now and again. His girl friend is coming up on Saturday and he wants me to meet her. I don’t know. He too is uneasy these days. Of course he goes out oftener than me—to dances, etc.—but there’s a hectic quality about him. Perhaps he’s seeing too many bodies and going to hospitals too much.
Once he brought some records in and played me some jazz. It’s really powerful music, blasting. We have nothing like it in Gaelic.
‘What do you think of that, eh?’ he said, his red hair falling over his face. ‘Isn’t it tremendous?’ He’s got a trick of emphasising the middle syllable—tremendously! Sometimes he plays on his trumpet in an almost religious manner—and I think he’s quite good—very serious. He bought a small trumpet for little Bertie and it’s funny to see them playing together. He’s very fond of children. But I’m afraid he doesn’t like the college woman. ‘Too prim,’ he said. And even me he considers prim but he says there’s hope for me.
One night at 11 o’clock he was sitting on my bed looking down at the floor and listening to a record. Then he suddenly switched it off and said to me: ‘You know you may not know it—clever as you are—but you are on the side of life. I can tell. It’s the way you listen—and that wistfulness of yours as if you were listening for … a different music.’ I don’t even know what he means.
I’m sorry you don’t think I should go to visit him. It’s true enough that we only have a fortnight but it doesn’t matter really. I think you would like him, however. I think I told you before he doesn’t drink. Why are you asking me again? Something’s disturbing him though I don’t know what it is. Last night he talked about the hydrogen bomb and about his parents and about the fishing. ‘It’s so far away, somehow,’ he said. ‘All that. Don’t you find that?’ I said nothing. Then he made one of his sudden changes of mood and said: ‘Never mind, we’ll hear what Mr Bryden (our landlord) has seen in the pictures this week. The Son of Hippocrates or Hippocrates Rides again.’
I’m sorry to hear this squabble continues. It’s indecent. Now I must work. And I am working. Harder than ever since I was up at the lecturer’s.
Did you say Alasdair was dying? I hope not. He was a good man. There’s too much dying in our island.
Goodnight,
Your loving son,
Kenneth
P.S. By the way it was Sunday George and I went for that walk.
I have nothing much to write about tonight except that I was thinking how in the city at night the lamp-posts are so separate from each other like professors studying the road. At home it isn’t like this. At home there is moonlight connecting ditches and so on. Here it isn’t like that. In the city you are freer, yet …
The romance between Jake and Joan goes on. Joan is what one would say fleshily pretty with a prettiness that will run to fat. Her smile goes outward in a curiously candid manner. And Jake still blushes! George insists that they call him in for their first child and hands her a plate full of vegetables. I couldn’t do that. He is so natural and never offensive. Why aren’t we like that? He was telling us of the fishing, how the boats used to go out in the evening in the sunset and how they’d come back again in the cold sunrise. He spent most of his trips cooking. Once according to himself he filled the soup with sugar instead of salt and imitated the crew’s expressions as they drank it. Even the landlady was in hysterics. I think Jake and Joan will get married eventually. She’s only 19 but girls get married earlier here. I often wonder why at home marriages are so late. I have ideas about it, and I’ve been reading some of the works of a man called Freud lately. He’s very interesting. Why aren’t we taught about him in school? I seem to know very little really.
I often wonder too why I used to be ill so often when I was young. All that bronchitis and asthma every summer. It was very strange. And those mustard baths. And the sun on the partition. I am never ill here at all. I have never felt so well, even though I work hard.
Sometimes in the evenings after supper we sit in the dining room by the fire, George and I and Miss Burgess the lecturer (she is small and plump and sews a great deal). We argue—rippingly—I never realised how splendid it is simply to argue. George talks about the hydrogen bomb, but as I said before he seems to be an echo of someone else. He’s not really interested, except that he once said something which set me thinking: ‘Is the image of hell connected with the hydrogen bomb?’ That’s interesting, you know. And he’s mischievous too. He asks the landlord what pictures he’s seen and the landlord who’s very slow (with a moustache and white teeth) explains all about the picture at great length. He is not really a good narrator and is soon tangled up. For example he was telling us about The Goat Woman Strikes Back, and George was questioning him freely as if it had been an argument by Russell.
‘And why did she put a spell on him? I want to know. We must be reasonable.’
I thought this was funny since he seemed to take a pleasure in discomfiting the landlord (no, that’s not true, the landlord didn’t realise his leg was being pulled). We sometimes listen to the songs on the radio and sometimes he asks me about home. It’s incredible to him that they don’t like dancing, that we daren’t walk outside on Sundays, that we don’t have cinemas … However, I defend us. Mind you, there’s something in what he says.
I don’t go to dances, because I enjoy reading a
nd studying. I enjoy books. They are like food to me. Or at least have been … Though sometimes I grow tired, I don’t read Latin and Greek all the time. I’ve been reading Eliot and Camus and … but there are so many.
I sometimes go to the cafe in the morning for coffee. It’s a small cafe run by an intelligent man of 35 who speaks and acts like a student himself and has a sort of crackling wit. Behind the cafe there is a lawn and on fine days—most of the days have been fine—we sit out at the back under the trees in the speckled sunshine on yellow deckchairs. Will we ever be as happy as this again? The bells, the ivy, the conversation, the books, the sun.
Coming home yesterday I saw two men fighting at a street corner. Neither of them was drunk so far as I could see. I watched their faces. They were terrible with hatred, not blind, because they were looking at each other as if they could kill each other. One of them brought his knee up at the other’s stomach. And yet was the expression on their faces not hatred at all but fear? Two ragged boys were watching them at the edge of the lot, but all the others like me hurried past. I had soon forgotten them.
I’m sorry to hear about Alasdair but he was quite old, wasn’t he? I suppose we have to accept that. Once I didn’t accept it so much but was terrified. Now, I see that one must learn to take it as it is.
The thought has just occurred to me. I wonder what Mr Mulgrew would have said if he had seen that fight. Sophocles must have seen worse and yet it’s not there, not really. Strange! ‘What has Sophocles to do with us?’ George asked me. What indeed! And the library with its sculptured busts of alabaster? What have they? That has to be answered.
Yes, I go to church every Sunday but Mr Wood has very little to say. In fact he has nothing to say. He has invited me to his home but I shan’t go. I would only be hypocritical.
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