VII
Many thanks for sending on those odds and ends so promptly. I ought to have written before, I know. Now I have to send this to the school and risk its being forwarded on to you. If the envelope looks messy at the back, you will know that Ma Tarvin has steamed it open‚ÅÝ‚Äîusing a hot prune for the purpose: and if you don‚Äôt get it at all, you know she has destroyed your letter‚ÅÝ‚Äîha ha! Your Washbury news was welcome but all very strange‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike a message from Mars. Glad I am that the fair Daisy has departed‚ÅÝ‚Äîmay she marry the outpost-of-Empire lad in the Sudan and may he be bronzed and lean and carry her photograph, in a silver frame, with him into Wildest Africa. The new man‚ÅÝ‚Äîvice Jollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîcertainly sounds a shrimp‚ÅÝ‚Äîa lesser Felton‚ÅÝ‚Äîand who would have thought that possible? I sent Ma Tarvin a Christmas Card!! It was the sweetest I could find, with little birdies in the snow and it said:
A heartfelt wish through rain or shine
In memory dear of Auld Lang Syne
or something like that. (Ask her about Christmas Cards when you get back.) Then, passing a dirty little shop here the other day, a most highly coloured and vulgar postcard caught my eye‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe caption was ‚ÄúYou can see a lot at Blackpool‚Äù and you can imagine the picture above‚ÅÝ‚Äîand this I dispatched, naked and outrageous, to friend Felton in his beautiful refined home at Clifton. Felton is the only human being who still collects picture postcards‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe British Museum and South Kensington kind, of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I have the feeling that mine has not been added to the collection. Dear, dear!
Can you imagine being a Pierrot in Luddenstall, Yorks! Can you imagine Luddenstall! It is a smallish town, black as your best hat, and it is joined on to other and bigger towns, equally black, by tram lines. I never saw so many trams. They turn them into mountain railways here; you see them going up vertically. All the streets here are at an angle of at least 45 degrees, everything built of stone, and they run down from a bleak hillside that is really the end of a huge dark moor. Last Sunday, I walked miles and miles on this moor‚ÅÝ‚Äîit has black stone walls like snakes twisting across it‚ÅÝ‚Äîuntil at last it began to frighten me. It‚Äôs ridiculous to say this place is in England‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite another country really. Both Miss Trant (she runs this troupe‚ÅÝ‚ÄîGod knows why!‚ÅÝ‚Äîand comes from the Cotswolds) and I, after much discussion, have agreed upon that. The people here work‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe women never stop‚ÅÝ‚Äîand go to football matches, drink old beer (very good stuff), listen to Handel‚Äôs Messiah about twice a week, and make you eat cheese with cake.
I am, as you see, chez Jugg. It‚Äôs a capital name for the gentleman because nearly every time I see him he has a jug in his hand, being among the most stalwart devotees of the aforesaid old beer, which has to be ‚Äúfetched i‚Äô jug.‚Äù He can give old Omar himself points in not believing in anything, for he has cut out the book of verse, most of the loaf, and the Houri stuff, and just sticks to the jug, though he has added a clay pipe and is one up on Omar there. He is very dry and cynical. Mrs.¬ÝJugg reminds me vaguely of Henry the Eighth (she must be roughly the same shape, I think); she works harder than anybody I have ever heard of; and always looks so terribly exasperated that you would think her cooking would be atrocious, because everything she does is slammed in at the last minute, but it all turns out to be beautiful in the end‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs like a conjuring trick. The only amusement she has is going ‚Äúto t‚Äô chapel o‚Äô Sunday neet,‚Äù but after a lot of argument I persuaded her to accept a ticket to our show the other night. What was the result? ‚ÄúEh!‚Äù she said. But it‚Äôs a long sound she makes, rather like a sheep. ‚ÄúEh!‚Äù she said, ‚Äúit wer right good but I missed most on it because I fell asleep. Seat were so comfortable and I wer so tired.‚Äù Which seemed to me rather pathetic. I‚Äôve been a fortnight here now and so am very pally with both Juggs. They are the best people I‚Äôve lodged with so far, and this is our best town, in spite of its being so queer. We‚Äôve had some horrors, I assure you. You don‚Äôt know what Merrie England is like until you tour it with a pierrot troupe.
Do you remember telling me I ought to do something with those little tunes I used to improvise? Well, I am making them into songs now‚ÅÝ‚Äîand everybody seems to like them‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the people in the show, especially the chief girl here (her name is Susie Dean and besides being a most delightful girl, she really is a genius‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou wait!), seem to think I ought to make some money out of them. I think I shall try soon. I‚Äôve written two essays‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite good too‚ÅÝ‚Äîand sent them to several papers, but they‚Äôve come back‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúEditor regrets,‚Äù etc.‚ÅÝ‚Äîevery time. It staggers me when I consider the bosh they do print, but I suppose it‚Äôs difficult for an outsider‚ÅÝ‚Äîa pierrot at that!‚ÅÝ‚Äîto get in; and I feel like trying to make as much money as I can out of this silly song-writing stunt and then write at leisure. Meanwhile I pound the keys every night and take it easy during the day. We‚Äôre an amusing crowd‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe had a really jolly Christmas, best I ever had, I think‚ÅÝ‚Äîand though I don‚Äôt see myself going on with this forever, so far it‚Äôs more fun than ramming French and History into the offspring of our Empire builders and then trying to eat the Tarvin rissoles and stewed prunes. Luddenstall is as ugly as an old road engine, but it has one advantage over Washbury Manor, my dear Fauntley‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs alive! And so am I‚ÅÝ‚Äînever more so. And I hope you are too, and will have a good New Year.