Philip Larkin
Page 19
17 June 1945
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Shropshire
My dear Mop & Pop,
From what I can see, this is to be a blazing hot day, so I shall keep my head indoors like a tortoise. Come to think of it, I looked out at 5 this morning when the light was just beginning to grow, and across the playing-field opposite my window the birds were very noisy in the poplars, as if expecting such weather. I wonder what you are both doing. […]
Hay fever has started good and proper. Last week I thought I had discovered the best relief yet – smelling salts. The theory is that you take a good whiff, and are immediately plunged into a fantasy of ammoniawater, unable to see, breathe, think, or smell – or sneeze. When you come round, you find the hay fever has passed for the moment. But it has been less effective recently and I don’t think it’s much good.
Creature in June.
I wear dark spectacles too – they were here, after all.
—————
Thanks to Pop for his last note: I’m sorry he’d read the Corelli.1 I also have gathered some information about Univ. Coll. Library, to wit (to woo!), all that you mention was destroyed during the air raids, and they are existing on books lent by Westfield, King’s, etc. Opening for a bright young man with bright ideas for reconstruction! I have as many bright ideas as a woodlouse. However, I should be most grateful if you would put [in] an application for me. If I had a good job, I might take more interest in it.
I am still reading John Inglesant, very slowly.2 An unusual book, not exactly my meat. Did you know him, or was it just Levett you knew? “Lark Rise to Candleford”3 continues to enchant.
With much love,
Philip
1 No letters survive from Sydney and/or Eva between 26 March and 27 August 1945, so it is impossible to identify this novel. Marie Corelli (1855–1924) was a prolific, hugely popular novelist with transcendental leanings.
2 John Inglesant: a historical novel by Joseph Henry Shorthouse (1834–1903). Published in 1881, it is set in the time of Charles I and focuses on Catholic/Anglican tensions.
3 The trilogy of semi-autobiographical novels by Flora Thompson (1876–1947), first published together in 1945.
24 June 1945
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Salop.
My dear Mop and Pop,
I blink at the page through watering eyes as if perpetually grieving, but it is only my old friend h.f. gingering up my Sunday morning. The handkerchief you so kindly sent me has been swept into the maelstrom, the danse macabre of six handkerchiefs from pocket to pocket under the blazing sun. But it was soft and grateful. The only good think [sic] at present is that laundry is going and coming with unusual rapidity – I don’t understand it. My basket, instead of lying unattended for weeks, is emptied every few days, and small bundles of clothes appear in their place on my dressing table. This means I have a good supply of clean handkerchiefs.
I duly signed the application and despatched it on Friday. Please excuse me if I sometimes sound ungrateful or lazy in these matters. I know you think – at least I expect you think – that things reach a pretty pass when I don’t even write out my own applications, but I really am grateful to you when you do it for me. I shrink from it – I hate laying myself open – I hate being prodded and turned over and pinched like fish on a slab. And then again I hate the insincerity of it – I find it extraordinarily difficult to conceal my attitude of “I will do this job as well as I can, which is probably quite well, because if I am responsible for it I shall take care it does not reflect badly on me, but I can promise now and for ever that it will never interest me.” However, something too much of this: but I am grateful.
My novel, since you enquire, is quite well. The second draft is finished except for the final scene, which I shall do during next week. Then I shall reread it most critically, trying as far as possible to avoid writing another complete draft. I am not altogether displeased with it, but I have yet to make sure that I have done effectively what I set out to do. I don’t think there has been anything quite like it before, which may of course be a good thing. I’m afraid I can’t hold out much hope for Auntie Nellie. She wouldn’t find it unreadable, but there is nothing in it that makes a book “nice”. Still no news of course from the Fortune Press. Grrr.
I hope you enjoyed your jaunt to Loughborough: Kitty is on my conscience. In these days I have no time to write to anyone outside yourselves: Jim seems to have closed down, though he may of course be on his way home. I look forward to coming home myself, but it’s hard to say when that will be. […]
Much love to both. I think of you a great deal, and look forward to our next encounter.
Affectionately –
Philip
1 July 1945
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Shropshire
My dear Mop and Pop,
There’s a snort of wind blowing this morning, and insofar as it pierces my window into the room it feels pretty chilly. However, better that than beastly sun. My hayfever has cleared up this last week – touch wood! Touch forests, in fact! […]
I fell upon my novel in a frenzy last night and got it nearly finished. The last pages will be written today. As I started it on May 1st – this second draft – I am pleased to think I have written about 75,000 words in two months, in my spare time. After very careful revision I think I shall have it typed. The job of typing it myself seems too much to face – and in lodgings I always feel guilty of rattling away every time I get a spare moment. It will be costly and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Probably somewhere in the region of £5!1 No doubt the eventual sales will about recoup me. […]
Well, I should like to go to Loughborough too: August would perhaps be the best time. Bruce has been pressing me very strongly to visit him at Brixham again, and I certainly should like to: we had better plan these things when I know exactly what is happening here. So far I don’t. A fortnight in August – but which I don’t know. Perhaps Kitty will be a world-famous button-designer by then. Now I must go and post this.
Till Tuesday!
Love,
Philip
1 Sydney and Eva paid the £5 typist’s fee.
9 September 1945
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Salop.
My dear Mop and Pop,
I write this after lunch, for a change, and though the morning has been dull and dry it really looks as if rain will come this afternoon. […]
I am watching the T.L.S. for them to acknowledge receipt of The North Ship, but I am doubtful if they will, though Bruce claims to have “fixed” them. I don’t trust the Fortune Press an inch. They may not even send them out. I had always thought that when a book of mine was published I should not be able to put it down – that I should be perpetually glancing at my name on the dustcover & stealing glances at the title-page. However, I find that barring a careful perusal for misprints I have hardly looked at it since it came. Strange …
I had a letter from Colin Gunner & said I should be at home on the 16th. I will try to steer him away if he comes: we will all go out somewhere. Nevertheless I look forward to seeing both Jim and Colin considerably. They will have tales to tell & experiences to compare. I shall feel a very sick dog, an enfeebled civilian.
Creaturing into Boots’ one day last week I saw small 1-oz. jars of Marmite – just creature size – and so I bought one, hiding it assiduously from my landlady and eating it with delight. It reminds me of “le temps jadis” when tea was never without it, and Kitty & I were always snatching it backwards and forwards while you watched it like a staid cat watching a rally at Wimbledon Centre Court – left … right … left … right …
Shall descend on you next week. 6.26 Leamington – Jim says he will meet me.
All love,
Philip
20 October 1945
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Salop.
My dear Mop and Pop,
I reached home eventually in good order. I did not t
ouch the sandwiches till after Birmingham, then sat and stuffed next to a student who seemed to be reading economic psychology but who eventually fell asleep. There seemed a lot to eat and it was all very nice, as was the brief time I spent with you. Many thanks!
There is not a great deal of news from this whirling metropolis: issues are increasing and we are settling down to real hard work insofar as Wellington Public Library understands the phrase. My assistant is really very sensible and I like her.1 Admittedly she can’t spell and is illiterate generally but she is far politer than I am and has a habit of doing things unexpectedly for me which I like. She is gradually assuming complete control of the Library while I moon around thinking how unhappy I am.
Bruce read my book (The Kingdom of Winter) and while dubious said I should easily find a publisher. So now it has gone to his agent. I think perhaps it will not rock the world, but all the same I have affection for it. There is no other literary news.
As for details – I found my other set of underwear: after all, they were at the laundry. I have got a receipt from Bruce’s sister and await the Inland Revenue man clothed in righteousness. So far I have not written to Kitty but am full of good intentions.
I had a letter this morning from Kingsley, who is back at St John’s, and who gives long lists of people who are back there. It makes me feel rather nostalgic. Noël Hughes has returned, and several other people I know. Still, I have eaten my cake while they were in the army, so any complaints on my part would be ungracious as well as ridiculous. Because I don’t really want to go back there. It’s only the thought of easy, delightful living that attracts me.
I caught and slew another flea on Thursday – really, to have a job where fleas did not jump on one would be rather a relief. Really, there have been moments in the past few days when I have felt quite seriously that either I resign, taking no thought for the morrow, or I stay here for all eternity. I expect I’m wrong on both counts. […]
Did you tell Pop that we nearly had another accident in the bus going to Leamington? The Fates are against me. Very narrow-minded of them.
With much love,
Philip
1 Greta Roden. See letter of 15 April 1945.
28 October 1945
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Salop.
My dear Mop & Pop,
[…] Life here is very boring at the moment. I feel I am living as ordinary people do, without inspiration, and it is a depressing process. When the angel will next revisit me I have no idea. In the meanwhile, there is nothing to do.
It is such a dark morning that I can hardly see to write, and except for the necessary journey down to the post office to send this on its way I shall most likely stay in, reading. I am making another attack on “Moby Dick” – my first was defeated about a year ago – and I also have G.B.S.’s dramatic criticism, Quenell’s “Four Portraits” and a Boots’ novel.1 These should keep me going. The odd thing is, I have a novel fairly well planned in my head, but am no nearer writing it than of becoming Head Librarian of Bodley.
I spent last weekend in London, on a visit to Ruth who is now at King’s College.2 She is billeted, so to speak, in upper Norwood in a comfortable flat, the owners of which put me up also. As you remember, it rained all the time, and the only tangible thing we found to do was inspect St Paul’s. Ruth, if you don’t remember, is the girl I used to help with essays. She got 2 distinctions – history & English – in her High Cert. exam, as I did.
My fire is at last giving off a little heat. There is a malignant draught. The rain is pelting. Love to both ————— Philip
1 Sir Peter Courtney Quennell (1905–92): English biographer and essayist. Four Portraits (1945) is a study of Boswell, Gibbon, Sterne and Wilkes.
2 Ruth Bowman, whom Larkin had met as a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl on his arrival in Wellington, and to whom he was to become engaged in 1948–50. He is notably reticent in his references to her in letters home.
30 December 1945
Glentworth, King Street, Wellington, Salop.
My dear Mop & Pop,
I expect you are surprised to see this awful paper,1 but the truth is that by a series of mischances the notepaper that Kitty gave me for Christmas is at the library, and I have not a solitary scrap in my room. So I am forced to use this, and hope you do not mind
I arrived back here safely if rather wet and dejected, and have been very busy since, but it wasn’t till yesterday that Miss Tomlinson sprang the rather nasty bombshell that she wanted my room for a paralysed relative and would I please go by Jan. 16th. This has not quite sunk in yet but I am sure it will be very difficult to move anywhere in a fortnight except into a hotel or professional boarding-house. However, it all makes a change and I don’t really care, though I doubt if I should be as comfortable anywhere else. I will keep you informed.
I sent off my application for Evesham and yesterday received an answer from the Lib. Assoc. Courses start in March 1946 for exams in June 1947. There’s a quid to pay at the outset. I feel I am setting off down a long dark road lined with broken rocks and ending in perpetual night. Further, I asked for a Year Book, and shall be able to see what kind of place Evesham is – No, that’s not true, it is a different publication that lists libraries, sizes, staffs, etc. Most people here seem to think Evesham would be deadly dull.2
There was a copy of The North Ship in the Smiths’ here when I got back – an order that hadn’t been taken up. I promptly bought it and despatched it to a friend. Don’t want that tack lying around this place.
I am rather late about things this morning so it will be better if I break this off and depart to clean my shoes. The morning is bright & frosty, and in my grate lies the ruins of a good fire.
Thank you once again for the Christmas (I ate the last mince pie yesterday) and I hope both of you have a very happy and comfortable new year.
With lots of love,
Philip
1 The letter is written on both sides of a single large sheet of lined paper.
2 Sydney wrote on 7 January 1946 that he had ‘run over to Evesham to refresh my memory of the town’. He described the centre with its medieval buildings and two parish churches, and praised the local branches of Smiths and Boots (‘the Boots’ Library being particularly spacious’). He continued: ‘The Library is in the same building (not a bad building) as the British Restaurant. Libr. Hours 10–1, 3–6, Wednesday afternoon closed. There are 2 reading rooms. / From the borough treasurer I learn that in 1943–4 the issues were 58,161, 46 vols. were purchased, 47 borrowed from Region. Estimated expenditure (this year)/ £800, penny rate £320. The woman librarian is leaving to go to Exeter. There is one middleaged woman assistant.’
1946
6 January 1946
Glentworth, King’s Road, Wellington, Salop.
My dear Mop & Pop,
[…] Now I am leaving here shortly I feel tempted to behave outrageously, slamming doors, demanding more coal, and mumbling “God! I’m not that hungry!” when a meal is put before me, but oddly enough the place is quite tolerable, the fires are enormous, and the food quite edible. I have a small hot water bottle that she makes no bones about filling. Nevertheless, it will be nice to leave.
I’ve heard no more about Evesham so far: Buttrey wasn’t very keen on the idea, as you can imagine; but Warwick C.C. sent back my application yesterday saying the post had been filled. The words “I am 23 years old” had been scored under.1 […]
Tell me all your news. A very happy and creatureful New Year to you both.
Philip
1 In his letter of 7 January Sydney reflected: ‘Regarding the Warwickshire application, It is only to be expected that they would not have the courage to appoint one so young as you, although it was the one thing I emphasised with Davey (County Treasurer) that you were much more advanced than many older people and that if I were in the position of “nabbing” a young man of your qualifications, I should do so, even if I had only a more subordinate position to offer than
the one advertised. But W.C.C. is 50 years behind the times.’
9 January 1946
Wellington
My dear Mop,
Many happy returns of the day! May you have lots of kippers and cream.
My presents to everyone reach a new seedy level every time, but honestly these nasty things I am sending you were all I could get in Shrewsbury in the “beer mat” line. I hope you will find some use for them. And then I couldn’t find a birthday card, so am reduced to writing to you to say how much I hope you have a peaceful, happy, quiet year, with all you wish for and comfort & kindness. In short all you deserve!
And thank you for your letters. I will try to answer them soon, because this weekend I go to Berkhamstead. Also I go to London to confer with the FP. I am furious with them.
I move into my new lodgings – 7, Ladycroft, Wellington on Friday night. We started off with 20/- difference between our starting prices: each relinquished 10/- & I agreed to pay 45/- a week, which seems rather a lot to me. But I think it’ll be worth it. I wonder if there’ll be a “garden jakes” as Ll. Powys calls it.1
My dearest love to you and may you have a happy day, week, month, year.
Philip
1 The toilet at 7 Ladycroft was indeed outside, and there was no bath. Llewelyn Powys (1884–1939), novelist; brother of the writers J. C. and T. F. Powys.
20 January 1946
7, Ladycroft, Wellington