by Muriel Spark
If my leave had been cancelled at any fortnight’s end for some exigency (such as the Invasion of Europe) I would collect eight days’ leave after a month’s steady work. This would give me time to slip up to Edinburgh for a spell to see my family. The passenger trains, of course, had to give way to troop transport, and so, frequently, one arrived seven or eight hours late – a journey of fifteen hours or more. It was seldom one got a seat. I don’t know how we had the stamina, but we did.
One night, on the return journey, I got talking to a girl on the train who was returning to her job as an au pair children’s help in north London. I imagined I would have to spend the night in the station. But my travelling companion pressed me to come home with her and spend the night at St John’s Wood. Her employers, ‘the Professor’ and his wife, were away, and the house was empty. I readily accepted. Those sort of invitations were not uncommon during the war.
The house was near Lord’s cricket ground. After I was indoors a short while, I discovered, from looking at the inscriptions on the interesting poetry books (‘Louis from Wystan’ etc.), that ‘the Professor’ was the poet Louis MacNeice. I was anxious then, lest he and his wife should come home and find me there. But my friend reassured me of that. I slept in a Morrison shelter. This was a steel-canopied bed built inside the house. I was extremely impressed to look at the desk, the pens, the books of Louis MacNeice. I have written about it in an essay ‘The Poet’s House’ and the experience is also the basis of my short story “The House of the Famous Poet’.
I felt I had truly entered the world of literature; it had symbolically materialized; it was real.
CHAPTER SIX
The year after the war I found a job on a good quarterly magazine called Argentor. I have no idea, and my records do not say, how I got this job. Presumably I applied for it through a newspaper advertisement, but I can’t be sure of this. At the Helena Club, where I stayed, there was always a grapevine about available jobs the girls had heard of, so it is possible that one of my friends at the Club put me on to Argentor.
My son Robin had arrived from Africa in the previous autumn and I had been in Edinburgh settling him into his new home and school. There was not only very little scope for me in Edinburgh to earn my living, but it was not at all convenient that I should continue to live with my parents, especially as they had taken responsibility for my son. I had waived all claim to alimony in his interests. From then on I lived in London and visited Edinburgh as often as I could. My addiction to the telephone started at this time; I was always calling home to my family, or they calling me. For a while I was sent by the Foreign Office – ‘Seconded’ was the word – to the US War Information Service in Inveresk House in London. This was pleasant, but now in a stage of winding up. Argentor was my first literary job.
Argentor was a beautifully produced magazine, resembling the Connoisseur in style and format, the official quarterly journal of the National Jewellers’ Association. My job was mainly research in museums, libraries, art galleries: a truly refreshing occupation. I loved it. Even now, looking at the list of contents of the first number in which I was involved, the pleasure of that work comes back to me. The editor, William Llewellyn-Amos, was particularly trusting, and quite uncaring about my lack of experience. His confidence in me was stimulating. I had no hesitation about writing contributions on a subject hitherto unknown to me. Another journalist, Mona Curran, was employed in the office; we worked together well. Quite a lot of articles by specialists had to be touched up from the stylistic point of view, and we spent long hours recasting the articles that had been commissioned.
The list of contents in the number under preparation when I joined the magazine included an article on English domestic silver, and one on spoons and forks; another was ‘Old Clocks of England’ and James Gunn, a celebrated portrait painter, contributed ‘Jewels and the Painter’. The journal, very well illustrated, aimed to express high standards of workmanship, and to give the readers an idea of the history of the jewellers’ art, and that of goldsmiths, silversmiths, horologists and the allied crafts. One of my first assignments was to work on an article (signed by the editor) called ‘The Goldsmith Painters’, relating how many of the Renaissance artists began as goldsmiths. On my own account, I wrote ‘Some Jewels of English Poetry’, in which I showed how the names of jewels were used figuratively throughout English poetry. (To my surprise and joy this article was picked out for a highly favourable mention by the Evening Standard: my stock in the office went up.) Later on, before I left Argentor, I had researched and written a long article on the Order of the Golden Fleece which adorns many famous and historical portraits. About this article I have a sense of great satisfaction. It bears no signs of immaturity and I would not hesitate to reprint it today.
The number of subjects connected with the goldsmiths’, silversmiths’ and jewellers’ art was inexhaustible. The essays written by experts which needed some form of recasting were mainly passed on to me. I learned how to copy-edit tactfully. I recall that I took out a great many adjectives.
My working days were long. I spent hours on research at the College of Heralds, the National Gallery, the British Museum and similar institutions. Further hours were spent in the office, writing and editing. And sometimes I would work at home on an interesting article, far, far into the night.
I got no extra pay for work I had done at home, and of my own composition. I wasn’t expected to sell my work to the magazine, for I ‘belonged’ to the magazine. Even when I wrote a small poem, much approved of by the editor, this too went in with my wages, six pounds a week, as a matter of course. I was perfectly happy with this arrangement. I enjoyed the work and was learning, too, how to edit a magazine, and how to proof-read and copy-edit. Argentor continued to publish my work (no pay) till 1948, two years after I left, and was editing the Poetry Review for the Poetry Society. But Argentor is no more. It is now an expensive production often quoted in the rare book lists.
I took over from the ancient editor of the Poetry Review (journal of the Poetry Society), Galloway Kyle, in the spring of 1947. I was now aged twenty-nine.
My friend from the Foreign Office, Colin Methven, had gone to live with his sister in Perthshire, while his daughter, Deirdre, commuted between Perth and London. Colin was still, and was to remain, my principal moral support. We had a voluminous correspondence and he encouraged me to telephone to him ‘reverse charges’ (collect), which I frequently did. But I missed Colin’s presence in London. Deirdre, too, wrote frequently, for although she was devoted to Colin she felt the need of more freedom than he felt he could allow her. I saw both points of view, probably Deirdre’s more than Colin’s. Occasionally Deirdre would have a dance in London arranged for her, when Colin would put in an appearance. I was always invited to those dances and small parties, in the fashionable night spots of London. But for the most part I was lonely. I had left the Helena Club for a while and taken furnished rooms (with a shilling-in-the-slot gas meter) in Clarges Street, and then Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly. But I felt lonelier than ever, and soon went back to the Helena Club. It was full of noisy and cheerful chatter and I sometimes found it difficult to work there – but at least I had my friends in the evenings, not to mention those square meals that were prepared for us.
The Poetry Society, the scene of my next job, today, incredibly, possesses no trace of any of its archives or files that date back to the foundation of the Society in 1909, nor, of course, to the period 1947–49 when I was employed, or rather embroiled, in that then riotous establishment. The present kindly director, Chris Green, and his staff have done their utmost to trace for me documentary evidence of my even having been there. The magnificent library is safe and well displayed in the University of York, I am told, but all documents have been lost. (There were said to have been wax gramophone recordings of Tennyson, much deteriorated, but I never saw them at the Poetry Society’s offices in Portman Square.) No trace, so far, of past relics or documents has appeared in any of the u
niversity collections which normally take care of important archives, although it is always possible that some of the correspondence at least lies stagnant in some private collection. It is thought, however, that the files were simply destroyed during successive moves, first from Russell Square to Portman Square (where I worked), and later to Earls Court Square where the Society functions precariously at present.
I asked Anthony Whittome, a recent official of the Poetry Society, if he knew anything about those long-ago years 1947–49 when I was trying to run it. He writes,
On your general points about the ‘lively time’ of 1947–49, all I can say is plus ça change! The poetry world seems inherently faction-ridden and fissiparous, and the Society has had quite a few public squabbles even in the years I was involved.
Fortunately I have guarded a number of documents and letters of my own to assist my memory.
I had joined the Poetry Society in 1946 as a member, after seeing an advertisement for a reading to be held on its premises in Portman Square.
In the May 1947 issue of the Society’s bi-monthly journal, the Poetry Review, I won the first prize in a Love Lyric competition with a metaphysical sonnet. ‘It has an air about it. It is a lovely poem,’ wrote the judge. Re-reading the poem I am sure it has an air about it, but certainly it was merely an old-fashioned exercise in what I thought would win that poetry prize.
The adjudicator was, as I learned, T. Christmas Humphreys (later Judge), who became a lifelong friend. His father, Mr Justice (Sir Travers) Humphreys, was a High Court judge, one of the ‘hanging judges’ of those dire days.
Toby, as Christmas Humphreys was known to his friends, was an extremely helpful support in the stormy times to come, not only with sound legal advice, but with warm friendship which, as it turned out, I needed greatly. Puck, his wife, was equally friendly and hospitable. Toby writes in his memoirs of those days (Both Sides of the Circle) – days and months, when factions in the Poetry Society for and against practically everything, were implacably lined up in opposition,
… there was trouble in the Poetry Society, then housed in its eighteenth-century premises in Portman Square. Founded by the Chevalier Galloway Kyle twenty years earlier, the society had built up a very fine membership and library. The time came for Kyle to retire and his successor was the unwitting cause of immediate trouble. While running competitions for the Poetry Review I had twice presented the prize to a Mrs Muriel Spark. She was now elected as General Secretary and editor of the Review. This young, extremely attractive Scot, who possessed charm, ebullience and office efficiency, proved to be, through no fault of her own, more of a Chinese cracker than a new broom. Soon, indeed, she was staying with Puck and me as almost a refugee from the storm in Portman Square. How the storm died down I do not remember, but Sparklet, as we knew her, went on to become a famous novelist.
Another friend from those days from whom I have solicited comments, the poet John Heath-Stubbs, has merely replied, ‘You were too avant-garde for them.’
But it was not all as simple as that. It was much more elaborate.
I was offered the job of General Secretary of the Society and Editor of the Review for the pay of thirty pounds per month plus a free flat in the premises at 33 Portman Square. I accepted on the basis of the flat. I wanted a home. My son was now nine years old; and I thought it would be a fine thing if he could go to a prep school nearby and be with me more often. Colin Methven was enthusiastic about the idea; he had in store in London a complete houseful of furniture (including pots and pans) and his letters tell how much trouble he went to for me, with his lists and arrangements, after I had taken on the job. I gave it a few months’ trial before acting. Then, with the Council’s approval, I arranged for the first packing cases to be delivered to the Poetry Society offices at Portman Square. I also found a prep school in Sussex which seemed to me within my means and that of Robin’s educational allowance from his father. My son was keen on the move to be near me.
Then two things immediately happened. First, the Poetry Society started to dither about the flat. I quite understood that the former editor and his wife, an elderly couple, the Galloway Kyles, should not be put out of their home, but there was another flat available, casually and nominally let to an affluent couple in no way connected to the Society. I do not think they were even given notice to quit, for by that time trouble had arisen about the editorial policy of the Poetry Review. The second thing was that my ex-husband raised objections through his lawyers about Robin leaving Edinburgh.
I never got the flat. And I now realized that I had been elected to the job on the assumption that I could be manipulated, whereas I took up the position that if you are in the driver’s seat, you drive.
Simultaneously with my appointment the annual subscription to the Society was doubled from ten shillings to a pound, and the price of the Poetry Review, if sold separately, was raised from two shillings and sixpence to four shillings and sixpence. This was a challenge. Members who could not afford the new subscription resigned and the increased revenues were expected to balance the difference. On the whole, I believe this did happen.
Before taking on the Review I had stipulated that contributors should be paid, thus raising the quality of the Review which had been poor and amateurish. A great deal of rage had been vented against ‘the moderns’. The following is an example of the Poetry Review criticism (June–July 1946) before I took over.
It is an encouragement to encounter a book which evinces, by comparison with earlier volumes by the same person [Geoffrey Grigson] an improvement not merely of technique but in that fundamental attitude towards poetry which can become so heretical and subversive.
My first editorial, in a magazine with a new format, began ‘Cannot we cease railing against the moderns?’ This encouraged the poets but left some of the readers disconsolate. Up to now, Eliot, Pound, Auden, had been dirty words.
It emerged that numerous contributors had been virtually paying for publication. Among these was Miss Alice Hunt Bartlett of New York who had hitherto contributed a regular review of American poetry. As an example of her taste, I quote from the same issue of Poetry Review, where she cites a ‘startling stanza’ of a poem in which the ‘littleness of man is constantly revealed against the mighty background of the universe’:
I see a new America
Not far along the track
Where earth rides steeplechase with death
Across the zodiac.
Miss Bartlett sent me some pages of equivalent rubbish with a cheque for twenty-five dollars made out in my name. I passed this over to the Treasurer, John Graddon, who handled the Society’s funds and paid the bills. But he said it would have to be made out in the Society’s name, and anyway, he suspected the money was intended for me, personally. I sent it back to Miss Bartlett at the same time as I rejected the piece. She wrote again, saying that her cheques had always been welcomed by the previous editor, and she had ‘visioned’ a close co-operation between us. She had also ‘visioned’ a Poets’ Day with a procession including poets on a series of floats moving in triumph up Fifth Avenue.
Before long I had difficulties with a very active member of the Executive Committee of the Society. This was Robert Armstrong, a physically and morally twisted, small, dark fellow, a veritable nightmare. I had published a poem of his which had been accepted by the previous editor and which I could decently stand by – it was not too bad. But I didn’t think his name worth a mention on the front cover. I announced a list of contributors ‘and others’. The subsequent correspondence still, after forty-five years, chills me with its petty implication and with his vanity. He wrote to me – as he always did, on writing paper headed H.M. Inspector of Taxes, Willesden District – on 9 December 1947, a long letter from which I extract:
After your suggestion and then your promise, in the Evening you met Sir Eugene [sic] Millington Drake, I was surprised to find myself among the ‘others’ on the cover; (although I am glad you have some well known names desp
ite their limited contributions in some instances.)
It rather hamstrings my own undertaking that I would then be able to use the ‘Review’ for a drive through Civil Service organs or elsewhere (where my identity has been screened behind ‘Critic’, ‘Spectator’, ‘Dunrobin Goodfellow’, or ‘Observer’ etc.) I had been working hard for the opportunity to put the Society and yourself on the map – and the added recognition would have assisted. I had also put in some groundwork with influential friends so I am puzzled and assume something must have arisen to sidetrack your promise.
This was a mere taste of things to come. I made a lasting enemy of Robert Armstrong then and there. I replied:
I did not promise that your name would appear on the front cover of ‘Poetry Review’, and if you thought I did you misunderstood me. It does not seem to me to be a matter upon which one ‘promises’…. I do not give names of contributors prominence in order to please or promote the status of the contributor, but to enhance the value of ‘Poetry Review’.
You say that you have written in Civil Service journals under pseudonyms. Thus, if I were to give prominence to your real name (under which you have not written much and are little known) it would not help me in my aims, nor do I see how it would ‘put Poetry Review on the map’ as you say in your letter.
I ended this letter on a note of sheer placatory hypocrisy.
I have ‘Poetry Review’ at heart and this I place before all personalities, even those as pleasant and charming as yourself.
However, I never in future put this man’s name on the front cover, on which I announced work by poets who had at least published a book of verse. With the exception of a very few, such as Roy Campbell, Alex Comfort, John Heath-Stubbs, the majority were destined not to last, but they were the best I could get.
