Hemlock—and Before
By ALAN JENKINS WHEN the time comes to publish a definitive edition of the works of Mr. Angus Wilson, with a critical foreword by—let us suppose—Dame Marghanita Laski, I hope that a vitally important manuscript in my possession will not be ignored. It takes the form of a lined, stiff-covered exercise book, such as is used for school essays or university lecture notes; and it contains the first drafts of three of Mr. Wilson's stories—' What Do Hippos Eat 7,' ' Hearts of Elm,' and ' Auntie Cora.'
I acquired it, to my great surprise, for one guinea, at an auction of MSS and first editions, conducted by Mr. Miles Malleson for some purpose or another. I do not clearly remem- ber how I came to be present. I seem to recall someone saying, after a large meal in Soho: ' Come on, there's a dance at the Arts Theatre Club.' I remember, too, entering a room where Mr. Christopher Fry and Mrs. Naomi Mitchison were sitting on the floor, and a committee, consisting mainly of Mr. Rupert Hart-Davis, or someone extraordinarily like him, were sitting on chairs. There was no dance, or if there had been, it was already over. We entered to hear a first edition of Lawrence's White Peacock being knocked down for a couple of guineas; and, shortly afterwards, a Benjamin Britten MS fetched little more than £30. There were several Americans present.
Mr. Wilson writes tidily on right-hand pages only, with what appears to be a post-office pen and inkwell—except for ideas and additions, which are jotted in pencil on left-hand pages. His writing changes with his moods and subjects, from day to day. Sometimes he is fluid and forward-sloping; sometimes halting, round' and backward-sloping. These changes suggest that it takes him from eight to twelve sessions to complete a story. Like Arnold Bennett—like, in fact, all writers who do not scorn to publish—he counts his words methodically every so often. They average out at 260 to a page, the same as for quarto double-spaced typing. Some of his sessions are only three or four lines long (we all know such sessions). He has occasional, though rare, difficulties with spelling, writing : quarelled quarreled QUARRELLED, to ' see how it looks.' He doodles--queequog Quintin Hogg QUACKQUACK. He seems, from the outset, to be planning a book of short stories, not a mere collection. On one of the left-hand pages is a pencilled chart classifying the stories in his mind, to make sure they balance and are varied enough : ' Family—Horror- Fantasy—Spiv—Child—Social Fantasy. . . .' Or, on another basis, ' Oxford—Village:—Domestic—Seaside — Petty Bour- geois—Near-Middlebrow. . . .' Eight stories are found to total 44,000 words : another 30,000-odd needed for book-length. ...
Other still purer-doodles include a sudden mad obsession with the name Mavis (Petty Bourgeois, no doubt), written out three times in capitals with dots in between; half the lyric of Sophisticated Lady (the Thirties, of course); many experi- mental titles—titles are extraordinarily important to Mr. Wilson, seem indeed to be the germs of the stories—' Question of Taste.' Preference for Elm," Elm Wood Preferred," Palely Loitering,' Rather Flat Country,' (echo of Private Lives, Act I —` very flat. Norfolk' ?).
Mr. Wilson is not a writer who begins writing and then just continues. He knows in advance how long each story is going to be. A.C.—Aunt Cora----6 pp.,' he plans; quotable phrases follow—' Nobody yet you're sweet on? " Not, of course, that I know anything about the sex of dogs.' Always puts on a hat for lunch—very formal,-curried prawns, white wine . . coffee amidst bad Sevres. China Lacquer and bowls upon bowls of sweet peas, mother-of-pearl screen. . . . The Under- taker. . .
The architecture of each story (in pencil, left-hand pages) is meticulous. Mr. Wilson begins—and how better to begin? —with the ages of his characters, listed like the cast of a play. Grata-32; Maurice-55. Ellen—Mrs. Crane—' Storkie '— 70; Jack, her brother, Mr. Raikes, 50 (the sailor, blacksheep brother); Kitty, Mrs. Oakeshott, 55 (the smart. one); Lottie, Miss Raikes, 72; Catharine. 25; Thomas, 28.
Then follow the thumbnail sketches, in intensely shrewd detail. Jack—a shrivelled Kipling in canary yellow, motor- bike, his " gel," his eye to the main chance, his dirty stories. Lottie—comes late, practical and smoothing, don't let us get in the gentry's way. Kitty—frightened, unsure of her- self, very much the lady, refuses sandwiches, partly for family pride, partly out of idea of being more genteel, but accepts cigarettes in Xmas party, spirit. Not quite sure whether Constance's make-up is not a little common, but completely won over by Catharine's tweeds and pearls and Thomas's cavalry moustache. Len—very ill at ease, defiant and waiting room. Mainly there to watch over mother. Helps with small talk. . . . Very family.'
There is a short-story-within-the-story in almost every one of Mr. Wilson's characters, sketched in half-sentences on those pregnant left-hand pages. Rob—the Byronic pessimist (a bad face, really, with too big chin and nose); the beautiful young man in the bed-sit. whose socks have to be darned— a stage student (or scene designer). Peg—optimist=-egoist. The sex-starved mother who understood. . . . Fred, wanting a loan from straightforward decent little kid.'
Ideas, we have seen, begin with a title; or a situation, or a couple of characters. Under a general heading Poss. Funny Shorts,' Mr. Wilson lists: 1. Couple with the mongrel dog and Mrs. B. (descr.); 2. Title To Fame (told in 1st person); 3. Aunt Alys and the knock on the door.' Then, a catalogue of elements to be included—' Business deals- " lady dogs "—lavatory—psychic thing when Sir Harold and Lady Grackle were there. . . . Miss I. and the roses—" Do you like them ? Take them—please do." The large gesture from the ridiculous figure. . .
Erasures and alterations tell us a good deal about a writer, and Mr. Wilson's second thoughts are illuminating. " They're coming a long way," said Constance, spreading the fish paste more thickly than she would have done for her own family' is changed to . . . spreading the paste more thickly than she would have done for persons of her own class.' Quotation marks—especially single ones—are eloquent, fastidious and class-conscious : " The set tea' with watercress ' ad lib ' was like a children's picnic. . . . He so delighted to tease her about her kid's appetite.' Greedy guts,' he said smiling. . .It. Mr. Wilson's sensitive ear for the dated phrase (' the old ticker '—World War I for heart ') and his eye for the no- longer-genteel gesture (' she no longer blew into her gloves when she took them off ') are not shots in a stream of mental cinematography, but the distillation of carefully listed and selected preliminary notes : the stabbing word-sketches on those left-hand pages of his exercise book, the relentless working-out of an idea from a phrase, a title, an idiosyncrasy, into a tightly-concentrated whole. And to learn all that about a contemporary writer is worth a guinea.
Postage on this issue: Inland and Overseas lid.; Canada (Canadian Magazine Post) ld.
Previous page
