George Orwell: A Life in Letters

by Peter Davison

  He buried some potatoes against the famine & they might have been very useful if they hadn’t gone mouldy at once. To my surprise he does intend to stay here whatever happens. In theory this seems too reasonable & even comfortable to be in character; in practice perhaps it wouldn’t be so comfortable. Anyway I am thankful we got here. If we’d been in England I suppose he must have been in jail by now & I’ve had the most solemn warnings against this from all the doctors though they don’t tell me how I could prevent it. Whatever the solution I do still desperately hope that there won’t be war, which I’m sure would be much worse for the Czechs. After all political oppression, though it gets so much publicity, can make miserable only a small proportion of a whole nation because a political regime, especially a dictatorship, has to be popular. We keep seeing & being exasperated by pictures of London crowds ‘demonstrating’ when we don’t know what they’re demonstrating for, & there are occasional references to ‘extremists’ who are arrested but whether the extremists are Communists demonstrating against Chamberlain’s moderation or Fascists or socialists or pacifists we don’t know. Eric, who retains an extraordinary political simplicity in spite of everything, wants to hear what he calls the voice of the people. He thinks this might stop a war, but I’m sure that the voice would only say that it didn’t want a war but of course would have to fight if the Government declared war. It’s very odd to feel that Chamberlain is our only hope, but I do believe he doesn’t want war either at the moment & certainly the man has courage.3 But it’s fantastic & horrifying to think that you may all be trying on gas masks at this moment.4

  You’ll probably have heard that we don’t like Marrakech. It’s interesting, but at first anyway seemed dreadful to live in. There are beautiful arches with vile smells coming out of them & adorable children covered in ringworm & flies. I found an open space to watch the sunset from & too late realised that part of the ground to the west of us was a graveyard; I really couldn’t bear Eric’s conversation about the view as dominated by invisible worms & we had to go away without seeing the sunset. On the whole, however, I get acclimatised & I thought Eric was moving in the same direction, but he says he isn’t. But when we have our villa (we move in on the 15th) he is going to be happy. He is even buying things for the house, including a copper tray four feet across that will dominate us for the rest of our lives. We also have two doves. Here they live in a cage but at the villa they are to go free. One can’t have any tame animals because on the whole they have dreadful lives here & six months’ spoiling would only make the future worse for them. Otherwise we’d have some donkeys—you can buy a donkey for 100 francs.5

  I expect you can’t read a word of this. We only have one table & Eric is typing diary notes on it. He sends his love to everyone, including Marx. So do I.

  Eileen.

  If there is a war I don’t know what Bristol,6 or indeed anywhere, will be like. But if at any time you wanted some place more remote for the children it’s quite possible that the cottage will be empty. I don’t know what the Commons would do but we’ve suggested to my brother that the cottage might anyway be kept in statu quo. It could be almost as safe as anywhere in England, & comparatively self-supporting, so we thought someone might be glad of it. Of course the Commons may all stay. Someone at my brother’s house (24 Croom’s Hill, S.E.10) will know. My brother himself would be mobilised at once I suppose as he’s in the RAMC.7

  [At top of letter] There’s no actual news yet about E’s health. The doctor says we must allow 3 or 4 weeks for ‘acclimatisation’ before expecting much.

  [XI, 487, pp. 205–7; handwritten]

  1.Marx, the Orwells’ black poodle, was being cared for by Marjorie and her husband, Humphrey Dakin.

  2.An air-raid shelter dug into the back garden. Such a shelter – not much more than a corrugated steel shell covered by earth – was introduced in November 1938 by the Home Secretary, Sir John Anderson, and was named after him. Over two million were erected, or dug out. They were free to those earning £250 a year or less and cost £7 for those earning more. Though subjected to a fair amount of ridicule, and inclined to flood, they probably saved lives.

  3.Early in September 1938, Sudeten Germans, led by Konrad Henlein (1898–1945, by suicide), organised rallies demanding the reunification of Czech border areas with Germany. By 14 September, the Czech government had declared martial law in the Sudetenland, the French had reinforced the Maginot Line, and on 26 September mobilisation of the Royal Navy was ordered. The French and British governments urged the Czechs to accede to German demands, but on 23 September the Czech government ordered general mobilisation, and war seemed inevitable. The day after Eileen wrote, Hitler called a conference of the Czechs, French, and British; Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain flew to Munich to attend. For the sake of a short breathing space, the Czechs were forced to accept German demands, and annexation of the Sudetenland began on 1 October. Poland seized the opportunity to take over Czech Silesia. In the light of Chamberlain’s much criticised statement in a radio broadcast on 1 October that he believed ‘it is peace in our time . . . peace with honour’, Eileen’s comment is particularly telling, and probably reflects what many people, without the benefit of hindsight, felt at the time.

  4.Gas masks were distributed in late September 1938.

  5.Then about 11s 2d equivalent to perhaps £22 today.

  6.Where Marjorie and her family were living.

  7.Royal Army Medical Corps. Laurence O’Shaughnessy was called up as soon as war was declared one year later.

  To Jack Common*

  29 September 1938

  Chez Madame Vellat

  Marrakech

  Dear Jack,

  I wrote yesterday making suggestions as to what you should do in case of war, then this morning received your letter in which you didn’t sound as though war were really likely, so write now in a more normal mood. At this end of the world I can’t make out about this war business. The troops are standing by more or less in full kits, the artillery is trained on the proletarian end of the town ‘in case of trouble’ and this afternoon we had some kind of air-raid practice which I couldn’t get the hang of, but meanwhile the French population is utterly uninterested and evidently doesn’t believe that war is coming. Of course they are out of all danger here, except for the young ones who will be mobilised, and perhaps that affects their attitude. The whole thing is so utterly insane that it just sickens me. One thing I am certain of. Unless there is some tremendous loss of prestige, such as Hitler seizing the whole of Czechoslovakia while England and France do nothing, and perhaps at the same time painting the British ambassador’s arse green and sending him back to England, Chamberlain is safe to win the next election with a big majority. The so-called left parties have played straight into his hands by their idiotic policy.

  I’m sorry to hear the cockerels don’t fetch anything We crossed the hens with a Leghorn because they’re good layers and it’s much more paying to go in for eggs than for table birds. The best thing to do really is to eat them. They[’re] all right to eat, only they’re so light they fetch nothing. The earliest pullets ought to lay this month and the others I suppose about November. Try giving them a spot of Karswood, which is quite cheap, to bring them on. I hope Muriel1 is behaving. I still can’t remember what arrangement was made about her food. Are Clarke’s delivering the stuff? If so, ask them about their bill. They know I am good to pay, and they could make some suggestion, whether to send the bills on to me here or what not. Yes, have the telephone disconnected if it hasn’t been done. I thought my brother in law had had it done. Could you drop him a line about it? I gave you his address in the last letter. I wonder if there are any apples on the tree in the kitchen garden. It gives 30 or 40 pounds some years. They’re very good cookers but you want to use them up because they don’t keep.

  It makes me sad to hear you say you’ve never been out of England, especially when I think of the bastards who do travel, simply going from hotel to hotel and never s
eeing any difference anywhere except in the temperature. At the same time I’m not sure how much good travel does to anyone. One thing I have always believed, and that is that one really learns nothing from a foreign country unless one works in it, or does something that really involves on[e] with the inhabitants. This trip is something quite new to me, because for the first time I am in the position of a tourist. The result is that it is quite impossible, at any rate at present, to make any contact with the Arabs, whereas if I were here, say, on a gun-running expedition, I should immediately have the entrée to all kinds of interesting society, in spite of the language difficulty. I have often been struck by how easy it is to get people to take you for granted if you and they are really in the same boat, and how difficult otherwise. For instance, when I was with the tramps, merely because they assumed that I was on the bum it didn’t make a damn’s worth of difference to them that I had a middle-class accent and they were willing to be actually more intimate than I wanted. Whereas if, say, you brought a tramp into the house and tried to get him to talk to you it would just be a patron-client relationship and quite meaningless. I am as usual taking careful notes of everything I see, but am not certain what use I shall be able to make of them afterwards. Here in Marrakech it is in some ways harder to find out about conditions in Morocco than it would be in a less typical Arab town. In a town like Casablanca you have a huge French population and a white proletariat, and consequently local branches of the Socialist Party and so forth. Here with not very important differences it is very like Anglo-Indian society and you are more or less obliged to be a pukka sahib or suffer the consequences. We’re staying in the town itself for another two or three weeks, then we’re taking a villa outside. That will be slightly more expensive but quieter to work in and I simply have to have a bit of garden and a few animals. I shall also be interested to see a little of how the Arab peasants live. Here in the town conditions are pretty frightful, wages generally work out at about 1d or 2d an hour and it’s the first place I’ve seen where beggars do literally beg for bread and eat it greedily when given it. It’s still pretty hot but getting better and we’re both pretty well in health. There’s nothing wrong with me really, but much as I resent the waste of time it’s probably done me good to lay off work for seven months. People who don’t write think that writing isn’t work, but you and I know the contrary. Thank God I’ve just begun to work again and made a start on my new novel, which was billed for this autumn but might appear in the spring perhaps. Of course if war comes God knows if the publishing of books will even continue. To me the idea of war is a pure nightmare. Richard Rees* was talking as though even war couldn’t be worse than the present conditions, but I think what this really means is that he doesn’t see any peace-time activity for himself which he feels to be useful. A lot of intellectuals feel like this, which I think is one explanation of why the so-called left-wingers are now the jingoes. But I personally do see a lot of things that I want to do and to continue doing for another thirty years or so, and the idea that I’ve got to abandon them and either be bumped off or depart to some filthy concentration camp just infuriates me. Eileen and I have decided that if war does come the best thing will be to just stay alive and thus add to the number of sane people.

  The above address will find me for a bit. I’ll give you the new one when I have it—probably a poste restante address, as I don’t think they will deliver letters where we are going to. Best love to Mary and Peter. Eileen also sends love.

  Yours

  Eric

  P.S. [handwritten at top of first page] Yes, I did once just meet Alec Henderson2 at a party. The village people are really very nice, especially the Hatchetts, Mrs Anderson, Titley, Keep, Edie (Mrs Ridley’s daughter) & her husband Stanley, & Albert, Mrs R’s other son in law. I don’t know what one can really do for old H[atchett] except occasionally to give him eggs when his hens don’t lay. He is a dear old man. Tell them all you’ve heard from me & I wanted to be remembered to them.

  [XI, 489, pp. 210–12; typewritten]

  1.Orwell’s goat, with whom he is to be seen in a very familiar picture (see Crick, plate 19). Also the name of the goat in Animal Farm.

  2.Possibly this was a neighbour at Wallington, but since he is separated from the ‘village people’ he may not be local. ‘Alec’ could be an error for ‘Arthur’, Arthur Henderson, Sr (1863–1935). His son (1893–1966), like his father, was a Labour MP, 1923–24, 1929–31, and 1935–66.

  Marjorie Dakin* to Eileen Blair* and Orwell

  3 October 1938

  166 St Michael’s Hill

  Bristol

  My dear Eileen and Eric,

  Thanks very much for your letters, and the £1 enclosed. Marx is being perfectly good except for such natural wickedness as will never be eradicated. He is very obedient out of doors, and comes directly when called, also is learning to keep on pavements, as we let him off the leash in quiet roads to train him. He has simply terrific games with the children, especially on the downs. A sword of Damocles has been hanging over his head, he was threatened with being made into sausages if there was a food shortage, also Tor, though he is getting a bit tough.

  As you will have gathered there has been complete wind-up about war, everybody thought it had really come this time, as indeed it may yet. All preparations are being pushed on just the same. I took the children down to get their gas-masks the other day, not that I have much faith in them, but still it is the correct thing to do. I have heard that the A.R.P. is a farce so far, if there was a really bad bombing raid, there would be practically nobody who knew what to do.1 I also heard that all the warning that Bristol would get would be four minutes, and London only 25 seconds, but I don’t know if this is true.2 If it is it hardly seems worth while to do anything, as I don’t see myself getting the children into gasmasks and shelter in four minutes.

  Humph has been transferred pro. tem. into the Ministry of Transport, and has been sent off to Salisbury, but I imagine he will be back quite soon now. As far as he could make out all the high officials in London (in transport) moved out in a body to the south of England with their wives and families. The head man took over the Truro district. Humph as the only outsider was given Salisbury, it being the most dangerous place.

  Everything here was perfectly calm, no meetings of any kind. All the parks and gardens have been dug up into shelters, and England is swept clean of corrugated iron and sand bags. I believe the grocers have done a roaring trade ‘better than Christmas’. I didn’t go in for a food hoarding myself except to buy a sack of potatoes, which the grocer offered me.

  Devon and Cornwall are simply packed, there is not a house or rooms to be had for love or money, people who went up to London on Friday said it was practically empty, Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens have miles of trenches in them. The bill has now to be paid.

  I hope Chamberlain rounds off the thing properly, and offers to give back Germany her mandated colonies, also tries to do something about removing tariffs. Otherwise I think we shall have everything to be ashamed of, in saving our skins at the expense of the Czechs. But I bet he won’t. It looks as if poor France has had a kick in the pants, to be vulgar, agreements being signed without reference to her. Personally I think there is going to be a most awful row over the whole thing, when the hysteria has died down a bit. One school of thought says that we shall not be ready for war for another two years and that the Govt. will do anything to put it off till then,3 others, that now that the great ones of the earth realise that it is really going to be a ‘free for all’ and that is not just a case of ‘giving’ one’s son it puts a different complexion on things.

  I think if there is another war, I shall have Humph in a lunatic asylum in two twos,4 his nerves are in an awful state, I was really quite glad when he went off to Salisbury poor dear, as he was adding to the horrors of the situation very considerably and of course the children5 didn’t care two hoots, and were enjoying the whole thing, Hen[ry] went round and really had his fill of lookin
g at searchlights and machine guns, and Jane was perfectly indifferent, except that she hoped they wouldn’t turn the Art School into a Hospital.

  My heart goes out to you over the four-foot tray, I have one of the same ilk, but I had a trestle made to go under it and use it as [a] table. I have had some pretty B.6 furniture landed on me from Dr. Dakin’s 7 house, things I have loathed from my childhood, but I am hoping to be able to discreetly jettison them soon. Excuse typing faults, I am doggedly practising on all my friends and relations.

  Have you read any books by a man called R. C. Hutchinson.8

  I have just read a book of his called Shining Scabbard which I thought was awfully good. I believe his latest one Testament is even better.

  Thanks very much for the offer of the cottage, but if things become really desperate, I expect we should try to get up to Middlesmoor,9 the cottage there is still furnished, a friend of mine took it over, and I daresay we could all fit in, as it is a magic cottage, and will hold an unlimited amount of people.

  Best love to you both

  Marge.

  [XI, 492, pp. 215–7; typewritten]