Collected Letters Volume One: Family Letters 1905–1931. Walter Hooper

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СКАЧАТЬ me three catalogues–Macmillan’s, Dent’s and a French one, which you will find on the table farthest from the window, on the microscope box, in the little end room. Of course at present, ruined as you are by these freights of cellar linen, I shouldn’t dare!

      your loving

      son Jack

       TO ARTHUR GREEVES (LP V: 123-4):

      [Gastons]

      27th./9/16.

      My dear Galahad,

      I think you must be going dotty with all your talk about when I’m going back, seeing that I said in my first letter that Friday (last) was already fixed. At any rate you must have found out by now, and will understand why I am late in answering your letter, which only reached me today. As you say, it seems years and years since I left: I have quite dropped back into the not unpleasant, though monotonous routine of Bookham, and could almost believe that I had never left it. Portsalon is like a dream. I heartily agree with you that it must have been nice to have the Lounge all to yourselves.

      Now to books: I told you didn’t I that I had bought Blackwood’s Jimbo did I not? I finished it on Sunday and am awfully bucked with it–a very good 7d. worth. It is quite in Blackwood’s best manner, and you will specially love the last thirty pages or so–they are terrific. Get it at once. I hope you are not praising ‘Letters from Hell’ out of politeness, for I really want to know what it is like. I saw it once in a second hand bookshop at Guildford nearly a year ago: looking over the first few pages I thought it excellent, but of course it may not be so good later on. How many books seem to promise such a lot at the start and then turn out disappointing. Whereas good, stodgy books like Scott have all their interesting parts in the middle and begin with reams of dry-as-dust. Talking about stodge, I finished ‘The Newcomes’ before leaving home, and certainly enjoyed the end better than any parts except the scenes at Baden. Of course it is a great novel, but I am very thankful to have got it off my chest. I should advise you to get the 2/6 volume containing Milton’s minor poems,¹⁴⁶ which I am now reading: I am sure they are better to begin on than P.L. I am now at ‘Comus’, which is an absolute dream of delight. I am sure you would love it: it is like a play written on an episode from the Faerie Queene, all magic and distressed ladies and haunted woods. It is lovely in books the way you can just turn from one sort of beauty to another and never get tired.

      I was sorry to find no instalment in your last letter, tho’ of course if you have completely lost interest in poor Papillon it is no good forcing yourself. I will consent to your trying a novel only on the condition that it be sent to me, chapter by chapter. I too am wondering whether I should not chuck Bleheris and start something else: partly I have so many ideas and also I think the old fashioned English is a fatal mistake. Any good things that are in it or would be later on, can be worked in elsewhere. In a way it is disheartening to remember how keenly we were both starting out on our tales this time last term and see the result. But still we have both much experience and practice gained, and we got a lot of pleasure out of them while they lasted: the danger is that we get to turn too easily from one thing to another and never get anything done.

      I didn’t go to see anything in London, I really don’t know why–I was a bit tired, nothing seemed to attract me much, and also, having started ‘Jimbo’ in the train, was eager to get to it again. One part of my journey I enjoyed very much was the first few miles out of Liverpool: because it was one of the most wonderful mornings I have ever seen–one of those lovely white misty ones when you can’t see 10 yards. You could just see the nearest trees and houses, a little ghostly in appearance, and beyond that everything was a clean white blank. It felt as if the train was alone in space, if you know what I mean.

      I think you are very wise not to take that puppy from K[elso Ewart]. Unless you are a person with plenty of spare time and real knowledge, it is a mistake to keep dogs–and cruel to them. Have you got the Kaleva yet, tell me when you do and what you think of it. I wonder where you are at this moment? Have you reached home yet? Tell me all the news when you write, what you’re reading etc. and whether you are going back to your taskmaster Tom at once.¹⁴⁷ I am not nearly so fed up now as I was, and hope you are the same. The country at home was beginning to look nice and autumn-y, with dead leaves in the lanes and a nice nutty smell (you know what I mean) so I suppose it is getting better still. Here it is horrible bright summer which I hate. Love to all our friends such as the hedgepig etc.

      Yours,

      Jack.

       TO ARTHUR GREEVES (W):

      [Gastons]

      Oct. Ugh! 10/4/16!! [4 October 1916]

      My dear Arthur,

      I believe it is Lamb who says somewhere that he does not know whether it is more delightful to set out for a holiday or return from one: perhaps you hardly agree with him! Though I am sure he hated his office (read ‘The Superannuated Man’)¹⁴⁸ quite as much as you do. But of course he means, I suppose, the getting back to home, to ones books etc and not to work. However I suppose you are gradually getting ‘broken in’.

      The beastly summer is at last over here, and good old Autumn colours & smells and temperatures have come back. Thanks to this we had a most glorious walk on Saturday: it was a fine cool, windy day & we set out after lunch to go to a place called ‘Friday Street’ which is a very long walk from here through beautiful woods and vallies that I don’t know well.¹⁴⁹ After several hours wandering over fields & woods etc. with the aid of a map we began to get lost and suddenly at about 4 o’clock–we had expected to reach the place by that time–we found ourselves in a place where we had been an hour before! You will understand that while the others were only annoyed at this, I felt je ne sais quoi de dreamlike and terrifying sensation at the idea of wandering round in circles through these big, solemn woods; also there was a certain tinge of ‘Alice-in-W-ism’ about it. We had a lot of difficulty in at last reaching the place, but it was glorious when we got there. You are walking in the middle of a wood when all of a sudden you go downwards and come to a little open hollow just big enough for a little lake and some old, old red-tiled houses: all round it the trees tower up on rising ground and every road from it is at once swallowed up in them. You might walk within a few feet of it & suspect nothing unless you saw the smoke rising up from some cottage chimney. Can you imagine what it was like? Best of all, we came down to the little inn of the village and had tea there with–glory of glories–an old tame jackdaw hopping about our feet and asking for crumbs. He is called Jack and will answer to his name.

      The inn has three tiny but spotlessly clean bedrooms, so some day,–if the gods will, you & I are going to stay there. The inn is called the ‘Stephen Langton’ and dates from the time of that gentleman’s wars against the king or the barons or somebody (you’ll know I expect),¹⁵⁰ tho’ of course it has been rebuilt since. I don’t like playing the guide-book, but it was so ravishing that I had to tell you. We were so late getting there that it was dark soon after we left, and often going astray we didn’t get home till ten o’clock–dead beat but happy.

      Partly because the country we saw that day was so like it I have been reading again the second volume of Malory, especially the part of the ‘Sangreal’ which I had forgotten. With all its faults, in small doses this book is tip-top: those mystic parts are very good to read late at night when you are drowsy and tired and get into a sort of ‘exalted’ mood. Do you know what I mean? You so often share feelings of mine which I can’t explain that СКАЧАТЬ