and the Giant Peach, set him on the path to becoming one of the best loved and entertaining authors in history. What is clear from his countless letters home during World War II, however, is that Dahl had been honing his craft for some time.
THE LETTER
Dear Mama
I just got a cold; the first one that I’ve had for many months, since last spring, I think. There’s not much point in telling you because by the time you get this, it will be gone – or I hope so anyway.
Last week a friend of mine in the embassy called Paul Scott Rankin went on leave. He left behind him for me to take care of, his enormous brown bulldog, called Winston. I said I didn’t mind; he looked all right. But Winston is no ordinary old dog. He is stupid and lecherous and cantankerous and all the time he grunts and snorts and slobbers. Paul said, let him sleep in your bedroom and he will be all right. He snorts all of the time, but you will find that pleasant and soporific. So the first night Winston slept in my bedroom. He snored and grunted and made a great noise all night, and I slept very little.
In the morning I took him into the embassy and let him sit in my office. But he farted continuously and with great gusto. Once he did it whilst I was dictating to the secretary, and I had to turn him out on the spot so that she wouldn’t think it was me. But he scratched on the door and I had to let him in again and open all the windows. He continued to fart regularly and contentedly for the rest of the day, and I was very cold with the windows open. Once when I went out of the room to see someone, I came back to find him sitting on top of my desk amidst piles of secret papers and red boxes which had G.R. in gold on their lids. I threw him off and he farted again.
That evening I had supper with crown prince Olav and Martha at the Norwegian embassy so while I went in I left Winston in the car. After dinner I said that I would have to go out and give Winston a walk and let him have a pee. They all said, ‘Bring him in.’ I said, ‘He farts; he isn’t any good and he has no respect for royalty.’ They said, ‘Bring him in.’ So I brought him in and he spent the rest of the evening slinking around the room casting lustful eyes in the direction of the crown princess and belching quickly. He only farted once there, and they thought it was a Norwegian ambassador, so that was all right. The ambassador was embarrassed.
That evening I locked him in the kitchen. In the night he broke down the door, after relieving himself on the floor, and came rushing upstairs to the bathroom, where he shat hugely and decisively in the middle of my pink bathmat. I didn’t sleep much that night either.
The next day at the embassy was very much the same as the one before. Then in the evening I was dining with Carlos and Maria Martins, the Brazilian ambassador and wife, so I took him in. Now Carlos Martins is a great connoisseur of food and wines, but with Winston lying underneath the table during dinner, he was not able to smell either the bouquet of the wine or the aroma of the food. He smelt only the smell which this wretched dog was making below. Carlos said after dinner, ‘Winston makes much bad smell, eh?’ I said yes he did, he was constipated. Then the next morning, completely exasperated, I took him to a luxurious and expensive dog’s home and told them to keep him until Paul came back. Never get a bulldog . . .
Much hard work here.
Lots of love to all
Roald
LETTER 04
SHE’S NOT A BONE!
Lewis Carroll to Alexandra Kitchin
21 August 1873
Alexandra ‘Xie’ Kitchin was born in 1864 to the Dean of Durham, Reverend George Kitchin, and his wife, Alice. From an early age, Xie – and to a lesser extent her three brothers, Herbert, Hugh and Brook, as well as her sister Dorothy Maud Mary – regularly sat for portraits taken by an old school friend of her father’s, Charles Dodgson. Dodgson is better known as Lewis Carroll, author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Carroll photographed all of the Kitchins, but it was with Xie in particular that he shared a sense of humour, as evidenced by this letter, written when she was nine.
THE LETTER
Christ Church, Oxford
August 21, 1873
My dear Xie,
Poor, poor Hugh and Brook! Have you quite forgotten that you’ve got three brothers? Why mayn’t they choose photographs too? I said “the children,” you know. But perhaps you will say they are not children, but that you and Herbert are the only two children, and they are two little old men. Well, well, perhaps they are: and then of course they won’t care about photographs: but they do look very young, I must say.
The day after you went, I passed by your garden, and saw the little pug-dog wandering in and out, and it turned up its nose at me. So I went up to it and said, “It is not good manners to turn up your nose at people!” Its eyes filled with tears, and it said, “I wasn’t doing it at you, Sir! It was only to keep myself from crying.” “But what are you crying about, little pug-dog?” said I. The poor little dog rubbed its paws over its eyes, and said, “Because my Ex—” “Because your Extravagance has ruined you?” I said. “Then let it be a lesson to you not to be extravagant. You should only spend a halfpenny a year.” “No, it’s not that,” said the little dog. “It’s because my Ex—” “Because your Excellent master, Mr. Kitchin, is gone?” I said. “No!” said the little dog. “Do let me finish the word! It’s because my Exie is gone!” “Well! What of that?” I said. “She’s only a child! She’s not a bone!”
“No,” said the pug: “she’s not a bone.”
“Now, tell me the truth,” I said. “Which do you like best? Xie, or a bone?”
The little dog thought for a minute, and then he said, “She’s very ‘bonne,’ you know: that means ‘good’ in French. But she’s not so good as a bone!”
Wasn’t it an interesting conversation? Tell me what photographs Hugh and Brook choose: and give my love to them, and to Herbert: and take a leetle tiny slice of it for yourself.
Yours very affectionately,
C. L. Dodgson
LETTER 05
WHY NOT SEND AN ARMY OF BULL PUPS NEXT TIME?
Richard Richardson to The Stars and Stripes
August 1921
Born in 1916, Stubby the bull terrier was the official mascot of the 102nd Infantry Regiment and famously served on the Western Front for almost two years, during which time he stood guard for his human companions and even, on one occasion, held down a German soldier until back-up arrived. Stubby remains the only dog to be promoted to sergeant through combat. But despite his heroics, not everyone admired this dog. The following letter, written by an amusingly bitter war veteran, was sent to, and reprinted in, the Stars and Stripes military newspaper.
THE LETTERS
Editor, The
