in your next letter. J.
TO ARTHUR GREEVES (W):
[Gastons
16 February 1915]
Dear Arthur,
When I received your epistle, which certainly did not weary one by its length, I was in one of my black moods: like Saul, my evil spirit was upon me.20 Having just had a sufficient glimpse of home and of my brother to tantalize but not to satisfy:21 having lost, if not for good, at least for this term, an unparalleled opportunity: and finding a very objectionable visitor in possession of my grinder’s house, you may well imagine that I was in no mood for an extra irritation. I had just, too, been out for a walk, mon dieu, a nightmare! Splashing thro great puddles beneath a leaden sky that rained and rained! However, enough of this.
You ask me what was the matter with me when I was at home. Thank you: I believe I enjoyed excellent health. Of course it is true, that we saw a good deal more of our relations than we wanted, and had none too much time to ourselves: but of course, you, or any member of your household, are always welcome.
As to the other grievance, it really is phenominal ill luck. Of course, like all the rest of her sex she is incapable of seeing anything fair, and when she had been persuaded after a good deal of difficulty to do this, and then I failed to turn up, it is only to be expected that I am ‘left’. In any case, it would be impossible now; as she has gone with her mother for a week to visit some other Belgians in Birmingham.22 But perhaps you are tired of my ‘affaires’.
To go back to the question of holydays (I started to try and write an ‘essay-letter’, but can’t keep it up; excuse me if I meaunder a bit), the last straw came on Sunday afternoon when we were snatching a few moments rest before going off to visit our various relations: who should walk in–but–but–but–Henry Stokes!!!! Dear boy! How thoughtful of him! How kind! What a pleasure for us all! After that, my brother suggested that if ever he got another week’s leave, we should spend it on the Maidens.
You must imagine me writing this in my bedroom at about 11 o’clock, as that damned guest makes it impossible to be comfortable downstairs. Although it was quite spring weather before I went home, a thin snow mixed with rain is falling outside. In spite of all my troubles, I am quite bucked with life to night, and if only the water were hot enough for a bath I should be in heaven. I wonder what you are doing just now?
Which reminds me, you are drifting into a habit of morbid self-pity lately: all your letters are laments. Beware of the awful fate of growing up like that. I never, for my part, saw what was meant by such terms as ‘the releif of confiding ones troubles’ and the ‘consolations of sympathy’: my view is, that to mention trouble at all, in a complaining way, is to introduce into the conversation an element equally painful for everyone, including the speaker. Of course, it all depends on the way it is done: I mean, simply to mention them, is not wrong, but, by words or expression to call for sympathy which your hearer will feel bound to pump up, is a nuiscance.
What a good friend I am, to sit up writing all this stuff to a creature who, just because he ‘doesn’t feel like it’ gives me no more than a couple of lines. Write soon, like a good friend, and tell me all about yourself, and all the local gossip. I am damnably tired, and there’s something the matter with the gas, and I’ve come to the end of my paper. So I must dry up.
Yours
Jack
TO HIS FATHER (LP IV: 302-3):
[Gastons]
Postmark: 3 March 1915
My dear Papy,
I hope this pause in your correspondence does not mean a pause in your health; it is now, in the words of the poet, ‘a long time, in fact a ver-ray considerable time’ since your hand writing appeared on the hall table. One might write a paper on characters according to different days of the week: how a Monday table is associated with a letter from Arthur and a Tuesday table with one from you: although, as it would appear sir, in this case it has lately joined
‘The inheritors of unfullfilled renown 23
and become as blank and barren as its surly brothers of Saturday and Sunday. Of course we would not forget Wednesday with its ‘Punch’ or Thursday with its Literary Supplement, which is getting by the way poorer and poorer every week (like chalk, you know.)
I don’t know that anything of world shaking importance has happened here: we have had snow and thaw, snow and thaw alternately, with plenty of rain, wind and frost thrown in to make things pleasant. Since Saturday however, there has been some sunshine, and we are hoping for better things.
The good ladies of Bookham still come regularly to tea, and I have the priviledge of hearing what Mrs. Grant-Murray would do if she were in Kitchener’s place,24 and all about Miss Milne’s new maid. The discovery of German spies too, is an art in which they excell: how I wish I knew enough German to let drop a few words occasionally, just as if I had slipped into it by accident! It is a great pity that Kirk won’t come in to afternoon tea, as his commentaries on the whole kodotta would be great.
I essayed a new author the other day whom we have often heard praised and of whom I hoped great things–Landor: but the book I got, a series of imaginary letters called ‘Pericles and Aspasia’25 proved rather disappointing. Indeed I am afraid my appreciation of English prose is very limited, and I certainly cannot fatten on mere prose when the matter is not interesting. However, as the Colonel said in his essay on ‘Kenilworth’,26 the ‘book is not wholly without merit’. I forget whether you said you had ever read him or not?
I suppose we must soon begin to make arrangements about the Easter Holydays–I will not give up that spelling: however there is no hurry as the actual feast comes very late, and it is better to take off the summer term and add on to this. One might observe in passing–purely as a matter of general interest of course–that we must by now have got past half term.
Write soon if you are alright, and tell me all the gossip.
your loving
son Jack
P.S. Has that English word ‘got’ ever struck you? In reading this letter I couldn’t help thinking of it. It is made to mean almost anything–J.
TO HIS FATHER (LP IV: 303):
[Gastons
7? March 1915]
My dear Papy,
In the bad old days when I was still in the gall of bitterness at Malvern, we used sometimes to hear of schools that had a mid term holiday, and congratulate ourselves on being superior to such kodotta. But it proves to be no bad institution after all. Of course it is short: but then how pleasant to feel at the end that one has only half a term to get through. And one appreciates a week at half term more than the same time in the middle of the holiday. I have not heard from the Colonel since we parted at Euston, but I suppose he arrived at Saille all right–(if that is how you spell it.)
That Gerald Smythe of whom I told you, who lost an arm in the war, was staying with us last week. He is really wonderful: he has only been out of bed about a month and is going back to the front again next week. It does one good to see a person thoroughly cheerful under circumstances like his, and actually eager to be there again. Even in so short a time he has learnt to be quite independant, and can cut