George Orwell: A Life in Letters
Page 34
Richard was delighted with his coat and it will see him through the summer. He was just getting very short of jackets because he is so large. Mary’s cast-offs will hardly go on, knitted things anyway. He took over her nightgowns the day after she inherited some pyjamas of Laurence’s and even those aren’t at all too big. He’s still backward but has great charm which will be a lot more useful to him than talent. And he is not so stupid as Mogador 1 because he found out about pulling trucks by their strings before he was ten months old and is now investigating the principles of using one object to drag nearer or to pick up another. He’s a hard worker.
I really would have written sooner but I came up to London about a fortnight ago to see my dentist so I thought I’d ring you up. Then I got ill and rang no one up and finished with all kinds of dramas at the Ministry. On the way up I went to see a Newcastle surgeon because as Richard’s adoption was through I thought I might now deal with the grwoth° (no one could object to a grwoth) I knew I had. He found it or rather them without any difficulty and I’m going into his nursing home next week for the removal. I think the question about the hysterectomy is answered because there is hardly any chance that the tumours can come out without more or less everything else removable. So that on the whole is a very good thing. It was worth coming to the north country because there is to be none of the fattening up in hospital before the operation that I was to have in London. London surgeons love preparing their patients as an insurance against unknown consequences. I think they’re all terrified of their knives really—probably they have a subconscious hope that the patient will die before getting as far as the theatre and then they can’t possibly be blamed. In London they said I couldn’t have any kind of operation without a preparatory month of blood transfusions etc.; here I’m going in next Wednesday to be done on Thursday. Apart from its other advantages this will save money, a lot of money. And that’s as well. By the way, if you could write a letter that would be nice. Theoretically I don’t want any visitors, particularly as I can’t get a private room; in practice I’ll probably be furious that no one comes—and no one can because such friends as I have in Newcastle will be away for the school holidays. So if you have time write a letter to Fernwood House, Clayton Road, Newcastle. It’s a mercy George is away—in Cologne at the moment. George visiting the sick is a sight infinitely sadder than any disease-ridden wretch in the world.
[Handwritten] I hate to think that you are no longer at the Ministry & that this will be the last extract from Miss Tomkins’ conversation. I clearly remember the sweetly pretty painting of snowdrops.
Tell me whether the flat materialises. It sounds perfect. Incidentally if you want somewhere to work or to live for that matter, use our flat which is rotting in solitude. Doreen Kopp 2, who lives at 14A Cannonbury° Square, has the key. Ours is 27B Cannonbury Square. And her telephone number is CAN 4901. She has a son, very large, with the hair and hands of a talented musician. I expected to be jealous but find that I didn’t prefer him to Richard, preferable though he is. To return to the flat, Doreen can tell you whatever you don’t know about its amenities, which don’t include sheets. The last lot have disappeared since I came North. But you could have a peat fire which is a nice thing.
Raymond Blackburn is going to Stockton & he must carry this in his hand. It has taken about a week to write . . .3 But all this time we have been thanking you for Richard’s present, he & I.
Lots of love
Emily4
[XVII, 2640, pp. 104–5; typed and handwritten]
1.Unidentified, but possibly a grand form of ‘Moggie’ and therefore the blue cat Eileen refers to in her letter of 21.3.45.
2.Doreen Kopp, half-sister of Doctor Gwen O’Shaughnessy, and wife of George Kopp*.
3.As in the original; nothing has been omitted.
4.‘Emily’ was the pet-name by which Eileen was known at the Ministry of Food.
Eileen Blair* to her husband
25 March 1945
Greystone
Carlton
Dearest
I’m trying to get forward with my correspondence because I go into the nursing home on Wednesday (this is Sunday) & of course I shan’t be ready. It’s impossible to write or do anything else while the children are up. I finish reading to Laurence about a quarter to eight (tonight it was five to eight), we have supper at 8 or 8.15, the 9 o’clock news now must be listened to & lasts till at least 9.30 (the war reports the last two nights have been brilliant1) & then it’s time to fill hotwater bottles etc. because we come to bed early. So I write in bed & don’t type. Incidentally I did while explaining the poaching laws as I understand them to Laurence make my will 2—in handwriting because handwritten wills are nearly always valid. It is signed & witnessed. Nothing is less likely than that it will be used but I mention it because I have done an odd thing. I haven’t left anything to Richard. You are the sole legatee if you survive me (your inheritance would be the Harefield house which ought to be worth a few hundreds, that insurance policy, & furniture). If you don’t, the estate would be larger & I have left it to Gwen absolutely with a note that I hope she will use it for Richard’s benefit but without any legal obligation. The note is to convince Richard that I was not disinheriting him. But I’ve done it that way because I don’t know how to devise the money to Richard himself. For one thing, there has been no communication from the Registrar General so I suppose Richard’s name is still Robertson. For another thing he must have trustees & I don’t know who you want & they’d have to be asked. For another, if he is to inherit in childhood it’s important that his trustees should be able to use his money during his minority so that he may have as good an education as possible. We must get all this straightened out properly when you come home but I thought I must cover the possibility that you might be killed within the next few days & I might die on the table on Thursday. If you’re killed after I die that’ll be just too bad but still my little testament will indicate what I wanted done. Gwen’s results in child-rearing have not been encouraging so far but after the war she will have a proper house in the country containing both the children & herself, she loves Richard & Laurie adores him. And all the retainers love him dearly. I’m sure he would be happier in that household than with Marjorie though I think Marjorie would take him on. Avril I think & hope would not take him on anyway. That I couldn’t bear.3 Norah & Quartus4 would have him & bring him up beautifully but you’ve never seen either of them. Quartus is in India & I can’t arrange it. So in all the circumstances I thought you would agree that this would be the best emergency measure.
RICHARD HAS SIX TEETH. Also he got hold of the playpen rail when I was putting him in & stood hanging on to it without other support. But he doesn’t really know at all how to pull himself up so don’t expect too much. Yesterday Nurse & I took all three to the doctor for whooping cough injections. He lives about 2½–3 miles away, partly across fields. We got lost & had to cross ploughland. The pram wouldn’t perambulate & neither would Mary. She sat in a furrow & bellowed until carried. Laurence cried to be carried too . . . 5 Laurence however didn’t cry when the needle went in but Mary did and made an enormous pool on the surgery floor. Richard was done last. He played with a matchbox on my knee, looked at the doctor in some surprise when his arm was gripped & then turned to me in astonishment as though to say ‘Why is this apparently nice man sticking needles into me? Can it be right?’ On being told it was he looked up at the doctor again rather gravely—& then smiled. He didn’t make a sound & he was perfectly good all day too, though his arm is sort of bruised. The other two unfortunately remembered that they’d been injected & screamed in agony if either arm was touched. It was a happy day.
But Richard did a terrible thing. He will not use his pot, nearly always goes into a tantrum when put on it & if he does sit on it does nothing more. The tooth upset his inside a bit too. After lunch I sent the other two to bed & left Richard in his playpen while I helped wash up. Then there were cries of agony. He had done what
Mary calls tick-tocks for the third time, got his hands in it & put his hands in his mouth. I tried to wash his mouth out, hoping he’d be sick. But no. He seemed to swallow most of the water I poured in, so it was worse than useless. In the end I scoured his mouth with cotton wool, gave him some boiled water & hoped for the best. And he is very well. Poor little boy. And I was sorry for myself too. I was sick. Blackburn however says a lot of children do this every day – – – – –6
I haven’t had a copy of Windmill 7 & I haven’t had a proof. Surely you said they were sending a proof. And I failed to get the Observer one week which must have been the relevant one. I’ve also failed to get today’s but shall get it I hope.
Your letter with the Animal Farm document came yesterday & I’ve sent the enclosure on to Moore. He will be pleased. This is much the quickest exchange we’ve had.
I suppose I’d better go to sleep. By the way the six teeth are 3 top & 3 bottom which gives rather an odd appearance, but I hope the fourth top one will be through soon.
All my love & Richard’s
E.
[XVII, 2642, pp. 107–9; typed and handwritten]
1.On 23 March, Operation Plunder, the offensive across the Rhine, began; it may be reports of this to which Eileen refers.
2.Eileen’s will can be read in XVII, 2643, pp. 109–10.
3.After Orwell had also died, it was Avril who took care of Richard, and he was very happy with her. Eileen’s fears proved completely unfounded.
4.Norah Myles and her husband Quartus, a general practitioner. (See headnote to 3.11.36.)
5.and 6.Nothing has been deleted at either of these points: the stops and dashes are Eileen’s.
7.The journal Windmill, in which ‘In Defence of P. G. Wodehouse’ was to appear (XVII, 2624).
Eileen Blair* to her husband
29 March 1945
Fernwood House
Clayton Road
Newcastle-on-Tyne°
Dearest
I’m just going to have the operation, already enema’d, injected (with morphia in the right arm which is a nuisance), cleaned & packed up like a precious image in cotton wool & bandages. When its’° over I’ll add a note to this & it can get off quickly. Judging by my fellow patients it will be a short note. They’ve all had their operations. Annoying—I shall never have a chance to feel superior.
I haven’t seen Harvey Evers since arrival & apparently Gwen didn’t communicate with him & no one knows what operation I am having! They don’t believe that Harvey Evers really left it to me to decide—he always ‘does what he thinks best’! He will of course. But I must say I feel irritated though I am being a model patient. They think I’m wonderful, so placid & happy they say. As indeed I am once I can hand myself over to someone else to deal with.
This is a nice room—ground floor so one can see the garden. Not much in it except daffodils & I think arabis but a nice little lawn. My bed isn’t next the window but it faces the right way. I also see the fire & the clock.
[XVII, 2647, pp. 112–3; handwritten]
The letter ends here. No note was added. Eileen suffered a heart attack and died under the anaesthetic. She was thirty-nine. Orwell was in Paris when he received the news that Eileen had died; he got to Greystone on Saturday, 31 March. Eileen was buried in St Andrew’s and Jesmond Cemetery, Newcastle upon Tyne. The grave is number 145 in Section B. Orwell took Richard back with him to London, and Doreen Kopp took care of him when Orwell returned to France to complete his assignment.
To Lydia Jackson*
1 April 1945
at Greystone, Carlton
Dear Lydia,
I do not know whether you will have heard from anyone else the very bad news. Eileen is dead. As you know she had been ill for some time past and it was finally diagnosed that she had a growth which must be removed. The operation was not supposed to be a very serious one, but she seems to have died as soon as she was given the anaesthetic, and, apparently, as a result of the anaesthetic. This was last Thursday. I was in Paris and didn’t even know she was to have the operation till two days before. It was a dreadful shock and a very cruel thing to happen, because she had become so devoted to Richard and was looking forward to living a normal life in the country again as soon as the war was over. The only consolation is that I don’t think she suffered, because she went to the operation, apparently, not expecting anything to go wrong, and never recovered consciousness. It is perhaps as well that Richard wasn’t a bit older, because I don’t think he actually misses her, at any rate he seems in very good spirits as well as health. I am going to bring him back to London when I come, and for the time being he is going to stay with Doreen [Kopp] who lives in the same square and has a baby a month old herself. I think we shall be able to find a nurse whom we can share, and when the war stops I can probably get him a nurse of his own and make a proper home for him in the country. It is a shame Eileen should have died just when he is becoming so charming, however she did enjoy very much being with him during her last months of life. Please give my love to Pat. I don’t know about my plans, but I think that if the Observer want me to I shall go back to France for a month or two when I have settled Richard.
Yours
George
[XVII, 2650, p. 118; typewritten]
To Anthony Powell*
13 April 1945
Hotel Scribe
Paris 9e
Dear Tony,
I tried to get in touch with you when I was in London last week, but failed. I don’t know whether you will have heard from some other source about what has happened. Eileen is dead. She died very suddenly and unexpectedly on March 29th during an operation which was not supposed to be very serious. I was over here and had no expectation of anything going wrong, which indeed nobody seems to have had. I didn’t see the final findings of the inquest and indeed don’t want to, because it doesn’t bring her back, but I think the anaesthetic was responsible. It was a most horrible thing to happen because she had had five really miserable years of bad health and overwork, and things were just beginning to get better. The only good thing is that I don’t think she can have suffered or had any apprehensions. She was actually looking forward to the operation to cure her trouble, and I found among her papers a letter she must have written only about an hour before she died and which she expected to finish when she came round. But it was terribly sad that she should die when she had become so devoted to Richard and was making such a good job of his upbringing. Richard I am glad to say is very well and for the moment is provided for. He is staying with his sort of aunt 1 who lives in the same square as me and has a young baby of her own, and I hope within a fairly short time to find a good nurse whom I can take on as a permanency. As soon as I can get a nurse and a house I shall remove him to the country, as I don’t want him to learn to walk in London. I just got him settled in and then came straight back here, as I felt so upset at home I thought I would rather be on the move for a bit. I was in Germany for a few days recently and am now going back there for a week or two.
What I partly wrote for was to ask if you know Malcolm Muggeridge’s address. He has left Paris and I have no idea how to get in touch with him. I vaguely heard there had been some kind of row in which l’affaire Wodehouse was mixed up, but have no idea what it is. Letters generally take about a fortnight, but the above address will find me. Please remember me to Violet.2
Yours
George
[XVII, 2656, p. 124; typewritten]
1.Doreen Kopp.
2.The Lady Violet Powell (1912–2002),* Anthony Powell’s wife.
To Lydia Jackson*
11 May 1945
Hotel Scribe
Paris 9e
Dear Lydia,
I just had letters from you and Pat1 about simultaneously. I don’t want to relet the cottage, because for the time being I want to keep it on as a place to go down to for an occasional week end. I can however make either of the following arrangements with you. Either I will lend you the
cottage for a month in the summer at any time you choose to name, or else you can continue to use the cottage at all times, but on the understanding that I can come and have it for a week or so any time I want to. In either case I don’t want you to pay me anything. I should be back in London about May 25th and we can make any final arrangements then. You could have it for June or July or really whenever you like provided I know beforehand. At present it seems impossible to get a house in the country and for that reason I want to keep on the cottage so that Richard can get a few days of country air now and then. Eileen and I had hoped that it would not be necessary for him to learn to walk in London, but it seems unavoidable, so I am going to keep on the flat.
Gwen [O’Shaughnessy] says you borrowed a refrigerator of hers. Do you think we could have it back, because it is so hard to keep milk from going sour in the summer months and that makes it so difficult with the children.
I came straight back here after Eileen’s death and have felt somewhat better for being at work most of the time. The destruction in Germany is terrifying, far worse than people in England grasp, but my trips there have been quite interesting. I am making one more trip, to Austria I hope, and then coming back about the end of next week. I get bulletins about Richard from Doreen and it seems he is doing very well and had tripled his birth weight at 11 months. The next thing is to find a nurse for him which is next door to impossible at present. I don’t know how long this letter will take getting to you—sometimes they take only 4 days, sometimes about 3 weeks—but if it gets to you before I get back, and you want to go down to the cottage, you can do so. Looking forward to seeing you both.
Yours
George
[XVII, 2666, pp. 138–9; typewritten]
1.Patricia Donoghue shared Orwell’s cottage at Wallington with Lydia Jackson.
Unpublished letter to Tribune