October

 October by John Clare (1793-1854)

Nature now spreads around, in dreary hue,
A pall to cover all that summer knew;
Yet, in the poet's solitary way,
Some pleasing objects for his praise delay;
Something that makes him pause and turn again,
As every trifle will his eye detain: —
The free horse rustling through the stubble field;
And cows at lair in rushes, half conceal'd;
With groups of restless sheep who feed their fill,
O'er clear'd fields rambling wheresoe'er they will;

The hedger stopping gaps, amid the leaves,
Which time, o'er-head, in every colour weaves;
The milkmaid pausing with a timid look,
From stone to stone, across the brimming brook;
The cotter journeying with his noisy swine,
Along the wood-side where the brambles twine,
Shaking from mossy oaks the acorns brown,
Or from the hedges red haws dashing down;
The nutters, rustling in the yellow woods,
Who teaze the wild things in their solitudes;

Cardiff

      To Cardiff on Friday to buy a suit for a family funeral this week.  I'm not at my best at the moment so the day was a bit of trial.  I did however manage to take a few photos of the public buildings in Cathays Park, perhaps the best collection of such structures in Late Victorian Britain.  As I think I have said before, the urbanism is not that special - the layout is just, after all, a simple grid - but the buildings, the earliest ones that is, are of an extraordinary richness and complexity. Baroque in the blurring of categories particularly between architecture and sculpture.  Eclectic in their sources, as was typical in Britain in the late 19th & early 20th centuries.  And finally, as always with a building of this period, the detailing is superb. 

Stephen Calloway in 'English Style'

      I was flicking through 'English Style' by Suzanne Slesin and Stafford Cliff  the other day, and I was left wondering who created the interior below - the text contains no name, but the owner is described as 'a curator at the V&A'.  I was considering if it was the work of Sir Roy Strong - who rarely, if ever, appears books such as these - when suddenly I had one of those light bulb moments and thought of the historian and curator Stephen Calloway, and whose flat I have posted about here.  Well, sure enough, a quick comparison of images from the original House & Gardens article and these below revealed furniture and other items in common.  It may therefore be safe to assume that these highly sophisticated interiors share the same owner, and is indeed Stephen Calloway.  Whoever the owner I find these rooms immensely satisfying.  But what of the relationship between both interiors in time?

Aberglasney

     To Aberglasney Tuesday where summer is fading into autumn. Afterwards a short walk up the hill to the village hall, aka 'The Temperance Hall', and an art and antiques exhibition by Studio Cennen, a revival of the exhibitions that they held in the hall before Lockdown.

Own Work: Arundel House Arch

     Finally a new painting to show you.  A depiction of a now non-existent gate Inigo Jones designed for Arundel House, London.  Mannerism in full flow, almost Jacobean.  Mixed media.

September

September by John Clare (1793-1864)

Harvest awakes the morning still,
And toil's rude groups the valleys fill;
Deserted is each cottage hearth
To all life, save the cricket's mirth;
Each burring wheel its sabbath meets,
Nor walks a gossip in the streets;
The bench beneath the eldern bough,
Lined o'er with grass, is empty now,
Where blackbirds, caged from out the sun,
Would whistle while their mistress spun:
All haunt the thronged fields, to share
The harvest's lingering bounty there.
As yet, no meddling boys resort
About the streets in idle sport;
The butterfly enjoys its hour,
And flirts, unchased, from flower to flower;
The humming bees, which morning calls
From out the low hut's mortar walls,
And passing boy no more controls —
Fly undisturb'd about their holes.

'Quartet in Autumn' by Barbara Pym

        A week or so ago, I finished Barbara Pym's late novel 'Quartet in Autumn' - a book I have been meaning to read for some time now; a fragment of a wider and perhaps now lost  Anglo-Catholic culture.  (After  dipping into Mervyn Peake's behemoth 'Titus Groan' I am now currently reading the patrician 'The Soldier Philosophers' by Anthony Powell.)
As you may remember I have written about 'Quartet in Autumn' before when I was reviewing Paul Scott's panoramic and intricate 'Jewel in the Crown', set in the final years of the British Raj. 

     Both writers had been shortlisted for the 1977 Booker Prize - Scott for 'Staying On' set in Post-Independence India, and Pym for 'Quartet in Autumn'.  Both writers were deserving of public recognition, but the prize went to Scott who was by then not only an alcoholic but dying of cancer. He was to ill to be present at the award ceremony and died four months later in March 1978. Pym at the time was in remission from breast cancer, but it returned and she died in early 1980.  
      'Quartet in Autumn' was conceived in the wake of her diagnosis and treatment in 1971,  when she was working in the office of the International African Institute in London, and it was the first of novel of hers to be published since 'No Fond Return of Love' in 1961.  Early on in the book, in language that reflects the opinion of various publishers, there is a description of the sort of novel that one of the main characters is looking for: 'She had been an unashamed reader of novels, but if she hoped to find one which reflected her own sort of life she had come to realize that the position of an unmarried, unattached, ageing woman is of no interest whatever to the writer of modern fiction.' 

    All of that changed, however, in the mid '70s when, following an article in 'The Times Literary Supplement', there was a shift critical opinion, with 'Quartet in Autumn' being published in 1977, followed by 'The Sweet Dove Died' in 1978.  Four novels were published posthumously.

      'Quartet in Autumn' is the story of four co-workers who share a single office.  They are all roughly the same age and are all facing retirement. The office is in some un-named and un-described organization in central London, in the early '70s.  Faceless perhaps, I suppose.  I suspect, though, it is some form of institute of higher education, possibly in Bloomsbury. There are two men, Edwin and Norman, and two women, Letty and Marcia, one of whom, Marcia, has, like Barbara Pym herself, undergone a mastectomy. What any of these four does exactly is a mystery, or rather an irrelevance, as this novel is, apart from the impending fear of old age - loneliness, illness, and death, essentially about those bonds that develop between people who have been thrown together in the workplace - people no doubt that wouldn't have naturally formed friendships - and what happens to those relationships where circumstances change, and how much we owe to them.

     Pym is the chronicler of the mundane, of lives that have not been successful according to the world.  The depicter of the precarious life, the life lived in the bedsitter or the rented room, of the small pleasure.  A sense of the inadequate and the failure pervades her work,  of roads un-adopted where 'removed lives, loneliness clarifies'.