The Last Man in Europe

by Dennis Glover

  This morning one had arrived from an unexpected source: Jacintha Buddicom – tender-hearted Jacintha, who had abandoned him to Burma with all hope denied so long ago. She had only just realised who her old childhood friend Eric Blair was: the famous George Orwell, author of Animal Farm.

  Receiving her message was like an electric charge that set his memory to work. He steadied the borrowed typewriter on his lap – his own weary machine having finally succumbed – and began to write to her. ‘Ever since I got your letter I’ve been remembering and can’t stop myself thinking about our young days and things put out of our minds for twenty or thirty years …’

  *

  Shiplake, near Henley-on Thames, June 1920. It was the opening day of the coarse fishing season and the weather was perfect for angling. He arrived at the station in a woollen suit and puttees, a cap on his head and his fishing rod and tackle box in either hand. Jacintha was waiting for him at the agreed spot. She had given precise instructions in her neat handwriting: turn left outside the station; walk three-quarters of a mile down Mill Road to where there’s a gate with a top bar missing; take the path across the field; go down a hedge-grown lane, then a track between bushes to the lock; walk along the riverbank … At last came the gently sloping meadows below Shiplake Court – the big country house that belonged to the local gentry. It was their spot; they called it the Golden Country.

  He found her near a clump of elm trees that stretched down to the river. In the muddy water by the bank he could see carp lying under the surface, sunning themselves, and as he looked further out he saw a huge Thames trout sail by. He loved these muddy English fish with their ruddy Saxon names, which he had memorised from his angling book: roach, rudd, dace, bleak, barbel, bream, gudgeon, pike, chub, tench. It was approaching midday, and he cast in and rigged his rod on the edge of the water, using a forked branch driven deeply and solidly into the mud for a prop. Then he sat under the trees with Jacintha. Their excursions to the spot had started years before – during that last great summer before the war – when they had picnicked while Avril, Jacintha’s sister Guinever and her brother Prosper played at fishing close by. Now, for the first time, they were alone.

  Jacintha produced a slab of chocolate, broke it and handed him half. The sunlight filtering through the innumerable leaves was hot on their faces, and they could smell wild peppermint growing nearby. A bird alighted on a tree five yards from them and started singing. They both lay back, crushing a bed of bluebells, and listened.

  ‘What bird is that?’ she asked.

  ‘Thrush, obviously.’

  The bird trilled out its melody and flew away.

  ‘Now, you promised me a new story,’ she said, closing her eyes, but he could tell she knew he was looking at her. They had done this since they were children, usually gothic horror stories by Edgar Allan Poe or Beatrix Potter’s animal tales.

  ‘I’ve brought along your favourite, The Tale of Pigling Bland—’

  ‘We’re far too old for that, Pigling Eric,’ she said, giggling.

  He loved it when she called him this. She was right: they were now seventeen and nineteen, and would have been chaperoned, had their parents not been so disorganised and Shiplake’s riverbank so far from the remit of the villa civilisation and its moral enforcers.

  ‘I guess you’re right, although you’re never too old for a good animal story. Just think of Gulliver’s Travels and those smart horses. It’s easier to have sympathy for an animal than a human. I’ve read it—’

  ‘Yes, I know, every year since you were eight.’

  ‘It’s that good; you should try it.’

  ‘You promised me a story of your own. Practice: that’s the only way you’re going to become the famous author you’ve always said you’d be.’

  He looked at her as the sunlight played on her subtly smiling face. Her eyes were still closed, and wisps of her long, brown hair had strayed over her left cheek. Although he had grown considerably in his four years at Eton, making him noticeably tall, the maturity of her body caused a sense of inferiority to lie heavily on him.

  Her eyes opened – they were light brown, which he had never registered before – and she looked up at him sweetly. He had an urge to kiss her, but as always there was something about her that forbade his affections.

  She clapped her hands. ‘A story, as you promised me!’

  He reached for his tackle box and pulled out something he had written on the train journey home from school. ‘This is called The Eton Masters’ Strike.’ Lying next to her, conscious of her breathing and her scent, he read, holding the exercise book in front of his face to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘“Mr Baker received this morning a telegram from headquarters (unavoidably delayed owing to the fact that the telegraph girl’s hair slipped under the receiver). The Ushers and Teachers Union had come out on strike in sympathy with the washerwomen, bootmakers and bottlewashers who are demanding nationalisation—”’

  ‘Gosh, you are political these days, aren’t you?’ she said. As he continued, she snorted sceptically from time to time to tease him.

  ‘“Two youths, who had gone out early for a walk and who were complacently sitting by arches discussing the respective merits of Lenin, Trotsky and Boguslavsky, were the only two in the school who did not realise what had come to pass.”’

  ‘Red Etonians? Oh, Pigling, that’s just too much!’

  He continued reading, with his usual collection of funny voices and intonations. The story, which he could now see was silly and very juvenile, had a happy ending: the masters went out on strike and the students were overjoyed at having gained an endless holiday from schoolwork.

  She laughed. ‘A utopia! But I can’t figure it out – are you a Bolshevist or are you sending them up?’

  It struck him that he didn’t really know. Under the influence of the younger masters, who had returned radicalised by the war, the college had come to resemble an adolescent version of the Paris Jacobin Club, but he had remained largely aloof from what his friend Connolly had taken to calling ‘Eton’s doomed little experiment in human happiness’.

  ‘Anyway, it’s quite a coincidence, this,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ she replied, reaching into her bag, ‘I’ve brought you something.’ She pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper, and passed it over to him. ‘It’s my father’s old copy – the one you used to borrow from me all the time, remember?’

  He unwrapped it. A Modern Utopia, by H.G. Wells.

  ‘None of us wanted it anymore and it was listed for the village fete, but I couldn’t let that happen, could I? Especially when you promised us all as children that you’d write a book just like it someday.’

  He remembered. He’d stopped reading Wells a year or two before, and the stories had slipped from his mind. He felt disappointed. This was a gift you give a childhood friend, not a—

  She cut off his thoughts. ‘Are you alright, Pigling Eric?’ Suddenly the nickname wasn’t so appealing. ‘I thought you’d be thrilled. Or at least mildly pleased.’

  ‘I was rather hoping for something else.’ He paused.

  She thrust her cheek towards him, pulling it away after his lips had brushed it for what he counted as barely a fraction of a second, then she stood and made for the fishing line, which appeared to have a snag.

  *

  With his letter finished, he signed off: ‘As we always ended so that there should be no ending. Farewell and Hail, Eric.’ After reading it over, he picked up his pen, remembering there was something else they had always said to each other. ‘Nothing ever dies.’

  *

  Cranham, March. The American Book of the Month Club wanted it, which was another way of saying he was about to become rich and famous. But there was a catch; there was always a catch when someone wanted to give you money for no additional effort. They would only publish if he agreed to remove the book within the book – Goldstein’s testament – and most likely the Appendix on N
ewspeak as well.

  He wrote to Moore: ‘I can’t possibly agree to the kind of alteration and abbreviation suggested. It would alter the whole colour of the book and leave out a good deal that is essential … I should be much obliged if you would make my point clear to them.’

  The weeks passed in a state of helpless frustration. On 8 June, Nineteen Eighty-Four was published in Britain, and five days later in the United States. In the following days he was flooded with telegrams of congratulation. Greene, Muggeridge, Waugh and others including the Tawneys visited him. Lawrence Durrell and Huxley wrote.

  His old friend Tosco Fyvel, a literary editor, also turned up in person. Although it was June it was still cold and wet, the sort of day in which all play in county cricket would be lost. Peering from his pillow, barely able to crane his neck forward, Orwell watched him cross the field under his umbrella, unable to hide his contempt for the surroundings. When Fyvel stepped inside the room a look of fright crossed his face. By now Orwell was used to the effect his cadaverous appearance had on others. The false reports about his apparent good health weren’t helping. He lay flat on his back, emaciated, his waxen skin clinging to his bones – like one of the inmates of the Nazi camps in Germany.

  ‘Comrade.’ Fyvel offered a feeble smile. ‘How nice to see you.’

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t sit up, Tosco. Don’t be alarmed; it’s just my lung. Not a relapse, just pleurisy. The disease itself hasn’t been progressing.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ he said, but sounded doubtful.

  ‘Things aren’t so bad, you know. To tell you the truth, after the effort of writing the book, I’ve been looking forward to some decent bed rest, like old Boxer. As you can see, it’s quite cosy here in my pasture.’

  A sudden draft came through a gap in the window, chilling the air.

  ‘The book – I’ve read it, George. It’s marvellous. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be the making of you.’

  ‘You know how much I value your opinion, Tosco. I wish I could share your enthusiasm for it.’

  ‘You’re not serious, George? You can’t be. It’s being hailed as an absolute triumph.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve had a read of it myself. There’s not much else to do here than read, as you can appreciate. I’m afraid I rather ballsed it up.’

  ‘Absurd.’

  ‘No, I’m right. It’s this damned illness. Made me rush it. I thought it might have turned out too gloomy and pessimistic, but I didn’t have the energy for another draft. Now I’ve read it, it’s obvious that not rewriting it one more time was a mistake. The Tories are going to say it’s anti-socialist, of course.’

  ‘They’d say that regardless.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s more pessimistic than I intended. Positively gloomy. Our side will get little solace.’

  ‘Muggeridge and I thought it was funny. We said so on our radio talk.’

  ‘Yes, I heard it, thanks for the plug.’

  ‘Well, what would you change now, if you had the energy?’

  ‘That’s the problem, Tosco, I don’t have the energy.’ He paused. ‘Any change would have to be subtle, you see, but enough for readers to get the point without some syrupy ending.’

  ‘Hollywood’s bound to supply that eventually. But I think you’ve got it just so.’

  ‘There should have been a tiny ray of hope – at least a hint that the party is fallible.’

  *

  The next day, Warburg visited.

  ‘Hello, Fred,’ he said, doing his best to sound cheerful. Warburg had awoken him from a nap.

  ‘Sorry for waking you, Sergeant.’

  ‘At ease, old chap. Help me, will you,’ he said quietly, motioning for his visitor to prop him up on his pillow.

  Every surface close to the bed was stacked high with newspapers, books or heavy porcelain bowls. The typewriter box was on top of a wardrobe, next to a fishing rod and reel. Warburg plumped the pillows and helped Orwell up – all, Orwell noticed, while holding his breath.

  Orwell sat back again with an audible gasp. ‘What good news do you bring, Fred?’

  ‘The book’s a runaway train, George. It’s going to eclipse Animal Farm’s sales in a matter of weeks, maybe even days.’

  ‘Splendid,’ was all he could manage.

  Warburg flourished a file triumphantly. ‘The reviews are stunning, George. It’s a triumph. A real bolter. Everything tells me it’s going to be a bestseller. Even Number 10 has asked for a copy.’

  ‘Hope Attlee hasn’t heard what I called him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A recently dead fish before it has stiffened, or something like that. My memory’s not so good at present. Anyway, rather unfair. One gets carried away with similes.’

  ‘Everyone loves it. Even the dead fish, it seems.’

  Orwell nodded, and pointed to the pile of cables on the bed, sent over from New York. ‘But they’ve got the book all wrong, Fred. All wrong.’

  Warburg seemed to ignore this as he cleared a chair of books and notes and sat down. ‘Ninety per cent positive, George. I’ve never seen such good reviews, at least since Animal Farm.’

  ‘Have you read Tribune’s notice? The left can be so damned defensive.’

  Warburg opened his file and began reading out a series of underlined passages from press clippings, theatrically flinging them onto the bed after reading each one. It was a well-worn routine which Orwell knew was meant to buck him up. He listened obediently.

  ‘From V.S. Pritchett: “impossible to put down”. From Lionel Trilling: “profound, terrifying and wholly fascinating”. From Julian Symons at the TLS: “thanks for a writer who deals with the problems of the world rather than the ingrowing pains of individuals, and who is able to speak seriously and with originality of the nature of reality and the terrors of power”. From Veronica Wedgwood: “It is no doubt with the intention of preventing his prediction coming true that Mr Orwell has set it down in the most valuable, the most absorbing, the most powerful book he has yet written.”’

  Orwell nodded his approval. ‘Yes. Just so.’

  ‘I must read you the communists’ line.’ Warburg fumbled with another sheet. ‘They’re calling you … here it is, “the maggot of the month”!’

  Orwell smiled. ‘They’re fond of insects in the CP.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that might cheer you up. They think it’s anti-communist and anti-socialist.’

  ‘The problem is, Fred, that’s what the capitalists are saying too.’ With an effort, he reached down to the pile of cables on the bed. He shuffled through them, then put on his reading glasses. ‘Here it is, the New York Times. The novel is “an expression of Mr Orwell’s irritation at many facets of British socialism, and most particularly, trivial as this may seem, at the drab grey pall that life in Britain today has drawn across the civilised amenities of life before the war”.’

  ‘An American driving around in a big motorcar in California might get that impression, George.’

  ‘Well, he’d be wrong. The book is not anti-Labour or anti-socialist, as they well know. They’re being dishonest, Fred. They’re all at it. I’ve got extracts here from the Wall Street Journal, the New York Daily News and more. Here’s the Economist.’ He waved the magazine at Warburg. ‘They should know better. I won’t have my Spanish comrades thinking me a traitor. All those fine young chaps, dead! I want it corrected.’

  ‘Let them read into it what they want, George, as long as they buy the book. If the capitalists like it, well, it’ll sell twice as many copies.’

  ‘Damn the sales, Fred. I’d like you to send a cable on my behalf, setting the book’s message straight.’

  ‘Criticising critics – let me tell you, it never pays, never. A book has to stand, and a reader will interpret it as he wants. That’s how it works. If you haven’t made your point clear, think of it as a bonus for the reader – they can all see something in it to approve of.’

  ‘The same reason you left out the preface in Ani
mal Farm!’

  ‘Politics and literature have to meet halfway. You said something like that yourself once, George.’

  Orwell sank deeper in the pillows and closed his eyes. He was now struggling to fill his diminished lungs. ‘Fred, I have friends in the Labour government. Apparently even Attlee. What do I say to Bevan and Cripps?’ He paused. ‘Fred, I don’t want to have to say it again. I will not have this book misunderstood. Look at what it has done to me!’ He took three long, shallow breaths, and opened his eyes. Warburg looked away. ‘If you won’t send out a statement clarifying my position and the intent of the book, I’ll get my agent Moore to do it.’ He slowly reached over to his bedside table and picked up his pen and some of the hospital’s letterhead paper. ‘I can’t write at present, Fred,’ he said. The paper shook in his weak grip.

  He could see that Warburg now understood: there weren’t going to be any more novels. The publisher accepted the writing materials and found himself in the unusual position of taking dictation.

  ‘My novel Nineteen Eighty-Four is not intended as an attack on socialism, or on the British Labour party,’ Orwell began, ‘but as a show-up of the perversions to which a centralised economy is liable, and which have already been realised in communism and fascism. I do not believe that the kind of society I describe necessarily will arrive, but I believe (allowing of course for the fact the book is a satire) that something resembling it could arrive. I believe also that totalitarian ideas have taken root in the minds of intellectuals everywhere, and I have tried to draw these ideas out to their logical consequences. The scene of the book is laid in Britain in order to emphasise that the English-speaking races are not innately better than anyone else, and that totalitarianism, if not fought against, could triumph anywhere.’

  He stopped, then began thinking as intensely as his tired mind could manage, knowing he likely wasn’t going to get another chance. Warburg made to screw the lid back on the pen. ‘I’m not quite done, Fred.’