Elizabeth and Ivy by Robert Liddell – on Elizabeth Taylor and Ivy Compton-Burnett

I can’t quite remember how I first came across this book or who recommended it to me, but it must have been during a conversation about Elizabeth Taylor, a writer whose work I adore. Anyway, whoever it was, I’m very grateful for the tip!

The British writer and literary critic Robert Lidell describes Elizabeth and Ivy as an attempt to ‘give some account of my friendship with two distinguished writers, and of their friendship with each other’ – namely, Elizabeth Taylor and Ivy Compton-Burnett. (The title is a nod to Kay Dick’s book Ivy and Stevie about Ivy Compton-Burnett and Stevie Smith.) It’s a short, engaging book, unfolding as a series of reflections augmented with snippets from letters Robert received from Elizabeth Taylor describing her interactions with Ivy C-B. Moreover, there are also some interesting musings on Elizabeth’s and Ivy’s books here, which are fascinating to read.

Robert’s friendship with Elizabeth started in the autumn of 1948 when the latter wrote to Robert, complementing him on his novel, The Last Enchantments. Also enclosed was a copy of Elizabeth’s most recently published book, A View of the Harbour, an affectionate gesture from one writer to another. Robert duly read and enjoyed Harbour – in fact, he had already admired Elizabeth’s first novel, At Mrs Lippincote’s, which had been passed on to him by his aunt, a woman of great taste, who thought the book ‘remarkably intelligent’.  Thus began a long sequence of correspondence between Elizabeth and Robert, although it was several years before they were able to meet in person.

While many of the letters Robert received from Elizabeth were destroyed at the latter’s request (mostly because she didn’t want anything to remain that might hurt her friends), some of the more literary-focused letters survived; and it is these documents that Robert references in the book. (I should mention here that Robert also knew Ivy personally, but when he moved abroad in 1947 following his brother’s death, their meetings came to an end. Hence, Robert’s primary source of news about Ivy from the late ‘40s onwards seems to have been Elizabeth’s letters.)

I’ve yet to read anything by Ivy Compton-Burnett – A House and Its Head is sitting in my TBR. Nevertheless, I understand she is something of an acquired taste – brilliant, cutting and highly individualistic, someone who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. In some respects, this impression is reinforced here, particularly through Elizabeth’s observations on being invited to Ivy’s house for lunch.

The same food of course – the boiled bacon and parsley sauce and the white pudding. She [Ivy] carved up Muriel Spark and Iris Murdoch at the same time as the bacon. Marriage and religion were discussed and deplored. I felt guilty to be married and to have stayed married so long, and was all almost thankful not to be religious. Rose Macaulay has never been forgiven. (p. 93)

And here is Ivy on Olivia Manning’s latest book, probably The Doves of Venus as the passage comes from a letter dated 1955.

In the drawing-room was Olivia Manning’s book…[Ivy:] ‘It really is full of very good descriptions. Quite excellent descriptions. I don’t know if you care for descriptions. I don’t.’ A little later, she glanced again at the book and said: ‘A side of life I know nothing about. And I can’t think how she [Olivia Manning] does either.’ (p. 57)

Of particular interest to me are Robert’s thoughts on writing; how Elizabeth can take a small incident or occurrence and weave it into her fiction. She thinks and writes in scenes, creating and shaping characters to allow these scenarios to evolve.

From time to time, between the novels, Elizabeth’s stories began to appear. They did not express or reveal but played with her own experience, or she wove fancies from tiny fragments of fact – at least this I sometimes thought I recognized. Like Henry James, she found the tiny ‘germ’ in a happening, and then had to create people to bring it about; unlike Turgenev, who began with creating people, and then watched and listened for what they would do or say. (p. 67)

I also love Robert’s observations on some of the themes in Elizabeth’s novels, principally loneliness, which seems central to much of her work.

Elizabeth wrote somewhere: ‘I think loneliness is a theme running through many of my novels and short stories, the different ways in which individuals can be isolated from others – by poverty, old age, eccentricity, living in a foreign country – even by having committed murder, as in A Wreath of Roses (there are several kinds of loneliness in that novel).’ (p. 103)

One could argue that this also applies to another of Taylor’s best novels, The Soul of Kindness. Here we have Flora’s mother, Mrs. Secretan, living alone and haunted by a fear of cancer; the housekeeper, Miss Folley, who fills her empty life by writing elaborate love letters to herself; and the gay novelist Patrick Barlow, who waits, sometimes in vain, for his unreliable lover to turn up. Then there’s Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, a beautiful, bittersweet portrayal of the difficulties of ageing, a novel infused with loneliness in various forms.

As Elizabeth and Ivy is a short book, I’ll leave it there in terms of my description, but what emerges is a picture of a close and valuable friendship between Robert Liddell and Elizabeth Taylor – a candid, platonic relationship built on mutual trust and respect. Naturally, Ivy looms large throughout, but mostly filtered through Elizabeth’s preceptive lens in the letters she sends to Robert.

Robert and Elizabeth continued to correspond for more than twenty-five years; and while Robert never returned to England after 1947, Elizabeth travelled to Greece to see him five or six times, mostly in the 1960s and ‘70s. I’ll finish with a passage that seems to capture something of this fascinating book – a must-read for Elizabeth Taylor fans/completists and anyone interested in women’s writing from this period.

These two wonderful friends had in a measure made up to me [Robert] for being sans famille. To Ivy I almost felt as a nephew (and like E. M. Forster I descend from ‘a long line of maiden aunts’, a proud pedigree). To Elizabeth I felt almost as a brother, the more so that we had Ivy in common as an aunt… (pp. 122–123)

Elizabeth and Ivy is published by Peter Owen; personal copy.

My reading list for the Classics Club – an update

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope you’re having a good break.

Back in December 2015, I joined the Classics Club, a group of bloggers and readers who wish to share their views on the “classic” books they read. (If you’re not familiar with the Club, you can find out all about it here.)

In essence, new members of the Classics Club are invited to put together a list of at least 50 classics they intend to read and write about at some point in the future. The structure allows for some flexibility – each member can set their own end date provided it’s within five years. Also, the definition of what constitutes a “classic” is fairly relaxed – as long as the member feels the book meets the guidelines for their list, he or she is free to include it. All the books need to be old, i.e. first published at least twenty-years ago – apart from that, the definition is pretty flexible.

At the time of joining, I put together my selection of 50 books (playing rather fast and loose with the definition of a “classic”) with the aim of reading and writing about them by December 2018. Since then, I’ve been working my way through that list on a relatively steady basis, running the books alongside my other reading.

So, now we’ve reached the year-end, how have I been getting on? Well, I’ve read and written about 46 of the 50 books on my list – pretty good going, really, considering I took a break from blogging for the first three or four months of last year.

This was always going to be a three-year project for me, so I’ve decided to draw a line under it now as December 2018 feels like the natural end-point. While I could carry on, I don’t actually have physical copies of three of the four remaining books on my original list – and given that my current focus is to read the books in my existing TBR, I probably won’t get around to buying them any time soon. The three books in question are James M. Cain’s Mildred Pierce, Nella Larson’s Passing and Joseph Roth’s Hotel Savoy – all of which I may get at some point, just not in the foreseeable future.

The final book is The Leopard, which I own and tried to read a little while ago but couldn’t get into at the time. One for another day, perhaps, but not in the immediate future.

You can see my original list below, together with suitable replacements for the four books I didn’t read. In each case, I’ve substituted something relatively close to my original choice (also read in the last three years), e.g. Vicki Baum’s Grand Hotel for Joseph Roth’s Hotel Savoy; James Baldwin’s If Beale Street Could Talk for Nella Larson’s Passing; and Giorgio Bassani’s The Garden of the Finzi-Continis for Lampedusa’s The Leopard. Okay, I know I’m cheating a little by doing this, but hopefully you’ll cut me some slack here. Virtually every book I read these days could be considered a “classic” of some description, so a little swapping here and there doesn’t seem unreasonable.

1. Pitch Dark by Renata Adler
2. They Were Counted by Miklós Bánffy + an additional post on the politics and history
3. A Legacy by Sybille Bedford
4. The Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen
5. Mildred Pierce by James M. Cain (replaced with Black Wings Has My Angel by Elliott Chaze)
6. The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares
7. My Ántonia by Willa Cather
8. The Shooting Party by Isabel Colegate
9. Our Spoons Came from Woolworths by Barbara Comyns
10. Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion
11. An Evening with Claire by Gaito Gazdanov
12. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene
13. Hangover Square by Patrick Hamilton
14. The Go-Between by L.P. Hartley
15. Vain Shadow by Jane Hervey
16. Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith
17. In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes
18. The Hunting Gun by Yasushi Inoue
19. The Sound of the Mountain by Yasunari Kawabata
20. Mr Norris Changes Trains by Christopher Isherwood
21. We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson
22. The Adventures of Sindbad by Gyula Krúdy
23. The Leopard by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (replaced with The Garden of the Finzi-Continis by Giorgio Bassani)
24. Passing by Nella Larsen (replaced with If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin)
25. The Doves of Venus by Olivia Manning
26. The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford
27. The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore
28. Appointment in Samarra by John O’Hara
29. One Fine Day by Mollie Panter-Downes
30. Excellent Women by Barbara Pym
31. Voyage in the Dark by Jean Rhys
32. Hotel Savoy by Joseph Roth (replaced with Grand Hotel by Vicki Baum)
33. A Certain Smile by Françoise Sagan
34. Improper Stories by Saki
35. The Widow by Georges Simenon
36. I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith
37. The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark
38. The Gate by Natsume Soseki
39. Love in a Bottle by Antal Szerb
40. A Game of Hide and Seek by Elizabeth Taylor
41. A View of the Harbour by Elizabeth Taylor
42. Spring Night by Tarjei Vesaas
43. The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim
44. Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day by Winifred Watson
45. Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh
46. The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
47. Butcher’s Crossing by John Williams
48. Eleven Kinds of Loneliness by Richard Yates
49. The Burning of the World by Béla Zombory-Moldován
50. Burning Secret by Stefan Zweig

As for what I’ve learned or gained by participating in the Club…well, I’ve met some new bookish friends who share an interest in older books, always a good thing. I’ve discovered some terrific *new* writers, some of whom have gone on to become firm favourites: Barbara Pym, Dorothy B. Hughes, Olivia Manning and Françoise Sagan to name but a few. Plus, it’s given me an excuse to delve into the backlist of some established favourites: writers like Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Yates, Patrick Hamilton, Edith Wharton and Patricia Highsmith, all chosen for this very reason.

On the downside, my experience of the books in translation has been somewhat mixed leading to some winners and a few losers. Looking back at my list, I don’t think I made the best choices in this area as my tastes have shifted somewhat in recent years — towards books by British, Irish and American writers, mostly from the mid-20^th century.

Books in translation I really enjoyed or appreciated include Béla Zombory-Moldován’s remarkable WW1 memoir, The Burning of the World Miklós Bánffy’s epic Transylvanian Trilogy which began with They Were Counted, Natsume Soseki’s novel of urban angst, The Gate, and Françoise Sagan’s effortlessly cool A Certain Smile – all of these come highly recommended.

Less successful for me were The Invention of Morel (Bioy Casares), Spring Night (Tarjei Vesaas) and The Adventures of Sindbad (Gulya Krúdy). While the Krúdy worked well in small doses, the book as a whole just felt too samey and repetitive. A pity, really, as the writing was wonderfully evocative at times.

So, that’s pretty much it, a very rewarding experience all told. I’ve read some terrific books over the last three years, and I think it’s given me a better feel for the types of “classic” writers and books that are most likely to work for me in the future.

Please feel free to share your thoughts on any of these books in the comments below. I’m also interested to hear about your experiences of the Club if you’ve been involved with it. How has it been going for you? What have you gained from participating? I’d like to know. (Naturally, comments on my own experiences are also very welcome!)

Spring Night by Tarjei Vesaas (tr. Elizabeth Rokkan)

I first came across Tarjei Vesaas when a wine friend recommended him to me. He’s a Norwegian writer, probably best known for The Ice Place (1963) and The Birds (1957), both of which I can wholeheartedly recommend. The latter was namechecked by Karl Ove Knausgaard as one of the best Norwegian novels ever – but don’t let that put you off, it really is an excellent read. Spring Night (1954) is the third Vesaas I’ve read, and it’s easily my least favourite of the three. Nevertheless, it does contain some interesting elements, particularly in the set-up.

Fourteen-year-old Olaf and his older sister, Sissel, have been left home alone for the day and night while their parents travel to a nearby town to attend their uncle’s funeral. As the book opens, the afternoon is drawing to a close; it is a broiling hot day in late spring, and the atmosphere lies heavy with heat and humidity. It is clear from the start that Olaf is looking forward to the experience. The house though old and familiar feels different in some way, released from the presence and weight of his parents. There is a sense of freedom in his demeanour as he wanders among the nearby glade, exploring the lush and heady plants that grow there in wild abundance. Furthermore, he is fascinated by his sister, Sissel, and her boyfriend Tore, spying on them from a short distance as they engage in a lover’s tiff.

She straightened up. Olaf was ready to run, but she did not move, and he grew quiet again, spellbound by this game that he knew would some day also be his own game. (p.8)

Once the scene has been set, the story gets underway in earnest as the evening descends and preparations for supper begin. Olaf and Sissel are alone in the house, Tore having left some time earlier. All of a sudden there is a sharp knock at the door, urgent and persistent in tone. Olaf runs to the door and opens it, only to be confronted by the following situation.

It hit him hard, and nailed him fast at first – prepared as he was for something unpleasant by that threatening knocking. He saw a small group of people. Four of them. They had come up to the porch. Two men were supporting or carrying a young woman, and a young girl stumbled down the steps; it must have been she who had pounded so heavily and demandingly on the door. Now she was down with the others again and hid in back of them.

One of the men turned the burden over to the other alone, lurched over to the post on the porch and pounded at it, meaninglessly and in confusion. He was a small tousled man with excited eyes and arms he could not hold still. What sort of people were they? The man waved his arms wildly in front of Olaf and shouted:

‘Is there someone here who can help us? Who are you, anyway?’ (pp. 27-28)

A family of five has just descended upon the house in the hope of gaining some help and shelter following the breakdown of their car. The group is notionally headed by Hjalmar, a rather nervous, fidgety man who spends most of his time fluttering around and chattering incessantly. Then there is Hjalmer’s son, Karl, a brusque man whose primary concern is getting urgent medical assistance for his heavily pregnant wife, Grete, who appears to be in the early stages of labour. Accompanying them is Karl’s younger sister, Gudrun, a girl who bears a striking resemblance to an imaginary friend of Olaf’s – she even shares the same name as his make-believe confidante. Last but not least, the group is completed by Kristine – Hjalmer’s second wife – who at first appears to be unable to walk or talk, although later this turns out to be far from the case.

In essence, these deeply flawed, dysfunctional individuals bring all their psychological baggage and troubles into the house, inflicting their problems on Olaf and Sissel in the process. What follows is a series of oblique conversations undercut with family tensions, rash words and brooding silences. Here’s a short excerpt from a typical scene.

Olaf had to look at the two beside the radio again. They sat there as if they were playing some sort of mute game no one else knew. The man flitted around, chattered, picked things up and put them down again. The woman sat motionless in the chair. Olaf was on her side and said:

‘But I guess he wasn’t so awfully nice in the car.’

Gudrun looked at him quickly:

‘What do you know about that?’

‘Just heard about it. That’s the way it was, isn’t it?’

‘No one was nice in the car,’ Gudrun replied curtly. (pp. 48-49)

As Olaf tries to make sense of it all, several questions are raised in his (and the reader’s) mind. Why is Kristine pretending to be mute when she can clearly talk? Why does she appeal to Olaf for help and protection against her husband? Why does Karl remain so agitated, even once a midwife arrives to support Grete? And what exactly went on in the car before it arrived at Olaf and Sissel’s house?

While Vesaas doesn’t provide any easy answers to these questions, he does create an interesting set-up in the house. There is the basis for a terrific noir here – the hot and sultry weather; the unsettling atmosphere of the setting; the two innocent teenagers home alone for the night; and the group of unhinged strangers who pitch up unannounced, brimming with unexplained tensions and secrets – but instead Vesaas takes the narrative in a different direction, one that I found somewhat unsatisfying in the end. I think this story is meant to a young boy’s loss of innocence as Olaf comes face to face with the complexities and confusions of the adult world. (He is certainly affected by the dramatic events of the night, and by each and every one of the visitors he encounters.) Nevertheless, I found it much less successful than several other books I’ve read which explore this timeless theme in different ways – novels like Alberto Moravia’s evocative Agostino; Stefan Zweig’s impressive Burning Secret; L. P. Hartley’s classic The Go-Between; and, a recent favourite, Olivia Manning’s wonderful School for Love. In the end, I found Spring Night rather oblique and ambiguous, too evasive for my tastes.

My other quibble relates to the character of Olaf. While it is suggested at the beginning of the novel that he is fourteen, later on it emerges that he is the same age as Gudrun who is thirteen. Either way, Olaf struck me as being much younger in his thought processes and actions, probably closer to eleven, although I’m willing to accept that he may have led a very sheltered life.

On a more positive note, the simplicity of Vesaas’ pared-back prose works well with the novel’s themes and point-of-view. The story is told mainly from Olaf’s perspective, so the style matches his childlike view of the world. Vesaas also does well in conveying the dark and brooding atmosphere of the surrounding landscape, especially in the opening chapters. There is a sense of something dangerous lurking in the nearby glade, an early sign of things to come. If only the bulk of the book had lived up to the promise of those early chapters, perhaps it would have resulted in a more satisfying reading experience for me.

Spring Night is published by Peter Owen; personal copy.