George Orwell: A Life in Letters (82 page)

Yours truly

Geo. Orwell

[XX, 3553, pp. 47–8; typewritten]

To Roger Senhouse*

2 March 1949

The Cotswold Sanatorium

Cranham

Dear Roger,

I’m awfully sorry I haven’t yet dealt with your queries, but the reason is that I lent my spare copy of proofs to Julian Symons, who was in here last week, and haven’t had them back yet. [
Answers one or two queries.
] As to ‘onto.’
I know this is an ugly word, but I consider it to be necessary in certain contexts. If you say ‘the cat jumped on the table’ you may mean that the cat, already on the table, jumped up and down there. On the other hand, ‘on to’ (two words) means something different, as in ‘we stopped at Barnet and then drove on to Hatfield.’ In some contexts, therefore, one needs ‘onto.’ Fowler, if I remember rightly, doesn’t altogether condemn it.
¹

I’m afraid there is going to be a big battle with Harcourt Brace, as they want to alter the metric system measurements all the way through the book to miles, yards etc., and in fact have done so in the proofs. This would be a serious mistake. I’ve already cabled in strong terms, but I don’t like having to fight these battles 3000 miles from my base.

Yours

George

[XX, 3557, pp. 50–1; typewritten]

1
.
Orwell was allowed to use ‘onto’: see IX, p. 13, line 27. He had used the one-word form in earlier novels, although, as the Gollancz editions show, that usage is not always systematic. He won his battle with Harcourt Brace.

To Sir Richard Rees*

3 March 1949

Cranham

Dear Richard,

Thanks so much for your letter, with the cuttings, which I thought gave quite a good exposition of C.P. policy. I always disagree, however, when people end by saying that we can only combat Communism, Fascism or what-not if we develop an equal fanaticism. It appears to me that one defeats the fanatic precisely by
not
being a fanatic oneself, but on the contrary by using one’s intelligence. In the same way, a man can kill a tiger because he is
not
like a tiger and uses his brain to invent the rifle, which no tiger could ever do.

I looked up the passage in Russell’s book.
¹
If the antithesis to a ‘some’ statement is always an ‘all’ statement, then it seems to me that the antithesis of ‘some men are tailless’ is not ‘all men have tails,’ but ‘all men are tailless.’
²
Russell seems, in that paragraph, to be citing only pairs of statements of which one is untrue, but clearly there must be many cases when both ‘some’ and ‘all’ are true, except that ‘some’ is an understatement. Thus ‘some men are tailless’ is true, unless you are implying by it that some men have tails. But I never can follow that kind of thing. It is the sort of thing that makes me feel that philosophy should be forbidden by law.

I have arranged to write an essay on Evelyn Waugh and have just read his early book on Rossetti and also
Robbery under Law
(about Mexico.)
I am now reading a new life of Dickens by Hesketh Pearson, which I have to review.
³
It isn’t awfully good. There doesn’t seem to be a perfect life of Dickens—perverse and unfair though it is, I really think Kingsmill’s book is the best.
⁴
You were right about Huxley’s book
⁵
—it is awful. And do you notice that the more holy he gets, the more his books stink with sex. He cannot get off the subject of flagellating women. Possibly, if he had the courage to come out and say so, that is the solution to the problem of war. If we took it out in a little private sadism, which after all doesn’t do much harm, perhaps we wouldn’t want to drop bombs etc. I also re-read, after very many years,
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
, and
Jude the Obscure
(for the first time).
Tess
is really better than I had remembered, and incidentally is quite funny in places, which I didn’t think Hardy was capable of.

The doctor says I shall have to stay
in bed
for another 2 months, i.e. till about May, so I suppose I shan’t actually get out till about July. However I don’t know that it matters except for being expensive and not seeing little R[ichard]. I am so afraid of his growing away from me, or getting to think of me as just a person who is always lying down and can’t play. Of course children can’t understand illness. He used to come to me and say ‘Where have you hurt yourself?’—I suppose the only reason he could see for always being in bed.
⁶
But otherwise I don’t mind being here and I am comfortable and well cared-for. I feel much better and my appetite is a lot better. (By the way I never thanked you for sending that rum. Did I pay you enough for it?) I hope to start some serious work in April, and I think I could work fairly well here, as it is quiet and there are not many interruptions. Various people have been to see me, and I manage to keep pretty well supplied with books. Contrary to what people say, time seems to go very fast when you are in bed, and months can whizz by with nothing to show for it.

Yours

Eric

[XX, 3560, pp. 52–3; handwritten]

1
.
Human Knowledge: Its Scope and Limits
, by Bertrand Russell (1948).

2
.
“all men are tailless” is underlined, and, written in the margin by Rees, is ‘But this is
not
what Russell says!’

3
.
Orwell’s review of
Dickens: His Character, Comedy and Career
by Hesketh Pearson, appeared
in The New York Times Book Review
, 15 May 1949 (see XX, 3625, pp.
113–16).

4
.
The Sentimental Journey: A Life of Charles Dickens
, by Hugh Kingsmill (1934).

5
.
Ape and Essence
by Aldous Huxley (New York, 1948; London, 1949).

6
.
Richard Blair later recalled his relationship with his father: ‘He was very concerned about not being able to see me as much as he ought to. His biggest concern was that the relationship wouldn’t develop properly between father and son. As far as he was concerned, it was fully developed, but he was more concerned about son-to-father relationships. He’d formed a bond with me, but it wasn’t as strong the other way around.’ Lettice Cooper described the problems posed for Orwell in establishing this bond when he became severely ill and the effect Orwell’s illness and Eileen’s early death had had. Orwell ‘was terrified to let Richard come near him, and he would hold out his hand and push him away—and George would do it very abruptly because he was abrupt in his manner and movements. And he wouldn’t let the child sit on his knee or anything. And I suppose Richard had never asked [if his father loved him].
Children don’t, do they? And he said, did they love him? And I said they both did, so much. It was very hard, that, wasn’t it?’ (
Remembering Orwell
, pp. 196–97.)

To Michael Meyer*

12 March 1949

The Cotswold Sanatorium

Cranham

Dear Michael,

Thanks ever so much for sending all that food, which arrived a day or two ago, and for your letter. You really shouldn’t have sent the food, but I take your word that you could spare it, and of course I am delighted to receive it. As a matter of fact I’m sending most of it on to Jura, where food is always welcome as there’s usually someone staying.

[
Paragraph about his sedentary life and Richard.
]

I always thought Sweden
¹
sounded a dull country, much more so than Norway or Finland. I should think there would probably be very good fishing, if you can whack up any interest in that. But I have never been able to like these model countries with everything up to date and hygienic and an enormous suicide rate. I also have a vague feeling that in our century there is some sort of interconnection between the quality of thought and culture in a country, and the
size
of the country. Small countries don’t seem to produce interesting writers any longer, though possibly it is merely that one doesn’t hear about them. I have ideas about the reason for this, if it is true, but of course only guesswork. I hope your novel gets on.
²
Even if one makes a mess of it the first time, one learns a great deal in making the attempt, also if you once have a draft finished, however discouraging it is, you can generally pull it into shape. I simply destroyed my first novel after unsuccessfully submitting it to one publisher, for which I’m rather sorry now. I think Thomas Hood
³
is a very good subject. He is incidentally no longer as well known as he should be, and very thoroughly out of print. I have only a selection of his poems and have for a long time been trying in vain to get the rest. I want particularly the one where he is writing a poem on the beauties of childhood but can’t get on with it because the children are making such a noise (I remember it has the beautiful line, ‘Go to your mother, child, and blow your nose.’
⁴
) I don’t know whether one could call him a serious poet—he is what I call a good bad poet. I am glad you like Surtees. I think after being so long abandoned to the hunting people, who I don’t suppose read him, he is beginning to be appreciated again. I haven’t however read much of his works, and am trying to get hold of several now.
⁵
At present I do nothing except read—I’m not going to try and start any work till some time next month. [
He had read some Hardy, Pearson’s
Dickens
, and Huxley.
] Koestler’s new book I haven’t seen yet.
⁶
I am going to do an essay on Evelyn Waugh for the
Partisan Review
, and have been reading his early works, including a quite good life of Rossetti.
⁷
My novel is supposed to come out in June. I don’t know whether the American edition may come out before the English, but I should think not. I hope to hear from you again some time. This place will be my address till about July, I’m afraid.

Yours

George

[XX, 3570, pp. 61–3; typewritten]

1
.
Meyer was then a lecturer in English at Uppsala University, 1947–50.

2
.
The End of the Corridor
, published in 1951.

3
.
Thomas Hood (
1799–1845), poet and journalist. His comic poetry was marked by gallows humour, and he could write with great bitterness (for example, ‘The Song of the Shirt,’ 1843, on sweated labour), and splendid wit.

4
.
From ‘A Parental Ode to My Son, Aged Three years and Five Months’. Orwell has ‘blow’ for ‘wipe’, so is doubtless (as so often) quoting from memory.

5
.
Orwell recorded having read
Mr Sponge’s Sporting Tour
in April 1949.

6
.
Insight and Outlook.

7
.
Rossetti: His Life and Works
(1928).

To Sir Richard Rees*

16 March 1949

Cranham

Dear Richard,

I hope all is going well with you. I have heard once or twice from Barnhill and things seem to be fairly prosperous. Avril says Bill is going to plant about an acre of kale. Ian M’Kechnie is there at present, working on the road, and Francis Boyle
¹
has done some work in the garden. Bill suggested we should sell off the milch cows, as some of his own cows will be calving and will have surplus milk, and of course it would make more room in the byre. On the other hand there is the question of overlapping, so I suggested keeping one Ayrshire. The boat is apparently in good order and they have been over to Crinan in her. Avril says Richard has found out about money, ie. has grasped that you can buy sweets with it, so I expect I had better start giving him pocket money, though at present he hasn’t any opportunity to spend it. Incidentally, getting pocket money would probably teach him the days of the week.

I have been feeling fairly good, though of course they won’t dream of letting me up. Most of the time it has been beautiful spring-like weather. [
Reading Evelyn Waugh and Hesketh Pearson on Dickens.
] Also re-reading Israel Zangwill’s
Children of the Ghetto
, a book I hadn’t set eyes on for very many years. I am trying to get hold of the sequel to it,
Grandchildren of the Ghetto
,
²
which I remember as being better than the other. I don’t know what else he wrote, but I believe a whole lot. I think he is a very good novelist who hasn’t had his due, though I notice now that he has a very strong tinge of Jewish nationalism, of a rather tiresome kind. I sent for Marie Bashkirtseff’s diary, which I had never read, and it is now staring me in the face, an enormous and rather intimidating volume.
³
I haven’t seen Koestler’s new book, which I think has only been published in the
USA
, but I think I shall send for it. My book is billed to come out on June 15th. It is going to be the
Evening Standard
book of the month, which I believe doesn’t mean anything in particular.