J. Powers - Suitable Accommodations - An Autobiographical Story of Family Life - The Letters of J. F. Powers, 1942-1963

Always remember that I feel indebted to you, that on top of being indebted to you, and that I intend to make it up to you someday — if we both manage to live so long.

By “yellow slips” I meant those slips of paper, yellow in color, on which you write various tasks to be done and then play solitaire with in the mornings. No offense?

Believe it or not, it doesn’t rain here, and the grass in the backyard is brown. I carry water out to it in pans.

Lost at the Curragh (the headquarters of Irish racing), and didn’t like the place either: cement, gravel. Leopardstown is my place. Horses for courses, as you always say. […]

All for now. And thanks for the Smucker’s — it’s given me quite a nice edge.

Jim

Jim traveled with Father George Garrelts to England, where they visited Evelyn Waugh at Piers Court. Waugh was fascinated by the soles of Jim’s shoes, which he asked to examine more than once. They had been repaired, in a manner of speaking, by an Irish cobbler who had simply nailed ridges of rubber onto the original soles, giving Jim a rocking gait.

Jim and George went on to Scotland, where Betty joined them in Glasgow, leaving the girls at home looked after by an older Greystones woman. It was a disappointing trip for Betty, whose paternal grandmother had given her a hundred dollars to spend on visiting the Highlands, where she had longed to go. It was not to be. Leaving Betty in hotels, Jim and Garrelts went off together, sometimes to pubs, spending her money. In the end they visited only Glasgow, Edinburgh, Galashiels, Dumfries, and Stranraer, all crowded and tourist-ridden in Betty’s opinion.

HARVEY EGAN

Greystones

August 22, 1952

Dear Fr Egan,

Yours rec’d and enjoyed as usual and in fact read by George, who was here when it came, all of us — add Betty — having just returned from Scotland. I don’t recall whether you got into the British Isles (I know you weren’t here), and without being sure, I wouldn’t want to give you my impressions, which will be coming out in book form anyway (the Wanderer Press, 10 deutsche marks). Needless to say, I had enough to make a full-size book, had to, according to my contract. I’m taking a respite to write to you, having been very busy for some days with a chapter of my novel (the Wanderer Press, 5 deutsche marks), trying to get it into shape as a story. You know we have to do that, sometimes, to keep our names before the public who soon forget (but not soon enough, in my case).

We had a visitor this evening, our first since George disappeared (I don’t say “left,” because you know the melody lingers on, as does the Drambuie he gave us). But enough parentheses; I remember being cautioned about them; five on a page and you’re out. The visitor was Hep; W. D. Hepenstall, the playwright of Greystones. He’s an elderly gentleman (non-Catholic); had a play, Dark Rosaleen , on Broadway, way back, killed by hot weather — I report the news, no editing — and we hadn’t been favored with a visit since last winter. I think he found us damn little fun, expected a little more from Americans, not to find them as he found us, however that is.

I can’t say that we have a roaring time either. Every now and then he looks at you — usually, Betty — and says, “Well, what did you think of Eva Perón?” or “Well, how’re the family?” Seems Eva was just a peasant girl, before she met Perón. Weather in America — he’s been there, was out west in Buffalo — pretty tropical. Yes, we bathe in the river and irrigate the plantation (sometimes it’s the ranch), and you can really hear dem banjos ringin’. Takes soda in his Drambuie, thinks it’s regular scotch, I think. But all right. Brought us some inedible apples in a briefcase, much appreciated by Betty. When someone brings me watermelon, I’ll sit up. Or Smucker’s. I confessed Smucker’s last time, got the works; wants me to cut it out or at least — the confessor was on the in se himself — to cut down. How can I? I’m human.

In England, Geo. and I saw Fr D’Arcy (who has since written to the Earl of Wicklow,10 who has now written to me, and I have to him; we’ll have a meal: he wanted us to join him on a pilgrimage to Lourdes, if you’re wondering how well we know each other). Fr D’Arcy fine, no ball of fire as we understand the term, but seems to have a way with people who read. Saw his room on Farm Street, lots of pre-Reformation junk, statues, chalices, plaques, big chair before fireplace, electric fire also nearby — someone said he’s waiting (and wants) to die — and I could see him there. Confessed desire for subscription to Time . Must see if George arranged for that, though it seems criminal to increase the circulation.

Saw Msgr Knox, briefly, after sermon at Clifton, Bristol Diocese. He’s a healthy man. I hadn’t thought that from his pictures, where his head looks like it’s making a basket — two points — in his collar. I’m afraid he didn’t know who I was. Do you know? I told him about the Irish customs wanting to take his book ( Enthusiasm ) away from us, as banned. Only memorable thing I said on the whole trip; I’m not much anymore.

Saw Waugh at Piers Court. All a lie about liveried servants. Carried out his dishes himself. Very nice, but no fun for me. Gave me his new book, not published, Men at Arms , which I haven’t had time to read, and that should tell you I’m working. Feel guilty about that, about not being able to write and tell him that I like it, as I think I will. George and Betty read it. They say it has a wonderful chapter on a chemical toilet, which George seemed to think was my baby, if it was ever to become literature. It may not be what some would consider sex, but it still isn’t my sort of thing. I’m waiting for someone to point out that whatever else old JF may be, he’s never dealt in sex. But, no, there’s no one saying it, and America’s cleanest writer goes his lonely way. I may duck out and come into the church again, in time for my novel’s publication, to get the full convert treatment if the market holds. You can see I’m brooding, can’t you? All for now. Thanks for the clippings. My blessing upon you and all your lawn mowers.

Jim […]

HARVEY EGAN

Greystones

September 9, 1952

Dear Fr Egan,

[…] Betty and I have been working in my office for over a week, a ten-by-ten room, radio, map of Minnesota, electric fire, a stack of unread London Times , four numbers of Time , and so on. They’ve been repairing our chimney and papering the walls — this in our good room, with the view — and we go back in there this evening, with roaring fire, gale raging outside, sea crashing on rocks. Perfect site for a bestselling author, but again something comes between one and sales. Incidentally, about Prince 11 being on that bargain list in Springfield, I suppose they bought too many copies (out of personal admiration) and just couldn’t sell them. I was never very strong in Sangamon County. Horses for courses. George used to make good money at the state fair, barking up the Unborn Baby show.

Was there any truth in what you said about yourself, your health, in a previous letter? Do you actually suffer from something — physical, I mean? Wouldn’t make much sense, if you did. I’m afraid I’d be tempted to peel and eat a Clark Bar right in front of you. Give me a little more information on that. Remember I was once very close to medicine. […]

We did meet the Earl of Wicklow and Saturday had dinner with him at the Bailey. Like him a lot. According to his friend, a young barrister (former European 147 lb champ), Lord Wicklow is holy, not pious, which is a distinction I’ve heard made over here once before. The earl’s favorite phrase is “Don’t you know!” Another friend of his — young man working for the transportation bureau — sounded positively American, when, oh, when would we start living according to Christ in this most Christian of countries (he and the champ both drank club orange, by the way), to which I made no immediate reply, to which Lord Wicklow said, “Don’t you know!! Don’t you know!” The apostle in transportation, unmarried like the champ (who also drinks club orange), takes his pleasure in letters to The Evening Mail , some of which I’ve sent you in the past and a few snatches this time, never knows when he’s coming out in print. He writes mostly under the nom de course “Pro Publico Bono” and hits pretty hard, I understand, and they also say he is easy to read. But I do want you to understand that I found the earl and his two friends great sport, the best people I’ve seen in Ireland for my purposes, which admittedly are not everyone’s. We hope to have them out.