18 April 1946
27 B Canonbury Square
Islington N 1
Dear Andy,
I must have got your letter about the 7th, and I have thought over it a long time, as you can see by the date. I wonder if I committed a sort of crime in approaching you. In a way it’s scandalous that a person like me should make advances to a person like you, and yet I thought from your appearance that you were not only lonely and unhappy, but also a person who lived chiefly through the intellect and might become interested in a man who was much older and not much good physically. You asked me what attracted me to you in the first place. You are very beautiful, as no doubt you well know, but that wasn’t quite all. I do so want someone who will share what is left of my life, and my work. It isn’t so much a question of someone to sleep with, though of course I want that too, sometimes. You say you wouldn’t be likely to love me. I don’t see how you could be expected to. You are young and fresh and you have had someone you really loved and who would set up a standard I couldn’t compete with. If you still feel you can start again and you want a handsome young man who can give you a lot of children, then I am no good to you. What I am really asking you is whether you would like to be the widow of a literary man. If things remain more or less as they are there is a certain amount of fun in this, as you would probably get royalties coming in and you might find it interesting to edit unpublished stuff etc. Of course there is no knowing how long I shall live, but I am supposed to be a ‘bad life.’ I have a disease called bronchiectasis which is always liable to develop into pneumonia, and also an old ‘non-progressive’ tuberculous lesion in one lung, and several times in the past I have been supposed to be about to die, but I always lived on just to spite them, and I have actually been better in health since M and B. I am also sterile I think—at any rate I have never had a child, though I have never undergone the examination because it is so disgusting. On the other hand if you wanted children of your own by someone else it wouldn’t bother me, because I have very little physical jealousy. I don’t much care who sleeps with whom, it seems to me what matters is being faithful in an emotional and intellectual sense. I was sometimes unfaithful to Eileen, and I also treated her very badly, and I think she treated me badly too at times, but it was a real marriage in the sense that we had been through awful struggles together and she understood all about my work, etc. You are young and healthy, and you deserve somebody better than me: on the other hand if you don’t find such a person, and if you think of yourself as essentially a widow, then you might do worse—ie. supposing I am not actually disgusting to you. If I can live another ten years I think I have another three worth-while books in me, besides a lot of odds and ends, but I want peace and quiet and someone to be fond of me. There is also Richard. I don’t know what your feelings are about him. You might think all this over. I have spoken plainly to you because I feel you are an exceptional person. And I wish when you come back you would come and stay on Jura. I think I should have made the house fairly comfortable by then, and Richard and Susan, and perhaps other people, will be there as chaperons. I am not asking you to come and be my mistress, just to come and stay. I think you would like it. It is a beautiful place, quite empty and wild.
I don’t think there’s much news here. It’s been beautiful spring weather and the chestnut trees in the square are full out, ie. the leaves, such a vivid green as you don’t expect to see in London. I am alone because Susan and Richard have gone down into the country for the Easter weekend. I stayed behind because I want to polish off odds and ends of work and to pack the stuff before sending it to Jura. Last week I went down to the cottage in Hertfordshire to sort out the furniture and books there before Pickfords came for it. I had been putting it off because I hadn’t been down there since Eileen died and expected it to be horribly upsetting but actually it wasn’t so bad except when I kept coming on old letters. I am sending what furniture I have there, but have also had to buy innumerable things, almost like stocking up a ship. Pickfords are supposed to remove everything next week, about the 25th, and they think it will take at least 10 days to get there, after which it has to travel to the house by lorry, so it’s unlikely that I shall leave London before about May 10th, if then. Of course this move costs something fabulous1—on the other hand, once it’s accomplished and the house got into running order, there is a nice summer residence at almost no rent. I particularly want it for Richard, because he’s really getting too big to stay in a flat in the summer. It is a job now to keep him inside the garden, because he knows in principle how to open the gate and sometimes manages to do it. Next winter when we come back I shall send him to the nursery school. It’s funny he doesn’t seem to want to talk—he is so intelligent in every other way. He tries now to put on his own shoes and socks, and he knows how to drive in a nail, though he can’t actually do it without hammering his fingers. He is still terrified of the vacuum cleaner and we can’t use it while he is about.
You asked about a book of mine about France—I suppose Down and Out in Paris and London. I literally don’t possess a copy, even of the Penguin edition. I suppose it will be re-issued some time. I think the American edition of the essays has just come out, and my other American publisher cabled to say Animal Farm had been chosen by something called the Book of the Month Club. I think that must mean a sale of at least 20,0002 and that even after paying the taxes at both ends, and even if I’ve signed a disadvantageous contract, which I probably did, it should bring in enough to keep me in idleness for several months. The only thing is that they won’t publish it till the autumn and there’s many a slip etc.
I wonder if you have heard the cuckoo. I think I did dimly hear it when I was in Germany this time last year, between ‘Lili Marlene’3 and the roaring of trucks and tanks. The year before that I was so tied to London I never heard a cuckoo at all, the first year in my life that this had happened to me, ie. in London. I haven’t heard it this year yet because I was down in Wallington a few days too early, but I think I saw one sitting on a telegraph wire as I came back in the train. You often see them a few days before you hear them. After writing my article on toads for Tribune4 I went up to the little disused reservoir in the village where we used to catch newts, and there were the tadpoles forming as usual. It was rather sad. We used to have a small aquarium made of a 7 pound pickle jar each year and watch the newts grow from little black blobs in the spawn to full-grown creatures, and we also used to have snails and caddis flies.
I shall have to stop because I have to wash up the breakfast things and then go out to lunch. Take care of yourself. I hope you’re better. It’s beastly being ill in those circumstances, so lonely and comfortless. You didn’t say whether you want to be sent magazines or anything. And write as soon as you can. I hope you will come and stay on Jura. It would be wonderful walking over to the west side of the island which is quite uninhabited and where there are bays of green water so clear you can see about 20 feet down, with seals swimming about. Don’t think I’ll make love to you against your will. You know I am civilized.
With love
George
P.S. [handwritten] I’m taking you at your word & only putting 1½d on this, because it’s Good Friday & these are all the stamps I can find.5
[XVIII, 2978, pp. 248–51; typewritten
with handwritten postscript]
1.Orwell’s goods were valued at £250. The cost of transporting them (Pickfords, plus rail, plus ship as far as Craighouse, plus insurance) was £114 3s 8d. The goods had then to be conveyed from Craighouse to Barnhill.
2.The first printing for Book-of-the-Month Club was 430,000 copies and the second 110,000.
3.‘Lili Marlene’ was a song popular with both German and Allied servicemen. It was played by chance by a German-operated station in Yugoslavia and heard, and enjoyed, by men of the British Eighth Army and Rommel’s troops in North Africa. It tells of a woman waiting for her soldier-lover, and it was used by the British for propaganda purposes. It was made
the subject of a propaganda film (with the same title) directed by Humphrey Jennings (1944).
4.‘Some Thoughts on the Common Toad’, 12 April 1946 (XVIII, 2970, pp. 238–41) – one of Orwell’s finest essays.
5.This was the correct amount for Forces’ mail. Post Offices closed on Good Friday.
To Stafford Cottman*
25 April 1946
27B Canonbury Square
Islington N 1
Dear Staff,
It was very nice to hear from you. I didn’t realise you were still in the RAF. Be sure and look me up if you’re in London when I’m here (if I am the above telephone number1 will always get me), but I’m shortly going away for 6 months. I’ve been doing too much hack journalism for several years past and have decided to drop it for a bit—for two months I mean to do nothing at all, then maybe I shall start another book, but any way, no journalism until next autumn. I have written three articles a week for two years, in addition to all the bilge I had to write for the BBC for two years before that. I have given up the cottage in Hertfordshire and taken another in the island of Jura in the Hebrides, and hope to go up there about May 10th if my furniture has arrived by that time. It’s in an extremely un-get-atable place, but it’s a nice house and I think I can make it quite comfortable with a little trouble, and then I shall have a nice place to retire to occasionally at almost no rent. My little boy whom I think you have never seen is now nearly 2 and extremely active, which is one of the reasons why I am anxious to get out of London for the summer. He was 10 months old when Eileen died. It was an awful shame—she had been so overworked for years and in wretched health, then things just seemed to be getting better and that happened. The only good thing was that I don’t think she expected anything to go wrong with the operation. She died as a result of the anaesthetic almost as soon as they gave it her. I was in France at the time, as neither of us had expected the operation to be very serious. The child I think was just too young to miss her, and he has done very well in health and everything else. I have a good housekeeper who looks after him and me.
The other day I ran into Paddy Donovan in the Edgware Road.2 He has a job cleaning windows and he said he would ring me up, but he hasn’t done so yet. He was wounded in Germany about the time of the crossing of the Rhine. Don’t forget to ring me up if you’re in town this coming autumn.
Yours
Eric Blair
[XVIII, 2984, pp. 257–8; typewritten]
1.Orwell’s telephone number has not been reprinted. It was CAN 3751.
2.John (Paddy) Donovan (1905– ), a labourer who had served in World War I and was one of Orwell’s colleagues in Spain. He, with Cottman and a number of others, had signed Orwell’s refutation of F. A. Frankford’s allegations in the Daily Worker against the ILP contingent (see Crick, pp. 346–47). Orwell was later to give him some work digging his Hertfordshire garden when Donovan was out of work (Crick, p. 354).
To Marjorie Dakin*
30 April 1946
27B Canonbury Square
Islington N 1
Dear Marj,
I have only just heard from Avril about your illness. Naturally I only got a brief account from her, but she said it was pernicious anaemia. I do hope you are going on all right and are being properly treated. I am sending simultaneously with this a few books, some of which I hope you may not have read.1
I am just on the point of going away to Jura for 6 months. The furniture has gone, but it’s likely to take a long time getting there owing to the sea journey. I am letting this flat furnished, or rather am lending it to someone,2 as we’re not supposed to sublet. When the furniture arrives I shall go on ahead and get the house in order, and then bring Richard up later. Susan has to go into hospital for a treatment which will take about a month, and during that time I am going to park him in a nursery school. It seems rather ruthless, but I can’t look after him singlehanded for that length of time, and he is such a social child that he is bound to get on all right. We intend to stay on Jura till about October and I am dropping all casual journalism during that time, though I hope to get started on another book once I’ve got the house straight. The move is of course very expensive, but once it’s done we shall have a nice summer residence for almost no rent, and it will be a lovely place for children to stay.
Richard is extremely well and getting quite big. He weighs about 37 pounds and keeps growing out of his clothes. He will be 2 on the 14th of May. He doesn’t speak, but is very forward in other ways and very enterprising. He loves tools and already understands how to do such things as hammering in nails. He also goes downstairs on his own initiative and tries to put on his own shoes and socks. I shall be very glad to get him into the country for the summer because he’s getting too active for a flat. We have a garden here, but it’s not possible to leave him alone in it because he gets out into the street.
Don’t bother answering this. I am also writing to Humphrey. I am not certain what date I shall be leaving London (probably about May 10th), but my Jura address will be Barnhill, Isle of Jura, Argyllshire.
Love
Eric
[XVIII, 2987, pp. 262–3; typewritten]
1.Marjorie died on 3 May 1946. Orwell attended her funeral (see Diaries, p. 372). Writing later to her husband, Humphrey, he said, ‘One cannot really say anything about Marjorie’s death. I know what it is like and how it sinks in afterwards’ (XVIII, 2998, p. 309). Her children would later stay at Barnhill.
2.Mrs Miranda Wood (then Miranda Christen) had returned from the Far East early in 1946 after 3½ years in Japanese-occupied territory. She was technically a German national by marriage and was pursuing protracted divorce proceedings. She stayed in Orwell’s London flat during the summers of 1946 and 1947. She undertook typing for him including ‘Such, Such Were the Joys’ and sections of Nineteen Eighty-Four. (For fuller details see the long note, XIX, p. 228 and her memoir, XX, 3735, pp. 300–306.)
To Michael Meyer*
23 May 1946
Barnhill
Isle of Jura
Argyllshire
Dear Michael,
Thanks so much for your efforts. No, I haven’t a licence1 (there’s no policeman on this island!) so don’t worry about the black powder. I made some which is not as good as commercial stuff but will do. If you could get the percussion caps I’d be much obliged. Tell them the largest size they have, i.e. something about this size .
I’m just settling in here—up to my eyes getting the house straight, but it’s a lovely house. Richard isn’t coming till the end of June, because Susan has to have a minor operation & I couldn’t cope with him singlehanded, so I’ve had to board him out. However the reports are that he is getting on well. Only difficulties at present are (a) that I can’t yet get a jeep (hope to get one at the end of the month) & am having to make do with a motor bike which is hell on these roads, & (b) owing to the drought there’s no water for baths, though enough to drink. However one doesn’t get very dirty here. Come & stay sometime. It’s not such an impossible journey (about 48 hours from London) & there’s plenty of room in this house, though of course conditions are rough
All the best
George
[XVIII, 3002, p. 312; handwritten]
1.A licence was needed to carry a gun. Presumably Orwell was seeking ammunition for his gun.
To Rayner Heppenstall*
16 June 1946
Barnhill Isle of Jura Argyllshire
Dear Rayner,
Do come about July 14th if that date suits you.1 Try & let me have a week’s notice, so as to arrange about meeting you, as posts here are somewhat infrequent. There are boats to Jura on Mondays, Wednesdays & Fridays. The itinerary is this (but better check it with the L.M.S.2 in case any time is altered):—
8 am leave Glasgow Central Station for Gourock (gourock)
Join boat at Gourock
Arrive East Tarbert about 12 noon
Travel to West Tarbert by bus (runs in conjunction with boat)
Join boat at West Tarbert
Arrive Jura about 3 pm.3
You can book right [through] from Glasgow, or pay your fare on each boat. Fare Gourock–Jura is about £1. Bring any food you can manage, & bring a towel. You’ll need thick boots & a raincoat.
Looking forward to seeing you
Yours
Eric
[XVIII, 3015, p. 328; handwritten]
1.Heppenstall had written on 11 June 1946, saying he was pleased Orwell would do something for the BBC in the ‘Imaginary Conversations’ series in November or December. He expected to arrive in Jura about 14 July and (owing to the severe rationing) he would try to help with food: ‘The comparative roughness does not in the least appal me.’ He hoped Orwell’s health was improving and looked forward to seeing him ‘very beefy’.
2.Between 1923, when many individual railway companies were ‘grouped,’ and 31 December 1947, when the system was nationalised (as British Rail until its break up in the 1990s) there were four main companies, of which the London, Midland & Scottish was one.
3.Orwell’s instructions for getting to Barnhill vary from time to time but are hereafter omitted.
Avril Blair* to Humphrey Dakin*
1 July 1946
Barnhill
Isle of Jura
Dear Humph
Glad to hear you & the family are progressing satisfactorily. Congratulate Henry 1 for me when next you write.
This is a lovely place. Why don’t you come up for a bit if you are feeling browned off. The only snag is—no beer, so bring your own if you want any.
This is a very nice farmhouse with five bedrooms & bathroom, two sittingrooms & huge kitchen larders dairies etc. The house faces south & we have a lovely view over the Sound of Jura with little islands dotted here & there. Eric has bought a little boat & we go fishing in the evening which is the time the fish rise. They are simply delicious fresh from the sea. In fact, on the whole we live on the fat of the land. Plenty of eggs & milk & ½ lb butter extra weekly on to our rations. Our landlord 2 gave us a large hunk of venison a short while ago which was extremely good. Then there are local lobsters & crabs. Also the ubiquitous rabbit. Our nearest neighbours are a mile away. Then there is a strip of wild & remote country for eight miles to Ardlussa where our landlord the local estate owner & family live. This is a so called° village, but no shop. The only shop on the island is at Craighouse,3 the port where the ship calls three times a week. We go to fetch our letters from Ardlussa twice a week in a very delapidated° Ford Van that E has bought. The roads are appalling.
George Orwell: A Life in Letters Page 40