Still, enough of my own woes. The chief excitement of the week has been Bruce’s reviews. I mentioned Edward Shanks’ unenthusiastic comments in the Daily Dispatch, I think; well, all was quiet till Thursday, when John Betjeman reviewed it in the Daily Herald: “neatly constructed … full of wit and observation … I assume he [the author] is a don, for the writing is lucid and distinguished …” The Daily Sketch said: “Told with unusual distinction and literary finesse. Effective first attempt.” […] To round off the week, Jeremy Scott in “John o’ London’s Weekly” gives 5 inches of praise: “Here is no unsophisticated initiate: Mr Crispin’s touch is self-assured and agreeable, his background one of learning and wit, his portraiture adult, mundane and humorous” etc. etc. “Would it be too indiscreet to enquire whether Edmund Crispin can be read elsewhere under another name – or am I wronging a very brilliant new-comer?”
You can well imagine that Bruce is cavorting about in the seventh heaven of delight, indulging in computations of royalties (£300 if it sells 6,000 etc.) and racing ahead with his next book “Holy Disorders”. I hover enviously on the fringe of all this, wondering if I have made a mistake, because I still don’t think it, on the whole, a success. Bruce, in his more lucid moments, agrees with me.
But isn’t it all nice?2
My life continues sedately enough here, contentedly I might say apart from minor irritations. The new books have come and I am slowly getting them on the shelves; I have started an entirely new stock-list, starting from 1, and involving red ink. It becomes clear to me that I must stay here for some time if what I am doing is to be completed or even continued. This prospect does not appeal to me very much, but does not appal me.
Thanks to both of you for your delightful letters: I like very much to hear from each of you. In reply to Mop, I think mending etc. is done as regards socks, but there are buttons being cracked weekly on pants and vests which are not being replaced. I shall speak about this. In reply to Pop, yes, keep the order standing for Bone’s book: I don’t think I have given anything resembling an order to anybody; merely enquiries, and not all booksellers are as obliging as the Ch. Bk. Shop.
Kingsley is paying me a visit next weekend, and I have booked a room for him at the Crescent Hotel, where you stayed. I like the people there, and they remembered you quite well, though they were under the delusion that I stayed there too.
No more now: I must repair my glove again. Snow is lying about – der Schnee liegt auf dem Erde, as I dimly remember from my German – wrongly, I suspect.
Much love to all,
Philip
1 On 28 February Eva replied: ‘I am sorry about the burnt p. Certainly one wants bread and butter with an egg. I think I should surreptitiously buy a small loaf or a few rolls, and smuggle them into the library – or would they encourage mice! It is very difficult to know what to do.’
2 Eva responded in her letter of 28 February: ‘I was so thrilled over the reviews of Bruce’s novel. As you say, it is all very nice, and I should think that Bruce is walking on air just now. / I am panting to read it, although I must confess that I do not really like mystery or detective novels. / What about your novel? I expect you are still typing it out. Do you think it will be good enough to send to a publisher? (I know how critical you are!) or do you think you can find one to publish it?’
5 March 1944
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington
Dear Mop & Pop,
The sun is shining and Kingsley is awaiting me at the Crescent Hotel, but I must perform my Chinese obsequies to my ancestors before I set out.
Thank you for your delightful letter, the chocolate, and the cigarettes – a most kind thought. I am rather ashamed to admit that as things are going I shall eat all the chocolate myself. The smaller block vanished almost without my noticing it: the large is nearly gone. […] I just can’t let the stuff alone.
Do you remember forwarding a book in the middle of last week to me? It is the most curious thing: a copy of “The Yellow Night” by Drummond Allison (poems). Accompanying it was a cyclostyled letter from Drummond saying he hoped I’d buy a copy, with a postscript by his mother saying that Drummond had been killed and that perhaps I would like a copy (signed) in memory. Any money received, she added, would go to the Red Cross. So of course I was blackmailed into sending off the cost price. If he hadn’t been killed, I should have written sternly to him on the morals of self-advertisement, but in the present case one must put off one’s feelings & be conventional. The poems are awfully bad.1
It was nice to hear from Pop too, and to know that the old warrior had once again dropped his visor and was jousting in the Municipal lists with Graft, Nepotism, and Fat Pickings. In my own timid way, I am backing him up – trying to make the chairman of the Council pay a quid for the “Country Lifes” he has been getting free of charge. I am being very reasonable – 20/- is the normal annual rate for used library copies – but of course I can’t expect him to see it in that light. Luckily he’s a decent old stick – I think. Ask Pop to let me know how he gets on. Incidentally, doesn’t Newcastle seem a Pandora’s box of Local Government ills? “The point has been reached when we are no longer disgusted by their wrong-doing, nor incredulous at its revelation.” (Guess who.)
Life has been a bit more cheerful this week: it has been so nice getting the new & interesting books out onto the shelves. While the majority of people pass them over (“Two westerns for granddad and a lover for my mother”)2 others are loud in appreciation and a wholly unwarranted feeling of personal satisfaction possesses me. But I have to work so beastly hard I don’t have time to write, not even letters. I only wrote a poem last week, on and off. […]
For once I have had a satisfactory breakfast & feel more or less fine. Doesn’t that gladden your heart – that for once I can unreservedly say I can look through the day into next week with robust confidence & cheerfulness?
“What matter! Out of cavern comes a voice,
And all it knows is the one word: Rejoice!”3
W. B. Yeats wrote that, though I think he ought to have put “tavern” instead of cavern. I’ve got to prepare a report next week – next committee on March 14th. I hope it won’t be too terrible.
Dying to see you – soon. I shall be coming.
Much love
Philip
1 Eva replied on 6 March: ‘I was very surprised to hear about the book of poems by Drummond Allison, and very sorry to know he has been killed. I have just read the two poems of his in the book of Oxford Poetry and, as usual, cannot understand them.’
2 In her letter of 6 March Eva wrote: ‘I love to hear all about your doings at the library. I can almost see those nice, new books. Whatever are “Westerns”? I presume Grandpa indulges in Wild West thrillers.’
3 ‘The Gyres’. Yeats wrote ‘that one word’.
26 March 1944
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Shropshire
Dear Mop & Pop,
[…] I feel like a racehorse pulling a Corporation refuse cart, if I can say so without being conceited, and as everybody agrees that I was stupid to take it, I think I’m not.
I wonder if I can explain more clearly: I feel that I shall never take any job seriously enough to warrant any responsibility; I feel that this present job demands my whole energies and attention, which I am not prepared to give; I feel I could get another job which would leave my evenings free and give me (perhaps) more pay, and allow me to get on with the all-important job of writing. You must be sick of hearing that word. But writing is the only thing I shall ever take seriously enough to give my whole energies and attention to, and so will be the only thing I am likely to do well. Certainly (as you will agree) it’s the only thing I have ever been singled out for by others. And at present I have not enough time for it. It’s maddening. And I haven’t been wasting my time – by using almost every hour, I have written, I calculate, nearly 90,000 words since arriving here – which is the length of a normal novel. But because they are only done in
bits and pieces they are not as good as they might have been, and of course I could have done more. I could finish this novel in no time if I had free evenings.1 You don’t realise the urgency I feel.
Bruce as you know lodges at the house of a man who has been sheriff of the County etc. I’ve a good mind to try and get a job through him.
But what d’you think of all this? I expect you will counsel me to stick it out for a year; I am wondering if I couldn’t leave after the end of August. August is the month when the library is closed, you know: I think I could get everything relatively shipshape by then. If I gave the Council plenty of warning they couldn’t feel offended: they must be wondering (a trifle cynically) how long I shall stick it, and be expecting me to leave. They are fortunate in having had me at all, I sometimes think.
Well, I have no space or time or inclination now for homelier matters. Bruce was glad of your continued appreciation of “The Fly”: no, of course I have had no oranges. Children leave peel in the Reading Room sometimes. […]
Much love
Philip
1 He completed Jill on 14 May 1944.
23 April 1944
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Shropshire
Dear Mop & Pop,
I was decidedly heartened to receive your three letters last Wednesday; I picked them up from King Street on my way to the Arleston Estate after a recalcitrant borrower. She was not in, so I turned into The Buck’s Head and read your letters again and began a poem in the notebook you thoughtfully, though needlessly, I’m afraid, enclosed. I thought ‘a dry crumb of bread (rather large this)’ exquisitely funny.1
The sun is shining and I do not feel so growlingly morose as usual. Think I do not get so hungry as the weather gets warmer, and this adds to my good temper. The chief plague of the week has been dogs at the Library. During the lunch hour when the place is unattended they come in and make hay. This has been infuriating me so much that I purchased a can of disinfectant, ordered the cleaner to soak the place from top to bottom in it, and yesterday lunch time sat for 3 hours at the top of the stairs reading a novel with a walking stick across my knees, prepared to give any dog hell on sight. Not one came near. The sole result was that I got dizzy from lack of food and smoking, and bitterly cold, and the afternoon was 100 years long. […]
Thank you for forwarding Gunner’s letter: he is all right, though alone among my friends he mentioned scenes of battle. “The trouble is that in time he knows where we are and his shelling is bloody accurate and very heavy. The other evening he got within 30 yards of us and the guns jammed. What with us shouting ‘Where are the ————s’ and him bawling Prussian slogans, grenades being slung and rifles going off it was some pantomime. Cold sweat wasn’t in it. I am off for some leave in a few weeks’ time …”
Perhaps Wellington Library is not the worst place to spend these stirring times. Jim continues to write and seems safe enough; at least his letters are mainly about Lawrence and Giotto. Ernie Roe wrote last week, also Norman Iles, both well.
I don’t suppose I’ll get any oranges but thanks for the tip –
Much love to one & all
Philip
1 See Eva’s letter of 17 April in the Appendix.
18 May 1944
Postcard
[Glentworth, King Street, Wellington]
Thursday
Many thanks for the load of beautiful lilies which arrived yesterday. I have found only a tobacco tin to put them in, but they stand beside me as I write and are a real touch of delicacy in this sordid world.
I finished my novel on Sunday1 and sent copies to Bruce & Philip. On Monday I began the Wellington one, and so far have done 1 chapter.2 I’m afraid I don’t know where Jane Eyre is – I suppose you have searched the stables? I don’t remember having seen it at Warwick at all.
Love to both, P
1 Jill.
2 This was to become A Girl in Winter.
7 September 19441
[Glentworth, King Street, Wellington]
Dearest Mopcreature:
Many thanks for letter & flannel. I enclose a poem which Bruce thinks the only good one of the four. He likes line 7. You won’t quite understand it, but it is meant to describe loneliness. I think the impulse of loneliness in everyone is stronger than the impulse of love or ‘cosiness’. If it isn’t, it should be, because death is lonely and to death we should all orientate.2
Aren’t you glad about the black-out?3
Love,
Philip
P.T.O.
Wellington (Salop) Public Library, Walker Street, Wellington. P. A. Larkin B.A., Public Librarian
Did Pop see Cashmore’s column in the B.P.?4 Did he notice the popularity of J. C. Powys?5 Queer. And did he notice the typical H.M.C. “signed by me and five other of the biggest librarians”?
Philip
One man walking a deserted platform;
Dawn coming, and rain
Driving across a darkening autumn;
One man restlessly waiting a train
While round the streets the wind runs wild,
Beating each shuttered house, that seems
Folded full of the dark silk of dreams,
A shell of sleep cradling a wife or child.
Who can this ambition trace,
To be each dawn perpetually journeying?
To trick this hour when lovers re-embrace
With the unguessed-at heart riding
The winds as gulls do? What lips said
Starset and cockcrow call the dispossessed
On to the next desert, lest
Love sink a grave round the still-sleeping head?
1 The first page, ‘Dearest Mopcreature …’, is in typescript; the second page, ‘Did Pop see …’ is in holograph; the enclosed poem is in typescript.
2 See Sydney’s comment on ‘orientate’: letter of 8 September 1944, Appendix.
3 In September 1944 the ‘black-out’ regulations were replaced by a ‘dim-out’, which allowed lighting to the equivalent of moonlight.
4 On 6 September the Birmingham Post featured an interview with the City Librarian, H. M. Cashmore. Cashmore listed thirty-seven well-known authors and ‘assessed their popularity with the public by comparing the total stock of their works in the Central Library with the number of volumes left on the shelves and available to be taken away on a given day’. The library held twenty-one books by Jane Austen, all but two of which were out on loan, and eleven by J. C. Powys, all of which were on loan. Cashmore lamented the difficulty of replenishing the Library stock and commented: ‘you will probably see in “The Times” shortly a letter signed by me and five other of the biggest librarians supporting Mr Stanley Unwin and others in their claim that the situation ought to be remedied.’ See Sydney’s letter, Appendix, pp. 567–8.
5 John Cowper Powys (1872–1963), writer and philosopher; brother of Llewelyn and T. F. Powys.
1 October 19441
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Salop.
Dear Kitty,
Seems an unholy while since I wrote to you last: here goes my Dear to write you a letter tho the wireless is playing very loud in the Naffy and I do’nt kno if I can think strait. Ah! Ah!
I was sorry I missed you at home last Sunday but of course you had to go at 2.0. whereas at that time I was in Balliol with Pop, Mr. Long (“Don’t, Ern!”), and Dr. Marshall (“I shall be very interested in the reporrrrrrt …”).2 I heard sundry details from Mop – the tripe – general busyness – which amused me. Also I wanted to see the wedding photographs but they were naat there. I apologise, by the way, for making a mess of the ones I took – I understand they were a failure. It’s the malaria. Comes on me out o’ nowhere and makes me ’and shake weak as a babby … But I did try to avoid brick walls.
Incidentally, don’t forget I still have a wedding present to give you both.3
I expect all my general news is passed on to you by bush-telegrap
h so I won’t be informative. Jill has come back from Faber’s. Katherine (temporary title of Novel 2) is going very slowly (“… of an infinite snail-like locomotion, my lord, an’t please you” – any clown of the Bard) but – I think – steadily. It is very short at the moment and will need fattening. It’ll take about a year.
God damn! The wireless really has come on now – some foul play, played with that noxious melodrama that only English radio broadcasting can achieve. “Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde” – I wonder if in desolate Loughborough you too are having this gormless rubbish forced down your gizzard. How is Sandra?
I have heard several times from Jim, and he seems all right still – swigging Marsala and Vermouth and collecting bodies.4 The Library goes steadily: I continue to thrust “deep books” into the unwilling hands of the public. Some fool of a woman came in and whacking down Henry Green’s “Caught” said “Well, that’s a bad book!” “No, it isn’t,” I snapped, and gave her a short lecture on it. I’m sick of these cocksure dumbbells.
Do you think it is possible to put my initials on that cigarette case I passed on to you? It may sound silly, but I’d like “P.A.L. 1944” on it. But please don’t trouble if it means asking favours of people you don’t like, or anything of that sort.5
Does Mr Devine still do Mr Facing-both-ways to everyone? And is Potter thrusting sundry spanners into sundry wheels? And how is Walter’s job? Give him my regards.
With much love,
Philip
1 Addressed to Mrs Catherine Hewett, c/o 13 Cedar Road, Loughborough.
2 Dr Arthur Hedley Marshall (1904–94), Sydney Larkin’s deputy in Warwick.
3 Kitty had married Walter Hewett on 12 August 1944, and remained in her teaching post until the birth of her daughter Rosemary in 1947. Walter had trained as a mechanical engineer and in 1948 joined Urwick Orr & Partners as a management consultant.
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