it was very beautiful at the time it will hardly come to life again,
‘inimitable on earth By modle or by shading pencil drawn.’
I will leave you to imagine it.
Your imagination by the way has had a long enough rest by now. I have so far purposely refrained from saying anything about further instalments of ‘Papillon’, for fear, since you seemed to have no inclination to go on with it, that it might only hinder you from starting something new. But apparently this is not coming off. Do let us have something–tale, novel, what you will. I am revolving plans for a sort of fantasy much shorter than Bleheris and–which I hope will be an improvement–in modern English. I don’t know exactly when I shall inflict the first instalment upon you, but like the people in Northanger Abbey you may be prepared for something ‘really horrible’.
Talking about ‘Northanger’ I have been condemned during this last week to watch Mrs K. reading it in her own edition–your one. I wish you could have seen it. It is not that she actually dirtied it, but what is almost worse she held it so rudely and so close over the fire that the boards have developed a permanent curve and the whole book has a horrible twist! It went to my heart all the more because it was your copy: at least I couldn’t get that idea out of my head[.] Must stop now sorry I was late starting to night.
Jack
TO HIS FATHER (LP V: 146-7):
[Gastons]
Tues. 28th Nov. 1916.
My dear Papy,
This is not a proper letter–I will write you that later on when I have got yours. Meanwhile I am writing only to ask you to send me either your suit case or Warnie’s as soon as you get this, for the fateful day is next Tuesday. Although the tutor said he would write and tell me of lodgings and also the place of the exam he has as yet done neither of these things: but I suppose its alright. Write soon to your
loving son,
Jack.
TO ARTHUR GREEVES (W):
[Gastons
29 November 1916]
Although by experience I am somewhat shy of recommending books to other people I think I am quite safe in earnestly advising you to make ‘the Gables’ your next purchase. By the way I shouldn’t have said ‘mystery’, there is really no mystery in the proper sense of the word, but a sort of feeling of fate & inevitable horror as in ‘Wuthering Heights’. I really think I have never enjoyed a novel more. There is one lovely scene where the villain–Judge Phycheon–has suddenly died in his chair, all alone in the old house, and it describes the corpse sitting there as the day wears on and the room grows darker–darker–and the ticking of his watch. But that sort of bald description is no use! I must leave you to read that wonderful chapter to yourself. There is also a very good ‘story in a story’–curiously resembling the Cosmo one206 tho’ of course not so openly impossible. I intend to read all Hawthorne after this. What a pity such a genius should be a beastly American!
I am sorry to hear of your infatuation (very much inFATuation)∗ for a certain lady, but you need not despair, nor do I propose to call you out; we will divide mother & daughter between us, and you can have first choice! I really don’t know which would be the worse do you?
That is certainly a glorious prelude to Aida. Do you remember that first afternoon last hols! How dissappointed we were at first and yet how we enjoyed ourselves afterwards sitting under those trees in the evening (or rather late afternoon) sunlight & throwing pencils & poems from one to the other? Well, we shall soon be there again if all goes well. I am going up for this damnable exam next Monday, shall be back here not later than Saturday & home on the following Monday if not sooner. So that is all well, but I wish to hell next week was over. Don’t you sympathise with me? Pray for me to all your gods and goddesses like a good man!
No the Meagre One was not born with a squint: but long, long, long ago, so long ago that Stonehenge had a roof and walls & was a new built temple, he killed a spider. The good people of his day, outraged at this barbarity, stuck a dagger thro his nerve centre which paralyzed him without making him unconscious, seated him on the altar at St. Henge’s temple & locked him up with the spiders son. The latter began to spin a solid mass of cobwebs from the Opposite corner. Very very slowly through countless years the web grew while the poor Meagre One–who couldn’t die–developed a squint from watching it getting nearer. At last after countless ages Stonehenge dissapeared under an enormous mass of web & remained thus till one day Merlin hapenned to set a match to it and so discover what was inside: hence the myth of Merlin’s having ‘built’ St. Henge’s. To this day if you go there at sunrise & run round it 7 times, looking over your shoulder you can see again the wretched prisoner trying to struggle as the horrid sticky strands close round him. Cheap excursion trains are run for those who wish to try it.
The Tales of a Grandfather207 in a rather scrubby but old edition has lived in the study these ten years, so you may try a taste of it before risking your money. I imagine it is in rather a childish style, tho’ of course you know more about Scott than I do.
I am sorry to hear that you have not yet begun your novel, and as I am sending you four pages of punishment I trust you will let me have something in your next letter. Which reminds [me] I don’t know what my address will be at Oxford so you must just write to Bookham as usual. Do go on with the good work. What about taking that magic story Mr Thompson told us, for instance, toning down the supernatural parts a bit & making a Donegal novel of the Bronte type? Or else working that local idea of the Easelys208 and all. Remember the second attempt will be easier & pleasanter than the first, and the third than the second.
Talking about the Easeleys, whether I read ‘Guy Mannering’ or no I shall not take to skimming as Kelsie does–for much as we esteem our beautiful and accomplished cousin–as Mr Collins209 would have said–I don’t think I shall follow her in literary matters. I am quite sure that every thing bad is true of your cousin Florence: she and her sister are young women who need transportation–as also my cousins at Bloom-field.210 But indeed if only those who deserved to have books had them!–who besides you & me would there be to support the booksellers?
We have had some glorious frosty mornings here, with the fields all white & the sun coming up late like a red hot ball behind the bare woods. How I do love winter. We have had a book of Yeats’ prose out of the library, and this has revived my taste for things Gaelic & mystic. Ask Mullan’s if he knows a book called ‘The Rosacrutian Cosmo Conception’ or any on that subject. Gute Nacht. I wish I were dead–
Jack
∗Ha! Ha! Poor little Bill, he only tries to be agreeee-able.
TO HIS FATHER (LP V: 152-3):
[Gastons]
Friday Dec. 1st 1916
My dear Papy,
I am sorry I did not tell you earlier that the exam was so soon, but the idea was so familiar in my own mind that I only just realized, the day when I wrote to you, that I had never given you the date. I suppose by the time this reaches you, you will have sent off the suit case etc., but even if you have not had time, I dare say Mrs. K. would have something that would serve. So far, that pestilent knave at New College has failed to keep his promise of letting me know about lodgings: however, if the worst comes to the worst I can always go to an hotel, though of course this will be more expensive for you and less convenient for me.