Collected Letters Volume One: Family Letters 1905–1931

By the way, is there anything the matter with my father, as I have not heard from him for some time now? Or perhaps it is only this submarine nonsense that makes the conveyance of letters uncertain: which reminds me, that, though I do not usually take much interest in the war, yet it would be unpleasantly brought home to me if I had to spend my holydays in England.9

Your remarks á propos of loneliness are quite true, and I admit that what I said before was rather not, as uncongenial companions produce in reality a worse desolation than actual solitude.

I am glad to hear you have read Esmond:10 it is one of my favourite novels, and I hardly know which to praise most, the wonderful, musical, Queen Anne English, or the delicate beauty of the story. True, I did rather resent the history, and still maintain, that when a man sets out to write a novel he has no right to ram an European War down your throat–it is like going back to Henty!11 Did you ever try that arch-fiend?

I am surprised that there is no snow in Ulster as we had a week of good, thick, firm, ‘picture’ snow–and very much I enjoyed it. And other things too! She is better now, up & about, and we have progressed very rapidly. In fact the great event is actually fixed–fixed!–do you realize that? I don’t think I’ve ever been so bucked about anything in my life, she’s an awfully decent sort.12 But I suppose this is boring you, so I must cut short my raptures–& my letter.

Yours

Jack

TO HIS FATHER (LP IV: 292-3):

[Gastons]

Postmark: 3 February 1915

My dear Papy,

As you will be by this time accustomed to my using ‘this week’ as synonymous with ‘next week’, I will make no further mention of that matter than to say that the Iliad which you are to exchange is being sent by the same post as this. I must confess to extraordinary dullness in failing to catch any point–if point there be–in your remark, ‘now for a nasty one’: ‘I found a Homer’. Why a nasty one? The fact that you have begun to suffer from a mania for sending poor, unnecessary unoffending books about the channel is nothing which should disturb the peace of mind of the philosophers of Gastons.

Talking about the channel reminds me of this morning’s news. Of course the really important feature of this submarine work is not so much the actual danger to goods and individuals as the inevitable ‘scare’ which it will cause, and the injury to business arising from that. I suppose this was their intention. As for the Zepplin talk, it seems to me to be rather childish folly on the part of the Germans: a few babies and an odd chimney stack cannot afford a recompense proportionate to the labour, expense and danger of managing an aerial raid. The only point is the moral influence, which again depends entirely on the amount of ‘guts’ of the victims.

I am glad to hear that the new Kiplings are poems, as we have had none of them yet. The question as to whether he was a greater poet or proseur is one of those everlasting things. Perhaps however, we may admit that someone else might possibly have written his best poems, but there is only one man alive who could have written ‘Kim’ or the ‘Jungle books’ or ‘Puck’.13 I am not sure whether I have read the Seven Seas or not. Is it there that the ballads about the prehistoric Song-Man and Picture Man (the story of Ung) occurs?14 I remember they make a very interesting criticism on artists and their public, ancient and modern, and impressed me greatly.

We have had one day of spring and are now paying for it by a wind and a rain that would take you off your feet. My German is progressing with such alarming success that I am rather afraid they will put me under suspicious as a spy! Keep well.

your loving son,

Jack

TO HIS FATHER (LP IV: 296-7):

[Gastons]

Postmark: 13 February 1915

My dear Papy,

As Spenser naively remarks at the beginning of about the thousandth canto of his poem,

‘Oh, what an endlesse work I have in hand’,15

so might a parent doomed to supply an ignorant philosopher with the forgotten necessities of life echo the sentiment. Or in other words there is ‘still one river to cross’, and I really do think this will be the end. What I want is a copy of the Helena of Euripides,16 which you will find kicking its heels somewhere in the little end room. The shoes have just arrived, for which many thanks: and by the way, when I want to pay for anything, we’ll let you know boss, don’t worry.

I am very annoyed that an opera company should come while I am away from home, although indeed it is a common enough state of affairs. Perhaps we are accustomed to regard John Harrison as an oratorio singer and it would be rather a shock to hear him in opera, although I have often seen records of him in operatic songs. I think you would be wise if you raised the energy to go. Perhaps Uncle Hamilton and Aunt Annie would care to take you–do you think so?

They must be having a rotten time at Glenmachan: ‘les jeunes maries’ particularly are making a bright start, aren’t they? What one always feels about these troubles is that they are so hard on poor Bob.17 Is it not cruel when a poor fellow is doing his best, working away at his music all night and slaving like a nigger to make things bright and cheerful for everyone else, never letting his conversation flag, saving many a dull hour from ennui and always unselfishly making his wishes subservient to the comfort of the household–is it not hard that he should meet trouble like this? And yet–you will hardly believe it–I have heard people so brutal as to suggest that this ‘angel in the house’ ought to be at the front!

Everything here is pretty much as usual. The weather is delightful and Kirk’s thoughts turn even lightlier than of old to agriculture. His chief ‘stunt’ at present is to point out the fact that he is the same age as Balfour,18 and ask whether he (K) would stand any chance of getting a job as Headmaster now: and if not, is he to understand that the care of a few schoolboys calls for more qualities of youthful energy and intellect than that of the British Empire? Well, perhaps he’s right; we have often heard him say so at any rate.

I have been reading this week a book by Swinburne from the Library, a ‘Study on Shakespeare’.19 This is my first experience of his prose, and I think I shall make it the last. ‘Apt alliteration’s artful aid’ may be all right in verse, but it is undoubtedly vicious in prose, as also are words like ‘plenilune’, ‘Mellisonant’, ‘tautologous’, ‘intromission’. And yet at the same time there is great force in the book, and his appreciation of the subject is very infectious.

your loving son,

Jack

P.S. You might give me the Colonel’s address 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 his food, light his pipe, and dress–tho’ how a man can tie a tie with one arm, I don’t know.

Did you read Lloyd George’s speech the other day introducing the remark about the German potato bread–‘I fear that potato bread more than all Von Kluck’s strategy’.27 Although, as you have seen, I don’t often read the newspapers, I was glad when Kirk pointed that out to me. Most of the people one hears rather laugh at that bread ‘wheeze’, but I rather think Lloyd George’s is the wiser view. In the way of reading, I have been taking a course of ‘Poems and Ballads’, which, with the exception of the ‘Coign of a cliff’28 I had almost forgotten. It is rather pleasant to discover a book which is already at home for future use.

The weather here is very miserable, and I don’t think there has been an hour’s sunshine since I came back. Kirk asked me to write for Aeneid VII and VIII, published at 1/6 each by Cambridge University Press, editor Sedgwick.29 I am afraid these requests for books are rather numerous, but of course it is Kirk’s to command, mine not to question why, etc.

I have heard nothing from you now since the holydays, except the scant note of which you so rightly said ‘This is not a letter’. I sincerely hope you are not hors de combat. Do drop me a line soon and let me know.

your loving son,

Jack

TO HIS FATHER (LP IV: 304):

[Gastons

21? March 1915]

My dear Papy,

In connection with the ‘question before the house’, I have, as you may have anticipated, only one answer. Apart from the natural inclination to go home if possible, it occurs to me that there is no knowing where such a period of non-homecoming might end. If we could be sure that this policy of frightfulness would be over by midsummer, I should not hesitate to spend Easter in England. But it would be illogical to stay here now on account of the submarines and cross then in spite of them. So that there is the frightful prospect of living on opposite sides of the channel for two, five, or six years.

That of course is unthinkable; and it is on that ground chiefly that I should recommend going home.

A minor point to be considered is that it would be as well to make use of my return ticket while it is still available. The same idea would make me inclined to travel by Fleetwood–for which my ticket is available–in preference to Larne and Stranraer. The difference in the length of the crossing is, I should say, by no means commensurate with the extra expense, and in comfort Fleetwood is probably superior. If these ideas fall in at all with your own, I should suggest that I leave Bookham on Thursday week (the 1st April), which would mean arriving home on the morning of Good Friday. That just leaves a comfortable space of time in which you can write to K. about it.

Last week end was busily employed in reading through De Quincey’s ‘Confessions’30 as a whole, for the first time, from which I derived great satisfaction. How much of it is true? The whole thing reads so like a novel that I am rather incredulous. Anyway it is certainly a splendid piece of English prose, especially in the rhetorical passages where he shows such a happy knack of getting pleasantly off the point. Thanks for the Aeneids: though, with the holydays near, if I had thought, I might have let it stand over.

As you say, our inability to cope with the submarine menace is a very serious thing; but not half so far reaching, so degrading, so essentially rotten as the behaviour of our working classes, who, tho’ so highly paid that they can afford to have three days off per week when nominally at work, yet because of some petty jealousies of their own are refusing to turn out the goods necessary to the military operations which the country is engaged upon. As K. points out, we are the only country which when the war broke out was ‘free’ from militarism, and yet about to engage in civil war: and we are now the only one that cannot secure peace among its working classes. But enough of all this. The weather, as usual of late, is disgusting except for one ‘pet’ day on Sunday. Hope to see you next week.

your loving son,

Jack

TO ARTHUR GREEVES (W):

[Gastons

30 March 1915]

Dear Arthur,

How I pity you people who never have known the pleasures and the pains–which are an integral part of the pleasures–of a regular interchange of home-coming and school going. Even the terrors of Malvern were almost justified by the raptures with which one hailed the periodic deliverance. Here, where the minor disadvantages of my sojourns at Bookham are just enough to act as a foil to the pleasures of home, but not so great as to make the earlier part of the term unhappy, the arrangement is ideal. The satisfaction with which a day boy looks forward to a period of rest from his work, can be but the faintest shadow of a boarder’s feeling towards his return from temporary exile.

These last few days! Every little nuiscance, every stale or tiresome bit of work, every feeling of that estrangement which I never quite get over in another country, serves as a delightful reminder of how different it will all be soon. Already one’s mind dwells upon the sights and sounds and smells of home, the distant murmuring of the ‘yards’, the broad sweep of the lough, the noble front of the cave hill, and the fragrant little glens and breazy meadows of our own hills! And the sea! I cannot bear to live too far away from it. At Belfast, whether hidden or in sight, still it dominates the general impression of nature’s face, lending its own crisp flavour to the winds and its own subtle magic to horizons, even when they conceal it. A sort of feeling of space, and clean fresh vigour hangs over all in a country by the sea: how different from the stuffiness of Bookham: here the wind–that is to say, the true, brisk, boisterous irresistable wind–never comes.

And yet, I would not for a moment disparage the beauty of Surrey: these slumbering little vallies, and quaint farmsteads have a mellow charm of their own, that Ulster has not. But just now my End-of-Term feelings will not allow me to think of that. ‘But why’, you will ask ‘am I treated to these lyrical raptures?’ Indeed, Sir, I hardly know. My father wrote a few days ago, and asked if we should risk the submarines and come home, or not. I of course said that we should,–advancing many sage arguments thereto, and suggested leaving here next Friday. I have not been answered yet, but hope to goodness it is coming off. Anyway, a wave of End-of-Terminess came over me to night, and, as I had to communicate with someone, so you, poor fellow, got let in for this!

I had a letter from ‘Her’31 the other day, which is all satisfactory, Must shut up now.

Yours

Jack

Jack arrived in Belfast for his Easter holidays on 1 April and was there till 30 April. During this time he wrote the first poems he considered worthy of preservation. One of those written during this holiday was ‘The Hills of Down, and it is found in his Collected Poems (1994). From this time until he went up to Oxford in 1917 Lewis wrote 52 poems which he copied into a notebook bearing the name ‘Metrical Meditations of a Cod’. Fourteen of the ‘metrical meditations’ are found in Spirits in Bondage.

TO ARTHUR GREEVES (W):

[Gastons

4 May 1915]

Dear Galahad,32

I am surprised! Have you actually come down to enjoying such stuff as ‘The Breed of the Treshams’?33 I never (for which the gods be thanked) saw or read it, but the name is enough. I admit, I should like to have seen The Shrew,34 and novelties in the way of staging are always rather interesting. I much prefer on the stage–and everywhere for that matter–quiet, tasteful, plain decorations, to tawdry, splendid things.

I feel my fame as a ‘Man-about-the-Gramaphone’ greatly put out by your remarks à propos of Lohengrin Prelude Act III,35 as, I must confess, I never heard of it on Columbia. I do hope it is a good record, as I should like to have it very much: what is the Venusbury music like?36 Is it that wild part that comes at the end of the Tannhaüser overture? Of course you know the Columbia edition of Schubert’s Rosamunde37 has long been at Little Lea, but when last I played it to you, I seem to remember a non favourable verdict from you. I am so glad that you have gotten (That’s correct, you know. ‘Got’ isn’t) the Fire Music,38 as I have been hesitating over it for ages, and your success or failure will decide me. Oh! I had better stop writing about this, as it makes me ‘think long’: not, if you please, in a sentimental way, but with a sensible desire for my books and you and our Gramaphones etc.39

However, I have gotten (notice–again) one great addition to my comfort here, in the discovery of a ‘Soaking-machine’, which conveniences are very scarce in England, owing to the strict customs which prevent the mildest trespassing. My new palace, is at the foot of a great oak, a few yards off a lane, and hidden therefrom by a little row of shrubs and small trees. Completely private, safe from sun, wind or rain, and on the ridge of the only rising ground (you wouldn’t call it a hill) about here. There, with a note book and pencil, I can be as free to write, etc, as at home. So if your next letter comes in pencil, on a sheet torn from a pocket book, you needn’t be surprised. I must find some more of these places as summer goes on, for it is already too hot to walk far.

I bought yesterday a little shilling book about Wm. Morris, his life and his work,40 which is rather interesting. To me, at least, for I am afraid you have given up that old friend of ours.

To say that you have something ‘sentimental’ to say, and not to say it, is to be like Janie McN.41 with the latest scandal, that everyone is told about and no one is told. I don’t quite follow your letter in places. What is the connection between all the rubbish about ‘that nuiscance Arthur’ (you know how all your friends ridicule and dislike that sort of talk) and the wish that I should become sentimental perforce? By the way, I am perhaps more sentimental than you, but I don’t blow a trumpet about it. Indeed, I am rather ashamed of it. Feelings ought to be kept for literature and art, where they are delightful and not intruded into life where they are merely a nuiscance.