The library is a curious place. It is a dreadful mess: the majority of the books (novels) are roughly arranged in alphabetical order of authors – all the A’s, all the B’s etc. – but by no means exactly. There is no attempt to classify the Juvenile Section at all. The two faces of non fiction (i.e. sides of cases) are also chaotic but less so as they are rarely disturbed. Some years ago (1935) some enterprising person classified them according to Dewey’s decimal system, and I actually found – as I had never expected to do – a big 3-guinea copy of Dewey lying covered with dust on a low shelf of “the office”. Mr Bennett regards it as a kind of Kabbala, and my ability to understand it as something rare and abstract, like the ability to do Higher mathematics. He says, quite rightly, that it is far too complicated for such a small library, but nevertheless I shall get busy.
The public consists of women and children, and a few old men and youths who are not working during the hours of opening. I have made one or two friends already, but there is always the old harridan who stalks in, slams down a couple of Warwick Deepings,1 and glares: “You the new librarian?” “I am indeed.” “Mr Bennett” – glare – “was very popular …” and stalks away. The children are fairly tractable, considering the complete chaos of their section.
The books are in a bad state – grubby, torn, and often antiquated. But here and there I am surprised by what I find – a copy of “Aaron’s Rod”, for instance, a copy of “Crome Yellow” and “Bliss”.2 “The Garden Party”3 is on the stock book but I can’t find it. I found an early out-of-print Maugham novel called “The Magician” which I read with interest. There is also a copy of “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf.
On the whole, the library is shockingly administered in a laisser-faire manner that presents some difficulties. Fines are never charged – I can imagine the outraged stares when I start charging them. Overdue-cards are never sent. If a book fails to return it is forgotten about. There is no workable catalogue. All this can be remedied – at great time and labour on my part, though.
My lodgings are better than I expected, though rather cold. My tiny bed-sitter is now in use, but it is one of those corner rooms with corner-windows and tends to be cold, and my radiator is very small indeed. But Mrs Jones is remarkably efficient and keeps me well fed with ordinary meals and extra-ordinary cups of Oxo, cocoa & biscuits, cheesecakes etc. She read about me in the “Wellington Journal & Shrewsbury News” and was impressed. I will send you a copy of the paper. Considering that there are three other men in the house, and one child, I do very well, but perhaps she favours me. I have early morning tea and a hot-water bottle. In my spare time I am continuing my novel quite easily.
Tonight I am going to see Mrs Barker, who bears a faint but disturbing resemblance to Mrs Allen. A spectacled schoolteacher also came in yesterday afternoon and hushingly welcomed me on behalf of the W.E.A., and handed me an enormous poster to put up. I swallowed my bile and thanked her – part of this job, I imagine is enduring your friends because, ultimately if not immediately, they are on your side. Buttrey has also been in, and encouraged me (a) to attend the meeting the poster was about (b) to join the Y.M.C.A. I shan’t, but I didn’t tell him so, yet.
Well, that’s quite enough about this place. How are you all? I regret not being able to see you, but I may get as much as three days at Christmas. Don’t get anything special done for me – just keep a bed ready and the piano tuned and the gramophone intact. […]
Rest assured that I am well-fed, fairly well cared for, and relatively content. I shall see Bruce on Tuesday again. By the way, towels aren’t supplied here, so another of the same might be useful.
I shall now mend a whole [sic] in one of my gloves.
Much love,
Philip
1 Warwick Deeping (1877–1950): prolific middlebrow novelist, specialising in historical romances. His best known book is Sorrell and Son (1925).
2 By D. H. Lawrence, Aldous Huxley and Katherine Mansfield respectively.
3 By Katherine Mansfield.
18 December 1943
Alexander House, 40 New Church Road, Wellington, Shropshire
Dear Mop and Pop,
I am writing this on Saturday night, as tomorrow promises to be a full day. Bruce is coming over in the afternoon, and so a nature ramble with a friendly schoolmistress has had to be shifted to the morning. Last Sunday she guided me to the top of the Wrekin, a celebrated hill hereabouts, which was very nice but left me feeling like a piece of chewed string. Her surname is Musselwhite, which is all I know, but she is another of the kind people.
This has been a less eventful week; I have arranged to move into different digs after Christmas – one Miss Tomlinson, of King Street, who is charging me 35/- per week for a larger bedroom than my present one and a share in a sitting room with Spaull, the Art Master. The 7/- reduction will pay for lunch at the British Restaurant, which I shall have to have out – at least at the start, as Spaull has his at the school, and she prefers to cook two evening meals. As far as I can see, this will be quite a suitable arrangement, and as good as my present one. Mrs. Jones is really awfully kind and keeps me fed to overflowing – indeed, I’m sure she can’t make lodging-house keeping pay. But this is her first shot.
As regards the library, the week has passed fairly uneventfully. I have ordered a lot of library stationery, including some writing paper with my name on it: a mild vanity but justified, I think. (Incidentally, tell Pop that the A.I.C.C. (was it?) after Astley-Jones’1 name stands for an Ass. of the Inst. of Company Clerks – he has it hanging up on his wall, and is probably very proud of it.) Also I have started keeping cash accounts, statistics, a book of reservations, and doing many other normal things which appear like lunacy or super-genius to other people, according to whether they approve or disapprove. I find the work quite interesting, and spend all day at the library, except for mealtimes. I usually spend an hour or so a day writing, so I don’t do too badly.
I heard today I had been elected to N.A.L.G.O., and paid a year’s subscription, which Pop will probably say was ill-advised, of 15/-, and resisted an appeal to give to the Widows & Orphans Benevolent Fund until I’d had expert advice from you.
(There is a graät wind a-roärin’ up from Ercall ’Ills,2 like the breäkin’ o’ great waäves.)
I had an embarrassing experience this afternoon when I noticed a man smoking in the library.
Me. “I’m afraid I must ask you not to smoke.”
Man. “’E never said anything to me about it.”
Me. “Well. There’s a perfectly-plain notice telling you.”
Man. “Ho, yus, where is it?”
Me. (after discovering that there wasn’t a notice to this effect in the Lending Library, only in the Reading Room) “Ah … er … well … There doesn’t seem to be one at the moment.”
Man. “I could ’a’ told you that.” (continuing to smoke with undiminished satisfaction.)
Me. “Well, anyway, it’s against the regulations, and I’d be glad if you wouldn’t do it in the future … er … ah … regulations …” (retreating vaguely. Man smokes on placidly.)
It wasn’t as funny as it sounds.
Your letter was very nice, and not at all a dry one! I’m so glad Pop has got the “E. T.” Lawrence book3 – it was a gap in our library – Pop’s I mean. I have bought a book for him, which he may not enjoy, for Xmas. By this time Kitty will doubtless have arrived; tell her I stupidly sent a letter to Cedar Road, but doubtless it will follow her home. Is Auntie Nellie coming? I should like to buy her a present, but really I doubt if I could afford it. (“’Appen tha could pay for it out o’ thy next pint!”)
Yes, the Red Lion is still functioning, and I shall probably have tea with Bruce there tomorrow. There is a great attraction coming to the local cinema shortly – “Pittsburgh”.4 You can imagine that we aren’t exactly riding on the crest of the wave of fashion, even tho’ they have got a new stuck-up chap at the library ’oo can’t talk proper.
Much love – longing to see you.
Philip
1 Chief Clerk to Wellington Urban District Council.
2 Ercall Hill is a small hill situated between the Wrekin and Wellington.
3 D. H. Lawrence: A Personal Record (1935), by ‘E. T.’ (Jessie Chambers: ‘Miriam’ in Sons and Lovers.)
4 A 1942 film directed by Lewis Seiler and starring Marlene Dietrich, Randolph Scott and John Wayne.
29 December 1943
Alexander House, New Church Road, Wellington
Dear Mop,
Yes, I arrived quite safely, rather late, last night. I had to stand till Birmingham, but the general exodus there gave me a comfortable seat for the rest of the journey. […]
Tell Kitty I regretted not saying goodbye to her formally, and that I hope she enjoyed the “panto”. (“An’ ole ’Itler said: ‘Ere, wassat under the bed?’ An’ li’le ole Goebbels says ‘Oh, it’s Gestapo.” “WAW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW!!!! ENCORE!!!”) I expect Walter will have returned to his moutons (collecting a few more on the way) so I shall not hear his opinion of the matter.
I will write more fully on Sunday, contenting myself with saying now how much I liked Christmas in the old ’omestead, and how appreciative I am of all you did to make it happy.
Love
P.
1 Katherine Mansfield.
1944
2 January 1944
Alexander House, New Church Road, Wellington
Sunday
Dear Mop & Pop,
This morning is windy, and I have not been up long. Certainly I have not yet been out, and if I do I shall only go as far as the paper shop, to see if they can supply me with a “Sunday Times” every week. The chances are slight.
I am on my own at the library now.1 Yesterday was my first day. Lord, it keeps you busy! My additional duties I performed fairly efficiently, though I forgot to lay out the evening papers till six o’clock, and also failed to make the heating apparatus work properly. That is to say, I kept it insufficiently stoked with coke so that I shivered all the evening – I spent the evening at the library, writing, because (a) I had to close the reading room at 8.30 and (b) I couldn’t stand the idea of an evening chez Jones. New Year’s Eve was terrible – wireless all the night from Attlee onwards, loud as if in a canteen. But I really must get this stove under control. […]
With all love to you one & all,
Philip
1 Mr Bennett left at the end of the year.
13 January 1944
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington
My dear Mop,
It was so kind of you to write as soon as you got back; I must also write to you and say how I liked seeing you. I don’t think it was very nice of me not to have a present or even a card for you so I can only reiterate that I wish you all you deserve in 1944. Which is quite a lot. For sheer, unselfish, unremitting, uncomplaining labour of love, I’ve never known anyone like you, and I do hope some day soon you will be rewarded. I think of you a lot, and love your letters and emaciated creatures.1
I have finished my report and it has been duplicated and sent out. Today I had a fearful row with a woman who wouldn’t pay a penny fine. She won, of course. But now I’ve had it and needn’t worry about it any more – I mean I knew I should have to have it with somebody. I shall win next time.
All the library business sends me panting back to my novel, feeling “God! if this is all my life is …” I am devouring all George Moore I can find – I think he’s really good – just my type –
Mr Spaull comes a week today.2 I have arranged the lunch business, sent & received my laundry, and had a bath.
All love to you,
Philip
1 Eva’s reply of 17 January begins with her own self-portrait drawing:
‘My Dear Philip, I very much appreciated the little extra letter, adorned with well-fed creatures, wearing various expressions as the script progresses.’
She continued ‘Since writing to you a heavy cold has almost broken my morale’, illustrating her text with another tiny self-portrait.
2 Local art teacher; see letter of 18 December 1943, above.
23 January 1944
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington
Dear Mop & Pop,
Another eventful week has flown by, and once again I am sitting by the fire after an unconscionably late breakfast. Thanks to both of you for your letters last week, and to Sidwell and Pop for answering my questions.1
As you remember, the committee was on Tuesday, & I enclose a paragraph I sent to the Journal.2 It was really not so bad, although one Percy Potts, a councillor and past chairman of the committee went for me baldheaded over some imaginary insults in the report. The other members of the committee sat on him, however, so I felt that he was by no means swaying the mob. What a dull process committees are, though: still, we did get all we asked for, and I can look forward to a busy two months until the next one, trying to spend £100 between now and March 31st. I’m not sure it will be easy, without throwing the money away a bit. I expect all the best books are out of print. The “four periodicals” added are the Times Lit. & Ed. Sups., the New Statesman & the Spectator. So you can see we are soaring into vastly higher intellectual spheres. […]
I joined the Y.M.C.A. (!!) on Thursday for the purpose of playing Astley-Jones at billiards. My opinion of his intellectual capacity sinks every time I meet him. I was incent[ivis]ed to join after a particularly harrowing evening at the Library when I was deluged with children, all badly-behaved except one, who wore a Y.M.C.A. badge. I feel that if only in that field the Christian mystery is most valuable.
I also met Miss Forster, the Headmistress of the Girls’ School, who taught for a short time at Warwick. So this is rapidly developing into a home from home.
Your letter was most interesting: I am distressed to hear you have both had colds, coughs, snuffles, wuffles, wheezes and hacking coughs. Bruce came over last night and we caroused over a pot or two. He had a fearful row with Diana3 during the holidays, because he said Diana was uneducated (which she is), and has now got the wind up over his next Gollancz book and is bombarding her with conciliatory letters. Otherwise his life runs on oiled wheels.
May I come home next week-end? I really want another pair of brown shoes – th[is]4 one is still unrepaired as I can’t see a F.H.W.5 shop anywhere on the horizon, and the only shoemender in Wellington is Percy Potts. It looks as if Leamington is indicated. I also want to collect some records, needles, etc. and if possible the typewriter and reams of paper. The novel will be finished by then & I want to type it out. Agreed, or no?
I must rush out & post this.6
The weather is very unsettled, and I have mislaid my walking stick. But anyway it was too short.
Mrs Barker has lent me Yeats’s Last Poems & Plays, & I am slaking my thirsty soul. Bone’s book7 is already out of print, and neither of us can get copies.
See you on Saturday – just give me a rug & a basket in a corner, and a bone to gnaw—————————
Philip
1 In his letter of 2 January Larkin had asked his father to consult his colleague Sidwell on detailed issues concerning different kinds of Library Association membership.
2 Larkin enclosed a cutting: ‘£100 For New Library Books. – A meeting of the Library Committee […] discussed the report of the present librarian, which advised greater concentration in the future upon non-fictional reading and stressed the usefulness of the Regional Library Bureau in lending such books as the Library did not possess.’
3 Diana Gollancz, daughter of the publish
er Victor Gollancz, a friend who had been at the Slade School of Art, relocated in Oxford during the war.
4 Larkin has written ‘the’ in error.
5 Freeman, Hardy and Willis, shoe retailers and repairers.
6 In her letter of 7 February Eva responded with her own feminine ‘creature’ drawing. See Appendix, p. 562.
7 Gavin Bone, Anglo-Saxon Poetry: An Essay, with Specimen Translations in Verse (Clarendon Press, 1944). Bone had died in 1943.
8 Two 2d stamps. The standard letter rate was 2½d.
27 February 1944
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Shropshire
Dear Mop & Pop,
The porridge was burnt this morning. Never before have I realised how horrible burnt porridge is: it seems to embrace every foul gradation of taste under the sun. I suppose you have quite forgotten what it is like.
Then I had an egg. One egg is no meal for a man, with two pieces of toast.
In fact, Spaull and I honestly condemn this place & all connected with it. Our outbursts are of course exaggerated, and we should be stupid to leave it, but nevertheless there is plenty to grumble about. It is undeniably dirty: the food is undeniably scarce & occasionally badly prepared (we had an incredible kind of rayfish last week that smelt & tasted strongly of ammonia) and Mrs T. is uncouth and moody. I would as soon ask her for bread at meal times as suggest she brought me up breakfast in bed at three in the morning.1 I think wistfully of Mrs Jones’ intelligent and considerate manner, and feel I shall keep in touch with her. […]
Philip Larkin Page 16
