The death of Chapman Winstone Blubberhouse in 1999 appears to have passed unnoticed by any newspaper or literary magazine. Even his local Worthing newspaper returned the obituary notice that was sent to them. Their sub-editor explained that due to the disproportionately high age of their readership, obituaries had been discontinued, their inclusion taking up too much space in the newspaper.

Perhaps the two recent discussions of Blubberhouse on Radio 4's Home Truths program (22/9/01 and 29/9/01) are all the posthumous fame that he will achieve, although it is hoped that this modest website might help to at least preserve his reputation. I am not sure whether the discussions on Radio 4 would have amused or annoyed him, for in the program he was once more assumed by the national media to never have existed. This humiliation followed the assertion by The Sunday Times in 1994 that he was too good to be true. He was certainly amused when The Sunday Times also attacked the Times Literary Supplement for printing his letter in defence of publishers' "puffs". He had also written to The Sunday Times to complain of a "vendetta" against Jeanette Winterson, which led them to investigate him. It was a great source of amusement to Blubberhouse when they sent out a reporter to his house in Wiltshire to check on his authenticity. He had moved to Worthing a few days beforehand and because the "diligent" reporter could not find him at home, The Sunday Times assumed that the TLS had been subjected to some prank.

The first interest in Blubberhouse for many decades came when the Port of Souls Press published my Brief Biography of Blubberhouse in 1993. At the time Blubberhouse studies were in their infancy, and any information about him hard to come by:

Chapman Winstone Blubberhouses was born on New Year's Eve 1899, close enough to the nineties of Wilde and Beardsley to allow him to claim a sympathy with the decadents. The only son of Winstone Blubberhouses, an industrialist and philanthropist, Chapman spent his early years at Blubberhouses Hall, near Harrogate. His father was apparently happy to tolerate Chapman's earnest desire to be a writer: old family money was augmented by profits from the manufacture of a patent agricultural valve, and it was never expected that any member of the family should work.

Fig.2 The young Blubberhouse, c.1908

Chapman Blubberhouses was an only son, and received a good private education. Before going up to Oxford, C.W. Blubberhouse, as he styled himself (discarding the 's') published The Sigil of the Breeze. This collection of precocious and rather lightweight poetry was indifferently received by the few reviewers who bothered to mention it. A gem in its printing and production, The Sigil of the Breeze is, even today, more sought after for its binding than the poetry it contains.

At Oxford Blubberhouse met Algernon Blooms, a would-be war poet who in 1918 committed suicide in sympathy with those who died on the battlefields of France. Blubberhouse became obsessed with death and his own misfortune in being too young to be called up. It was at this time that he wrote The Dismal and Desultory Death of the Damsel Fly, an epic sonnet sequence which was apparently condemned by one tutor as in "the very nadir of taste".

Fig.3 Algernon Blooms, 1918

While Blubberhouse was at Oxford the family business was ruined and the young poet returned home to find Blubberhouses Hall boarded up. He learnt that his family were living in reduced circumstances in Clithero, with relatives, and that his father was very ill. In his journal Blubberhouse talks of "mooning around for months at the gate of the Hall, the seat of my forefathers." In reality he went to his family and was asked to part with the little money that he had not yet spent at Oxford. He resolved that his family should be regain their former position, and for some time made improbable plans to restore the family fortune. Congenitally ill-suited to most forms of employment, Blubberhouse hit upon the solution of a bestselling novel. The Spaces In Between was written and published in the same year (1920) by a respected London publisher. It was well-reviewed and Chapman Blubberhouse moved to London in the expectation of large royalties.

The Spaces in Between is a torrid novel which he himself described as "a pornographic melodrama - destined to ruffle the precious feathers of the refined public and sell by the barrow-load". The book failed to live up to his hopes, however, with the result that Blubberhouse disappeared from public view, and for the next decade or so we have few clues as to how he spent his time.

Just over fifteen years later C.W. Blubberhouse briefly re-surfaces on the letter pages of The Times, offering a recipe for quince beer. This unlikely refreshment is alluded to in a letter from Evelyn Underhill, writer and mystic, who tells of "a failed poet who comes home from a minor position in the town to a gaudy apartment and dreams of great literature. He gave me quince beer, showed me his collection of damsel flies, alluded to the manuscripts of great unpublished poems under his bed, and played delicately upon the virginals. He gave me a copy of one of his books, which is wonderfully bound."

Diligent researches have failed to discover more of Chapman Blubberhouse.

The Old Hermitage

The Close

Salisbury

Wiltshire

3rd December 1993

Sir,

An antiquarian bookseller who happens to number me among his customers has forwarded your publication C.W. Blubberhouse: A Brief Biography. As you will observe from the proleptic signature appended to this communication, the subject of your opuscule is still very much alive, albeit frail, and in the poor health which befits a nonagenarian.

While exceedingly flattered by the attentions of yourself and your colleagues J. Wychwood and M. Cardigan (I am presuming, perhaps naively, that these personages possess corporeal existence), I should have thought that common courtesy, if not commonsense, would have dictated that you make some cursory attempts to determine whether I was among the quick or the dead before publishing and distributing your monograph. A communication sent care of the Society of Authors or the Savage Club would have found me.

Inevitably perhaps, your publication contains a number of egregious errors and inexactitudes. Were I to enumerate all the production's shortcomings, this letter would probably exceed the length of your jeu d'esprit. So I shall confine myself to only the most serious matters. For example, the less than distinguished name of Algernon Blooms is invoked to little apparent purpose. I must point out that my acquaintanceship with this soi-disant poet (an individual of marked sodomitic tendencies, I regret to say) was of the slightest, and his felo de se was no profound loss to either the world of letters or the world at large.

Much more serious and distressing is the quotation from my Journal relating to my early novel The Spaces in Between. This remark is taken completely and utterly out of context. To the best of my recollection, my actual words were: 'The critics will doubtless dismiss the book as pornographic melodrama' etc. By omitting the first eight words of the sentence, 'Mr Wychwood' implies that I had only mercenary motives for launching upon the craft of the novel. The Spaces in Between was written purely because it demanded to be written. Never have I penned a single line for gain or pecuniary advantage -- even during those unhappy periods when my daily diet consisted of bread and cheese consumed in a rat-haunted garret. What I have written I have written for Art alone, because my soul cried out for expression. And may my Blessed Muse be my judge!

I was somewhat dismayed to find that your little effusion terminates on rather a lame note. 'Diligent researches have failed to discover more of Chapman Blubberhouse' indeed! Might I suggest that slightly more diligence would have led to the discovery of the several novels, biographies and verse collections published under a variety of pseudonyms between the years 1935 and 1959; particularly as a number of these works are now collector's items, and sought rather more for the contents than for the quality of their bindings.

A mass of letters and manuscript material relating to the later stages of my career is in the keeping of the literary scholar whom I have nominated as my future biographer. I refer to Miss P------, of S----- Road, London. Miss P----- is an individual of the utmost discretion, refinement, taste, and her literary sensibilities are irrefutably impeccable. She is a lady whom I have had the honour and privilege of knowing since she was -- as a late poet once characterized her - 'a nymph in ragged jeans'. If you are contemplating any further pieces of what might be termed Blubberhousian ephemera, I should be grateful if you would submit your material in draft to Miss P----- for her scrutiny and, doubtless, her emendations.

 

To the Author

17 Beardsley Villas

WIMBLEDON

SW19 8QP

14 January 1894 (sic)

My dear Sir

As you can see, I am presently far from my usual Wiltshire haunts, currently enjoying - if that is the word - the sights, sounds and smells of this Babylonian metropolis (and yearning for a stiff walk across Blubberhouses Moor - ah, the melancholy of long departed youth! A stiff walk would see me off nowadays. As you will be aware, I have recently celebrated my ninety-fifth birthday. Or was it my ninety-fourth? I fear that mathematics was ever my weak point!).

I thought you might care to see my latest literary effusion: a poor thing but mine own. At my age my only recreation, aside from desultory reading of fin de siecle novels, is watching the idiot's lantern. I am ashamed to say I become quite involved in the fictitious lives of those shadows who flit across the screen. A foolish pursuit, I know; but you in your time will know the horrors and weaknesses which eld brings. Would that I were young and lithe as of old - I should compose a triumphal melody upon the virginals; but alack, dear Cynara's dear reign is ended for all time.

"All fled - all done, so lift me on the pyre;

The feast is over and the lamps expire."

Alas, I can't even claim that couplet as my own: it was, inspired by dear Dowson, the product of a suicide; I forget just who, but it was certainly not the unfortunate Algernon Blooms of hoary Oxford memory. (Don't you think "finished" would be a more appropriate word than the too-abrupt "over" in the second line? I do.)

Those pestilential sub-editors at The Stage newspaper have pruned my letters of all its rich orotundities and poetic circumlocutions, so that it appears to have been perpetrated by some adolescent, lovesick swain. As a student of my work, you must agree that the style bears no relation to my proper mode. Furthermore, cryptic references to television productions I have never even heard of, let alone seen, have been interjected. Who on earth, for example, is Catweazle? I despair of modern journalism ...

17 Beardsley Villas

Wimbledon

London

SW

God alone knows what the date is ...

My dear Sir

It occurred to me that you might possibly welcome the enclosed photostatic copy of the ancient dwelling place which will forever abide in my heart as the scene of my happiest hours. Merely gazing at a photographic reproduction of the crumbling pile makes me feel lachrymose in the extreme. My last visit to Blubberhouses, some years ago now, was bitter-sweet indeed. Much is altered within, and - you will hardly believe it - a pestilential stink-works has been erected contiguous to the house. Furthermore, the 'smallest room' contains a most peculiar piece of porcelain, the like of which I would never have expected to see within the walls of a respectable house. Possibly this is the result of some villainous continental influence. All of which led to me murmuring Hardy's tender lines

'Ah, the years, the years!

And the rotten rose is ripped from the wall`.

The sight of the old dog grate in the main hall brought a veritable deluge of tears to my rheumy eyes. For it was against this that my aged father Winstone collapsed after receiving news of the fall of the family fortunes. Father was never the same again - and nor, alas, was the dog grate.

Passing on to happier matters: I have a most pleasant telephone conversation this week with my darling Miss P----. The sweet child settled two matters which had been perplexing me beyond reason. Firstly, she informed me, greatly to my delight, that I am only ninety-four, and not ninety-five as I had feared. As you will recall, I have been somewhat confused on the question (though it has subsequently occurred to me that Suzanna may have merely been attempting to cheer me). Secondly, my amanuensis (a word she dislikes, I fear) enlightened me as to the identity of the television personage Catweazle. He, it appears, was a magician from Norman times who escaped to the twentieth century only to find himself a stranger and exile in our barbarous, mechanized world. I had to smile at this revelation - for am not I in the same unhappy predicament? Exiled 'out of space, out of time' as it were; I am an outsider in this century. Ah, the years, the years!

From the subject of Catweazle, dear S------ went off on a tangent, and began excitedly gabbling about - of all things - the late Vivienne Haigh-Wood's elderly solicitor! I must confess I could hardly follow this divagation; though I knew Vivie through the Woolfs. She was a "dem fine gel", if a trifle erratic. (Never cared for the husband - pretentious and had fascistic tendencies, you know.) I remember an embarrassing scene which Vivie staged at "Blackshirt" Darlington's place near Oxford ("Traitor's Nest") in the early thirties. Luckily, Darlington's splendid butler saved the day. . . .

With all good wishes, I remain

C.W. B.

Flat 4

1 Cowper Road

Worthing

Sussex

Dear Sir,

Ever since I published a couple of not terribly well received novels before the war I have hankered after fame and fortune. Now in my dotage I have hit upon a scheme which may be foolproof:

I intend to start up a cult religious sect to be known as the Esoteric Order of the Starry Sigil. I require of my followers no self or mass immolation, no blind obedience or brainwashing, merely a donation of, say, a tenth of their wages. For this modest sum they will be allowed to claim membership of the sect whenever they wish to discourage unwelcome friends, relatives or neighbours. I have found it even more effective than claiming membership of a pyramid selling organisation or the Conservative Party.

Yours sincerely

C.W. Blubberhouse

Flat 4

1 Cowper Road

Worthing

Sussex

Dear Mr Russell,

An acquaintance of taste and discretion has suggested that you might be the person to help dispose of a rather delicate collection of mine. I was prompted to unearth these literary items by a recent move I have had to make to Worthing, and by seeing an article on a Mr Humphries in The Torygraph a few weeks back. It appears that he shares an interest of mine, and no doubt others do too. I had, at first, thought offering him a couple of hundred for the pair of Hubert Crackenthorpe's sisters' calico bloomers, but then thought, hold up, old man, why not offer your own collection for sale?

I am a rather decayed nonagenarian, and had a little success as a writer and belletrist between the wars. In the twenties and thirties I breezed around the edges of literary society, and managed to acquire the following:

Vita Sackville-West's knickers (heavy, industrial things)

Nina Hamnett's knickers (v. skimpy)

Mary Webb's bloomers (voluminous - uncertain provenance)

I must stress that all have been scrupulously washed (I understand that this is a requirement of the G.P.O., if they are to be posted.)

I have one other pair, which I may be willing to part with, but only for a sensible sum, and they are Jeanette Winterson's. These were given to me personally when I went on a pilgrimage to see the nymph two years ago. They are sensible M&S, lightly flowered, and, again, clean.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Chapman Winstone Blubberhouse

Flat 4

1 Cowper Road

Worthing

Sussex

3rd October 1995

My Dear Mr Russell,

Goodness, but how I am bothering you! I am in sad need of ready money again, so yes, you can have Jeanette Winterson's pants if you like. I have been delving further into the old Blubberhouse archive and can offer the following photographs for sale - say twenty pounds each, ready money?:

1. Yours truly, Chapman Winstone Blubberhouse (see fig. 1)

2. My father, Winstone Blubberhouses (see fig. 4)

3. That old sod (and I use the term accurately) Algernon Blooms (who caused the whole bloody stupid cult of Hyacinthus, when he performed the one sensible act of his life - suicide.) (see fig. 3)

4. The Old Sod and his sad, afflicted mother. (see fig. 5)

I am desperately poor, and any handouts would be appreciated. I haven't been so poor since that time I was forced to give painting lessons to certain members of the Bloomsbury set (I was so poor I wasn't able to tell them that they were all colourblind and should take up some other hobby, such as macrame - I haven't felt so guilty since that time I taught Denton Welch to ride a bicycle.)

On another note, I don't suppose you have any contacts with the French Government? I was thinking of offering my flat as a site for nuclear tests. These miserable southern neighbours would complain, no doubt, but I'm sure that our government would turn a blind eye. I don't know what this country is coming to

Take pity on this old man, whose life is now only a slow rallentando.

Yours sincerely,

Chapman Winstone Blubberhouse

Flat 4

1 Cowper Road

Worthing

Sussex

My Dear Mr Russell,

Further to my recent epistle, you might like to know that I have had a very useful meeting with a ludicrously young gentleman at Christies, the auctioneers. He was extremely interested in my collection of literary undergarments, but stressed that the provenance was of the greatest importance. Apparently the embroidered "Mary Webb" isn't good enough, but the documentation with the other knickers are fine. However, he requires a percentage that would keep him in Saville Row suits far into his dotage. He encouraged me to sell, but I shall keep with the spirit of Fabius Cunctator.

I have been corresponding with Clive Bell, the arty Bloomsbury relic who lives along the coast from here. I told him that I had once hoped to acquire a pair of Virginia Woolfe's knickers, but one night, drunk in the pub at Rodmell, Leonard Woolfe told him that she never wore any.

Oh Melpomene!

Yours sincerely,

Chapman Winstone Blubberhouse

Publishing puffs

Sir, - I must take issue with Michael Howard's complaint about publishers' promotional tactics in asking authors for commendatory "puffs' (Letters, July 8). Why shouldn't publishers solicit some acclaim for books in order to catch the eye of discriminating (and cash-conscious) readers? If I see a few words of praise by John Fowles or Anthony Burgess on a book, I will promptly purchase it. This harmless practice not only helps publishers, readers and authors, but serves literature: books that may otherwise be ignored by the public get a little extra attention. If authors who are approached think a particular manuscript is a dud, they are free to say so, and the matter ends there.

By way of contrast to Professor Howard's peevish announcement in your columns, I hereby give notice to all concerned that I should be delighted to consider any publishers' requests for endorsements. I doubt whether my ungainly, unpoetic name on a dust-jacket would encourage sales, but it may prompt my own publishers to rescue my novels and verse collections from woeful obscurity and bring them back into print.

CHAPMAN W. BLUBBERHOUSE

Rolfe House, The High Street, Marshfield, Wiltshire.

Flat 4

1 Cowper Road

Worthing

Sussex

My dear Sir,

I am much indebted to our mutual friend, the antiquarian bookdealer who requires no name, for his timely cheque. He insists, however, that you should receive these offerings from the Blubberhouse family album for reproduction in the projected Last of the Blubberhouses.

1. The young C.W.B. A deuced handsome lad, and bright with it. (see fig. 2)

2. Another rather fine portrait of mine own good self. ('Friends' have said that it is unrepresentative, but I believe it noble enough. Perhaps it should appear on the dustwrapper? I believe that it suggests all of the right qualities - a poet, scholar, and handy with the ladies. (see fig. 1)

3. My venerable father. (see fig. 4)

4. I do not know why I have this photograph of Blooms, or ... (see fig. 3)

5. ... Blooms and his mother. I had thought that they were destroyed along with his letters and the pink smoking jacket he left behind him. (see fig. 5)

6. My nurse, Miss Nelly Hemp (old Hump I called her, for she taught me the facts of life. When my father found out he had her soundly whipped, which both parties would have enjoyed. (see fig. 6)

7. Cousins Annie and Clarabel, Siamese twins, and heroines, of course, of The Spaces in Between. (see fig. 7)

The money shall be very useful. I hope to hear you give a paper on old C.W.B. at the forthcoming Aylesford Conference in Oxford. I will need some loose change to buy a few drinks for my old friend Dame Lalage Ferris-Fermo.

Yours sincerely,

Chapman Winstone Blubberhouse