Tue 13-Nov-56: Great pleasure, National Gallery morning & afternoon.
12 Nov 56
9 PM London
Dearest girl,
The heat from posting your letter at 5 PM has petered out. (It didn’t get the mail anyway, as it was 5 PM, London GPO, wherever that may be.) There’s nothing like being in a slightly (or really) class hotel in London for being out on a limb. There is not even the satisfaction of imagining what all the mugs are talking about. Or even the pleasure of watching them throw their hands and eyes around in mad explanatory abandon. Everything is controlled and everything is in its place-even if, as I have said, they work for it, and it is part of their tremendous solidity. I don’t have any affection for London-I think it is a wonderful crystallisation of one aspect of the human drive. Perhaps I’m being biased about it all because this pub is in a legal and business area withdrawn, dignified, and not play house. Even serious people like Ulanova apparently stay here. It really is very comfortable-exceptionally clean-and a good table. As a matter of fact, I could not imagine a better place for you and I to be in, if we were together. It is not flashy American. The seats on the lounge writing rooms are all shapes and sizes, and a gentle murmur of slightly foreign voices permeates the air. Two people could-and do-sit in the corner and make modest love and it is very becoming and warming. The only laughter I can hear, is from the young-at heart-passé dame who serves in the cocktail tiny bar. She said “good night” as I came in, and I needed it. However amiability at 3/- for sherry has its limits. After two I couldn’t afford any more jolly converzione with the couple alongside me. Please don’t think this is a whingeing letter. I am merely trying to place a picture which needs no comment one way or the other. That is all there is to it. If I were full of fairies I would say the same, but perhaps sing it with a gayer melody. Guinness is good to you! Look at me!
I don’t mind the European accent-it has as a rule, a rather silvery quality catching the lights and cadences which rise above the abysmal undertones of the lounge. But God spare me the loud over-ripe persimmon squashyness of the American tourist-or even more, God strike dead, all American lecturers or guides, who conduct their compatriots around the Tate Gallery and explain the delicacies of Gainsborough in tones of the loudest molasses. Opposite are three people, one of whom, is like a good-looking Mrs Bookalil (we met her at Ngaire Phillips do) she is foreign and handsome-must have been a beauty-about, oh who could tell-she couldn’t be 50-and she couldn’t be 43. She looks old enough to be your mother, it seems to my far distant eye. I think you are lovely. But I think all girls are lovely-and the younger they are, the lovely-(and sillier). But you are still my girl-and you upset all ideas of what peoples (female) ages should be [Dorothy was 40]. I am getting you younger and younger every minute. And when I get home will be warm enough for us not to have to sit on the lounge-much as it holds associations that are unforgettable for us both. The whole of our loyalties have come from there-and we must not toss its contribution, or existence, aside too lightly. I am finding letter writing much easier in this lounge than in the Regina Venice. I have my finger on your thing, and nobody is disturbing me or even noticing us. I love you and I even hope you will think damply of me while you read this-my yen is for the comfort you can give me. There won’t be many more notes from me that you can answer. I reckon that the next two will be about the limit. Don’t send me anything that I can’t get by the 23rd or 24th Nov. I will be leaving by train to Zürich on Monday 26th. So please send me a bold and encouraging word before this. I guess this wickedness is enough for tonight.
Your Bill.
XXXXXX
2 p.m.: Tuesday [13 Nov 1956]
I am just adding this note whilst having a Guinness in the Garrick Hotel, which is opposite the Garrick Theatre. And is immediately behind the National Gallery. David Garrick was a famous actor and friend of Samuel Johnson’s. So I suppose the sites of both theatre and pub have been long established. I didn’t wake up until 9:30 a.m. this morning-must have been because I had the blinds drawn. Decided I may as well start on the Gallery as I’m not up to rushing around today. Not that I got on the scoot last night. A bad cold is helping to subdue my spirits. The weather in France and England would give you the creeps. It’s not wet, but an awful grey filters into your bones. There is no colour apart from the pearly lustre of a period greys. The blue, white and gold of a sunny harbour will hit me like a bomb. I do so wish you were with me to see the very wonderful pictures that are in the National Gallery. The English have done it again. I think even on a grey day both the National and Tate Galleries are fine display houses. I’ll save up for my next letter something of what to say about the pictures.
Do miss you being with me-so many little inconsequential details of interest one forgets to mention. All those little fine herbs that constitute the bouquet of flavour a particular city has. They are so ephemeral-some time, some stimulus will bring them all back-and perhaps I can give you a hint of their being. I don’t know why beauty depresses me one would think it to have the opposite effect. Perhaps it’s too big for my triviality-makes me want to crawl into a common place bar for a break and a breather. I am ready to tackle it again after I posted this letter. I am making up a schedule for myself for the remaining time. Must get away from the aimless wandering and get myself a purposeful routine. I want to settle down to the galleries and come home hot with the good intent. I love you, again and again. And will properly never again harbour such affection for you, as I will on Thursday the 15th. A deep kiss you.
From your husband,
Bill