6.Compare the opening of Orwell’s essay, ‘Marrakech’ (and see 4.10.38, n. 2).
7.Also known as Mahdjoub Mahommed. In his Morocco Diary for 22 November 1938, Orwell says Mahdjoub served in an Arab line regiment for about fifteen years and received a pension of about Frs 5 a day – roughly 3p in today’s coinage but perhaps very roughly £1.20 at today’s values.
8.Mizpah: A Palestinian place-name referred to in Genesis 31.49 and used as a word or token expressing close association: ‘The Lord watch between me and thee’, often inscribed on brooches or rings exchanged between lovers.
9.Mahdjoub has confused oiseau (bird) with poisson (fish).
10.It was actually Dakin. Jenny Joseph suggests that Eileen mistakenly gave the surname of a contemporary at St Hugh’s, Ursula Dacombe. The Dakins* though not well off on a civil servant’s salary, were hardly ‘in a state of absolute penury’.
11.Unidentified.
To Jack Common*
26 December 1938
Boîte Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Jack,
Thanks so much for yours. I’m really frightfully sorry about these blasted hens. We seem to have saddled you with a herd of white elephants. I can’t think what it can be. It seems to me that if it were any definite illness they would die off and not merely stop laying. As to its being the ground, I don’t think there can be anything in that. To begin with, wherever they are in the field they must be on ground they ranged over before with good results. The hens of old Desborough, who had the field up to end of 1935 or so, died of coccidiosis, but I doubt to start with whether the disease germs would remain in the ground so long, secondly why haven’t they developed it before, thirdly you probably wouldn’t mistake coccidiosis, which makes the fowls weak and droopy even when they don’t die, as most of them do. The thing I really don’t understand is why the old fowls (there are a few, aren’t there?) don’t lay. As to the pullets, it does sometimes happen that they just miss coming into lay in August-September, and then what with the moult and the cold weather don’t start till spring. But meanwhile you are being saddled with the food-bills. In a few days I’ll try and send you a few quid (I’m afraid at best it’ll have to be a few) towards ex[pens]es. I’ve written recently to my bank to know whether I’ve got any money left, and I’ll get their reply in a few days. Of course this journey, which at any rate was made on borrowed money, has been very expensive and I don’t think I’ll have any money to speak of coming in for three or four months. The novel ought to be done beginning of April. It’s really a mess but parts of it I like and it’s suddenly revealed to me a big subject which I’d never really touched before and haven’t time to work out properly now. I can’t tell you how deeply I wish to keep alive, out of jail, and out of money-worries for the next few years. I suppose after this book I shall write some kind of pot-boiler, but I have very dimly in my mind the idea for an enormous novel in several volumes and I want several years to plan it out in peace. Of course when I say peace I don’t mean absence of war, because actually you can be at peace when you’re fighting, but I don’t think what I mean by peace is compatible with modern totalitarian war. Meanwhile the Penguin people are making moves towards reprinting one or other of my books, and I hope they’ll do so, because though I don’t suppose there’s much dough in it it’s the best possible advert. Besides it’s damned annoying to see your books out of print. One of mine, Down and Out, is so completely out of print that neither I nor anyone else known to me except my mother possesses a copy—this in spite of the fact that it was the most-taken-out book in the library at Dartmoor. I’m glad Warburg* has struck it lucky with at any rate one book. I must say for him that he has enterprise and has published a wider range of stuff than almost anyone. My Spain book sold damn all, but it didn’t greatly matter as my agent had got the money out of him in advance and the reviews were O.K.
God knows when that parcel will turn up. From what I know of French post offices it wouldn’t surprise me if it was just in time for Xmas 1939. Actually I left it and a lot of others to be sent off by the shopkeeper, because I was fatigued by a long afternoon of shopping, which is really tiring in this country as in most oriental countries. Arabs are even greater bargainers than Indians and one is obliged to conclude that they like it. If the price of an article is a shilling, the shopman starts by demanding two shillings and the buyer starts by offering threepence, and they may well take half an hour to agree on the shilling, though both know from the start that this is the right price. One thing that greatly affects one’s contacts in foreign countries is that English people’s nerves are not so durable as those of some other races, they can’t stand noise, for instance. I like the Arabs, they’re very friendly and, considering their position, not at all servile, but I’ve made no real contact, partly because they mostly speak a kind of bastard French and so I’ve been too lazy to learn any Arabic. The French in this country seem dull and stodgy beyond all measure, far worse than Anglo-Indians. I doubt whether there’s any real political movement among the Arabs. The left-wing parties have all been suppressed (by the Popular Front) but I don’t think they can ever have amounted to much. The people are entirely in the feudal stage and most of them seem to think they are still ruled by the Sultan, which by a fiction they are. There’ve been no echoes of the Tunis business except in the French press. If a big Arab movement ever arises I think it’s bound to be pro-Fascist. I am told the Italians in Libya treat them atrociously, but their main oppressors have been the democracies, so-called. The attitude of the so-called left wing in England and France over this imperialism business simply sickens me. If they went on in the same vein they would end by turning every thinking coloured person into a Fascist. Underlying this is the fact that the working class in England and France have absolutely no feeling of solidarity with the coloured working class.
You asked where Marrakech was. It’s somewhere near the top left hand corner of Africa and immediately north of the Atlas Mountains. Funnily enough we’ve been having the cold snap even here and on Xmas eve there was a heavy frost—don’t know whether that is usual here, but judging by the vegetation I don’t think it can be. I had the queer and rather pleasant experience of seeing the oranges and lemons on the trees frosted all over, which apparently didn’t damage them. The effects of the frost were very curious. Some nasturtiums I had sown earlier were withered up by it, but the cactuses and the Bougainvillea, which is a tropical plant from the South Pacific, weren’t affected. The mountains have been covered with snow even on their lower slopes for some time past. As soon as I’ve done the rough draft of my novel we’re going to take a week off and go into the mountains. The Romans thought they were the end of the world, and they certainly look as if they might be. It’s generally fine and bright in the day time, but we have fires all the time. The only fuel is olive wood, because there simply isn’t a wild tree for miles and miles. This is one of those countries which are very nearly desert and which just exactly support a small population of men and beasts who eat every eatable thing and burn every burnable thing on the surface, so that if there were one more person there’d be a famine. And to think that in Roman times North Africa was full of magnificent forests full of lions and elephants. There are now practically no wild animals bigger than a hare, and I suppose even the human population is smaller. I’ve just been reading about approximately these parts in Flaubert’s Salammbô, a book which for some reason I’d always steered clear of but which is simply stunning.
I’m not surprised at J.M.M[urry]* entering the Church. But he won’t stay in it long. I suppose in the near future there will be a book called ‘The Necessity of Fascism.’1 But I think it’s really time someone began looking into Fascism seriously. There must be more to it than one would gather from the left press. Mussolini has been ‘just about to’ collapse ever since 1926.
The French hardly celebrate Xmas, only the New Year. The Arabs probably celebrate the New Year, but it may not be the same as ours. They are pretty
strict Mahomedans, except that owing to poverty they are not overscrupulous about what they eat. We simply haven’t celebrated Xmas yet, but shall when we get a pudding that is coming from England. Eileen was ill on Xmas day and I actually forgot till the evening what day it was. It’s all very gloomy, because my father is very ill and my sister who was to come out here consequently can’t. Two friends have just got back from Spain. One is a chap called Robert Williams2 who has come out with his guts full of bits of shell. He says Barcelona is smashed out of recognition, everyone is half starved and you can get 900 pesetas for a £. The other is George Kopp,* a Belgian, whom there is a lot about in my book. He has just escaped after 18 months in a G.P.U.3 jail, in which he lost seven stone in weight. They were bloody fools to let him go after what they have done to him, but I suppose they couldn’t help themselves. It’s evident from several things that the Communists have lost most of their power and the GPU only exists unofficially.
My love to Mary and Peter. Eileen sends love and thanks Mary for the letter. I’ll write again when I hear from the bank. I hope the cold will let up. It can be bloody in a small cottage. About February we’ll have to think of getting Muriel mated, but there’s no hurry. Whatever happens don’t let her go to that broken-down old wreck of Mr Nicholls’s,4 who is simply worn out by about twenty years of fucking his own sisters, daughters, granddaughters and great-grand-daughters.
Yours
Eric
PS. Were you giving the pullets a forcing mash? Clarke’s stuff is pretty good.
[XI, 516, pp. 259–63; typewritten]
1.Murry had a predilection for such titles: The Necessity of Art (with others) (1924), The Necessity of Communism (1932; New York, 1933), and The Necessity of Pacifism (1937).
2.A fellow member of the POUM militia.
3.Secret police of the USSR.
4.A neighbour at Wallington.
To Herbert Read*
4 January 1939
Boîte Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Read,
Thanks for your letter and the manifesto.1 Funnily enough I’d already seen it in La Flèche and had thought of making further enquiries. I’ll certainly sign it, though if you merely want a few names to represent England you could get some much better-known people. But any way use my name for anything it is worth. You asked if I wanted to suggest any changes in the manifesto. The only point I am a bit doubtful about, though I don’t press it, is this. On p. 2 you say ‘To make Russia safe for bureaucracy, first the German workers, then the Spanish workers, then the Czechoslovakian workers, have been left in the lurch.’ I’ve no doubt this is true, but is it strategically wise for people in our position to raise the Czech question at this moment? No doubt the Russians did leave the Czechs in the soup, but it does not seem to me that they behaved worse or very differently from the British and French Governments, and to suggest by implication that they ought to have gone to war to defend the Czechs is to suggest that Britain and France ought to have gone to war too, which is just what the Popular Frontiersmen would say and what I don’t believe to be true. I don’t press this point, I merely suggest it and any way add my name to the manifesto.
I am spending the winter here for the sake of my lungs, which I think it is doing a little good to. Owing to this blasted health business I have had what is practically a wasted year, but the long rest has done me good and I am getting on with a new novel, whereas a year ago, after that awful nightmare in Spain, I had seriously thought I would never be able to write a novel again. Meanwhile, curiously enough, I had for some time past been contemplating writing to you about a matter which is much on my mind. It is this:—
I believe it is vitally necessary for those of us who intend to oppose the coming war to start organising for illegal anti-war activities. It is perfectly obvious that any open and legal agitation will be impossible not only when war has started but when it is imminent, and that if we do not make ready now for the issue of pamphlets etc. we shall be quite unable to do so when the decisive moment comes. At present there is considerable freedom of the press and no restriction on the purchase of printing presses, stocks of paper etc., but I don’t believe for an instant that this state of affairs is going to continue. If we don’t make preparations we may find ourselves silenced and absolutely helpless when either war or the pre-war fascising° processes begin. It is difficult to get people to see the danger of this, because most English people are constitutionally incapable of believing that anything will ever change. In addition, when one has to deal with actual pacifists, one generally finds that they have a sort of lingering moral objection to illegality and underground work. I quite agree that people, especially people who have any kind of notoriety, can get the best results by fighting in the open, but we might find it extremely useful to have an underground organisation as well. It seems to me that the commonsense thing to do would be to accumulate the things we should need for the production of pamphlets, stickybacks etc., lay them by in some unobtrusive place and not use them until it became necessary. For this we should need organisation and, in particular, money, probably 3 or 4 hundred pounds, but this should not be impossible with the help of the people one could probably rope in by degrees. Would you drop me a line and let me know whether you are interested in this idea? But even if you are not, don’t speak of it to anyone, will you?
I enclose the manifesto, which I have signed.
Yours
Eric Blair
P.S. [handwritten] I’m keeping the leaflet of Clé 2 & will send in a subscription as soon as I can get into Marrakech & buy a money-order.
[XI, 522, pp. 313–4; typewritten]
1.Towards a Free Revolutionary Art. This called for the formation of an International Federation of Independent Revolutionary Art. It was signed by André Breton, founder and leader of the Surrealist movement, and Diego Rivera, painter of the Mexican revolution, when they rejected the Third International politically and culturally.
2.La Clé: monthly bulletin of the International Federation of Independent Revolutionary Art.
To Francis Westrope*
15 January 1939
Boîte Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Frank,
I wonder if you could be kind enough to send us the following:
Thackeray’s Pendennis (Nelson Double Vol. 2/–).
Trollope’s Eustace Diamonds (World’s Classics).
H. James’ Turn of the Screw (Everyman No. 912.)
J. S. Mill’s Autobiography (World’s Classics.)
I think that about exhausts our credit, but if we owe you anything, let me know, won’t you?
I am afraid it is a long time since I have written, and I never answered the letter Mrs Westrope1 wrote me about the time we left England. We have been in this country about four months now and expect to be here till about the beginning of April. [Summary of descriptions of life in French Morocco as in 24.11.38, 26.11.38, and 26.12.38.]
I must say I was very thankful to be out of Europe for the war crisis. Here the people paid very little attention to it, partly I think because they did not want to excite the Arabs but also because they evidently didn’t believe war was coming. I think one of the determining factors of the situation is that the French people can’t be got into war unless France is invaded, and their politicians are aware of this. I suppose the next bit of trouble will be over the Ukraine, so perhaps we may get home just in time to go straight into the concentration camp if we haven’t been sunk by a German submarine on the way. I hope and trust it won’t be so. I have just finished the rough draft of my novel, and then we are going into the Atlas mountains for a week before I begin the revision, which will take till about the beginning of April. I think the climate has done me good. I cough very little now and I have put on a bit of weight, about half a stone already. It does seem so infuriating to be interrupted all the time by these wars and things.
I don’t think by the way I ever thanked you for very kindly sending me that
book of Arabic. I’m sorry to say Eileen and I have learned practically no Arabic, except the few words one can’t help learning, because all the Arabs speak a kind of pidgin French, at any rate if they are at all in contact with Frenchmen. They also, of course, in these parts, speak a kind of dialect with Berber and even Spanish words mixed up in it. A lot of the people round here are Chleuh, a race the French only conquered quite recently, and there is also a certain amount of negro blood. We had to pass through Spanish Morocco coming down here. I didn’t of course get more than glimpses, but I saw a few Franco troops, who looked indistinguishable from the Government troops I used to see a year earlier. The French here are mainly pro-Franco, and I think when all is known it will come out that they have given Franco a good deal of help, direct and indirect. There is a huge Jewish population here and in consequence a lot of anti-Jewish feeling, though most of the Jews are terribly poor and live much the same life as the Arabs. I hadn’t realised before that much of the characteristic Moroccan work, coppersmithing and so forth, is done by Jews. Most of the native work is lovely and, of course, extremely cheap, though unfortunately many of the best things aren’t portable.
Please give all the best to everyone. I trust when we next meet it won’t be behind the barbed wire.
Yours
Eric Blair
[XI, 527, pp. 319–20; typewritten]
1.Myfanwy Westrope, wife of Francis Westrope, proprietor of Booklovers’ Corner, where Orwell had worked as a part-time shop assistant, 1934–35. Orwell mistakenly addresses Francis Westrope by the first name of another bookseller, Frank Simmonds.
To Lady Rees
23 February 1939
Boîte Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Lady Rees,1
I do so hope all is well with Richard.* The last I heard from the Plowmans some months back was that he was still in Barcelona, but since the retreat I have had no news of him, of course. I hope and trust he got out all right and isn’t too overcome by all he must have been through. If he is home and cares to write, our address is the above until about the end of March. I think my wife told you I had been ill with what they finally decided after a lot of X-raying was not tuberculosis but something with a long name. I spent about six months in a sanatorium and then they told me I should spend the winter here. I don’t know how much good it has done me, but I have no doubt it was as well to be out of England for this winter, which seems to have been a very severe one. Of course this business has set my work back a lot, however I have nearly finished another novel and we are going to come home as soon as it is done, about the beginning of April. They said I ought to live further south, so I dare say we shall settle in Dorset or somewhere like that when we can find another cottage.
George Orwell: A Life in Letters Page 21