This is really Wednesday and I have copied so far from a letter written last night. Half the exam has passed successfully, but then it was the easier half.
You are probably right as to the verses: and I will attempt to mend the part you dislike. For heaven’s sake tell me if — dispassionately and unbiassed — you find my verses boshy — those at the head of my articles, for instance. Did you think them ludicrous? Say! for I want to know, though it is true I wrote them for you. Mind to tell me.
I spent a short unpleasant evening with MacAlister yesterday, Fyfe having once more disappointed me: I enclose the note he left in his room as an apology.
My dear Helen, I hope you haven’t got hard visible muscles. Girls ought not to have them, and can be quite strong enough without them, you know.
How unreasonable you are to say Cornish doesn’t interest you! You would stare and talk a long time about a stone Apollo — and here is one much lovelier in red and white, and you say he doesn’t ‘interest’ you. Never mind.
That is delightful news about your holiday. I shall possibly go to Wales when you go to Holmwood; I will manage it so: but I shan’t go anywhere if I fail at Responsions. Still I could sometimes ride or walk to Holmwood, if you go there, and perhaps stay a night.
Your health and spirits make me so glad. It means spirits and something by which to live, for me also.
Such a union as you speak of for Janet and Mr. Hooton is scandalous. Did they intend sometimes sleeping together? Have they already? It would be taking a mean advantage of a law (which they affect to despise). — You are mistaken in one point, nevertheless. People don’t avoid having children in order to show they can restrain themselves, but because they can not afford to keep the children. Therefore they are entitled to use any preventive. If their object were self restraint, then of course it would be immoral to use artificial preventives; but it is not; their object, as I said, is to avoid natural consequences; and they are taking the surest means. Whether they take advantage of the ineffectiveness of their embraces, and indulge themselves like beasts, is another matter. But indeed, Helen, it is impossible to reason on this. I don’t believe any reasoning will bring us to a right conclusion. We must let nature take its course: and be sure that if we are noble and sweet by nature we shall do nothing together which shall bring shame or evil result. Think of beautiful souls like Milton, Plato, and the best Puritans; think how they would behave: and consider if you could be like them: and if you, too, would behave modestly as they would, then yours is true morality; for I believe beautiful natures have desires which never forget themselves and run wild; so that if we are not beautiful souls, it is vain to reason ourselves into restraint. But know this, that when once people indulge themselves for mere pleasure, they can never have enough. And there is much in the understanding between man and bride. But here I feel unsure and dim, and will go no farther. — One truth is becoming clearer to my mind every day, which is, This century thinks too much, certainly talks too much, of love. Human beings need many things as well as love, if not more. They need action, change, experience etc. But perhaps I am vague, though I doubt not I am right: someday I shall say more of this; and it needs saying, because people go about talking as if love were the only aim of life, — which leads to prostitutes, I think, since love let entirely free becomes lust, and excludes all else’, while love not entirely free remains love, and has need of something else. There’s philosophy for you, Helen! but I have written the very first part too carelessly, and yet have not time to copy it out.
I must post now, sweet heart. Goodbye. I kiss you quite happily, and with a smile. You, too, I see are entirely happy. How you fly as you walk. Goodbye — Goodnight it is as you read this. Then Goodnight! I am in life your truest and fondest friend Edwy and you ever my own sweet little one, Helen, my anemone maiden, Goodnight!
Index of Letters
To Harry Hooton
17, Woodville Street
Pontardulais
South Wales
17 August 1898
My dear Harry,
The good Welsh people here have changed me into the animal I always potentially was. I eat and sleep, and my most serious work was yesterday — binding the sheaves of wheat in a strong sun; I really did work hard, and at the end had tea sitting round a cock of wheat with the reapers and binders. That is what they do with me. Sometimes they pretend I can work, but put me into a room so absurdly encumbered with cheap decoration that I can’t do any good work there. So you will excuse my negligence, if you cannot pardon it. The fact is I would rather not write to anyone that can endure without a letter, — that is write to Helen alone; yet I should like to know how you are, and how Janet is; if you are busy, or if I might drop in any evening; if you have done much writing lately — and made money by it. And I shall be away until September the seventh, very likely. Then, do let me come at least once a week until I go up again.
I wish ignorance was not so flattering as it is. I mean — the ignorant people here flatter me in every conceivable way, so that if I respected them only a little I should blush all over, as is my way. The worst of it is, too, that I have in me the seeds of the meanest of all kinds of conceit; so that if only my reason would be quiet, I should settle down in content with a sort of microscopic lionism. The only man of any reading and intellect is a Welsh bard of whom I have probably told you before this. But he has the same damnable lenience, tolerance, concessive gentleness, that spoils one, and is as painful as the opposite treatment I get at home. He is reckoned the best bard in Wales, though only 24; but his heterodoxy — perhaps paganism — makes him barred a lot in this second Palestine. But his English verses lack originality altogether, — like Burns’s.
So I am not encouraged to write. The only things I have completed, in nearly three weeks, are a few odd sentences about this and that; the copying of a story from Greek history in dialogue form (which Helen found at least interesting, though it is still uncorrected: — in fact I will enclose it even as it is, if only to ensure a letter back with it very soon); and the beginning of another of my birthdoomed Arthurian transcrips from Mallory — enlargements — or what you will, about Elaine; the incident always delighted me and fed my imagination; it is where Elaine goes collecting flowers ‘to make a bain’ for Lancelot, — that is all Mallory says, then leaves it. — I had a paper in last week’s Speaker, but could not get a copy here, and so miss it, in uncertainty: I was forced by the Editor to hack it down to suit his columns.
Helen seems to be entirely happy even at Holmwood with the Andrewses, where she must feel more separated than ever. For some reason or another we are happier now than ever before, and cannot stop wondering aloud at it to one another. It is a happiness so mild and cool that it is like a kind of saintliness after passion; yet it is not satiety. — Janet must be gone away now. Do you see her often? And Helen can not come to look at you. Yet I hope you are not miserable, but enjoying this brilliant summer, at least at evenings and on Sundays, when you escape the heat, which I hear has been terrible.
The flowers here! And in another way I notice them, for I am adding to my knowledge of at least the names, — which is useful as far as it goes, I am sure. And by the way, you did not mean it when you talked of the unhealthy love of flowers, the healthy love of locomotives? Though it often is true. Nevertheless Helen is surely a proof the other way; for if she has any unhealth, it is from me; and that more on her lips than in her heart.
I write in a noisy kitchen which will give me no sweet thoughts. I am at least well; that you can be sure of: and I wish you were the same.
Goodbye now!
Edwy
Index of Letters
To Helen
Lincoln College
Oxford
3 February’99
My dearest Friend,
I can understand that you found nothing very charming in my last letter; but can’t understand how you expect anything else.
Consider the life I lead here. The greater part o
f it in bed and at meals, the rest spent in getting ready for sleep, in digesting, in violent exercise, foul conversation and dull work. I don’t even have time or inclination to write. How then could I write to you? whom I can only satisfy by my best self. Remember that last line in the last verses I wrote: ‘We cannot always love!’ As a rule it is impossible I should write to you except as a friend willing and even anxious to hear just the bare facts of my life. Oxford is not a place for friends (so far). I almost forget what it is to have a friend at my side. Naturally therefore I cannot write in a truly friendly way; and especially as my life is such as to dispense with the needs of friends — it is so humdrum and unadventurous.
Anyhow!
Of course I only want you to talk about yourself in your letters. Of whom else? I am not concerned with the Pooles or anybody there. What else could you write of? Nothing. I want to hear nothing but your innocent talk, expressing the laughter which is natural to health purity and happiness.
I want that J. C.R. returned at once; if possible by Sunday. The Editor has asked for more, but I don’t know what to send until I examine my note books.
All this week I have been unable to row. My wrist is not painful, but swollen and weak. A doctor has painted and bound it, says I ought to be able to row soon. Certainly I shan’t row till Monday; if not then — not at all, I fear, for the races begin on Thursday week, and I should be out of training after such a rest. I should be sorry to lose a chance of getting my colours this year. Except for my wrist I am very well indeed. Did I tell you I ran to Nuneham and back (10 miles) on Tuesday, without exhaustion. It was a strange experience: the cold day; hazy, but still with a wide landscape; very still; the full swift river; and the solitude — for I left the others behind, and the boat was some way ahead. My running with Arthur served me well.
Since my mishap, I have taken to walks, one with Haynes and one with MacAlister. They were both new walks and very pleasant — especially one through Bagley Wood with Haynes (trespassing). I like Haynes, and yet detest the brilliant, vicious society at Balliol. Haynes himself is utterly immoral; but still with many fine feelings and purposes, I think... We found no daisies, though. You were lucky; and kind to send me the daisy you first found. Sweet Helen! If I did not know you, I should by this time be the most abandoned of creatures up here. As it is — did you see me as I am, I fear you would think me sadly fallen from my sentimental well-intentioned babyhood, two years ago.
I am going to try to write a page or two, or remake an old thought, perhaps for the J. C.R.
Goodbye, sweetheart. In life I am your truest fondest friend Edwy and you ever my own sweet little one, my anemone maiden. Goodbye, Helen — Adieu.
P.S. My aunt is not here yet.
Index of Letters
To Helen
Lincoln College
Oxford
11 May’99
My dearest Friend,
I can do little more than say I am well and more cheerful than before, and then answer what requires to be answered in your letter.
You remember you said that on no account must my people know: well, they would know, if yours knew; so that before attempting to get the £150, it must be certain that you can do it without the knowledge of Mrs. Noble. I hope that is clear. Have you ever thought of asking for a part — if only £5 or £10 — just before leaving home? It would help, and I should think an excuse would be simple.
As to leaving home, things have turned out luckily, but I suppose it is still uncertain what you can do when you leave the Logans in July? You say you will be among kind friends at the Logans — have you any reason for expecting they will help you? Is Mr. Potbury rich?
Now as to my coming to town. Of course the chief object would be what you say, and I suppose the money can be got somehow. You must let me know when you go to the Logans; then ask Mrs. Logan — if you think she has room etc. — whether she can put me up for a night, and on what day; the day must be a Tuesday, or Thursday a week after you write, so as to give me time to ask leave at College. I think I shall cycle, for we really can’t afford fares. Would there be any reason against our sleeping together at the Logans’? The ceremony — or whatever you call it will take place on the morning after I arrive. Why is the fee so much as £2? Will it be by special licence, and can Mrs. Logan be witness? I don’t know from whom we can borrow £2.
You ask me if I know anyone who might help us in the point of money. Well, I have not told Haynes anything yet; in fact I haven’t seen him since the Wednesday night before you came. But when I had told J. H. Morgan, and we were talking about finances, he said Haynes might be ready to help, as he had already offered Morgan one or two hundred pound to help him at Oxford. I shall tell Haynes everything sooner or later; but money help from him is very uncertain.
You ask if I too feel any joy at the thought of a child. I confess I have felt it considerably, but I do not know if it is a decent joy.
I am managing to work fairly well, and am writing just a little at ‘The Caryatids’. The Speaker hasn’t paid me yet, nor said anything about my article which they are considering. It is hard; Davies is earning far more than I at work, not his best and which even he despises, and his powers are inferior to mine. I wish I could get a kind of secretaryship or else a tutorship in the Long Vac... I suppose I could not teach Mrs. Logan’s children? Perhaps she has friends who have need of such a person in the Summer.
I suppose Mrs. Hooton visits Mrs. Logan and will then learn the news.
Give my love to Mrs. Noble, please. I am too busy to write. I await the future.
Goodbye, sweetheart. Ever and wholly yours, my own sweet little one
Edwy
Adieu.
Index of Letters
To Helen
Lincoln College
20 November’99
My dearest Friend,
I want you to send me Morley’s sketch of English Literature, a fat gloomy book which is most likely on the top shelf of my cupboard. Pray do not look too closely at my cupboard, if you go to it, dearest.
Such a good account of you as I had this morning was most welcome. Yesterday began with fog as it seems to have done in town, but it cleared up here and became a dry bright day, in which I enjoyed a long riverside walk to Sandford. There I lunched with Davies and two others. The lunch was expensive but excellent, and ended by mulled port which warms your very soul. Then in the evening after actually doing a few lines of composition, I enjoyed two or three hours of young Brook’s company. Not, however, before being reduced to such depression as to force me to take a little opium for the first time this term. But I was none the worse; in fact I was able to talk rather better than usual and to relate quite a number of respectable stories.
Today is dull and damp. Your letter is the only sunshine, and alas! how short; just long enough to make me crave unbearably for you, body and soul. That poor body! I can easily understand how the sight of it pains you. I hope it is not very prodigious, also that it will not interfere with us when I return. Will it do you think? for a weight upon it might do great harm.
Give my love to Mary. To Irene I have not yet found time to write. Remember me to the people at Said House — I have just been looking for Ambrose’s brother, but he was out.
ABROAD:not ABROARD.
I fear I cannot influence Haynes. He probably could not live without having women. He must not marry when he is just entering business: besides it would be unwise, especially for Haynes to marry in a hurry. And then the women he does have may always chance to have the terrible disease, however careful he is about their appearance. But as for marrying and ‘increasing his intellectual powers’, it is almost universally agreed that the truth is as a rule the reverse of this.
‘Atheism’ is not taken for granted in a place like Lincoln where there are very many mediocre people of inordinate piety; and even the worst of them are as a rule strict churchgoers and in a way religious, blaspheming only occasionally and always ready to prove the existence of God
and the divinity of Christ etc etc. It is quite likely that I am an atheist, but I certainly never call myself one.
Now I am going to try and write a few lines. You will have this tomorrow and then I hope you will write back a long letter to me.
So goodbye my own sweet little one, Helen.
Ever and wholly yours
Edwy
Goodbye
Give my love to Janet and Harry.
Index of Letters
1900-1904
Index of Letters
To Helen
Lincoln College
Oxford
21 May 1900
My dearest Friend,
I promised you a letter, but I don’t see what in my present condition I can write. If I could only give you a description of Oxford on Saturday night you would not be so disappointed with this letter as now you will be. The whole of the City and University were in the streets. Some of the Oxford streets are the broadest in England and there huge bonfires were lit which we supplied with rafters etc while the city crowd stood peacefully and uselessly by. On such occasions the City acknowledges its inferiority. All the women, married and otherwise, allow themselves to be promiscuously kissed etc by the University: in fact most men employed themselves in recording as many kisses as possible. Nearly everyone was drunk, except the citizens, who looked on with the utmost complacence; and two of whom brought me home when, after an exciting evening, I at last succumbed to the wine I had taken. For universal good temper you never saw such a night. Although all were taken very ill and ‘cheap’ the next morning, few regretted it and I certainly did not tho’ it was an absurd occasion for so unpatriotic a man.
Complete Poetical Works of Edward Thomas Page 31
