On Sunday night my father and I had supper at Glenmachan, whither came the Hamiltons from Knock. K.[elsie] has a scheme for going down with them and me to Larne for a day, which I hope will come off, as I am very dull, and lonely and fed up–indeed I shall not be sorry to leave home.
I needn’t apologize for giving you no instalment this week, as you are in the same state, but I will try and do better next time. This letter is perhaps a bit short, but so is yours–we have neither of us yet got our sea legs. Let me hear from you by Tuesday at the very latest, a good long one, as I need a lot of cheering up. Good bye old man,
Yours,
Jack
TO HIS FATHER (LP V: 125):
[Gastons]
27/9/16.
My dear Papy,
I hope you got the telegram all right this time: at least it was sent on Saturday afternoon. I had a very tolerable journey, and I think my cold is gone. How is yours? Kirk is very pleased with the Trinity papers and we find them very useful: most of them of course are rather harder than those I shall have, as a Trinity Scholarship is not an entrance scholarship at all, but is taken when you have been ‘up’ for a year–at least so I am assured. But of course the greater includes the less, and if we master these the other will be all the safer. I am sending back some of the German books which he thinks unsuitable, but we have enough for the present.
Thanks for the letter from Arthur which you forwarded. When he wrote, ‘the gaiety of nations’145 had been increased by Gordon’s developing a bad knee which prevented him from walking! On the whole it must have been a cheery little party after my leaving them–tho’ that in itself was perhaps enough to depress any holiday-makers. But of course you will never hint for a moment to anyone that I had anything but panegyrics to say about Portsalon. These people are all so throughother [sic] that you never know who will hear what, as Mrs. K. would say.
Everyone here says that they heard the last London raid, though I ingloriously slept all night. With that exception, everything in the war way seems to be going well, doesn’t it? It is hot summer weather here without the least suggestion of autumn, which I dislike very much. Kirk is in very good form, although he does not remember M. Henry. About the Westminster confession I have not yet asked.
The collars which Annie was to send me have arrived. I don’t know exactly how postage rates are running, but I hope you didn’t sell the gramophone or your new picture to raise it. Some day when you have a lot of money and time to spare, I might ask you to send me three catalogues–Macmillan’s, Dent’s and a French one, which you will find on the table farthest from the window, on the microscope box, in the little end room. Of course at present, ruined as you are by these freights of cellar linen, I shouldn’t dare!
your loving
son Jack
TO ARTHUR GREEVES (LP V: 123-4):
[Gastons]
27th./9/16.
My dear Galahad,
I think you must be going dotty with all your talk about when I’m going back, seeing that I said in my first letter that Friday (last) was already fixed. At any rate you must have found out by now, and will understand why I am late in answering your letter, which only reached me today. As you say, it seems years and years since I left: I have quite dropped back into the not unpleasant, though monotonous routine of Bookham, and could almost believe that I had never left it. Portsalon is like a dream. I heartily agree with you that it must have been nice to have the Lounge all to yourselves.
Now to books: I told you didn’t I that I had bought Blackwood’s Jimbo did I not? I finished it on Sunday and am awfully bucked with it–a very good 7d. worth. It is quite in Blackwood’s best manner, and you will specially love the last thirty pages or so–they are terrific. Get it at once. I hope you are not praising ‘Letters from Hell’ out of politeness, for I really want to know what it is like. I saw it once in a second hand bookshop at Guildford nearly a year ago: looking over the first few pages I thought it excellent, but of course it may not be so good later on. How many books seem to promise such a lot at the start and then turn out disappointing. Whereas good, stodgy books like Scott have all their interesting parts in the middle and begin with reams of dry-as-dust. Talking about stodge, I finished ‘The Newcomes’ before leaving home, and certainly enjoyed the end better than any parts except the scenes at Baden. Of course it is a great novel, but I am very thankful to have got it off my chest. I should advise you to get the 2/6 volume containing Milton’s minor poems,146 which I am now reading: I am sure they are better to begin on than P.L. I am now at ‘Comus’, which is an absolute dream of delight. I am sure you would love it: it is like a play written on an episode from the Faerie Queene, all magic and distressed ladies and haunted woods. It is lovely in books the way you can just turn from one sort of beauty to another and never get tired.
I was sorry to find no instalment in your last letter, tho’ of course if you have completely lost interest in poor Papillon it is no good forcing yourself. I will consent to your trying a novel only on the condition that it be sent to me, chapter by chapter. I too am wondering whether I should not chuck Bleheris and start something else: partly I have so many ideas and also I think the old fashioned English is a fatal mistake. Any good things that are in it or would be later on, can be worked in elsewhere. In a way it is disheartening to remember how keenly we were both starting out on our tales this time last term and see the result. But still we have both much experience and practice gained, and we got a lot of pleasure out of them while they lasted: the danger is that we get to turn too easily from one thing to another and never get anything done.
I didn’t go to see anything in London, I really don’t know why–I was a bit tired, nothing seemed to attract me much, and also, having started ‘Jimbo’ in the train, was eager to get to it again. One part of my journey I enjoyed very much was the first few miles out of Liverpool: because it was one of the most wonderful mornings I have ever seen–one of those lovely white misty ones when you can’t see 10 yards. You could just see the nearest trees and houses, a little ghostly in appearance, and beyond that everything was a clean white blank. It felt as if the train was alone in space, if you know what I mean.
I think you are very wise not to take that puppy from K[elso Ewart]. Unless you are a person with plenty of spare time and real knowledge, it is a mistake to keep dogs–and cruel to them. Have you got the Kaleva yet, tell me when you do and what you think of it. I wonder where you are at this moment? Have you reached home yet? Tell me all the news when you write, what you’re reading etc. and whether you are going back to your taskmaster Tom at once.147 I am not nearly so fed up now as I was, and hope you are the same. The country at home was beginning to look nice and autumn-y, with dead leaves in the lanes and a nice nutty smell (you know what I mean) so I suppose it is getting better still. Here it is horrible bright summer which I hate. Love to all our friends such as the hedgepig etc.
Yours,
Jack.
TO ARTHUR