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Authors: Muriel Spark
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although he had the sweetest of natures, the most generous possible heart. At first, in deference to the very aged Lady Edwina, Sollys was cautious but he soon sized her up. ‘You’re a sport, Edwina,’ he said.
Solly had a limp which he had won during the war; our progress was slow and we stopped in our tracks frequently, when the need to rest from our push-chair efforts somehow neatly combined with a point in our conversation that needed the emphasis of a physical pause, as when I told him that Dottie continued to complain about my Warrender Chase and consequently I was sorry I had ever started reading it to her.
‘You want your brains examined,’ said Solly, limping along. He was a man of huge bulk with a great Semitic head, a sculptor’s joy. He stopped to say, ‘You want your head examined to take notice of that silly bitch.’ Then he took his part of Edwina’s pram-handle, and off we trundled again.
I said, ‘Dottie’s sort of the general reader in my mind.’
‘Fuck the general reader,’ Solly said, ‘because in fact the general reader doesn’t exist.’
‘That’s what I say,’ Edwina yelled. ‘Just fuck the general reader. No such person.’
I liked to be lucid. So long as Dottie took in what I wrote I didn’t care whether she disapproved or not. She would pronounce all the English Rose verdicts, and we often had rows, but of course she was a friend and always came back to hear more. I had been reading my book to Edwina and to Solly as well. ‘I remember,’ said Edwina in her cackling voice, ‘how I laughed and laughed over that scene of the memorial service for Warrender Chase that the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers put on for him.’
Several people turned round to look at Edwina as she spoke with her high cry. People often turned round to stare at her painted wizened face, her green teeth, the raised, blood-red fingernail accompanied by her shrieking voice, the whole wrapped up to the neck in luxurious fur. Edwina was over ninety and might die any time, as she did about six years later. My dear, dear Solly lived into the seventies of this century, when I was far away. He started during his last illness to send me some of the books from his library that he knew I would especially like.
One of these books, which took me back over the years to wintry Hampstead Heath, was a rare edition of John Henry Newman’s Apologia pro Vita Sua and another was a green-and-gold-bound edition, in Italian, of my beloved Benvenuto Cellini’s La Vita.
Questa mia Vita travagliata io scrivo …
I remember Solly at his sweetest during those walks at Hampstead, with our Edwina always ready to support the general drama of our lives, crowing like a Greek chorus as we discussed this and that. I had not yet finished Warrender Chase, but Solly had found for me a somewhat run-down publisher with headquarters in a Warehouse at Wapping who on the strength of the first two chapters was prepared to contract for it, on a down payment to me of ten pounds. I recall discussing the contract with Solly on one of our walks. It was a dry, windy day. We stopped while Solly scrutinized the one-page document. It fluttered in his hand. He gave it back to me. ‘Tell him to wipe his arse with it,’ said Solly. ‘Don’t sign.’ ‘Yes, oh yes, oh yes,’ screamed Edwina. ‘Just tell that publisher to wipe his arse with that contract.’
I wasn’t at all attracted tot obscenities, but the combination of circumstances, something about the Heath, the weather, the wheel-chair, and also Solly and Edwina themselves in their own essence, made all this sound to me very poetic, it made me very happy. We wheeled Edwina into a tea-shop where she poured tea and conversed in a most polite and grand manner.
This, about the middle of December 1949. I had sat up many nights working on Warrender Chase and already had a theme for another novel at the back of my mind. I was longing to have enough money to be able to leave my job, but until
Solly had a limp which he had won during the war; our progress was slow and we stopped in our tracks frequently, when the need to rest from our push-chair efforts somehow neatly combined with a point in our conversation that needed the emphasis of a physical pause, as when I told him that Dottie continued to complain about my Warrender Chase and consequently I was sorry I had ever started reading it to her.
‘You want your brains examined,’ said Solly, limping along. He was a man of huge bulk with a great Semitic head, a sculptor’s joy. He stopped to say, ‘You want your head examined to take notice of that silly bitch.’ Then he took his part of Edwina’s pram-handle, and off we trundled again.
I said, ‘Dottie’s sort of the general reader in my mind.’
‘Fuck the general reader,’ Solly said, ‘because in fact the general reader doesn’t exist.’
‘That’s what I say,’ Edwina yelled. ‘Just fuck the general reader. No such person.’
I liked to be lucid. So long as Dottie took in what I wrote I didn’t care whether she disapproved or not. She would pronounce all the English Rose verdicts, and we often had rows, but of course she was a friend and always came back to hear more. I had been reading my book to Edwina and to Solly as well. ‘I remember,’ said Edwina in her cackling voice, ‘how I laughed and laughed over that scene of the memorial service for Warrender Chase that the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers put on for him.’
Several people turned round to look at Edwina as she spoke with her high cry. People often turned round to stare at her painted wizened face, her green teeth, the raised, blood-red fingernail accompanied by her shrieking voice, the whole wrapped up to the neck in luxurious fur. Edwina was over ninety and might die any time, as she did about six years later. My dear, dear Solly lived into the seventies of this century, when I was far away. He started during his last illness to send me some of the books from his library that he knew I would especially like.
One of these books, which took me back over the years to wintry Hampstead Heath, was a rare edition of John Henry Newman’s Apologia pro Vita Sua and another was a green-and-gold-bound edition, in Italian, of my beloved Benvenuto Cellini’s La Vita.
Questa mia Vita travagliata io scrivo …
I remember Solly at his sweetest during those walks at Hampstead, with our Edwina always ready to support the general drama of our lives, crowing like a Greek chorus as we discussed this and that. I had not yet finished Warrender Chase, but Solly had found for me a somewhat run-down publisher with headquarters in a Warehouse at Wapping who on the strength of the first two chapters was prepared to contract for it, on a down payment to me of ten pounds. I recall discussing the contract with Solly on one of our walks. It was a dry, windy day. We stopped while Solly scrutinized the one-page document. It fluttered in his hand. He gave it back to me. ‘Tell him to wipe his arse with it,’ said Solly. ‘Don’t sign.’ ‘Yes, oh yes, oh yes,’ screamed Edwina. ‘Just tell that publisher to wipe his arse with that contract.’
I wasn’t at all attracted tot obscenities, but the combination of circumstances, something about the Heath, the weather, the wheel-chair, and also Solly and Edwina themselves in their own essence, made all this sound to me very poetic, it made me very happy. We wheeled Edwina into a tea-shop where she poured tea and conversed in a most polite and grand manner.
This, about the middle of December 1949. I had sat up many nights working on Warrender Chase and already had a theme for another novel at the back of my mind. I was longing to have enough money to be able to leave my job, but until
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