Jim
HARVEY EGAN
Dysart, Kimberley Road
Greystones, County Wicklow
December 22, 1951
Dear Fr Egan,
You are the first one (outside the family) to see our new stationery. Please let me know what you think, if favorable. I felt I ought to have it to answer numerous inquiries that come my way, mostly regarding literary matters, but unfortunately none has arrived since the stationery did. Maybe something Monday.
Glad you now approve move to Ireland. I’d like to have a house like this in U.S. Eight rooms, laid out longwise, rather than squarewise, so one puts some distance between himself and, say, the children. I will also need a fireplace in my permanent home, preferably a small coal-burning one such as the Marlborough, I suspect, had originally. I like to stand in front of it with pipe or glass. Back to Thackeray!
Fr Fennelly, our PP,2 dropped in this afternoon. He must be sixty, or close to it, and his conversation seemed to say that he’d just been given a parish, Holy Rosary, Greystones (the church on the postcard I sent), last summer. He’s got a heating problem, and over that the problem of getting people to contribute in general. Says they don’t realize times have changed and they—“the ordinary man,” one of his phrases—have to do what their betters did in palmier days. Offhand, I’d say he’s asking for it (just like a young pastor in the U.S.), trying to get people to use a missal and do their part, and he refuses to use a form (in which parishioners’ past performances would be published for all to see and handicap). He’s not a victim, however, not a softy full of theory. He seems to admire Spain (before Franco), has no time for America or Britain, speaks of the old families with their sense of noblesse oblige, and is an author (a book of prayer for children and some other stuff, not clear what, written as a curate and therefore, he said, “anonymously”). I think he’s lonesome, but doubt that I’m the one to fill his evenings. […]
You’ll be gratified, I hope, to know that in the past week I’ve been shown how right you can be sometimes when you sound pretty far gone. We have had bad cases of the crabs, or lice, both girls and Betty (only mildly). I favor capital punishment in this matter for the disseminators. Mr Power, the local chemist, hopes we don’t blame Ireland for our trouble. It’s touching to see people like him, so hopeful that we’ll like Ireland, won’t think it too slow, etc. I think most opinion of the U.S. here is reached through listening to returned stage performers tell about it, about Broadway, Times Square. I told Mr Power he doesn’t know the meaning of slow and would be glad to give him the name of a PP who does. […]
My turn to make the tea. Guinness has gone up l d., but they’re increasing the specific gravity. Can’t get Smucker’s here. We have to settle for Fruitfield. They’re a good house but no Smucker’s. Fairly Happy New Year!
Jim
HARVEY EGAN
Dysart
March 8, 1952
Dear Father Egan,
[…] I haven’t seen Commonweal for a while. It comes in spurts. Here I read The Irish Times, The Times (London), Time, the Wicklow People, the Standard, the Catholic Herald, The Observer (Sunday, London), the Sunday Times (London, not the aforementioned). I think there’s room for another paper, preferably one with the word “Times” in it, say, The Catholic Times, here. Except for The Irish Times, the Irish papers are awful; Sunday Visitor stuff, cutouts for children, a dress pattern for mother, sports for dad. As the new nuncio (O’Hara) said, Ireland is one country that works hand in glove with Rome. The press shows it—except The Irish Times, which is Anglo-Irish literate. The Standard is good for a diocesan paper but full of the usual junk too, enroll in the Golden Book of Our Lady of Something, Liverpool, only L.
I had dinner at the Bailey—a restaurant in Dublin—with Sean O’Faolain and Frank O’Connor the other night. Liked them both. O’C. is going to the U.S., hopes to settle there, can’t live or write here, he says, because of “personal troubles,” meaning his marital troubles, I guess. He now has an English wife, an Irish one here, numerous children, etc. O’F. is riding it—being happily married, it appears—riding it out on purer lines, the problem with being a writer in Ireland, I mean. O’C. said it would be impossible for him or O’F. to live anywhere but in Dublin, in Ireland; O’F. seemed to agree they’d be in physical danger in Cork, where they both come from. They were stunned to discover that I’d been employed by Marquette. O’F. is very calm, cool, and, I suspect, long-suffering … O’C. great admirer of A. E. Coppard and Saroyan. O’F. might have been a Dublin businessman, from his dress, dark suit, white shirt; O’C. raffish, orange wool shirt, wool tie, blue tam. O’F. in good health. O’C. has trouble with his liver, his wife tells him what he can eat, drinks light wines and lime juice. He paid the bill. That sums up the evening, my impressions. “Urbs Intacta” was the only Latin used—by Mrs O’F.—referring to Waterford, which she belittled, and fortunately I picked up on “Urbs.” “Inter alia,” I said, urbanely, “wasn’t that a long time ago?” I was smoking some small black cigars—Wills’s Whiffs—and probably made a very good impression, seen from the tables around us. We had Vichy water at the very end. Trying to cap that, I called for a jar of Smucker’s, but they couldn’t provide it. “What! No Smucker’s!” I cried, which got over the idea that the management, and indeed everyone, including parties all around us, had a lot to learn. “1943 is the best year,” I said. “’45 is acceptable.” Then I went on to tell them about that little place in Chicago that I took you to, not much to look at and all that, but what food, what service! […]
My PP came by and took me for a drive around his parish. Very interesting he is, once the sun goes down, and he loses his way, not the man then that brought us You Can Change the World.3 He conscripted Betty to come and utter an opinion at St Kilian’s Hall, where he was throwing a parish debate. Subject: The Hand That Rocks the Cradle Controls the World. He outlined what Betty ought to say, leaving a pamphlet about this little Italian girl (Goretti) who’s up for canonization. I hadn’t heard about it—at least didn’t recognize the name when he was here—and that was somehow in my favor, made me out to be a good, healthy male preoccupied with my pipe. “Oh, he thinks he’s running the show, but it’s the little woman every time. She’s the one who keeps him straight. He just tags along, if he only knew it”—ha, ha. I said I knew it only too well, that I knew the torture of marriage, had dreamt of the beauties of celibacy. He hadn’t been prepared for such an ad-lib, was silent, lips twitching—and I could see that, though I’d spoiled his act, he was pleased to hear what he too regarded as the truth. […]
O’C. and O’F. spoke of Waugh as though he’d lost his mind. Said he had his servants wearing livery, the latest development. I must get something for my man, a cap anyway, who brings me wood, takes away my ashes, works around my demesne. He doesn’t work very hard, brings me green wood. Betty says he knows I’m a fool—her exact words. “Fool for God?” I ask eagerly, but I gather she doesn’t mean that kind. […]
Clark4
HARVEY EGAN
Dysart
Easter 1952
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] The first blood was drawn at Leopardstown5 a week ago. Two winners (8–1; 6–1), and I guess it’s going to be nip and tuck from now on between the track and me. Unfortunately, there are those two-bob6 (28c) machines, and I go with Betty, so even when I win, it’s moderately. A wonderful way to spend an afternoon, though. When I’m there, I always know what you and Thoreau mean. […]
Let me know what the sales were for your book.7 (That’s what writers talk about, incidentally, and you asked.) Got another in the works? Same publisher? Any nibbles from others? Who’s your agent? Any personal troubles? Have to drink to write? I haven’t had a Guinness for a week. Just a little John Jameson. Write.
Jameson
HARVEY EGAN
Greystones
May 11, 1952
Dear Fr Egan,
I enclose an advance complimentary copy of The Children’s Mass
Book. I hope that after you have had the opportunity to read it, you will write to me. I value your opinion and look forward to hearing from you. The editor is my PP. Perhaps we could work out an exchange plan: you buy his book and he’ll buy yours. By the way, how are sales?
Haven’t heard from you in some time but suppose you are busy with your yellow slips.8 Did you ever think of getting linen ones, to stand up better under the constant shuffling? I could get you a fair discount on linen. […]
Do you like the new Commonweal format? I object to that arrow ending up at 15c. All for now. You owe me one, so I won’t try to make this more impressive.
Seamus
That May, aside from receiving an exhausting visit from Garrelts and another priest, Jim saved a boy from drowning and was awarded a “certificate of bravery.” Betty described the incident in a letter home: “Some little boys ran up carrying a life preserver and said, ‘A boy’s after falling in the ocean.’ … So Jim found himself standing half in the water on a ledge of rock, holding on to the boy in the life preserver and the waves trying to splash them both out into the ocean. And he had to keep his teeth shut tight because he had his pipe in his mouth and no hand to take it out … There were no end of women and retired men and boys around but no one strong enough to pull them out until the guards came, and also the milkman. (There is nothing that can happen in Greystones without the milkman being there with the first of them.)”
HARVEY EGAN
Greystones
June 3, 1952
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] The Irish—here and everywhere—worry too much about what is written about them. Their favorite reading is writing about them, any chance reference, anything that doesn’t please. It’s all in Joyce, the petty chauvinism, the chemist who wants us to buy Irish soap (which is not very good soap), the piercing look following the question, how do you like Ireland? I like Ireland, but I don’t like these little boosters. Tell them that.
Well, George and Fr Dillon arrived, and we had a fast three days in a hired car, Limerick, Galway, Mullingar races, evening at Sean O’Faolain’s. Our guests left for the Continent … and we went to bed for three days to recover from the rush. George, it turns out, is a tourist with a vengeance, picks up with everybody, and finds out more in three days than we have in six months. They went to the races in civvies, though priests were everywhere in black and white, and the touts called George “the Yank.” […]
Fr Fennelly will be glad to hear you approve his book. He should be back from Barcelona any day. Before he left, he made it clear to the congregation that he was going there to “suffer,” in case, I guess, anyone should get the idea that he was going off on a holiday. Said he couldn’t stand the heat, had no accommodations, would just have to take his chances. I was amused but not impressed by this, remembering his remark last fall that he’d always wanted to go to Spain, having been everywhere else he’d wanted to go—no desire to see the U.S.—but then that’s the Irish way, isn’t it? I do the same thing myself.
Hump9 is still putting out that Lenin-Tolstoi jive. I think he fell on his head sometime in the Thirties. And something stopped inside, turning him into an LP record. Ah, well. When I think of going back, I have to think of going back to Hump—I do think he misses me, is perhaps the only one who does—and I just don’t know if that’s what I want. We are pilgrims only, but since the trip’s quite long, I tend to look around for suitable accommodations. I am desireless. There’s no place anymore that strikes me as the place for me. This is no reflection on Ireland, since I never meant to make this my permanent abode, but on my condition, which is not the condition of most: most can still dream of somewhere else, you of your next year’s garden or a parish in St Paul—I’m just speaking in a manner of speaking, I don’t want to hear of your contentment in Beardsley. You won’t deny, however, that you have a passion for farming equipment, manure, your yellow slips. Me, I have no desires. There’s nothing to give up. Is this perfection?
[…]
Please write.
Jim
HARVEY EGAN
Greystones
July 5, 1952
Dear Fr Egan,
Well, here it is Saturday noon, and your gift has come—three days early for my birthday—and already I’m three sheets to the wind. Betty has her hands full keeping the kids out of the room, for they sense something is up, and I guess she’s right, not wanting them to see their old man in such a condition, having Smucker’s taken.
Father Fennelly was overwhelmed by your acceptance and approval of his prayer book. I let him see your letter, and where you say it’s fortunate we are to have a literate PP, he says: “He must mean literary.” No, I say, he means literate. “Why, that means to be able to read, surely he doesn’t mean that. No, he must mean literary. I can understand that. Ha, ha,” he laughs, at your reference to Sunday as the day on which you count the money. “These Americans! He must mean literary.” No, I think he means what he says—literate. “Oh, not at all. Literary is what he means. Just a slip of the typewriter. He must mean literary.” I don’t think so. “Oh, no doubt of it.” I say nothing. This is the man just back from Barcelona, the Eucharistic Congress, where he met the Spanish people, stayed right with them, in fact, in the same house with some, and they found him so different from their own clergy. “Yes, he means literary. The e should be a y, that’s all.” You know, Father, I think he meant to write literary where he wrote literate. “Oh, no doubt of it. Well, that’s pretty good, getting to see a letter like this. You have a typewriter. Make me a copy.” Just keep it. And so, after a while, I got him to keep your letter, and yesterday Betty met him in the street, and his printer hadn’t understood all you said—“Here, take a look at this if you think you understand the English language”—but he got the general idea, the e in that one word should be a y, of course, and there’s no doubt that you’ve made Fr Fennelly happy—happy as any other author would be at being well received by the critics. I gave him a copy of your pamphlet, and perhaps you’ll be hearing about it from him. I can’t help thinking of other great literary friendships, Flaubert and George Sand, Knox and Waugh, the Brownings. […]
We saw the Ardagh chalice—pretty uninspiring, I thought—and the Book of Kells, also disappointing. It’s at Trinity, the university founded by the first Elizabeth and now off-limits to Catholic students except by special permission, which is part of the present archbishop’s policy—just when the Catholics were beginning to dominate it, according to Sean O’Faolain. He told us—this when George was here, when we visited him at his home—of a priest, an old man who, speaking of the Book of Kells and where, alas, it had come to rest, said to the congregation, “If there was a man among you, you’d go down there and—have a look at it.” […]
I have no advice for you, with regard to getting the people to come up with it. Hy Weber, in Quincy, used to take 50c bets, and since I was just a lad then, with little to lose, I was glad that he did. […]
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.