The Centenary of 'May Fair' by Michael Arlen: A Guest Post by John Howard

  

Mayfair is that part of the West End of London bounded by Park Lane, Oxford Street, Regent Street, and Piccadilly. It was a grid of fine streets with cobbled mews behind and narrow lanes such as those of Shepherd’s Market; a village of townhouse terraces and aristocratic mansions set in their own gardens; the grandeur of Grosvenor Square as well as the sloping irregular space of Berkeley Square. Historically Mayfair was a part of London where the very rich and those of more modest means lived next to each other: an impecunious writer could inhabit a shabby room a few yards from the residence of a duke.

Some writers seem to stake out their territories and define their times. They make them their own. Such an author was Michael Arlen (1895-1956) who chronicled the lives of a set of inhabitants of his – even then – disappearing Mayfair during the Prohibition-free British version of the Jazz Age.

Arlen’s first novel, The London Venture (1920), was autobiographical, describing a young man’s ‘assault on London’. These Charming People (1923) was subtitled ‘being a tapestry of the fortunes, follies, adventures, galanteries and general activities’ of the recurring characters who connect the stories, set against the background of Mayfair. Arlen’s Mayfair seems a place somewhat apart, as if behind invisible barriers. There the ‘right’ people loved, lost, and had their being in a London of sunshine, fog, rain, moonlight and stars. Strange things can happen; the supernatural and uncanny are never far away in Arlen’s stories. There can be intrusions anywhere, and the ordered streets and fine houses of Mayfair were no exception.

These Charming People was successful, and Michael Arlen became a literary celebrity. His novel The Green Hat (1924) was a bestseller, as was May Fair, the book that followed. My copy is from the seventh impression – still from the month of original publication, which was one hundred years ago in June 1925.

May Fair was a sequel to These Charming People and boasted a similarly lengthy subtitle: ‘…purporting to reveal to Gentlefolk the Real State of Affairs…together with Suitable reflections on the last follies, misadventures, and galanteries…’. Unlike the earlier stories those in May Fair do not rely as much on recurring characters to link them. It is more Mayfair itself, as the common setting and background, that emerges as the main character. Brick and stone complement the flesh and blood.

May Fair consists of ten stories, together with a long Prologue and Arlen’s ‘au reservoir’ “Farewell, These Charming People”. The stories are written in the rather convoluted and circumlocutory style that Arlen had developed: a leisurely pleasure and indulgence after the initial challenge of settling into it. Appropriately, its Baroque quality was modern and reflected the contemporary rebuilding of the West End and its transformation from the domestic and elegant brick and stucco of the Georgian and Regency eras to the large-scale Portland stone and concrete of the new commercial ‘Georgian Imperial’ age. May Fair was as much a valediction as a celebration of London.

The titles of the stories are evocative and enticing, for example: “A Romance in Old Brandy”, “The Battle of Berkeley Square”, “The Three-Cornered Moon”, and “The Ghoul of Golders Green”. Some stories include ‘novels’ reminiscent of those in Arthur Machen’s The Three Impostors. As the older writer had, Arlen wrote of a small group who ‘cannot remain commonplace’: ‘In my life, as you know, I have not had many dealings with the grotesque. But the grotesque seems lately to be desiring the very closest connection with me (116)’. Although Arlen’s flaneurs also stroll up and down Piccadilly, they live in Mayfair and dine there, rather than maintaining their rooms in Bloomsbury and patronising the restaurants of Soho.

For all Arlen’s fame and wealth, he seems never to have been quite accepted by many – perhaps those he wished to impress most. Did his success breed envy? His persona seemed at times to be an attempt to answer un-named disparagers and critics and prove himself at least as English as the native-born. Michael Arlen was originally Dikran Kouyoumdjian, born of Armenian parents in Bulgaria. He was brought to England as a child and received an exemplary public-school education. The young man had not been allowed to fight for King and Country in World War I: the country of his birth was one of the Central Powers and so an enemy, and he had not yet changed his name and become naturalised, which Arlen did in 1922.

Following the run of successful books during the 1920s Arlen still produced work that glittered, but which also reflected the continued ambiguities of his status. The novel Hell! Said the Duchess (1934) was reminiscent of The Great God Pan by Arthur Machen, while the effective combination of supernatural horror with a darkening view of London high society was Arlen’s own. He left for Italy and France before moving to the United States, returning to England at the outbreak of World War II to take a position in the Civil Defence organisation. Yet Arlen’s loyalty came under question again; he resigned and returned to the USA, where he lived until his death.

But Arlen and Mayfair could not be separated. The novelist and man of letters Anthony Powell was a decade younger than Arlen and outlived him by over forty years. Powell’s grand sequence of twelve novels A Dance to the Music of Time (1951-75) frequently used Mayfair and West End settings for the exploits of the coterie of exotic characters from across the class spectrum he found there – and chronicled throughout in an appropriately unhurried mannered style. In the second volume of his memoirs (Messengers of Day, 1978) Powell recalled that his arrival in London in 1926 had been influenced by Arlen: ‘…I might not have admitted to everyone that the Shepherd’s Market seduction scene which opens Michael Arlen’s novel, The Green Hat, chiefly caused me to set my sights on that small village enclave so unexpectedly concealed among the then grand residences of Mayfair’. Thirty years later Powell was to give Arlen luncheon, remembering him as ‘Small, slight, neat, infinitely sure of himself, yet somehow set apart from other people…’ (2).

Michael Arlen seems to have been a humane and urbane man, thoughtful and generous, who did not wish to reject his heritage but found himself marked by it as an incomer, the eternal outsider. And yet, perhaps, it takes such a one to perceive most sharply something of the veracities of the places they have chosen to inhabit and explore, rather than just the superficialities visible to all.

(John Howard)

 

How I Tried to Buy a Phantom Island from The Hudson's Bay Company

The recent news that The Hudson’s Bay Company in Canada is closing all its stores and has sold its brand names to a competitor, reminded me of my attempt to buy a non-existent island from the Company. Their plaque proudly boasts it was founded on 2 May 1670, when it was given charters by Charles II to explore lands in the North Atlantic, and exclusive rights to trade with these. By modern times it had developed into a chain of department stores selling household goods, hardware and soft furnishings, among other things.

I have long been interested in islands sighted, thought once to exist and marked on maps, but which we now know were navigational mistakes or fantasies. As I have noted before, there are a small number of charming and fascinating books on this theme, including Raymond Ramsay's No Longer On the Map (1972), Henry Stommel's Lost Islands: The Story of Islands That Have Vanished from Nautical Charts (1984) and Donald S Johnson's Phantom Islands of the Atlantic (1994).

One of these islands, supposed to be somewhere in the North Atlantic between Ireland and Iceland, was named Buss Island. This was sighted variously close to Rockall or further out, south of Greenland, and on several occasions. A Martin Frobisher expedition to find the North West Passage reported seeing it in 1578 from their ship Emanuel, a type of vessel known as a “buss”, hence the name.  

A captain of the Hudson’s Bay Company, Thomas Shepherd of the Golden Lion, claimed to have landed there in 1671. Taking no chances against rival powers, or rival merchants, the Company soon secured the rights to Buss Island from the king: and these rights had never been relinquished, though it was removed from maps in the early 19^th century. Explanations for its appearance include sunken islands, icebergs, mirages in mist and outright invention to justify further voyages.

In 2003 I wrote to the then current incarnation of the Company as follows: ‘This is a rather unusual query. In 1675 the Company was granted a Charter to an island that did not, in fact, exist: Buss Island, which had been mistakenly sighted by earlier mariners. I would like to acquire these rights from you, purely as a piece of whimsy, and because I am writing a novel based on the story. I know this may seem a somewhat out-of-the-ordinary inquiry . . .’

The idea had come to me after reading Margaret Elphinstone’s Hy Brasil (2002), about an imaginary version of this long-fabled island said to exist in the Atlantic. The author had kindly allowed me to issue stamps for her fictional version of the island, and I had in mind a similar plan for Buss Island. It was a shame it did not have a more romantic name: Emanuel, Frobisher’s, Shepherd’s or Golden Lion Island would have been much better. Perhaps I could re-name it. The novel I was writing, or rather thinking about, never got any further, although the idea of lost islands remains an alluring theme. 

The reply I received from the Company’s Manager of Heritage Services, was somewhat bemused but tolerant and quite interested. It read: ‘Yours is indeed an unusual request! Usually people who want to buy something from us are very interested in the tangible aspect of what they will obtain . . .  I am curious: where did you learn about Buss Island, and that Hbc "owned" it? The ready mention to it we found is in the Peter C. Newman book "A Company of Adventurers" but it certainly is not the only source talking about this island. I have initiated a discussion within the company - imaginary or not the island is, there are still administrative procedures to follow - and, can I share the fun we are all having over this? Newman mentions that the only surviving trace of Hbc ownership of Buss island is in the Northamptonshire Records Office: have you had the privilege of seeing it? . . . I would welcome any additional information you could pass on to me, it would be very much appreciated.’

The proof of the company’s rights to Buss Island to which this reply refers was a supplementary charter of which the only copy was in the Records Office named. This was in fact in my home county, which seemed a nice coincidence, and I knew this archive quite well since I had delved there when researching the holy wells of the shire, but I was unaware then of the important charter. Understandably, the charter was only available to view in person and by appointment, and I was then no longer near Northamptonshire. The Company did, however, draw my attention to an article in Beaver Magazine, entitled "Mythical land of Buss" by Alice M. Johnson, in the December 1942 issue, p.43-47, which reproduces an image of the charter.

I replied to this message on 7 March 2003, explaining ‘I heard about Buss Island in a book called "Phantom Islands of the Atlantic" by Donald S. Johnson (Goose Lane Editions, New Brunswick, 1994, and Souvenir Press, England, 1997). According to this (pps 72-3), HBC were granted a charter by Charles II bestowing ownership of the island and all the trading, mining rights, etc, in 1675. But in fact the island never existed: it was the result of navigational and sighting errors by mariners. There is an entire chapter in Johnson's book about the non-existent island.’

Sensing that even a non-existent island might have the potential to be what is called an incorporeal asset, and the Company, now alerted, might be reluctant to part with it, I made a bid instead for more fantastical licences. ‘It's very good of you to respond so well to what must seem a very peculiar request. May I just leave another thought with you? If for nostalgic or other reasons the Company could not see its way to "selling" the island, perhaps we could devise some fanciful rights in the island that the Company could grant to me - such as, for example, the rights to any dragons’ eggs or serpent farming or silver mines!’

Well, no doubt the Company had plenty of other pressing business and it was good-humoured of them to indulge me thus far. In due course I received a brief and evidently final reply thanking me again for re-acquainting them with Buss Island but adding that the Company had decided not to dispose of any of its rights. There was, I recall, during the correspondence, a vague idea that they might somehow make use of the island in their heritage brands, but I am not aware that anything ever came of this. I wonder whether the new owners know about the island? Perhaps I should put in another bid for those dragons’ eggs . . .

(Mark Valentine)

Picture: Map of Buss Island by John Seller (1671).

An Essay on Flecker - T.E. Lawrence

  

The poet James Elroy Flecker, author of ‘The Golden Journey to Samarkand’ and many other fine verses, served briefly as a diplomat in the Near East around 1911 before ill health forced him to retire. Here, however, he struck up a notable friendship with T.E. Lawrence and in 1925, a hundred years ago, the latter wrote a draft of an essay on him, intended for publication in a periodical. Flecker was at the height of his posthumous fame then, following the lavish London production of his verse drama Hassan, from 1923 onwards: and an earlier drama, Don Juan, was first published in 1925.

Lawrence recalled visiting Flecker at the British Vice-Consulate in Beyrouth (Beirut), where they discovered a mutual interest in literature and in languages. Lawrence noticed a copy of the anthology Georgian Poetry, and Flecker admitted he was in it, commenting that it was “jolly useful. Shows how much better a poet I am than my contemporaries.” 

Lawrence paid tribute to Flecker’s poetry, calling him “the sweetest singer of our generation”, and also noted that the flamboyant Flecker was a serious student and scholar of verse: “he was wrapped up in poetics, making a wide, exact, skilful study of how other men had written.” The piece was unfinished and peters out into fragmentary notes.

The essay was not published at that time but two highly limited editions were later issued to protect copyright. As with anything else by Lawrence, particularly rarities, these are now highly collectable. The first edition was issued by The Corvinus Press in May 1937, the imprint of the bibliophile and private press enthusiast George Seymour, Viscount Carlow, a friend of Lawrence: the two shared these enthusiasms. It was in an edition of 30 copies only and intended purely for private circulation. The press also published Lawrence’s Two Arabic Folk Tales (1939).

A second copyright edition was published in the USA in 1937 by Doubleday Doran in a stated edition of 56 copies, although Lawrence’s brother and literary executor A.W. Lawrence thought there might in fact have been up to 70. It is not uncommon for limited editions to have a few extra copies that are hors de commerce, for file, replacement or administrative purposes.

I was a young enthusiast of both Flecker and Lawrence and wrote an essay on Flecker, ‘The Singer of Samarkand’, for Book & Magazine Collector 251, revised and collected in A Country Still All Mystery (2017). In February 1988, I noted that T. E. Lawrence’s work had come out of copyright under the then 50 year rule in the UK, but that it was shortly to go back into copyright with the introduction of the new 70 year rule as part of European Union harmonisation.

I therefore rushed out an edition of An Essay on Flecker under my own Mark Valentine imprint. I had earlier used this for booklets by Joel Lane, John Gale and John Howard.

In the essay, Lawrence reports Flecker’s description of an Italian bombardment of Beirut, when the poet became embroiled in a riot because he and another diplomat were mistaken by the local populace for Italians, and had to be rescued by a Turkish policeman. This hero was rewarded by the Russian service with fifty pounds, whereas, Flecker noted bitterly, the British Embassy only sent him a silver cigarette case. He knew his worth better than that, Lawrence observes. 

Flecker had himself written a largely overlooked account of this episode, ‘Forgotten Warfare’, so I added this to Lawrence’s essay, the first time I think the link had been made.

Nicholas Blinko provided a cover portrait of Flecker, a version of the photograph above, but capturing his later worn, lean figure as well as the dandyish pose. I issued the A5 centre-stapled booklet in sand-yellow covers in an edition (as I recall) of 100 copies.

It was, alas, I have to confess, merely a flimsy photocopied affair, partly for speed and partly because that was all I could afford. If I had then been better acquainted with the private press world, I might have approached one of those and produced a more worthy publication. Still, it did at least bring the essay back into print for a bit, the Flecker essay was a useful additional sidelight, and Nick’s artwork was a great evocation of the poet. And even this edition can be quite collectable. 

(Mark Valentine)