Of Love And Hunger (Julian MacLaren-Ross)

I gotout my dem book to look up the old girl’s name.


    Always address the prospect by name: it pays.  Makes ‘em feel at home, see?  The personal touch.


    This one was called Miss Tuke, 49, TheCrescent.  Small house, two storeys, villa-type; small dark drawing-roomfull of knick-knacks, thick old-fashioned hangings full of dust.  No maid,no cleaner, woman in once a week.  A cert, if I played it right.

    Miss Tuke didn’t seem a bad old girleither.  Bit jumpy:  kept looking up at the ceiling as if expectingit might fall on her any moment.  Couldn’t believe her eyes when she sawwhat I got out of her carpet.


    ‘But I don’t understand. I had the carpetcleaned.  Two days ago.  I had a woman in.’


   ‘This dirt didn’taccumulate in two days, Miss Tuke,’ I told her.  ‘It’s been in your carpetfor years.  The ordinary methods of cleaning won’t remove it.’

 

    ‘Then what can I do?’


     ‘There’s only one thing,’ I said, pointing to the cleaner.  Miss Tuke looked at it andswallowed.  I wanted to let the idea sink in.  It was too soon tostart on her yet, but I felt in my pocket to make sure I’d an order-form readywhen the time came.  It was there all right.


     Miss Tuke said: ‘Andhow much did you say the price . . .’


            ‘A pound down,  a pound a month.’


     ‘Oh, I wouldn’tdream.  I don’t hold with hire-purchase.’

  

    ‘It’s much the best way, Miss Tuke.  We never advise buying one of these machines outright.  Think ofthe advantages you become eligible for under our instalment-system.  Freeservice every six months.  A thorough overhaul of your cleanertwice-yearly free of charge.  After all, you wouldn’t pay your maid ayear’s wages in advance, would you?’ 


    ‘Of course not.’


          ‘Well we look on this cleaning system as amechanical maid.  More efficient, naturally, as this dirt goes to show.'

    Always bring ‘em back to the dirt.  Iswitched on again and pushed the cleaner to-and-fro across the carpet.  Iwas a No. 1 model, the biggest sort and the one that costs the mostmoney.  Kicks up a terrific row, but you get round that by saying you canonly silence the machine at the price of efficiency.




NOTE: 



     Several years ago or more (or more, I think), my friend GerryHoward introduced me to Julian MacLaren-Ross’s writing.  Gerry hadacquired Memoirsof the Forties (I don’trecall why) and liked the book for reasons that would quickly become apparent to anyfirst-time reader.  Gerry’s enthusiasms (any ofthem) and recommendations (ditto) mean a lot to me, so I bought and read the book. 


     I think Gerry fell in shallow; I fell in deep, but at the righttime because the Julian MacLaren-Ross revival -- a series of republicationsthrough Black Spring Press, Paul Willets’ remarkable biography Fear  And Loathing InFitzrovia, internet chatterand other enthusiasms (including the attention paid by many dedicated readers to Anthony Powell's A Dance To The Music Of Time; MacLaren-Ross was the model for the novelist character, X. Trapnel) was afoot and picking up steam.


     I’ve previously postedother examples of this author’s work -- short story and memoirexcerpts, as well as a haunting snippet from his autobiographical novel, The Weeping and theLaughter, concerning a World War I zeppelin raid on Ramsgate, MacLaren-Ross's childhood home before his family decamped for a life on the Côted’Azur, an event that turned out to be a mixed blessing in terms of the author's personal and professional future.  The passage above, taken from the first chapter of Of Love And Hunger, his great novel, is new here. Set in cusp-of-World War II Brighton, the book is based on MacLaren-Ross’s experiences selling vacuums door-to-door.  As he told GrahamGreene, it was Depression-era labor, the best he could find after losing, through no fault of his own, his private, family income, fortune, i.e.,  he wasn’t just collecting material to write about in anovel.  


     Of Love And Hunger is a fully-accomplished, deeply moving work of art, the  summation and apotheosis of J M-R's great work of the 1940s, which included the publication of his best and most popular short stories.   All his subsequent writing (journalism, bookand film reviews, radio plays, memoirs, astonishing literary parodies, other novels), whether superb or somewhat less so,never matched this novel’s perfect,sustained emotional pitch and style subsumed, immersed, in every single sentence and scene.


     Re-telling Julian MacLaren-Ross anecdotes (they are as outlandish and improbable as any stories about intense, esoteric literary or artistic eccentrics maintaining  24-hour schedules until inevitably checking out too early) all night is an entertainingthing to do to delight old friendsand new companions.  One can still do so today, standing in J M-R's usual spot at the Wheatsheafbar in Rathbone Place, Fitzrovia.  What I find really difficult to fathom,however, is the degree to which my life has come to resemble aspects of Richard Fanshawe’s life in Of Love And Hunger.

Work and Days

     Then I was lifted up and carried to a flat space beside the stream, where the trunk of a youngpinehad been set upright in the ground. A man, waving a knife, and singing a wildsong, danced towards me. He seized me by the hair, and I actually rejoiced, for I knew that the pain of scalping would make me oblivious of all else. But he only drew the sharp point of the knife in acircle round my head, scarce breaking the skin. 


     I had grace given me to keep a stout face, mainly because I was relieved that thiswas to be my fate. He put the knife back in his girdle,and others laid hold on me.
  

    They smeared my lower limbs with somekind of grease which smelt of resin. One savage who had picked up a brand from one of the little fires dropped some of the stuff on it,and it crackled merrily. He grinned at me--a slow, diabolical grin.
  

     They lashed me to thestake with ropes of green vine. Then they piled dry hay a foot deep around me, and laid above it wood andgreen branches. To make the fuel still greener, they poured water on it. Atthe moment I did not see the object of these preparations, but now I canunderstand it. The dry hay would serve to burn my legs, which had already been anointed with the inflammable grease. So I should suffer a gradual torture, for it would be long ere the flames reached a vital part. Ithink they erred, for they assumed that I had the bodyof an Indian, which does not perish till a blow is struck at its heart; whereas I am confident that any white man would be dead of the anguish long ere the fire had passed beyond his knees.


    I think that was the most awful moment of my life. Indeed I could not have endured it had not my mind beendrugged and my body stupid with fatigue. Men have often asked me what were my thoughts in that hour, while the faggots were laid about my feet.I cannot tell, for I have no very clear memory. The Power which does not break the bruised reed tempered the storm to myfrailty. I could not envisage thefuture, and so was mercifully enabled to look only to the moment. I knew that pain was coming; but I was already inpain, and the sick man does not troublehimself about degrees of suffering. Death, too, was coming; but for that I hadbeen longready. The hardest thing that man can dois to endure,but this was to me no passive endurance; it was an active struggle to show afortitude worthy of the gallant dead.




     -- From John Buchan, Salute To Adventurers (1915)

Crossed Cheque (A Writer's Life)

The bank cashier was counting pads of pound notes when I appearedat his grille the next morning.  Hecarefully examined the amount and the signature on the Horizon cheque, all ofit in Connolly’s green ink, then asked, ‘What do you want to do with this?’

     ‘Cash it,’ Isaid.

     ‘Have you anaccount at this branch?’

     ‘I haven’t,no.  But Mr Connolly has.  He said you’d cash this for me.’

     ‘Sorry,’ thecashier said.  ‘I can’t cash it, you’veno account here,’ and he pushed the cheque back under the grille. 

     ‘Why can’t youcash it?’ I asked.  ‘Here’s my name,quite clearly made out.’

     ‘It’s a crossedcheque,’ he told me.  ‘It’s not beenopened.  You could put it through yourown bank, would be the best way.’

     ‘I haven’t abank.’

     The cashier wentback to cashing pound notes.  Peoplewithout banks did not interest him.

     ‘What d’you mean,the cheque hasn’t been opened?’ I asked. 

     He glanced up, surprised to find me stillthere: he thought the matter settled.

     ‘A crossed chequecan only be paid into a banking account,’ he said patiently.  ‘It cannot be cashed unless it’s beencorrectly opened.’

     ‘Against bankingregulations otherwise,’ said a second, older cashier, who’d come up to listen.

     ‘And if thischeque were opened, would you cash it then?’

     The secondcashier in turn took the cheque and examined every inch of it.  ‘But this hasn’t been opened,’ he said atlast.

Cyril Connolly

From:  Julian Maclaren-Ross, Memoirs of the Forties.  London, Alan Ross, 1965.

From "The Metamophosis of Peter Brooke" (Julian MacLaren-Ross)

Eventhe steady thunder of bomber planes on the way to Germany overhead failed towake him, but before dawn he had a fight with himself in his sleep.  I watched from my ringside seat:  himself seemed about to win but just in timehe knocked himself out.  I counted tenbut he lay stiff and silent, not even snoring now; and in the morning we wereroused by the ringing telephone.  It wasmy girlfriend to say that Germany had surrendered, which places this meeting inearly May 1945.

The Monastery of Information

  “Another,more serious proposition he received was from Charles Wrey Gardinerof the Grey Walls Press, who was present when Brooke outlined a projectedfantasy novel called ‘The Monastery of Information’.  The basic elementsincluded an astrally projected Tibetan lamasery, controlled from the forbiddencity itself and invisible to all exceptthose in a state of ecstasy: drunks, lovers etc; there was also a London bank which financed the nefarious operations of theTibetan fifth-column with phantom money and was manned by cashiers stuffed withstraw.  Murders of people whoknew too much were committed by a bandof trained commando midgets, and the conspiracy’s total aim was worlddomination, narrowly averted.

     Wrey Gardiner, impressed by what he called a poetic variation on thrillerthemes, actuallyoffered to advance something on a synopsis ifI collaborated on the writing of the book; and, as the music publishers’ tennerwas running out faster than the spirits in the pubs, we got down to work thatnight, but Brooke fell asleep over the table just as we reached the first murder by midget.”

         

A Soldier Dresses (Julian Maclaren-Ross)

      

World War I British Junior Officer (subaltern) with Sam Browne belt.

            My brotherused an open razor, leaning his head with its black widow’s peak of hairsideways and close to the mirror, for he was short-sighted; his cheeks shoneblue as the blade scraped the ladder away, with that glabrous bloom I havesince observed on the faces of certain priests, Monsieur L’Abbe among them: andmore than a trace of Jesuitical severity was stamped even now upon his featuresin repose, though this vanished when he smiled. 

Razor

           I had never seen anyone shave before – my father of course was bearded,nor would I have been admitted while he was performing his toilet – and thewhole process fascinated me:  the flickand sweep of the cut-throat steel which never drew blood, the stropping of theblade in readiness for the morrow, the astringent lotion dabbed on after. 

Strop

     There was a moment equally absorbing, when hedrew on the brown supple boots which came up below the knee and were worn withknife-creased khaki breeches.  The boots,the Sam Browne belt, and also the buttons and brasses of his tunic andgreatcoat were polished personally by my brother (for he had brought no batman)until they shone, in the case of the leather, almost purple and you could seeyour reflection in miniature in the crested brass. 

Boots

Insignia of 1st Battalion, Warwickshire

          The only regret I had (one not shared by mybrother) was that, as a subaltern, he no longer had to wear puttees; during hisfirst leaves, when he was a private, I’d enjoyed seeing him winding theseexpertly, without creases, round his legs, though I was to be thankful laterthat this practice had died out before my own enlistment.  The boots, however, more than made up for theputtees absence; then, when he’d adjusted his belt, the rimless monocle – a relicfrom the days of his roistering with which he used sometimes to give hisstartling impersonation of a Prussian officer – would be screwed into itssocket, where it remained immovable, without a cord; his cigarette lighter wasflourished at an Abdulla Egyptian in a short amber holder, and he was ready tocome down to another day.

Prussian With A Monocle

A group of World War I subalterns (Future Prime Minister Harold Macmillan second from right, top row)

Winston Churchill as a subaltern, UK 4th Hussars, February 1895

From Julian Maclaren-Ross, The Weeping And TheLaughter.  London, Rupert Hart-Davis,1953.

Post dedicated to James Reed Roberts (b. 2-22-54, d. 8-13-70)

Respirators Will Be Worn; Mercer’s Café

Wells scrawls a signature in pencil and beneath it embarks on a series of crosses.  I count forty-six.   Wells searches among my papers for an envelope, sticks it down, writes SWALK on the flap.  RUNNER is called out in the voice of the CQMS.  Williams, flinging away his fag, lopes off along the corridor;  Wells starts on a long yarn about his cousin who has inherited a hundred pounds and how he can go about tapping her.  My head is empty of ideas.  

         Now there is a sudden speeding-up of work, people run in and out, with papers to be sent off, the Education Officer drops two letters in front of me,  the PT Sergeant wants a sports programme typed, a lieutenant asks me how to spell loofah.  

        Wells picked up a magazine of mine and opening it is faced at once with a reproduction of a painting by Dali.  What the deleted’s this? he says.  It’s a picture. Yerce, but  what’s it  meant to be?

 

        A scraping of rifle butts on the landing advertises the presence of men waiting outside the CSM’s for their leave passes.  It must be ten o’clock.  Thank God for that.  At half-past I can slip out for a break.  A sudden shout goes up.  One of the passes, supposedly for seven days, is found to be made out for fourteen.  A row begins, the guardroom is mentioned.  The CSM gets the best of it, the man doesn’t get his pass, Wells gives up Dali as a bad job. Can he post  his letter?  Yes but don’t forget to come back.  Garn whatcher take me for.

 

         I examine the postage book.  Somewhere there’s been a ballsup.  I count my remaining money and stamps.  I’m a shilling short.  I go over the account day by day, it goes back weeks.  The total adds up wrong, I’m in a whirl.  Suddenly a slip of paper hitherto unnoticed catches my eye, Respirators will be worn by all ranks today from 1030 till 1115 hours.  That makes me pause.  Respirators?  Three-quarters of an hour?  Not bloody likely.  I grab my cap and the two letters dumped by the Education Officer and make for the stairs.  There is no official break time for office personnel:  mine is known as going to post.  I do in fact go there but afterwards.  First I go to Mercer’s Café.  It’s down on the Front by the Pier and is civilian, that is to say although patronized mainly by the troops there are tablecloths and the atmosphere is not that of a canteen.  A stag’s head, antlers on the wall, a banner: PLEASE BRING YOUR OWN BAGS AND PAPER.  Black coffee can be obtained and it is good.  Also chocolate cakes and hot doughnuts.  There is a downstairs room for the officers where everything costs more.  Once we had a subaltern of socialistic views who objected to the implied class distinction and also to the twopence extra on tea; for two mornings he sat upstairs with the other ranks but we damn well soon showed him what was what and after that he too went below with his brother officers.

        There are two wicker armchairs in the corner:  if you’re lucky and arrive early enough you can bag one of them.  I am and I do.  I drink coffee, dust sugar from fingers,  start to write this sketch.

Reader Note:  This is an except from Julian MacLaren-Ross's 1942 sketch entitled "Respirators Will Be Worn; Mercer’s Café", which is part of a longer (but still short) piece called "Are You Happy In Your Work?", which was originally published in the October 1943 issue of The Saturday Book, one of the popular, high-circulation literary magazines that flourished in the Great Britain during the Second World War when paper shortages put a crimp into more "standard" publishing of novels and other, longer works.  Maclaren-Ross's Army sketches established his literary reputation and were his first truly popular publications. They are as lifelike and enjoyable to read today as when they were originally written and paint a vivid portrait of life in the ranks on the British home front.  Maclaren-Ross's funny, but ruefully melancholy stories paint strong pictures of  the variety of soldiers' and officers' personalities, British regional and social distinctions and the unvarying maddening bureaucracy that eventually sent MacLaren-Ross AWOL and then to the "glass house" (military psychiatric hospital) because of the frustration he felt on account of not being allowed to do what he considered more substantial war work.  Eventually, following his discharge from the service in 1943, he wound up in London doing screenwriting alongside Dylan Thomas for a company engaged in producing war propaganda films for the government.  This experience produced a couple of entertaining chapters in Memoirs Of The Forties, which was published posthumously in 1965. For other examples of Julian MacLaren-Ross's work, please see here and here.  Several years ago, I was fortunate enough to acquire an autograph letter by MacLaren-Ross in his remarkably -- practically impossibly -- small neat handwriting that was inscribed on light blue note paper using the famous gold fountain pen he used to compose all his novels, stories, radio plays and literary reviews.  A legacy from his father, MacLaren-Ross called it The Hooded Monster.  When times were hard for him, as they often were, it was the valuable possession he pawned most reluctantly.

 

Foretold (Easter Monday) -- Zeppelin Over Ramsgate

  


SOON AFTER MY BIRTH, WHICH TOOK PLACE AT MIDNIGHT AND

during a thunderstorm, war broke out and one of my earliest memories is of being snatched from my cot and carried out in my father's arms on to the lawn of our house in Ramsgate, just in time to see a German Zeppelin cast its shadow on the rooftop from the vast moonlit menace of the sky. 

        I am told that I crowed with glee and stretched out my hands towards the long bright silver cigar, but this I cannot confirm; I recall the sight of vividly as one which afforded me considerable pleasure, but not my physical reactions to it.  The Zeppelin did not appear in the least threatening:  to represent, rather, the promise of a shining toy too large for me to handle at the age I was then but which, with luck, I might be given later.  The immense stretch of emptiness above, on the other hand, was daunting as I stared up into those stars that blinked back at me a message which I could not read; the cold remote globe of the moon seemed to swim backwards through clouds out of the Zeppelin's way as it passed safely over, and perhaps the silent consternation of those grouped around me on the lawn communicated itself, for suddenly I sent up a howl of terror.

     A memory of this irrational fear may have left its mark, since I am increasingly a prey to fits of agoraphobia when confronted alone, with large expanses of night sky in an open space, and when there is moonlight.

Excerpted from Julian MacLaren-Ross, The Weeping and The Laughter. London, Rupert Hart-Davis, 1953.

The Party For Picasso (Excerpt) -- Julian MacLaren- Ross

        

Pablo Picasso arriving at Victoria Station, London, November 12, 1950

        We both bowed,  Picasso continuing to smile with steel grey hair smoothly brushed across his forehead and a face the colour of Spanish earth, oddly unlined for a Spaniard and a man his age.  In his rough sack coloured sack he looked like a well barbered version of Harpo Marx, perhaps owing to the intensity of his stare.

        I said:  'Do you remember, monsieur, saying once to Gertrude Stein.  .  .'

        Picasso nodded encouragingly, and I waited for him to say 'Gertrude' with the simple affection and confidence which according to Alice B. Toklas always characterizes his pronunication of the name, but he did not.

        Instead he said:  'Oui, oui, Mademoiselle Stein', his bright, prominent sloe brown eyes fixed unblinking on mine, and I continued:  'You told her, did you not, that when you make a thing, it is so complicated making it that it is bound to be ugly, but those that do it after you they don't have to worry about making it, and they can make it pretty, and so everybody can like it when others make it?'

Man Ray, Portrait of Gertrude Stein seated in front of Picasso's 1906 portrait of Miss Stein

        I was by no means sure if I'd got this quotation right or had translated it properly, it was some time since I'd spoken French, but Picasso said instantly: 'Oui, monsieur, I did indeed say something of the sort', and I went on: 'Then, monsieur, have you as yet descended, travelled by, the Tube, our English Metro?'

Pablo Picasso, Weeping Woman (Femme en pleurs), 1937 

        'Non, monsieur', Picasso replied, 'I've not so far had that pleasure,' and I noted that after all those years in France he still retained his Spanish accent.

        'Then when you do, monsieur,' I said, and he nodded several times emphatically to indicate that he couldn't wait to get down the Underground:  his eyes were still fixed on mine and he must have been wondering what the hell, if anything I was getting at.

        'Then,' I said, 'you will realize from the crude imitation Cubist advertisements on the platform walls, the truth in reverse of your so brilliant axiom.  For, in seeking to exploit your discovery for vulgar commercial purposes, they have only succeeded in making the beautiful ugly'. 

Pablo Picasso, She-Goat, 1950

        I bowed, taking a step back to do so: sweat was standing on me as I ended, more or less as I'd begun, by saying it'd been a great honour.

        'That, monsieur, is reciprocal.' Picasso said bowing in his turn; at which Adair whose arm all this while had been hooked in his turned him about and led him away, completely bemused by now, to his corner where she left him among the indignant clucking women:  while I hurried back to the whisky bottle behind the statue.

        At the time I thought I'd carried it off rather well, only later did I feel embarrassment and shame, and later still in self defence began to think of it as funny.

Pablo Picasso arriving at an art exhibition, London, November, 1950

                                          

        Nonetheless, when beset by celebrity snobs, I can truthfully say that I've talked about painting with the greatest living painter:  moreover Picasso made a special point of turning to smile and bow in my direction.  Perhaps he really did believe he had met somebody important:  on the other hand, his politeness being almost oriental in its inscrutability, he may have been dying inwardly of laughter.

From Memoirs Of The Forties (London, Alan Ross, 1965)

Note to reader:  When I was researching illustrations of ugly London subway advertising during the period MacLaren-Ross is describing to Picasso in this excerpt, in order to include them here, I was extremely surprised to find the number of images I did, very few of them at all ugly, despite  MacLaren-Ross' account.  Most of what I viewed (and I trolled the years beginning about 1918 through the 1960s) was interesting and visually strong, especially London Transport's (now called Transport for London or TfL) advertisements promoting the Tube itself, as well as London's peerless  qualities and places to visit.

A vast quantity of these images can be viewed online at the London Transport Museum's website, a destination I highly recommend.  I've included a few of these below, including several by the brilliant American artist, Edward McKnight Kauffer, who is recorded as creating the first cubist-influenced subway advert.  Among the pictures shown, The Barmaid (what an unexpected image this is for display in a public transport system; it immediately summons up for me the world of Patrick Hamilton's Twenty Thousand Streets Under The Sky London trilogy) was created by the Royal Academician, Ruskin Spear, CBE, the father of the musician and painter, Roger Ruskin Spear of the Bonzo Dog Band.  Another, which recommends a visit to Highgate Ponds (a good idea) is by the contemporary British master Howard Hodgkin.   I have also included a nice, but rejected, work by the well-known painter and graphic artist John Nash (the younger brother of key British printmaker Paul Nash) to show that apparently not everything works in the subway context.  London Transport declined to use Nash's Chilterns piece because his color palette was deemed unsuitable for typical Tube station lighting.

Some of the most interesting and haunting posters were created during World War II and dictate war precautions and other matters of patriotic import.  Readers familiar with MacLaren-Ross will know that, despite his capacity for cynicism and his disastrous Army experiences, it would be out of character for him to criticize material created in support of Britain's war efforts merely on aethetic grounds. 

One thing I really enjoy about MacLaren-Ross's sketch is his description of Pablo Picasso's powerful and captivating way of regarding his partner in conversation.  It brings to mind the great line in the Modern Lovers' song, Pablo Picasso, which goes:  "He was only 5' 3", but girls could not resist his stare".  Possibly you know the rest.

Edward McKnight Kauffer, Daily Herald advertisement, 1919 (considered the first cubist-inspired subway advertisement)

Unknown Artist, Her Majesty The Queen Broadcasting To The Women Of The British Empire, 1943

Misha Black and David Langon, For Comfort's Sake, Stagger Office Hours, 1943

Howard Hodgkin, Highgate Ponds, 1989

Ruskin Spear, Bar Maid, 1987

Edward McKnight Kauffer, Shop Between 10 and 4, 1947

John Nash, Chilterns, 1950 (rejected design)

Abram Games, A Train Every 90 Seconds, 1937

Eric Henri Kennington, Seeing It Through (Station Woman), 1944

Julian Maclaren-Ross