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Lunching on Olympus
Forster asked me to open the mail piled on a nearby table and to go through it, setting aside anything personal or seemingly important for him to look at. And then, as it was nearing 11, he suggested that we go to the Senior Combination Room for coffee. He put on his overcoat, as I did mine, and slowly but surely he descended the staircase. We walked through the college—it was out of term, so not many students were around—and went into the SCR lounge. It was populated only by a few extraordinary-looking old men, bent under the weight of age and the burdens of study. No one spoke, and everyone sat so as to have no need to converse.
We were served our coffee and biscuits, and after a short time, Forster got up and led me outside. It was cold and clear. He suggested a walk along the River Cam. “Would that suit you?” he asked. “Of course,” I said. As we began to walk, he laced his arm through mine. Can you imagine how I felt—a boy from my circumstances, so American, so unfinished—walking along the backs of the Cambridge colleges with the man who wrote A Passage to India and Howards End on my arm as a silent companion?
At some point Forster began to remark on things he loved about particular colleges—their gardens and parts of the river. I followed his lead, and we wound up walking down the main street of the town; soon we were in front of Heffer’s, the university’s bookstore. Only then did I realize I hadn’t brought a book for him to sign. I asked him if I could run in and buy one. He said, “Yes,” and that he would wait outside.
I ran in, totally unfamiliar with the store and suddenly worried about leaving Forster in the street alone. I don’t know what I thought would happen, but I imagined headlines reporting an accident: “Forster Accompanied and Then Abandoned by a Visiting American Student.” I couldn’t find the novels section, but I caught sight of a hardbound edition of Lionel Trilling’s book on Forster and bought it in a desperate rush.
We then walked back to King’s and up to his room. “Now it is time for me to go,” I said, and I told him how grateful I was for his kindness. He asked where I would go, and I said back to Oxford. He said, “Let me sign your book,” and without explanation, I showed him the Trilling. He smiled and drew a line through the title—his name—and signed his name.
Philip Larkin:
“I never like to be more than five miles from home.”
Fifteen years later, when my family paid a summer visit to Christopher Ricks in England, Ricks had the idea that I ought to try to see Philip Larkin and offered to write Larkin and ask if he would see me. The year before in New York I had set up a lecture that Ricks had given about the poet. I asked Ricks if he would come with me. Absolutely not, he said. He wanted to ask for me—that would make him happy.
I do not have a copy of Ricks’s letter to Larkin, but I do have a copy of Larkin’s answer:
28 June 1982
Dear Christopher,
Thanks for your letter—this is the fourth week of having the painters in, which is why I haven’t replied.
It’s true I generally decline, with such gentleness as I can muster, self-proposed visits by chaps like yours, but I suppose I can break my own rules. On condition that
i. You name your man, & he isn’t someone I detest;
ii. It’s understood that this isn’t a precedent but a single exception;
iii. This is a private meeting and not an interview—very important this—
iv. He realizes I am seriously deaf & hard to talk to;
v. The meeting doesn’t last more than an hour or two; then I should be willing to oblige you.
Venue doubtful: I shall be in London in July. Here less trouble, but makes [rule] v. harder to observe. However, I leave this rather doubtful ball in your court.
Your life sounds exciting. If it isn’t the Faculty, it’s the College! Must be wearing.
Kind regards,
Yours, Philip
A day was set, and with every Larkin rule in mind, I drove to Hull, where Larkin was university librarian. On campus, I was directed to the library and asked for the librarian’s office. Larkin’s secretary promptly announced my arrival, and I was summoned into a large office. From behind his desk, a taller, balder, more affable Larkin than I had imagined came to shake my hand.
“Good morning, Professor Isenberg.”
“Good morning. Thank you for letting me come to see you. But first, I am not a professor.”
“Well, I see you are young, but surely you must be at least an associate professor.”
“No, I’m not an academic.”
Larkin’s smile widened with open delight. “Good. But somehow I got the impression of Ricks giving a lecture you helped arrange.”
“I will tell you about the setting—I think you would like it.”
“Please do. But what is your job now?”
“I have just begun working in newspapers.”
His face showed less of a smile.
“What do you do?”
“I’m assistant to the publisher of Newsday, a large newspaper in Long Island, New York, where I’m learning the business and hope one day to run one.”
“Good,” he said, his face brightening again. “You’re neither a reporter nor an academic.” “Come,” he said, “I propose we go for a pub lunch in the country. I will be happy to drive.”
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