To Charles Doran*
26 November 1938
Boite Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Charlie,
Thanks so much for your letter with the copy of Solidarity and the too kind review of my book. I see from the front page of Solidarity that those bloody liars in the News Chronicle reported the result of the P.O.U.M. trial under the heading 'spies sentenced' thus giving the impression that the P.O.U.M. prisoners were sentenced for espionage. The Observer also did something of the kind, though more circumspectly, and the French press of this country, which is in the main pro-Franco, reported the act of accusation against the P.O.U.M., stated that it had been 'all proved' and then failed to report the verdict at all! I admit this kind of thing frightens me. It means that the most elementary respect for truthfulness is breaking down, not merely in the Communist and Fascist press, but in the bourgeois liberal press which still pays lip-service to the old traditions of journalism. It gives one the feeling that our civilization is going down into a sort of mist of lies where it will be impossible ever to find out the truth about anything. Meanwhile I've written to the I.L.P. asking them to send me a copy of the issue of Solidaridad Obrera 1 which reported the case, so that if necessary I can write to the press, that is to say such papers as would print my letter, stating quite clearly what the P.O.U.M. prisoners were sentenced for. I trust, however, that someone has already done so. It's difficult for me to get hold of foreign papers here, especially a paper like Solidaridad Obrera, which I couldn't get nearer than Gibraltar and there only with difficulty.
As perhaps you know I was told to spend the winter here for the sake of my lungs. We've been here nearly three months now and I think it has done me a certain amount of good. It is a tiresome country in some ways, but it is interesting to get a glimpse of French colonial methods and compare them with our own. I think as far as I can make out that the French are every bit as bad as ourselves, but some what better on the surface, partly owing to the fact that there is a large indigenous white population here, part of it proletarian or near-proletarian. For that reason it isn't quite possible to keep up the sort of white man's burden atmosphere that we do in India, and there is less colour-prejudice. But economically it is just the usual swindle for which empires exist. The poverty of most of the Arab population is frightful. As far as one can work it out, the average family seems to live at the rate of about a shilling a day, and of course most of the people are either peasants or petty craftsmen who have to work extremely hard by antiquated methods. At the same time, so far as one can judge, there is no anti-French movement on any scale. If one appeared it would I think be merely nationalist at the beginning, as the great majority of the people are still at the feudal stage and fairly strict Mahommedans. In some of the big towns such as Casablanca there is a proletariat, both white and coloured, and there the Socialist movement just exists. But as for the Arab Socialist parties, they were all suppressed some time ago. I feel reasonably sure that unless the working class (it really depends on them) in the democracies change their tactics within a year or two, the Arabs will be easy game for the Fascists. French opinion here is predominantly pro-Franco, and I should not be greatly surprised to see Morocco become the jumping-off place for some French version of Franco in the years to come. I don't altogether know what to think about the crisis, Maxton etc. I think Maxton put his foot in it by being too cordial to Chamberlain, and I also think it would be absurd to regard Chamberlain as really a peace-maker. I also quite agree with what anybody chooses to say about the way in which the Czechs have been let down. But I think we might face one or two facts. One is that almost anything is better than European war, which will lead not only to the slaughter of tens of millions but to an extension of Fascism. Certainly Chamberlain and Co. are preparing for war, and any other government that is likely to get in will also prepare for war; but meanwhile we have got perhaps two years' breathing space in which it may be possible to provoke a real popular anti-war movement in England, in France and above all in the Fascist countries. If we can do that, to the point of making it clear that no government will go to war because its people won't follow, I think Hitler is done for. The other fact is that the Labour Party are doing themselves frightful harm by getting stamped in the public mind as the war party. In my opinion they can't now win the general election 2 unless something very unforeseen turns up. They will therefore be in the position of an opposition pushing the government in the direction in which it is already going. As such they might as well cease to exist, and in fact it wouldn't surprise me in the next year or two to see Attlee and Co. cave in and take office in some new version of a national government.3 I admit that being anti-war probably plays Chamberlain's game for the next few months, but the point will soon come when the anti-wars, of all complexions, will have to resist the fascisingdeg processes which war-preparation entails.
I hope things are prospering with you. After all the frightful waste of time due to being ill I got started on my novel, which I suppose will be ready to come out about April. Eileen sends love.
Yours
Eric Blair
P.S. [at top of letter] Thanks so much for your good offices about my Spanish book. That's what sells a book--getting asked for in libraries.
[XI, 505, pp. 238-40; typewritten]
1.A Spanish Anarchist daily newspaper of the time.
2.A largely Conservative government--with National Liberal and National Labour adherents--had assembled on 16 November 1935, with a majority of 247, for a maximum five-year term. Orwell is expecting a general election in 1939 or 1940, but because of the outbreak of war none was held until 1945.
3.With the fall of Neville Chamberlain and the appointment of Winston Churchill as Prime Minister in May 1940, Labour joined a genuinely national government, Clement Attlee becoming deputy prime minister. The Labour Party would win the 1945 election with a majority of 146.
To Leonard Moore*
28 November 1938
Boite Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Mr. Moore,
I have just had a letter from Allen Lane, who apparently runs the Penguin Series.1 He says: 'I am writing to you to know whether it would be possible to include some of your work in my series. As a matter of fact I was very much impressed by one of your stories which I published some time ago in New Writing when I was at the Bodley Head.2 If it is not possible for us to get one of your novels have you a collection of short stories sufficient for one volume?'
I think we ought to cash in on this if possible. Of course I haven't any short stories for them. I simply can't write short stories. But I gather from this that they would prefer one of my novels, and I have replied suggesting Down and Out,3 Burmese Days4 and Keep the Aspidistra Flying. I don't know which if any of these they'd be likely to choose. But I have asked Mr Lane to get in touch with you if he is interested, and said you would supply him with copies of any book he wanted. If it is a question of Down and Out, I haven't a copy and I believe you have not either. The only person I know has one is my mother. If there should be a demand for one, could you write and ask for it from her, which would save time? Her address is Mrs R W Blair, 36 High Street, Southwold, Suffolk. I am writing to her asking her to hand it over if she hears from you. If the Penguin people do seem inclined to take one of these books, I don't in the least know on what terms they deal. But I think it would be well worth letting them have one on not very advantageous terms for us, if necessary, because it is first-rate publicity.
Please don't give yourself any more trouble with that wretched pamphlet.5 I am sorry you have had so much already. As you say, there is no sale for pamphlets, and in any case the Hogarth Press is in the hands of Communists (at any rate Lehmann is one) 6 who won't publish my work if they can help it.
The weather has got a lot cooler and I think the climate is doing me good. The novel is going pretty well. I think I can promise it for the beginning of April, which perhaps you could tell Gollancz if he makes furthe
r enquiries. If he does, tell him I was very sorry to let him down about the time, but I suppose he knows I was actually in the sanatorium till the end of August.
I hope Miss Perriam7 is making some progress. My wife sends all the best.
Yours sincerely
Eric Blair
[XI, 506, pp. 241-2; typewritten]
1.Allen Lane (1902—1970; Kt., 1952), one of the most influential British publishers of the twentieth century, was apprenticed to his uncle, John Lane, at the Bodley Head Press in 1919. He resigned in 1936 and founded Penguin Books, which revolutionised paperback publication in Britain - and, indeed, more widely.
2.New Writing had published 'Shooting an Elephant' in its second number, Autumn 1936. Orwell's 'Marrakech' appeared in the Christmas 1939 issue, and 'Shooting an Elephant' was reprinted in the first number of Penguin New Writing, November 1940.
3.Published by Penguin Books in December 1940.
4.Published by Penguin Books in May 1944.
5.'Socialism and War'. The pamphlet was never published.
6.John Lehmann was probably not, at least formally, a Communist, but he had been associated with Lawrence & Wishart briefly and he reviewed for the Daily Worker.
7.Miss Periam was Moore's secretary and had been seriously ill.
To Richard Walmsley Blair*
2 December 1938
Boite Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Father,
I am glad to hear from Mother that you have been a little better and getting up occasionally. If your appetite is very bad, did you ever think of trying Haliborange? I have taken it occasionally, and it is not at all unpleasant to take, nourishing in itself and seems to improve one's appetite after a while. I should think Doctor Collings would approve of it. It's only halibut's liver oil flavoured with orange and a few other things.
The weather here has got a lot cooler and is rather like the cold weather in Upper Burma, generally fine and sunny but not hot. We have a fire most days, which one doesn't actually need till the evening, but it is nice to have it. There is no coal in this country, all the fires are wood and they use charcoal to cook on. We have tried to do a bit of gardening but not been very successful because it's hard to get seed to germinate, I suppose because it is generally so dry. Most English flowers do pretty well here once they are established, and at the same time there are tropical plants like Bougainvillea. The peasants are just getting in their crops of chilis,deg like the ones they used to grow in Burma. The people here live in villages which are surrounded by mud walls about ten feet high, I suppose as a protection against robbers, and inside they have miserable little straw huts about ten feet wide which they live in. It is a very bare country, parts of it almost desert, though it's not what is considered true desert. The people take their flocks of sheep, goats, camels and so forth out to graze on places where there seems nothing to eat at all, and the wretched brutes nose about and find little dried up weeds under the stones. The children seem to start work when they are five or six. They are extraordinarily obedient, and stay out all day herding the goats and keeping the birds off the olive trees.
I think the climate is doing me good. I was a little unwell last week, but on the whole feel much better and am putting on a little weight. I have done quite a lot of work. We are going to take some more photographs, including some of the house, and will send them to you when developed.1 Look after yourself and get well soon.
With love
Eric
[XI, 509, pp. 247-8; typewritten]
1.See plates 9, 10 and 11.
Eileen Blair* to Mary Common*
5 December 1938
Boite Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Mary,
We have just got back from a Christmas shopping. It began by my bicycle having a puncture. The next stage was my arrival in Marrakech, entirely penniless, two minutes after the bank had shut. By the time Eric arrived for lunch I had scoured the town (in which we know no one) for succour and had succeeded in cashing a cheque and in collecting a retinue of guides, porters etc., all of whom had most charmingly waited for money so long that they might be said to have earned it. After lunch we began to shop and we went on for two and a half hours, surrounded by as many as twenty men and boys, all shouting and many of them weeping. If either of us tried to speak, long before we had mentioned what we were talking about everyone present cried 'Yes, yes. I understand. The others don't understand.' We bought a lot of things in one shop because the people there will post to England--at least so they say. The things are being sent in three lots, to three key recipients who are to distribute them. You are a key recipient, and you ought to get a dish for Mrs. Hatchett, a brass tray for Mrs. Anderson, and a 'couverture' for yourself (and Jack). You may of course get something quite different, or nothing at all. A porter is engaged if he succeeds in laying hands on any piece of property, and as I put each thing on its appropriate pile it was instantly seized by one to four helpers and put somewhere else, or the pieces in several different places. Supposing you do get something, there may be duty to pay. I don't think it can be more than three or four shillings and I hope it will be nothing. We have sent a few things home already without trouble (by which I mean paying money) and they should be kind at Christmas, but it is perfectly probable that they put on for Christmas a special staff to be unkind. Anyway if there is duty of course we'll refund it when we get back or before by proxy, but meanwhile we can't think of any better arrangement than that Peter1 should pay it. Peter, like all our younger friends, is having money for Christmas because we can't get anything here for children unless we pay about thirty francs for something that Woolworth makes better. Money means 5/-. I hope that will arrive, but naturally we are doing all this much too late. We should have done it too late in any case, but in fact Eric was ill and in bed for more than a week and as soon as he was better I had an illness I'd actually started before his but had necessarily postponed. I enjoyed the illness: I had to do all the cooking as usual but I did it in a dressing-gown and firmly carried my tray back to bed. Now we are both very well, or I remember thinking that we were very well last night. This evening we are literally swaying on our feet and the menu for supper, which once included things like a mushroom sauce and a souffle, has been revised to read: Boiled eggs, bread, butter, cheese; bread, jam, cream; raw fruit. The servant goes home after lunch. He was supposed to sleep here in a kind of stable, but he prefers to cycle the five or six miles to Marrakech morning and evening. I like it much better. There is nothing for him to do in the evening except wash up the supper things, and until they were dirty he used to sit on the kitchen step, often in tears, getting up every ten minutes or so to tidy the kitchen and put away (generally in the cellar) the things I was just about to use for the cooking. It is customary, among the French as well as among the Arabs, to get up at five o'clock at the latest, and he arrives here about seven with fresh bread and milk for breakfast. It is early enough for us. We come to understand each other fairly well, though I seldom know whether he is speaking French or Arabic and often talk to him myself in English. The weather has got quite cold, which is delightful. Indeed it's a good climate now and I think we sha'n't die of it, which until recently seemed probable in my case and certain in Eric's. His illness was a sort of necessary stage in getting better; he has been worse here than I've ever seen him. The country is, or was anyway, almost intolerably depressing, just not desert. Now it's better because a few things are growing, and according to the guide books by February or so the whole land will be covered with a carpet of wild flowers. We found a wild flower the other day with great excitement and as it was a kind of lilyish thing without any stalk we suppose it was the first shred of the carpet. In our own garden we have had heartrending experiences. I suppose we have sowed about twenty packets of seed and the result is a few nasturtiums, a very few marigolds and some sweet peas. They take about three or four weeks to germinate and either grow at the same pace or don't grow higher than half an
inch. But generally of course they don't germinate. The two goats are more satisfactory now because they went right out of milk and that saves trouble. Until recently they were milked twice a day, with Mahjroub2 holding head and hind leg, Eric milking and me responding to cries of agony while some good cows' milk boiled over; and the total yield of the two per day was well under half a pint. The hens however have become very productive--they've laid ten eggs in four days. We started with twelve hens but four died immediately, so if you like you can do the sum I was thinking of doing but find too difficult. I hope all those great hens at Wallington will be ashamed. They really ought to be laying pretty well (i.e. about four each a week) now. Last Christmas we had great numbers of eggs and sent quite a lot away, with the result that all the lucky recipients got letters from the P.M.G.3 who regretted that a parcel addressed to them had had to be destroyed because it was offensive. I must write some Christmas letters, which is why I go on typing this. I get intolerably melancholy if I have to say exactly the same thing twice, so at about the tenth or fifteenth Christmas letter I am sending people the most surprising greetings, but by the twentieth I am resigned to intolerable melancholy and wish the rest a happy Christmas. That's what I wish you, and a bright New Year of course. And Eric, I am sure, does the same. And we both send our love.
Yours,
Eileen.
[XI, 510, pp. 248-50; typewritten]
1.Son of Mary and Jack Common.
2.The Orwells' servant, Mahdjoub Mahommed. For Orwell and Mahdjoub milking a goat see plate 10.
3.Postmaster-General.
To Cyril Connolly*
14 December 1938
Boite Postale 48
Marrakech
Dear Cyril,
I see your book 1 is out. Send me a copy, won't you? I can't get English books here. The New English [Weekly] were going to send it to me to review, but they haven't done so, perhaps haven't had a copy. I have been in this place about three months, as it is supposed to do my lungs good to spend the winter here. I have less than no belief in theories about certain climates being 'good for' you, on enquiry they always turn out to be a racket run by tourist agencies and local doctors, but now I am here I suppose I shall stay till about April. Morocco seems to me a beastly dull country, no forests and literally no wild animals, and the people anywhere near a big town utterly debauched by the tourist racket and their poverty combined, which turn them into a race of beggars and curio-sellers. Some time next month we are going into the Atlas for a bit, which may be more interesting. I am getting on with my novel which was listed to come out in the autumn but, owing to this bloody illness, didn't get started till two or three months ago. Of course I shall have to rush it as I must get it done in time for the spring. It's a pity, really, as it's a good idea, though I don't think you'll like it if you see it. Everything one writes now is overshadowed by this ghastly feeling that we are rushing towards a precipice and, though we shan't actually prevent ourselves or anyone else from going over, must put up some sort of fight. I suppose actually we have about two years before the guns begin to shoot. I am looking forward to seeing your book, I gather from the reviews that a lot of it is about Eton, and it will interest me very much to see whether the impressions you retain are anything like my own. Of course you were in every way much more of a success at school than I, and my own position was complicated and in fact dominated by the fact that I had much less money than most of the people about me, but as far as externals go we had very much the same experiences from 1912 to 1921. And our literary development impinged at certain points, too. Do you remember one or other of us getting hold of H. G. Wells's Country of the Blind about 1914, at St. Cyprian's, and being so enthralled with it that we were constantly pinching it off each other? It's a very vivid memory of mine, stealing along the corridor at about four o'clock on a midsummer morning into the dormitory where you slept and pinching the book from beside your bed. And do you remember at about the same time my bringing back to school a copy of Compton Mackenzie's Sinister Street, which you began to read, and then that filthy old sow Mrs Wilkes found out and there was a fearful row about bringing 'a book of that kind' (though at the time I didn't even know what 'sinister' meant) into the school. I'm always meaning one of those days to write a book about St. Cyprian's. I've always held that the public schools aren't so bad, but people are wrecked by those filthy private schools long before they get to public school age.