Complete Poetical Works of Edward Thomas
Page 33
Well, I seem to have spent much ink in getting myself on paper. I had better have sent my photograph.
I hope you like ‘Coldstreamer’ a little. He is now in a 2nd edition, so you can at least make half a crown per head.
We all send our love and good wishes.
Ever yours, dear old Mac,
Edwy
Index of Letters
To Jesse Berridge
13 Rusham Road
Nightingale Lane
S.W.
12 February 1903
My dear Jesse,
I have come alone to live in town for an indefinite length of time, because I am in debt, and am not earning much nor likely to, for some months. Could you meet me outside the Pharos Club at 5.45 tomorrow (Friday)? Anyhow, I will be there. I shall probably not have anything to do in the evening, but don’t want to go to Southfields because of the railway fare. I have only a few shillings until I get work. So if you know any journalists, or any likely persons, please introduce me.
Ever yours
Edward Thomas
Index of Letters
To Helen
8 — p m.! New Swindon
16 September 1903
My dearest friend,
I am now back from a walk of nine hours with the old man. As I left the house with that nasty letter to you in my hand I fell violently and was punished all day by pain in the head. Still I thought it was better to let you know what I felt than to wait for a day and send a honeyed note. And yet I am not sure, because you will probably misunderstand me, and also because I really cannot myself explain why I was so much annoyed and with such fury, unless perhaps I vaguely resented your liking for a person whom I think little or poorly of, and unless also I thought it an insult that he should wish you (and you consent) to go with him as ballast on a journey to his paltry acquaintance. When I am at home it is different. But I can’t endure the idea of my being here and you at Ramsgate and the children with Emma alone.
All this is very solemn, I perceive. What it means is that I had one of my innumerable fits of indignant annoyance and that had I thought you would laugh at it or ignore it I could have murdered you. Such I am, unhappily for you and me. And let me admit that you have just as much right to go to Ramsgate or anywhere else as I have and much more right than I have to drink or talk indecently or take opium. What a muddle headed ass am I! and how I wish I were dead and stinking, though that will not be until I have far greater cause to wish it than now.
All this is written after a long day in the open air spent with greater pleasure than you can imagine in spite of everything. We walked past Coate with its ‘Sun’ and ‘Spotted Cow’ and on to another ‘Sun’ at Lyddington where I had cider and bread and cheese and raised the suspicions of the landlady somehow. Then we spent half an hour in Lyddington church and churchyard and entered the fields and so up on to the downs to Lyddington beeches whence we could see fifty miles of beautiful, waste, rounded downs and now and then a part of the manoeuvring army. We sat and talked about ‘the old-fashioned times’ in the Roman camp on the hill, where Jefferies began ‘The Story of My Heart’. The old man poured out ‘old-fashioned bits’, about herbs and poaching and women and this style of story: —
Parson: ‘Where does this lane go to, my lad?’
Lad: ‘I don’t know where it goes to, but ‘tis always here when I comes along.’
Three or four miles farther on from there, at Chiseldon ‘Patriot’s Arms’ we had tea and then walked steadily on past Burdcrop and down Ladder Hill and in sight of Coate again to beastly Swindon after 18 or 20 rough miles. Now I am hardly at all tired.
The review of the policeman’s poetry was mine: also that of Besant’s ‘Essays and Historicities’. I have two others to appear, and 3 more books to review for the ‘Chronicle’.
I am interrupted by my Grandmother. She is reading the ‘Oxford’ proofs and alleges that I have written several things two or three times over! Of course she is mistaken — I now find she has been doubling the sheets over and reading the same set twice. But I can’t convince her of folly any more than you can convince me!
Perhaps the cider is the cause of the portentous solemnity and the rambling twaddle of the end of this letter. At least, I partly think so, and you would be wise to agree with me and think no more about it. Yet I fear I have hurt you; and I only persist in sending this, lest I should deceive you without your knowing it. Bear with me, sweet heart, even though you know I shall show little gratitude if you do. — Was ever a fool so conscious of his folly as I? and yet so helpless in it that perhaps I am not also a knave?
Tomorrow I must work a little and have another walk with the old man. Then on Thursday I shall think about returning and shall be home not later than the 8.10 on Friday. Say, 8.10 on Friday, though it may be Thursday. I hope Davies has not returned to my bedroom because I want to be able to use it: and perhaps Merfyn had better sleep in his cot, as before. Here are kisses for him and Bronwen to share with you as distributor.
Try to believe me, my own sweet little one, ever and wholly yours
Edwy
Index of Letters
To Ian MacAlister
Bearsted Green
1 November 1903
My dear Mac,
I wanted to write some weeks ago but wisely held my hand. For I was and am in a bad way, but then I was hopeless, except that I hoped for death: now I am not quite hopeless. The improvement comes of seeing a good and sympathetic London doctor. I so rarely see doctors that I retain my childish belief in them; and when this one told me I must do this and not do that, and said ‘I want you to get well,’ I was more moved to a strong effort than I had ever been by the advice of friends or my own conviction. So I am to take cod liver oil, and arsenic and strychnine, and much meat (which I hate), and special foods; and I am to be as regular as possible in my habits, never to get exhausted, to try to divert myself (e g by cards), and to see many people (which is impossible). I begin badly by being left to complete silence and solitude for 5 days while Helen and the children are in London. So this letter is written because it is better to think and write than merely to think, about myself.
I really can’t say what is wrong with me. The doctor of course wants to make me fat and thinks I shall then smile. But I am not physically weak. I sleep very well and long. I can walk 25 miles in a day or fish for 12 hours and then walk 10 miles without much discomfort. On the other hand, I am sometimes terribly fatigued by half a mile or by 2 hours writing, and I sit down and wish I could sleep for ever: sometimes I sit for hours and can do nothing but submit to the play of the imps that bring into my mind the most mad and trifling and undesired thoughts — a whole medley of them as disconnected as Tit-Bits and as revolting. When I am free from these thoughts, I consider what can be the cause of my misery and incapacity. Let me be methodical. And be patient — I am sure you will, since it pleases me sadly.
First, I wonder if my indiscretions and intemperance in alcohol, opium and tobacco, have at last taken effect. They have been serious, but 2 years ago they became far less so, and in the past 9 months I have lived moderately in every way, unless (which is unlikely) I have worked or walked too much.
Second, has continued journalism at last destroyed my always slender capacity for writing what I like? At first I always tried to leaven my reviews with some thought or fancy which was often irrelevant but often gave me the satisfaction of thinking that I have at least written one or two decent sentences and uttered a part of myself. But those thoughts and fancies had to be very brief: I could not follow them up. So I got, perhaps, into a habit of jerky and unconcluded thinking and imagination. The result seems to be that when now I try to write an essay I cannot do more than 2 or 3 sentences: they do not, as they used to do, flow one from the other in a rosary. I hope I am mistaken. Anyhow, the symptom which makes me most wretched is my inability to write an essay. I sit down with my abundant notebooks and find a subject or an apparently suggestive sentence: but nothing moves
me.
Third — am I losing my religious attitude towards ‘Nature’? That is too painful to admit. Yet it may be so. Perhaps my love was not as deep as it seemed. But I seem to notice a change when I sit down to write. One little note used to recall to me much of the glory or joy of former days out of doors. Now it is barren, and that means a great deal, because I cannot bring myself to write about anything else, or at any rate about anything which ‘Nature’ does not unavoidably enter. I argue thus to myself: ‘I have cared more for Nature than for anything else, therefore if I can write at all, Nature will move me. If, on the other hand, I am unworthy or insincere, if the years of days and nights which I spent in rapture or awe out of doors now mean nothing to me, then I distrust myself wholly and will at least refrain from serving another mistress.’
Fourth, shall I ever get used to what I consider the dirtiness and confusion of my house? Practically not an hour of my day passes without some violent irritation caused by this: and either I sit down and curse or I vainly attempt to put things right. In other people’s houses I can be contented; never in my own. Some tell me this irritation is an effect of my state of health and mind. Perhaps so: I believe it is the cause and apparently it is ineradicable.
Well there I am writ large. Other things trouble me, lack of company, lack of money (due to small extravagance and great mismanagement). But I have said nearly all — and now I don’t feel any better for having told you so much, because I know you will want to help and you can’t.
The book is delayed but I hope not for more than a fortnight.
Work is bad, for Nevinson (my greatest patron) has left the ‘Chronicle’ for good and is in Macedonia, and W. J. Fisher, the editor, is not fond of me. So I am advised to look out for something else. But what? Librarianship at a private library would perhaps suit me, but I am unqualified. Who would have me as schoolmaster or secretary? I shall stick to Bearsted as long as possible. Anyway, you will write, I hope: and will you tell, by the way, whom to ask for on the ‘Outlook’? You remember saying that your father might help me there.
Goodbye. I am ever yours
Edwy
Index of Letters
To Helen
c/o. Mrs. Labrum
Warminster
8 December 1903
My dearest Friend,
The Shelley have just arrived. I expected them earlier: that is why I sent the postcard. And by the way, you will be interested by that. I heard from Nevinson this morning — he had mysteriously mentioned the subject before — that he was giving a dinner at ‘The Florence’ to his friends on the Chronicle. It will be pleasant and perhaps useful, and in any case such an invitation from Nevinson is law. So I shall be in London on Saturday the 19th. Well, Morgan has now decided to stay here until January 4 in order to complete a portion of the Annual Register’, the rest he has given up. After that, his plans are vague. He may go to Tintagel, however, and if possible I should like to join him there. So I now think that I shall not return to Warminster but come on to Bearsted on the 20th and stay with you for a week or two until I can decide to join Morgan at Tintagel or visit Mr. Bowman at Walmer. What do you think? Remember that I shall be very lonely at Christmas, especially as Morgan will be working — he must work now. Remember too, that until either Black plays up or MacAlister sends some money, I shall be very hard up for the rent will soon be due. I should also like to be able to run up to town just after the New Year to see Donald. There is a new literary editor at the Chronicle and I am trying to find out who he is. Morgan forgot to ask — much will depend on him. — Of course, I think it is possible that I shall find myself well able to go on with my usual work after a few days after I get back to Bearsted. I shall be more careful of myself in the future, particularly in the matter of exercise. Hitherto I have overwalked or in some way tired myself nearly every day at home. My limit for some time must be 6 or 7 miles a day. Even 4 miles here is tiring in spite of my increased weight. And I must sleep more and also more regularly. So if I do return to you on the 20th I shall be rather wiser, at any rate, and I hope I shall be less nervous too, and altogether more hopeful or less desperate. But tell me what you think, the I think I quite understand what you have already urged in favour of my staying here, and the I know — you need not have said it — that you would rather I kept away until I am quite restored. I shall have been away for 4 weeks all but a day. If you wish it, however, I will return to Warminster after Nevinson’s Dinner. Or I will come to you just for a day or two.
Please send me The Man of Genius by Lombroso. It is with other books of Irene’s. Morgan wants to see it. You might send it with my handkerchiefs.
Kiss Merfyn and Bronwen for me and goodbye my own sweet little one.
I am ever and wholly yours
Edwy
Index of Letters
To Helen
With Hugh and Irene McArthur Monday
8 February 1904
My dearest Friend,
Just after I posted my letter to you on Saturday, I went off to see Jesse, but when I got there I was so tired that I was not comfortable even lying doubled in a chair. So I did not stay long. Jesse also was tired after a week of Bank and theological lectures and he worried me, as I probably worried him; and I found myself talking for an hour after I had risen to go, about the fruitlessness and stupidity of my life, not forgetting the things which make it impossible to leave it. I got back before 10 and was in bed at 11. This morning was at first very cold but by the time Haynes and I got out into the fields beyond Upper Watlingham the South side of all the hedges was full of Spring and we enjoyed it. We wasted most of our time in foolish talk, foolish whether serious or not, and when nearest seriousness I was only endeavouring (half unintentionally) to entertain Haynes by humouring some silly notion in a smart way. For me, society is only the dullest form of solitude. Nevertheless, the evening with Dal and Frank had its pleasures. It was the Annual Dinner of the Yorick at the Monico Restaurant, there was much good singing by good people and one good fiddler and pianist — the latter a Balliol man named Donald Tovey whom I remember hearing at Oxford, and an acquaintance of Haynes. He was asked whether he or his brother who sat near to him was the elder: and replied, ‘Well, Duncan has lost more opportunities’: I drank moderately and could not talk at all. So that the pleasure was much like lying in front of a very hot fire and too near it. It lasted until 2 and now I go to bed.
Monday.
This morning I have little to say except that your letter makes my misery clearer. You evidently don’t understand my life in town and as I am no longer an essayist I can’t explain it except in speech. I now think of living at Rusham Road if I may, and working too, coming to town 3 or 4 evenings a week to see Milne etc. I am struggling to write a review of The House of Quiet and have not very much time, since Ambrose has asked me to dinner.
What a bad review this is of Henry Murray’s.
I almost forget why I like my evening at Harry’s. But I suppose it was because we were really intimate, with much silence and no unnecessary talk. Harry is really far more a friend than Haynes. In a way, I wish Haynes were dead, because I want to be away from him and dare not while he is alive.
In great haste and just back from Ambrose’s and am sleeping tonight at Dal’s because the bedroom here is impossible. Damn — Damme!
Goodbye. Kiss Merfyn and Bronwen.
I am ever and wholly yours
Edwy
Index of Letters
To Helen
London 9 February 1904
My dearest friend,
I have been at Rusham Road this evening and the result of talking with Mother and Father and of other things is that I think of retreating from my attempt to live in London. In fact I may return to you tomorrow. I will try to work at Bearsted and if I can I shall content myself with going to town every Wednesday to see Milne, and perhaps a week-end every now and then. It would take hours to explain why I am doing this. I don’t like being away from you and I don’t like being
in London. Also, I live a foolish life that is unsuited to my mind, and I think the blank condition which the London streets produce is if anything worse than the brooding I may have to endure in the country. Dal and Frank want me to live with them and kind and delicate as they are I don’t think I can.
For perhaps months of this life might make me unfit to enjoy quiet retirement while it would not by any means change me so completely that I could thoroughly enjoy London. I must try harder than I have done, to be calm if not contented, and to imitate the ideal character which I have sometimes written about — like Fitzgerald or Philip Amberley. That is my only possible achievement, and if I don’t go mad (as my extreme egotism sometimes make me expect) it is possible, I think.
I have much work in hand and must begin it as soon as I reach home or rather on Thursday, working morning and evening, and walking with you or alone or with Merfyn in the afternoon. As I write, of course, I am aware of the possibility of failure or rather of the difficulty of attempting.