by T. S. Eliot
TO Norbert Wiener
MS MIT
Tuesday [9? November 1914]
Merton College, Oxford.
Dear Wiener,
I am glad to know that my letter reached you. I don’t know just what I shall do in vacation, but should like to get hold of you. I was planning to retire somewhere in the country with books; travelling sounds expensive and one can’t leave England anyway. Let me know what you are to do when you have decided.
I am doing my work under Joachim. I also have J. A. Smith,1 who I imagine is unknown outside of Oxford. Bradley is seldom up, and never teaches. I should like to have a chance to meet him.2
You seem to be doing phil[osophy] rather than math[ematics].3 I can’t imagine what on earth you are doing with McTaggart,4 unless you are reading Hegel or drinking whiskey.
Sincerely,
T. S. Eliot
1–J. A. Smith (1863–1939), Waynflete Professor of Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy, 1910–36; co-editor of the Oxford edition of Aristotle (12 vols, 1908–52); translator of De Anima.
2–F. H. Bradley (1846–1924), English Hegelian philosopher; Fellow of Merton College from 1870; and author of Ethical Studies (1876), Appearance and Reality (1893), and Principles of Logic (1922). TSE was never to meet him – Bradley had been suffering from poor health since 1871 and led a secluded life – but he went on to complete in 1916 his doctoral dissertation on him: Knowledge and Experience in the Philosophy of F. H. Bradley (1964). After his death, TSE called him ‘the last survivor of the academic race of metaphysicians’.
3–Wiener had addressed the Cambridge discussion group The Heretics on ‘Scepticism’, 31 Oct.
4–John McTaggart Ellis McTaggart (1866–1925), Hegelian philosopher; Lecturer in Moral Sciences at Trinity College, Cambridge, 1897–1923; author of Studies in the Hegelian Dialectic (1896), Some Dogmas on Religion (1906), and A Commentary on Hegel’s Logic (1910).
TO J. H. Woods
MS Professor David G. Williams
9 November [1914]
Merton College, Oxford
Dear Professor Woods,
I have promised to keep you au courant, but I do not quite know what I have to offer. I am following these courses of lectures, Joachim’s on the Ethics, Collingwood’s1 (of Pembroke) on the de Anima,2 and J. A. Smith’s Logic. Joachim is reading the Posterior Analytics with myself and one other man (who is likely to get a commission in the new army by Christmas, so that I may possibly have J. to myself); and besides I have an hour a week conference with Joachim and Smith’s ‘Informals’ which are quite informal indeed, as only one other man besides myself attends them. Smith’s Lectures are interesting as representing the purest strain of old fashioned Hegelianism to be found in England, I believe, and a type of philosophy with which I had never come into contact. The de Anima course consists in reading, explaining, and commenting upon the text. Collingwood is a young person, but very good, I think. We use the Teubner text. C. likes Rodier’s the best; better than Hicks. The course is to end with the term, and I fear that we shall not cover the whole of the three books. The other courses continue; and I see that Stewart is to have a course – a class, I mean – in the Enneads [of Plotinus].3 I intend to go to this, and probably also to a course on the Politics [of Aristotle].
The course of Joachim’s on the Ethics is particularly good. J. is perhaps the best lecturer here. He sticks pretty closely to the text, explaining other portions of Aristotle – especially parts of the Organon, when relevant. I find the abundance of cross references very useful.
The Posterior Analytics I find very difficult. I accompany it with the commentary of Zabarella,4 which is remarkably good, and very minute, so that this reading takes most of my time. If there is a copy in the British Museum (and Pacius5 also) I shall make good use of it during the vacation. If the Harvard library possesses a copy I hope that you will let me know, as I should consider it great good luck. J. A. Smith also said that he owed his knowledge of Aristotle chiefly to Zabarella.
I do not think that anyone would come to Oxford to seek for anything very original or subtle in philosophy, but the scholarship is very fine, and the teaching of philosophy, especially the historical side of philosophy, as a part of the training and equipment of an honnête homme, has aroused my keen admiration. For anyone who is going to teach the Oxford discipline is admirable. It has impressed upon my mind the value of two things: the value of personal instruction in small classes and individually, and the value of careful study of original texts in the original tongue – in contrast to the synoptic course.
I do not know whether any of my notes would be of the slightest use to you, but if either my notes on the Ethics, de An. or Post-Anal. would interest you I should be very glad indeed to typewrite them off for you. – Or if there are any books you wish to be looked up second-hand – I am sorry that nothing on the Metaphysics or on the later Platonic dialogues is offered this year. I believe that J. has some good notes on ΖΗθ6 but I do not like to ask to borrow them.
Very sincerely yours
Thomas S. Eliot
1–R. G. Collingwood (1889–1943), Waynflete Professor of Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy, 1936–41. His books The Principles of Art (1938) and The New Leviathan (1942) are in TSE’s library.
2–In his annotated copy of Aristotle, De Anima Libri III, ed. Guilelmus Biehl (Leipzig, 1911), TSE later wrote: ‘Used in 1914–15 with notes made during R. G. Collingwood’s explication de texte, and extracts from Pacius’ commentary on the De Anima which Joachim made me read’ (King’s).
3–E. R. Dodds, in his autobiography Missing Persons (1977), traced his love of Plotinus back to the classes given by J. A. Stewart, author of Notes on the Nichomachean Ethics of Aristotle (1892) and Plato’s Doctrine of Ideas (1909): ‘The membership of the class was initially six, but as Stewart proved to be an unexciting teacher it quickly dropped to two. I was one of the two; the other was a young American lately arrived from the Graduate School at Harvard … Like me he was seriously interested in mystical experience. But what astonished me as I came to know him better was the wide knowledge of contemporary European literature, poetry in particular, which he gradually revealed. Then one day he confessed shyly that he had written some poems himself’ (40).
4–Giacomo Zabarella (1533–89) published a commentary on Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics in 1582.
5–Giulio Pace’s edition of the Organon (1584).
6–Metaphysics VII–IX.
TO Conrad Aiken
MS Huntington
16 November [1914]
[Merton College]
Dear Conrad
I was very glad to hear from you after the summer interval. But why are you ‘slothful’? Are you satisfied to be in Cambridge at present? It would seem that there was nowhere else to go at present, unless you went to New York. I conclude that London is a pleasant place when the road to Paris is gesperrt [closed], and hope to pass several weeks there during the vacation. University towns, my dear fellow, are the same all over the world; only they order these matters better in Oxford.1 For intellectual stimulus, you will find it not in Oxford nor in Urbana Indiana (or is it Illinois).2 Only the most matter of fact people could write verse here, I assure you. But life is pleasant in its way, and perhaps I also am contented and slothful, eating heartily, smoking, and rowing violently upon the river in a four oar,3 and performing my intellectual stint each day. Oxford even at this time is peaceful, always elegiac. It is Alexandrine verse, nuts and wine. What else? Oh yes, I have had to buy a larger collar. What else should I say about Oxford, or about the war? Let us take them for granted.
I think that you criticise my verse too leniently. It still seems to me strained and intellectual. I know the kind of verse I want, and I know that this isn’t it, and I know why. I shan’t do anything that will satisfy me (as some of my old stuff does satisfy me – whether it be good or not) for years, I feel it more and more. Not in the life I have been leading for several years. And I don’t k
now whether I want to. Why should one worry about that? I feel that such matters take care of themselves and have no dependence upon our planning –
I can’t say that I always understand
My own meaning when I would be very fine
But the fact is that I have nothing plann’d
Except perhaps to be a moment merry –4
I have secured your book. I regret to tell you that I have seen no advertisements of it in England, have they taken any steps about that? Of course, it’s a low time for poetry; but it would be an outrage if you did not get some good reviews in America. And they do take their time in reviewing verse, always. Could you not have it on sale at the Poetry Bookshop, at least? If you were over here it might be possible for you to give a reading there. You say nothing about your plans for next year, which I presume are affected by the war. Better wait till spring and see then –
Bien affectueusement
Th. Eliot
1–Cf. the opening of Sterne’s Tristram Shandy: ‘they order these matters better in France.’
2–Cf. ‘Tell it not in Gath, Publish it not in the streets of Askelon’ (2 Samuel 1. 20).
3–His crew, of which he was stroke, beat the only other four-oar that could be mustered in wartime Oxford. Later his prized pewter mug was stolen during a removal.
4–Byron, Don Juan IV v: ‘I don’t pretend that I quite understand / My own meaning when I would be very fine; / But the fact is that I have nothing planned, / Unless it were to be a moment merry.’ In 1933 TSE wrote that he had thought of prefixing this stanza to Ash-Wednesday if ever it went into a second edition: ‘There is some sound critical admonition in these lines’ (TUPUC 30–1).
TO Conrad Aiken
MS Huntington
Saturday 21 November [1914]
Junior Common Room,
Merton College, Oxford
Dear Conrad,
Will you do me a great favour? I enclose a money order for $4. Will you go to Galvin, or to Howard in Cambridge, and order some red or pink roses, Killarney I suppose. I understand that Emily [Hale] is to act in the Cambridge Dramatic play which will be early in December – I suppose the 5th or the 12th; you will have to find out which date, if you can. I enclose a card; please put it in a small envelope and address it to her simply Miss Hale, ‘Brattle Hall’, and have the roses for the Saturday night performance. The name of the play is Mrs Bumpstead-Leigh.1 If you can’t find out when the play comes off, or if you can’t find out without conspicuous inquiry, or if, as is quite possible, this reaches you too late, simply hold the money and send the flowers at Christmas. In that case the address is
5 Circuit Road,
Chestnut Hill.
I have lent your book to Scofield Thayer,2 who has expressed himself quite enthusiastic over it. He thinks, as I do, that the title poem is decidedly the most successful and unusual.
Yours
Tom
1–Mrs Bumpstead-Leigh (1911) is a comedy by Harry James Smith (1880–1918).
2–Scofield Thayer, the future editor of The Dial, had known TSE at Milton Academy and Harvard, and was now studying philosophy at Magdalen College, Oxford. See Glossary of Names.
TO Eleanor Hinkley
MS Houghton
27 November 1914
Merton College
Dear Eleanor,
I regretted very much that I could not share your supper with you, but I was satisfied on the whole to have the letter for myself. I really feel quite as much au courant of Cambridge life as anyone can who has not yet learned the fox trot.1 In the same mail with your letter came this picture, which I enclose without comment, to indicate my state of mind. I expect when I return to put myself into the hands of Lily2 for a month of the strictest training: rise at six, run around Fresh Pond, bath, breakfast of one egg followed by ancle exercises for one hour, knee exercises one hour, and so on; and perhaps by the time I emerge I shall be able to appear in society without your having to blush for me. I was able to make use of the fox trot in a debate in the college common room a few evenings ago. The subject was ‘Resolved that this society abhors the threatened Americanisation of Oxford’. I supported the negative: I pointed out to them frankly how much they owed to Amurrican culcher in the drayma (including the movies) in music, in the cocktail, and in the dance. And see, said I, what we the few Americans here are losing while we are bending our energies toward your uplift (building the city beautiful, as a young clergyman so aptly put it); we the outposts of progress are compelled to remain in ignorance of the fox trot. You will be interested to hear that my side won the debate by two votes.
Lily may have forgotten to tell you what struck me very much at the time, that the name of the druggist in whose shop we met was Jones. A really striking motive for EFFIE THE WAIF. How can I work it in? At present I am engaged in drilling and giving names to all the comic and villainous characters who fall in love with EFFIE, and all the villainous and comic characters who fall in love with WILFRED (the hero – his name was Walter, but I thought Wilfred better). As the drayma takes place chiefly on the plains (you must have either the plains or the desert if you expect a good pursuit) there is of course DANCING BEAR the chief of the Pottawottobottommies, a terrible fellow, given to drink, and no end treacherous. Then there is Traihi Sheik, the maharaja of Chowwannugger. You simply have to have either a red Indian or an East Indian, and I see no reason why you should not have both. They will be distinguished from each other by the fact that Bear wears feathers and a very old silk hat (for comic effect a red Indian is absolutely worthless without an old silk hat); while Traihi wears a turban and polo boots (he was at Christ Church): otherwise they are exactly alike, except perhaps that Traihi is a shade the more treacherous and given to drink of the two. The way I bring the latter in I consider especially ingenious. Guendolyne Lady Chumleyumley, who is really Effie’s mother, though everybody has guessed it, has been getting lonelier and lonelier all alone in her baronial halls all alone with fifty-five devoted servants (to whom I have not yet given names, but who will all play some part); this process of increasing loneliness has been going on for eighteen years (Effie was lost at the age of one – the audience now computes Effie’s age by a sum in higher mathematics similar to that by which I learned the age of my old flame Hannah in Germany). Finally she decides, having had no sleep throughout this time, eighteen years, that something must be done. She receives a tip that there is an old faquir in India who has been very successful in recovering lost umbrellas, etc. It was in India that Effie was stolen. Shall she return to these scenes, so painful to her memory?
If she had had more gumption she would probably have done so long before, but that would have spoiled everything. She arrives in India. Everyone wonders who the strange memsahib is, so liberal with backsheesh (here a street scene, with camels, monkeys (comic) and pythons), but who has never been seen to smile. (She has not smiled for eighteen years). Still beautiful, she has a troupe of comic and villainous lovers of her own, but she will remain faithful to the memory of her Adalbert – perhaps he too is still alive (of course he is: but he is still in captivity in Turkestan, where he works on the farm, and we won’t get him out for several reels yet). Finally she interviews the faquir. After a lot of hocus pocus, he produces a crystal sphere into which she gazes. The next reel of course shows what she saw in the sphere: the whole history of the foul abduction of her husband and her babe from their station in Kashmeer, with the aid of a monkey, a cobra, and a man-eating tiger. I shall elaborate this later; the point is that she is finally shown Effie in her present position in the act of spurning Peter (Effie is going to be awfully good at spurning before she gets through). Here she faints dead away. Meanwhile Traihi Sheik has been hanging about in the ante room waiting to see the faquir about a matter of a purloined jewel which weighs ten pounds and has religious associations as well, has got tired of waiting, and bursts in just in time to look over her Ladyship’s shoulder and catch a glimpse of Effie’s face in the crystal. Of course it�
�s all off at once. He turns to the audience, rolls his eyes and tears at his shirt in the usual oriental fashion to show passion.
SCENE: I WILL FIND HER IF SHE LIVES UPON THIS GLOBE. BE SHE PRINCESS OR BE SHE PEASANT MAID. I WILL MAKE HER MAHARANEE OF CHOWWANNUGGER.
I started to tell you all about Effie’s lovers, and I hoped to do them up in one letter, but I shall have to postpone the rest. I will only briefly mention Karl Wurst, who works in the barber shop in Medecine Hat. You see, I thought it would be so novel and interesting to have a German spy, and it doesn’t interfere with his business in the least to have him in love with Effie (he sees her waiting in the carryall while her so-called father the hon. Cassidy is being shaved: comic scene, Karl slices a bit off his ear while looking out of window at Effie). Of course Karl is really Lieutenant Prince Karl of Katzenkraut-Schwerin, occupied in doing some plans of the local gas-works.
This is nearly the end of the term. I am planning to spend a fortnight or so somewhere on the south coast with two friends – one an Amurrican, the other an Englishman, and then return to London, which I find has a strong attraction for one.
I think that you understand poor Harry [Child] exceedingly well, and you say some things which had not occurred to me. It’s just because the whole thing seems so strained and forced, and yet that given the premisses, he carries out the programme with so much pluck and modesty and temperateness and sense, that he is particularly appealing and pathetic. And he is what a good many people engaged in religion are not, not because they have more sense or wisdom, but simply because they have not the fortitude or feeling. I feel a particular sympathy with him, because I know that I may have come very near to drifting (if you would use the word drift – err is perhaps better) into something rather similar, though with very different dogmas; it begins with having intelligence and not applying it to some subject matter which should be at once personal, and solid enough to let one’s personality develop freely without allowing it to wander into freaks and vagaries. Anyway, I have had for several years a distrust of strong convictions in any theory or creed which can be formulated. One must have theories, but one need not believe in them! I wish I could see how it was going to end for Harry. I don’t believe he has anything very serious on his conscience, but even two or three merely wasted years are something which such a man may never be able to forget or smile at.3