Islwyn Ffowc Elis (1924–2004): A few reminiscences by Robin Chapman
In mid-summer 1996, having been commissioned to write a small volume on Islwyn for the Writers of Wales series, I wrote to him to say I would be visiting the Lampeter area, where he lived, within a few weeks, and that I would appreciate an opportunity to meet him. In response, I received a bulky package: a letter rebuking me for calling him ‘Dr Elis’ (‘I’m Islwyn to my friends’) and inviting me to visit his home for coffee, or lunch, or afternoon tea. He had enclosed a detailed map in his own hand, suggestions of places to stay, and several pages of a CV and bibliography – all typed specifically for me. In the event we spent the morning at his home, and part of the afternoon at a nearby hotel (with Islwyn insisting on buying the drinks), before I took my leave of him laden with a pile of papers, pamphlets, and newspaper cuttings – and an invitation to call again.
And as the short English critique – and the substantially more extensive Welsh biography I wrote in its wake – came together (the second was published in 2003, a few months after his death), the contact and packages continued apace: comments on draft chapters, snippets of recollections, sources and names that could prove useful – and one quite lengthy essay, ‘Pam y blynyddoedd mud? Ymgais i esbonio’, in which he attempted to explain why his talent had blossomed so impressively in the 1950s and ended so abruptly by the mid-1960s.
In fact, there was hardly any need for the essay. Part of the explanation was evident in every package I received: his unstinting benevolence. I was not the only one to bear witness to it.
Islwyn’s main principle in life was to please. Satisfying his parents’ expectations was his motive in entering the ministry. He wrote Cysgod y Cryman (1953) to promote popular literature in the Welsh language, and even after he had ventured to become a full-time author, he spent months writing Wythnos yng Nghymru Fydd (1957) as a gift to Plaid Cymru, yielding to Gwynfor Evans the right to decide whether the plot and its contents were acceptable. It was the same desire to be helpful that prompted him, despite himself, to stand as parliamentary candidate in Montgomeryshire in 1962, and to do the same thing again in 1964, although by then he lived far away from the constituency. In between both campaigns, under pressure from his wife’s family, he was persuaded to apply for a permanent position as lecturer at Trinity College, Carmarthen – and found himself on call when Gwynfor launched his historic by-election campaign two years later. Between the pressure he put on himself to serve the popular reading needs of the Welsh nation, his feeling of guilt in turning his back on the calling that others wished for him, his feeling of duty towards his party, and a teaching post he had no desire to hold, from then on there was no escape. And time and time again throughout his career, he found it impossible to say ‘No’. A sketch for a drama company? A pleasure. Adjudicating at an Eisteddfod? No problem. Reading a collection of short stories written by a young, unpublished writer? More than happy to oblige.
I won’t forget my visit to Lampeter, the generosity and the conversation – and Islwyn’s word of advice to me as I left, heavily laden: ‘Please don’t go to any trouble on my behalf. Don’t work too hard.’
