As you managed Esk Hause, and enjoyed it, I assume there must even yet be a spark lingering in your atrophied spirit. Tell me frankly: wasn’t it your best day for many a year?
See you soon
Alf
LETTER 25: TO ERIC WALTER MAUDSLEY, 24 AUGUST 1942
Monday evening
19 Castle Grove
August 24 1942
Kendal
Dear Walter,
I have just returned from a week’s stay at Blackburn. It has not been a successful holiday. I’ve lived like a lord, with a golden-voiced operatic star bringing lovely meals to me in bed; and I’ve enjoyed every comfort in palatial surroundings; I’ve listened over and over again to my favourite musical classics, and feasted on good literature; I’ve met and wined with old friends from the office and been driven about in a car. I’ve had a really lazy time, and that’s just why the holiday failed. It’s been a week of lounging about in slippers; better far I had put on my walking shoes and gone over the hills and far away!
Blackburn is no place to spend a holiday. By the end of the third day I was pining for the hills and the woods and the racing rivers, and ready to return to my beloved Kendal. Blackburn, with its endless rows of grimy brick houses, its chimney-stacks and monstrous factories, its smells and filth, its black henpens and rubbish tips – ugh! There is no glory and no glamour about Blackburn. Life only started for me when I fled the place. Affection for the old town is not dead, but I fear it is growing very dim. The expectant delights of the sentimentalist, the sight of the scenes of boyhood, the joy of meeting former friends: these are proved spurious when the reality is at hand. I visited the old familiar places, I walked the old streets where every crack in the pavements is remembered, I saw people I once knew well – and I gazed dispassionately; there was no thrill in renewing acquaintance. Instead, the bleak poverty of the town, the ugliness and meanness, got me by the throat; I had a feeling of depression during the whole of my stay which was not banished until Lancaster was behind me on the return journey and, with nose flattened against the carriage-window, I could discern a long rugged skyline to the north.
So now I am back here in Kendal, where I long to be, and where, in 1987, I shall die.
The Kendal Holiday Week was a great success, thanks largely to the superb control exercised by an efficient organizing secretary. It proved a profitable experience for me, too, for I was finally persuaded to bring my light from under the bushel and have been acclaimed as an artist of outstanding merit. So much so that I have received commissions for further drawings (chiefly of landscapes), and my future as Lakeland’s Greatest Artist is assured. The cover design on the enclosed Programme is by Wainwright. Before I go on to a series of drawings of the Lakes, however, I am determined to put Kendal right on the map. I intend to spend the next two years in sketching the town; these drawings, with a narrative written by self in self’s inimitable style, will then be published by the Council as the official handbook to the town. It’s going to be a lovely job, for Kendal was simply built to be drawn. So out of the immaturity of countless expedition itineraries will be born the Super Guide Book, and it will be a huge success. You won’t get a copy by enclosing a stamp; you’ll have to dig in your pocket, but it will be a bargain at any price. Watch for the advertisement in all the national newspapers in the first summer of peace!
Now what of your visit to Wasdale? Lawrence told me of the embarrassment of your return journey to Carlisle, but he had nothing to tell of your grim vigil amongst the rocky ramparts of Scafell. He had some vague story of your mounting three free Frenchwomen in rapid succession, but I am more anxious to have the exclusive details of your mounting of Broad Stand, of your privations in the gloomy chasm of Fat Man’s Agony, of the musical tinkle of falling urine in the darkness of your room. How is Wasdale Head, and Burnthwaite and the glorious Sty? The details, please! Two years have gone by since I sojourned there; two long years. Soon I must go again.
And on your return to pastoral Herts what had the fair Bess to offer you in welcome? I wonder! Now I must thank the dear child for her review of my book. So for the present I take my leave of you
Your old pal
AlfW
LETTER 26: TO ERIC WALTER MAUDSLEY, 21 SEPTEMBER 1942
Monday evening,
19 Castle Grove
September 21 1942
Kendal
Dear Walt,
The days go by, and I wait in vain for the sordid details of your Lakeland trek. Silence envelops Hertfordshire. I am sending herewith a handsome present: a print of my first drawing. My first has since been succeeded by my second and my third, in that order, and they are evoking prodigal encouragement in this grey old town of my adoption; so much so that I am now convinced that a lucrative additional source of revenue awaits my clutch. Since this is the first, however, I have had a few copies made for my friends, regardless of cost, and here is yours. It is eminently suitable, I claim, for tacking up in the lavatory and surveying moodily when in he throes of excretion.
Gable I see most evenings from fields behind my home: has Hertford anything as fair to show? Gable will have charms when Bess is gone and forgotten.
This isn’t a letter.
It’s your turn to write. When you do, please use the same envelope so that I can use it again. They’re 2d each!
Alf
AW was full of plans for books, but it’s not clear if at this stage he ever got round to much more than thinking about them, boasting about them, but he does seem to have had printed, at his own expense, quite a few copies of some of his Kendal drawings. One of several AW drawings from the 1942 period which has survived is the cover of the Holiday Week brochure.
LETTER 27: TO LAWRENCE WOLSTENHOLME, 2 OCTOBER 1942
Friday evening
19 Castle Grove
October 2 1942
Kendal
Dear Lollipop,
I’ve had one letter from you in the past four months.
Shame on you!
Bob will have given you, or will be giving you, a print of my ‘Blea Tarn, Langdale’. This isn’t my latest drawing, and it isn’t my best; it’s my first, and because it is the first, the prelude to many, I have had thirty copies made, regardless of cost, for my new friends and for those whose encouragement in the past I have not forgotten. I could have sold these thirty copies in five minutes, and wallowed in wealth for a few days, but that would spoil the idea. I hope you like the picture. I claim that it is eminently suitable for tacking up in the lavatory and surveying moodily during the throes of excretion, or in intervals of noisy urination.
I have set aside five more copies for others there who may like to have them. I thought originally of sending these to you to distribute as you thought best, but on reflection I think it wiser to let those who are genuinely interested ask for a copy. You might see if Jim Ashworth would like one, and N.W.E. Hamm. Alf Shaw might; Wilbur probably wouldn’t. FRED Sellers is a possibility. Perhaps you won’t have a single request! However, see.
In a few days I am setting off for wildest Lakeland for a strenuous holiday. I have developed such a belly on me these past few weeks that I can’t button my flies, so I’m planning to shake it off over Wasdale way.
The weather at present is delightfully mild and sunny, and the hills were never more colourful and attractive. But the leaves are falling from the trees – winter will soon be here.
Did you guess, by the way, where I had supper last Saturday evening. Best wishes to the whole bloody lot of you.
Alf
LETTER 28: TO ERIC WALTER MAUDSLEY, 6 OCTOBER 1942
Tuesday evening
19 Castle Grove
October 6 1942
Kendal
Dear Wal.
The morning of Monday, October 5th, was murky, cold and damp. I went to work in the gloom, watching a blustery wind whirling the leaves from the trees. I shivered as I walked. Winter had come.
But at the office I was to experience a shining ra
y of bright light that cut through the gloom of the morning and quite dispelled it. I was hardly seated at my desk before Dorothy brought me your letter of the 23rd Sept. et seq. I opened it, and commenced to read. It was truly magnificent. Your description of your first ascent of Scafell held me enthralled. It took me right out of my surroundings; I climbed Scafell with you. Together we strode along Eskdale, loveliest of valleys; we stood admiring the white lace curtain of Cam Spout, and later idled by its brink; we toiled side by side to the rocky ramparts of Mickledore; agreed that Broad Stand had better be left until the next time; made our way beneath the cliffs to Lord’s Rake; palpitated on the West Wall Traverse; and finally emerged, sweating and triumphant, from the steep funnel of Deep Ghyll to claim our reward. I know the spot well where you sat and gazed at the scene of grandeur that encompassed you. It hasn’t an equal in Lakeland. The Napes Ridges are fine, and so is Pillar Rock, but there isn’t a rival to Scafell Pinnacle and its Pisgah. Here you are right on top of the world; you look down on it as its Creator looks down on it, with utter satisfaction; you are conscious of nothing but tranquility so profound that it is almost a pain; would you could take the image away in your mind and never lose it, never let it be dimmed or put aside by material considerations! A few hours spent in contemplation and meditation above the cliffs of Scafell, in silent worship at the cathedral of the Pinnacle, does more for a man’s soul than a thousand sermons. Could you sit there and call yourself an atheist, an unbeliever? I do not think so for a moment; your doubts must surely have been lost in the gulf of Mickledore, swept away by the clean winds.
Once I sat where you sat and lost count of time as you did. Not until darkness had hidden Hollow Stones below me, and only the neighbouring peaks retained the rosy flush of the departed sun, could I tear myself away from the majestic, awe-inspiring scene. My long-delayed communion with the spirits of the mountain cost me dear then: in the gathering dusk I could not find the top of Lord’s Rake, and essayed a descent by a wide gully I subsequently found to be Red Ghyll, not without mishaps; when I reached the comforting turf of Brown Tongue I was both bloody and bowed. But I remember how long and earnestly I looked upwards at the jagged black rock-towers above me before limping down to Wasdale … the spell of that day’s glories is with me yet.
It is a regret to me that I put off the ascent of Scafell by Cam Spout until late years. Thoughts of the weary grind so-called in the guidebooks, up the screes to Mickledore caused me to postpone it time after time. When I finally made the attempt I found it so easy and enjoyable that I wept with chagrin at the lost opportunities. I too was staying at Boot, and walked along Eskdale while the dew was still on the ground; I too thought it sublimely beautiful. Cam Spout looked stiff, but proved an easy staircase, with the added attraction of a supremely lovely series of cascades to delight me. Up above, I squeezed into Fat Man’s Agony, and lingered a long time on the rock platform at the foot of Broad Stand, intently studying the ample footholds that climbed the corner and disappeared aloft. I was sick with desire, palsied with fear … I too turned reluctantly away. Someday we must do it together.
You didn’t climb Deep Ghyll, and shouldn’t claim credit for it. That passage, inherently false, rather mars your masterly narrative. What you did was to ascend Lord’s Rake beyond the entrance to Deep Ghyll and made your way into its upper reaches, above its two pitches, by the West Wall Traverse. If Broad Stand turned you away, you certainly would not have attempted the cavern which forms the first pitch of the Ghyll. Unroped and alone you just couldn’t have climbed it.
And Scafell is the King, not the Queen, of the Lakeland mountains. Helvellyn is the Queen, and Skiddaw the Prince. You enjoyed relating the details of your day on Scafell, didn’t you? That much is clear from your description of it. And I revelled in reading it. I simply devoured it, wallowed in it. When I finally put it away in my pocket, and looked up, lo! The sun was shining, the sky serene. I am sending it along to Lawrence to leaven the weary barm of his existence for a few minutes; my heart is still heavy with compassion for those I left behind me in that soul-destroying hellhole at Blackburn.
On October 16th I am going into the hills for a few days holiday, my last fling in 1942. I shall have a night at Patterdale and another in Borrowdale; I doubt whether I shall risk dropping down into Wasdale, having regard to the lack of accommodation.
Last week I sent Alker a selection of my 1941 collection of photographs of Lakeland peaks. I’ll let you have them at an opportune time.
The Holidays Committee treated me nobly after my efforts for them, and my library of mountaineering classics is not augmented by several volumes I have long coveted.
Thanks for your kind remarks anent ‘Blea Tarn’.
Now what’s this about an operation and service in the Forces? A minor operation, you say. That is a matter of relativity. Having your useless dick cut off would be a minor operation for you, but definitely a major amputation for me.
If you really are joining the Forces I wish you well. But why the Navy? Why not
Blast it
An Alpine Corps?
However, if your entry is imminent, you probably won’t have time to write again before you go. But I sincerely hope you will find time occasionally to put aside your sword and take up the pen, and tell me of your feats of derring-do. And if I, in return, can bring a breath of Lakeland air into my replies, and bring back memories of happy days on the hills, I shall be happy. Let me know what happens to you.
Yours sincerely,
Alf
I saw your brother walking along Bolton Road, Blackburn, a week last Saturday.
You’ll not forget to return my book, will you, if you have to go? Remember me to Bess
What will she do, poor thing?
See o’er
[On the back of the letter AW has drawn a map of Scafell entitled ‘Scafell from Pikes Crag: Probable Route of W.E. Maudsley 30.7.42’. The drawing is a rough sketch, but reminiscent of sketches and routes to come.]
LETTER 29: TO LAWRENCE WOLSTENHOLME, 20 NOVEMBER 1942
Friday evening
19 Castle Grove
November 20 1942
Kendal
Dear Lawrence,
It was a very great surprise to me to receive your letter the other day. The trees were in new leaf and the birds were mating when last you wrote. It was springtime. Now the trees are bare of leaves and the birds have gone to warmer lands. Spring has passed, and summer, and autumn. It is winter again. In the meantime I have written to you occasionally, sent things I thought you would like to see. They brought no response until this week. It grieved me deeply, angered me almost, to be ignored thus. It is discourteous, to say the least, not to reply to letters received. Good manners demanded that I should have an acknowledgment that my communications had safely arrived. Nothing came, however, and it is now some time since I deleted your name from my list of correspondents and erased you from my mind. One does not write to a man who is dead, nor think of him. Your word, inertia, is not half strong enough. Even with this latest belated effort you made the admission, as though it were a joke, that it would not yet have been written but for your wife’s entreaties. You should be grateful to Margery for propping you up thus and reminding you of ordinary moral decencies which should be observed, but this time she was too late. Thoughtlessness has cost you a friend. I will reply to our letter, but I tell you frankly that there are other things I would much rather be doing tonight than writing to you.
In a few days time I shall have been at Kendal a year, and it has been a year of sublime contentment, of progress, of rapid advancement towards the attainment of an ambition that was born early and somehow survived the ghastly, soul-destroying environment of the Blackburn Town Hall. I look back on those years with horror. Coming here was like escaping from a foul pit. There are no days of desolation and gloom, as there were then. There are no days when things go wrong at work, no days of desperate endeavour, no weary nights of overtime, no rush jobs, no office squabbles
, no R.G. wanting to see me, no interferences, no questions asked, no kow-towing to little Ceasers who ought to be shot.
In twelve months I have earned for myself a classical reputation. My ledgers, illustrated and illuminated, are things of great beauty. There is nothing here to cramp my style, no jealous criticisms and senseless comments, and I have flourished exceedingly. There is positive joy in working in these happy conditions. I am very highly thought of, and the Council’s special pet. My flair for the artistic has been quickly recognized, and applauded. Unlike the dullards who govern Blackburn, here are men of breeding and intellect and imagination; men, moreover, to whom civic pride is a religion, not a sham. And with justification, for is this not a lovely old town and are there not centuries of proud history in its mellow grey stones?
So I prosper. Kendal folk have a reputation for clannishness, but I have blasted my way right through the outer shell and find now that every man has a smile and a kind word for me. I was one of the gentlemen of Kendal who took the mayor to Church last Sunday, and am to be found in my place at all civic functions. A wealth of tradition still clings to Kendal, and I find its varied ceremonies of absorbing interest. I keep the Education, Gas, Water, Electricity, Rating, Housing and Superannuation Accounts of the Council as they have never been kept before, and yet have lots of time to free-lance. Much of my time in future will be spend at the Museum, for the Council have asked me to take it under my control and look after it. Now Kendal Museum is a very remarkable place; I’d as soon drop in there to look round as go to the pictures. It is widely acknowledged as the finest in the North of England; it is not a place of death, as yours is, but a live, exciting place which attracts hordes of visitors. Now it is mine, to display the exhibits, to publicise, to curate and to catalogue. Could there be a more delightful hobby? I have long wanted a collection of birds eggs: now I have ten thousand at one fell swoop, gratis. A public-minded citizen has provided the funds to build an extension: I shall enjoy spending the money.
The Wainwright Letters Page 7