Yours truly
Eric A Blair
P.S. I tried to get Chatto & Windus to give me some of Zola’s novels to translate, but they wouldn’t. I should think somebody might be willing to translate Zola—he has been done, but atrociously badly.3 Or what about Huysmans? I can’t believe Sainte Lydwine de Schiedam has been translated into English. I also tried to get Faber’s to translate a novel called A la Belle de Nuit, by Jacques Roberti. It is very good but apallingly° indecent, & they refused it on that ground. I should think somebody might take it on—do you know anybody who isn’t afraid of that kind of thing? (The book isn’t pornographic, only rather sordid.) I could get hold of the copy I had & send it if necessary. I could also translate old° French, at least anything since 1400 A.D.
[X, 124, pp. 243–3; typewritten; handwritten postscript]
1.Burmese Days.
2.These stories do not appear to have survived.
3.Zola’s novels had been published in England by Henry Vizetelly (1820–1894), who also established the Mermaid Series of Dramatists and published translations of Dostoevsky, Flaubert, and Tolstoy. The publication in English of Zola’s La Terre (though ‘amended’) led to Vizetelly’s being fined and in 1889 jailed on the charge of obscenity. British publishers, and Gollancz in particular, feared expensive legal costs if charged with defamation, libel or obscenity. (See 14.11.34, n.2.)
To Eleanor Jaques*
Tuesday [14 June 1932]
The Hawthorns
Dear Eleanor,
How do things go with you? I hope your father is better, & that you have got your garden into shape. I have been teaching at the above foul place for nearly two months. I don’t find the work uninteresting, but it is very exhausting, & apart from a few reviews etc. I’ve hardly done a stroke of writing. My poor poem, which was promising not too badly, has of course stopped dead. The most disagreeable thing here is not the job itself (it is a day-school, thank God, so I have nothing to do with the brats out of school hours) but Hayes itself, which is one of the most godforsaken places I have ever struck. The population seems to be entirely made up of clerks who frequent tin-roofed chapels on Sundays & for the rest bolt themselves within doors. My sole friend is the curate—High Anglican but not a creeping Jesus & a very good fellow. Of course it means that I have to go to Church, which is an arduous job here, as the service is so popish that I don’t know my way about it & feel an awful B.F.1 when I see everyone bowing & crossing themselves all round me & can’t follow suit. The poor old vicar, who I suspect hates all this popery, is dressed up in cope & biretta & led round in procession with candles etc., looking like a bullock garlanded for sacrifice. I have promised to paint one of the church idols (a quite skittish-looking B.V.M.2, half life-size, & I shall try & make her look as much like one of the illustrations in La Vie Parisienne as possible) & to grow a marrow for the harvest festival. I would ‘communicate’ too, only I am afraid the bread might choke me. Have you read anything interesting lately? I read for the first time Marlowe’s Faustus, & thought it rotten, also a mangy little book on Shakespeare trying to prove that Hamlet = Earl of Essex,3 also a publication called The Enemy of Wyndham Lewis (not the professional R.C4), who seems to have something in him, also something of Osbert Sitwell, also some odes of Horace, whom I wish I hadn’t neglected hitherto—otherwise nothing, not having much time or energy. Mrs. Carr 5 sent me two books of Catholic apologetics, & I had great pleasure in reviewing one of them6 for a new paper called the New English Weekly. It was the first time I had been able to lay the bastinado on a professional R.C. at any length. I have got a few square feet of garden, but have had rotten results owing to rain, slugs & mice. I have found hardly any birds’ nests—this place is on the outskirts of London, of course. I have also been keeping a pickle-jar aquarium, chiefly for the instruction of the boys, & we have newts, tadpoles, caddis-flies etc. If when you are passing, if you ever do, the pumping station at the beginning of the ferry-path, you see any eggs of puss-moths on the poplar trees there, I should be awfully obliged if you would pick the leaves & send them me by post. I want some, & have only been able to find one or two here. Of course I don’t mean make an expedition there, I only mean if you happen to be passing. What is Dennis7 doing these days? I want to consult him about an extraordinary fungus that was dug up here, but of course he never answers letters. I may or may not come back to S’wold for the summer holidays. I want to get on with my novel8 and if possible finish the poem I had begun, & I think perhaps it would be best for me to go to some quiet place in France, where I can live cheaply & have less temptation from the World, the Flesh & the Devil than at S’wold. (You can decide which of these categories you belong to.) By the way, if you are ever to be in London please let me know, as we might meet, that is if you would like to. Please remember me to your parents, also to Mr and Mrs Pullein 9 if you see them.
Yours
Eric A Blair
P.S. In case you see Dennis, you might tell him the fungus was like this (below.) It was dug up underground.
P.P.S. I trust this adress° is all right.
[X, 129, pp. 249–50; handwritten; dated from postmark10]
1.B.F.: Bloody Fool
2.B.V.M.: Blessed Virgin Mary
3.Probably The Essential Shakespeare by J. Dover Wilson (1932)
4.D. B. Wyndham Lewis (1891–1969), a Roman Catholic and a bête noire of Orwell’s. He was one of the contributors to a jokey column in the Daily Express under the pseudonym, ‘Beachcomber’.
5.A Southwold friend of Orwell and Eleanor Jaques.
6.The Spirit of Catholicism by Karl Adam. Orwell’s review appeared in New English Weekly, 9 June 1932 (X, 127, pp. 246–8).
7.Dennis Collings.
8.Burmese Days.
9.Collett Cresswell Pulleyne, a Yorkshire barrister and his mother. He was a friend of both Orwell and Collings. Orwell had some difficulty spelling his name.
10.Published by kind permission of Richard Young.
In addition to Orwell’s letters to Brenda Salkeld which have been published in the Complete Works, he wrote at least nineteen others to her, seventeen of them between 13 May 1931 and 25 June 1940. These letters survive in private hands. Gordon Bowker was permitted to read them for his biography, George Orwell (2003) and summaries of the letters derived with permission from his biography are given in The Lost Orwell, pp. 92–8. Many of the letters described events in Orwell’s life but there is a thread running through them indicating his wish to have an affair with Brenda. She refused such attentions but they remained friends throughout his life. In his penultimate letter of 15 February 1946 he invited her to high tea at 27b Canonbury Square to see Richard. She accepted, as she did an invitation by Orwell’s sister, Avril, to stay at Barnhill, Jura. In the last of these letters, 30 June 1946, Orwell sent Miss Salkeld instructions for the journey.
To Brenda Salkeld*
Sunday [September 1932]
The Hawthorns
Dearest Brenda
I am writing as I promised, but can’t guarantee an even coherent letter, for a female downstairs is making the house uninhabitable by playing hymn-tunes on the piano, which, in combination with the rain outside & a dog yapping somewhere down the road, is rapidly qualifying me for the mental home. I hope you got home safely & didn’t find the door barred against you. I reached home just on the stroke of midnight. It was ever so nice seeing you again & finding that you were pleased to see me, in spite of my hideous prejudice against your sex, my obsession about R.C.s, etc.
I have spent a most dismal day, first in going to Church, then in reading the Sunday Times, which grows duller & duller, then in trying to write a poem which won’t go beyond the first stanza, then in reading through the rough draft of my novel,1 which depresses me horribly. I really don’t know which is the more stinking, the Sunday Times or the Observer. I go from one to the other like an invalid turning from side to side in bed & getting no comfort whichever way he turns. I thought the Observer would be a little less
dull when Squire2 stopped infesting it, but they seem deliberately to seek out the dullest people they can get to review the dullest books. By the way, if you are by any chance wanting to impose a penance upon yourself, I should think you might try Hugh Walpole’s recent 800-page novel.3
I hope you will read one or two of those books I mentioned to you.4 By the way, I forgot to mention, what I think you told me before you had not read, Dr Garnett’s (not Richard or Edward Garnett) The Twilight of the Gods.5 If you haven’t read that, it’s a positive duty to do so. The story the title is taken from is far from being the best, but some of the others, such as ‘The Purple Head’ are excellent. I suppose you have read Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi? And J. S. Haldane’s Possible Worlds? And Guy Boothby’s Dr Nikola? And Mrs Sherwood’s The Fairchild Family? All these are in different ways a little off the track (Dr Nikola is a boy’s sixpenny thriller, but a first rate one) & I can recommend all of them. H. L. Mencken’s book In Defence of Women would probably be amusing, but I haven’t read it. I see Wyndham Lewis (not D. B. Wyndham Lewis, a stinking RC) has just brought out a book called Snooty Baronet, apparently a novel of sorts. It might be interesting. All I’ve ever read of his was a queer periodical called The Enemy, & odd articles, but he’s evidently got some kick in him—whether at all a sound thinker or not, I can’t be sure without further acquaintance. The copy of The Enemy I read was all a ferocious attack, about the length of an average novel, on Gertrude Stein—rather wasted energy, one would say.
Well, au revoir, for I have really no news. I will write again in a week or so & hope I shall then be in a more cheerful mood. I hope you will not have too unbearable a term—
With much love
Eric
[X, 142, pp. 268–9; handwritten]
1.Burmese Days.
2.John C. Squire (1884–1958; Kt., 1933), journalist, essayist, poet, and literary editor of the New Statesman and Nation, 1913–19, founded the London Mercury and edited it, 1919–34. He also edited the English Men of Letters series.
3.The Fortress.
4.For books Orwell recommended to Brenda Salkeld in the 1930s, as reported to Howard Fink, see X, pp. 308–9. The Twilight of the Gods and Dr Nikola are included in his list.
5.Dr Richard Garnett (1835–1906) was a librarian and author. His Twilight of the Gods and Other Tales was published in 1888 and augmented in 1903; the stories were described as ‘cynical apologues’.
To Eleanor Jaques*
Wed. night [19 October 1932]
The Hawthorns
Dearest Eleanor,
I am glad to hear you had a nice time on the broads, even tho’ the motor boat was not too docile. I have been unutterably busy & am half exhausted already. I am going up to town for a night or two on the 28th—intend going out on to the Embankment that night to see how the sleepers-out get on at this time of year. Is there any chance of your being up in town by then? And when you are coming up, what will your adress° be? We simply must meet if it can be managed.
The papers this morning report quite serious rioting in Lambeth round the City Hall.1 It was evidently food-rioting, as the bakers’ shops were looted. That points to pretty serious conditions & there may be hell to pay in the winter if things are as bad as that already. I expect, tho’, just enough will be done to prevent anything violent happening. I know the quarter where it happened so well—I dare say some of my friends took part in it.
I was sorry to hear about poor old Crick 2 being run in over the entertainment tax tickets—another sign of the bad times of course. I hope people in the town aren’t being beastly to him about it? I heard from Denis Collings the other day, asking me to go & stay with him at Cambridge at the half term. I would have liked to, but it is hard for me to get away, & there are, tho’ I did not tell him so, two or three people at Cambridge whom I’m not anxious to meet. By the way, if you see the Pulleynes (do they spell their name like that? I’m never sure) any time, I would be awfully obliged if you would get from them a ms. of mine they have describing some adventures last Xmas. It’s not very interesting but Brenda Salkeld is anxious to see it & I’d take it very kindly if you would send it to her—I hope it would not be too much trouble? Don’t let your parents see the ms.,3 as it has bad words in it. My novel 4 is making just a little progress. I see now more or less what will have to be done to it when the rough draft is finished, but the longness° & complicatedness are terrible. I‘ve done no other writing, except part of a mucky play the boys are to act later.5 I am told that there was a letter in the New Statesman some weeks back, attacking me for an article I’d written for them.6 So annoying—I never saw it, & not to reply to an attack looks as tho’ one admitted being wrong, which I’m sure I wasn’t there in any major fact. I take in the Church Times regularly now & like it more every week. I do so like to see that there is life in the old dog yet—I mean in the poor old C. of E. I shall have to go to Holy Communion soon, hypocritical tho’ it is, because my curate friend is bound to think it funny if I always go to Church but never communicate. What is the procedure? I have almost forgotten it. As far as I remember you go up to the rail & kneel down, but I don’t remember whether there are any responses to make. You have to go fasting, do you not? And what about being in mortal sin? I wish you would prompt me. It seems rather mean to go to H.C. when one doesn’t believe, but I have passed myself off for pious & there is nothing for it but to keep up the deception.
Dearest Eleanor, it was so nice of you to say that you looked back to your days with me with pleasure. I hope you will let me make love to you again some time, but if you don’t it doesn’t matter, I shall always be grateful to you for your kindness to me. Write soon & let me know your news, & above all if & when you are coming up to town. By the way, the other day I saw a man— Communist, I suppose—selling the Daily Worker,7 & I went up to him & said, ‘Have you the D.W.?’—He: ‘Yes, sir.’ Dear old England!
With love
Eric
[X, 145, pp. 270–1; handwritten]
1.Should be County Hall. The extensive rioting in the Lambeth area of London on Tuesday, 18 October 1932, was described in the Brixton Free Press of 21 October under the headline ‘Police Charge Riotous Unemployed.’ (See Thompson, p. 34.) Shops were looted, police were attacked, and dozens of rioters were arrested. There were also demonstrations near St Thomas’s Hospital, at St George’s Circus, and in Murphy Street, a march from Brixton to the Public Assistance Commission in Brook Street on Thursday, 20 October and from 27 to 30 October there were serious clashes in central London to protest against unemployment.
2.Crick was the proprietor of the local cinema at Southwold, where Orwell’s father attended every new film (see letter to Brenda Salkeld, late August 1934). Entertainment tax was first levied on 1 August 1918 as a wartime measure, but it was continued thereafter.
3.‘Clink’, X, 135, pp. 254–60. It describes Orwell’s deliberate and successful attempt to get himself sent to prison in order to enlarge his experience. It was unpublished in his lifetime.
4.Burmese Days.
5.King Charles II, performed by the boys of The Hawthorns, Christmas 1932. The text is to be found at X, 154, pp. 277–94. It is anything but ‘mucky’: this is simply Orwell typically denigrating his work. A 40-page, lavishly-illustrated edition of the play was published by the Bellona Press, Warsaw, in 2000, translated by Dr Bartek Zborski.
6.The article was ‘Common Lodging Houses’ (X, 141, pp. 265–7). The letter was from Theodore Fyfe who described himself as an architect who had worked for the London County Council on the construction of lodging houses. He thought the L.C.C. was ‘worthy of all praise’.
7.The Daily Worker represented Communist Party views and policies, 1 January 1930 to 23 April 1966; incorporated in the Morning Star from 25 April 1966. It was suppressed by government order 22 January 1941 to 6 September 1942.
To Leonard Moore*
Sat.1 [19 November 1932]
The Hawthorns
Dear Mr Moore,
/>
Many thanks for your letter. I sent off the proof with the printer’s queries on it yesterday. I made a few alterations & added one or two footnotes, but I think I arranged it so that there would be no need of ‘over-running’.2 I will send on the other proof as soon as possible.
As to a pseudonym, the name I always use when tramping etc. is P. S. Burton,3 but if you don’t think this sounds a probable kind of name, what about
Kenneth Miles,
George Orwell,
H. Lewis Allways.
I rather favour George Orwell.4
I would rather not promise to have the other book 5 ready by the summer. I could certainly do it by then if I were not teaching, but in this life I can’t settle to any work, & at present particularly I am rushed off my feet. I have got to produce a school play, & I have not only had to write it, but I have got to do all the rehearsing &, worst of all, make most of the costumes.6 The result is that I have practically no leisure.
I should like very much to come out & see you & Mrs Moore some time. I can get to Gerrard’s Cross quite easily from here, but I have unfortunately forgotten your home adress°. Perhaps you could let me know it? I could come over some Sunday afternoon—Sunday the 4th Dec.,7 for instance, if you would be at home then?
George Orwell: A Life in Letters Page 4
