Or lunch tomorrow at the George and Vulture,2 if either of you should be in the city by 12. If he is going this week I hope he can manage either lunch or evening –
1–Dated ‘16. i. 17’ by TSE.
2–The George and Vulture pub was in George Street.
TO His Mother
MS Houghton
17 January 1918
[London]
Dearest Mother,
I am writing this after hours, and hope to get it posted in time to reach Saturday’s boat. I have not written for a fortnight, I think. Nothing of much moment has happened in that time. I have ordered my suit – of course they are more expensive now, and I have to pay £5 – but I think it will be a good one. Also at Vivien’s earnest solicitation, I am laying in a light overcoat, as an investment. The prices are rising so and material getting so scarce that I may get a spring suit this year, though I should not wear it at all. This £5 suit would have been £3 10s three years ago. I am buying a pair of shoes too. Then I shall feel well supplied for the future.
I am lecturing again, and the attendance keeps up well. As I started earlier this year, the classes will be over by Easter, which will be welcome. As it is, I can do nothing but these and the Egoist and occasional philosophy for Jourdain. There is a very flattering article on me by May Sinclair in the last Little Review.1 I must write and thank her. She was going to try to get it into the Fortnightly Review as well. I had to write most of the Henry James number of the Egoist myself.
The weather has been frightfully cold for England, and we both suffer from chilblains, and V. from neuralgia in this weather.
I must cut this short or I will not get to the post by 5.30. Everyone has gone and the cleaners want to get into my room.
Your devoted son
Tom.
1–May Sinclair, ‘Prufrock: And Other Observations: A Criticism’, Little Review 4: 8 (Dec. 1917), 8–14. Sinclair’s piece did not appear in the Fortnightly Review.
TO His Mother
MS Houghton
6 February 1918
18 Crawford Mansions
My dearest Mother,
I have not written to you for so long that I am cabling to let you know that nothing is wrong. The weeks rush by, and at every mail I have felt so tired that I want to wait for the next and write a really good letter, but the really good letter never is written, and this is all I do – but it is at least an affectionate one! Your letters are always a great pleasure and comfort to me, though often a week goes by and two come together. I have not only been very busy and tired, but a slight touch of influenza made it impossible for me to do anything for several days. But I was well nursed through it, and I think am none the worse. It was largely the end of the winter exhaustion, come a bit earlier than usual.
Your beautiful muffler came the other day, and it is just what I wanted. It is wonderfully soft and warm, and much nicer than any one could buy at any price. With this and the sweater and a new suit and overcoat I am quite set up. I only need a new pair of shoes, which are fearfully expensive now. I shall always think of all the work you put into it whenever I wear it, and wonder when and where you did any particular stitch. My new suit is very nice, very dark gray, almost black.
We get along as everyone else does. I suppose food is a serious problem even in America. It is very hard on anyone who is delicate, and cannot digest many of the things that most people fall back on. Vivien was best off some years ago when a doctor put her on a diet of meat and milk puddings alone, so you can see the difficulty. It would be nice to have a little Orange Pekoe, or a box of Gorton’s Boneless Cod!
I have had a great deal to do. Lately I have been at a point in my lectures where the material was unfamiliar to me: I have had to get up the Brontës for one course and Stevenson for the other. Of course I have developed a knack of acquiring superficial information at short notice, and they think me a prodigy of information. But some of the old ladies are extraordinarily learned, and know all sorts of things about the private life of worthies, where they went to school, and why their elder brother failed in business, which I have never bothered my head about. But I am looking forward to lecturing on Dickens. I found Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights amazingly good stuff, but I cannot endure George Eliot.
I have three philosophy books on hand for the New Statesman which I have not touched, and Bertie’s new book Mysticism and Logic for the Nation.1 And when I have finished this letter I must do my article for the Egoist, on two collections of recent verse.2 As some of the worst of it is by friends of mine the article will be rather difficult. I shall be glad when Easter comes, and both courses of lectures are over.
I must go to work now. This has at least been words on paper, if not a letter. I hope I can write a better one on Sunday!
With much love to both of you
Your devoted son
Tom
1–TSE, unsigned rev. of BR, Mysticism and Logic, N. 22 (Mar. 1918), 768–9.
2–T. S. Apteryx (TSE), ‘Verse Pleasant and Unpleasant’ – on Georgian Poetry 1916–1917, ed. Edward Marsh, and Wheels 1917: A Second Cycle, ed. Edith Sitwell – Egoist 5: 3 (Mar. 1918)
TO His Mother
MS Houghton
14 February 1918
[London]
My dearest Mother,
I hope this will be legible by the time it reaches you. I am writing in business hours which accounts for the form of my letter. There is very little to do today, and I see no reason why I should not take some of my spare time to write to you. I am still very tired and feeling the effect of a spring season two months too early – the weather has been very warm and muggy. I count [the] days until Easter. I did not have time to do anything for the Egoist this month – the first time that has happened. I should like to get B. R.’s new book Mysticism and Logic reviewed, but I cannot see my way to it for several days.
I was glad to get the American papers, though I have not had time to more than look at them yet. They are the first I have seen for a very long time, and they seemed very strange and also wasteful of paper on an infinity of trivial matters. The part that usually interests me the most is the sporting news. I am thinking of sending you a paper called Common Sense1 from time to time, as I do not suppose that you see any English news.
I must get back to my work now as some has just turned up. I don’t know whether I shall have time to write any more so I will close this off and perhaps make a postscript later.
Always your devoted son
Tom.
1–Common Sense was published weekly from Oct. 1916 to June 1921, when it was incorporated into the Manchester Guardian Commercial.
TO His Mother
TS Houghton
4 March 1918
18 Crawford Mansions
Dearest mother,
The last few days have been very cold again, after a warm spell which brought all the buds out; but I do not think that anything has been frostbitten. Today clouded over, after several bright cold days, and tonight it has begun to rain, and may turn to snow. Vivien and indeed most English people suffer in such weather, but I find it rather bracing – at least out of doors, for English houses have not the heating or close-fitted doors that ours have. Today (Sunday) I have not been out, but have worked all day for the Egoist. You know that I was too tired to do anything for the February number, so I have done more than usual for this. An article on two anthologies of poetry, one mostly by some young friends of mine [the Sitwells], two young Guards officers with literary aspirations; an article on a very foolish book by Amy Lowell,1 sister of Lawrence Lowell, and one on a literary lawsuit2 in New York. I am becoming quite adept at reviewing books by people I know – a difficult art.
I have been cramming George Eliot for the last two weeks in preparation for a lecture on her on last Friday. I was surprised to enjoy her so much. Of course there is a great deal of endless prosing, and I think my memory of pleasure is based chiefly on one story – Amos Barton – which struck me as far and away ahea
d of the rest. I read the Mill on the Floss, Scenes of Clerical Life, Adam Bede and Romola in preparation for this one lecture. This week is Meredith, whom I have lectured on before. The attendance keeps up pretty well, considering the conditions, nine or ten each evening, but it would not at all surprise me if there were no lectures at all given next year.
I appreciate the papers father sends, and hope he will continue. And I must thank you very much for the little parcel of tea you sent; it was very welcome, and helped out our small store very much. I think that it loses a little flavour on the way, still it is Orange Pekoe, and I had not had any for a long time.
Everything looks more black and dismal than ever, I think. The whole world simply lives from day to day; I haven’t any idea of what I shall be doing in a year, and one can make no plans. The only thing is to try to fill one’s mind with the things in which one is interested.
I must stop now.
Always your very loving and devoted son
Tom
1–TSE, ‘Disjecta Membra’, a review of Amy Lowell, Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (1917), in Egoist 5: 4 (Apr. 1918).
2–The Oct. 1917 issue of Little Review had been suppressed because it carried WL’s story ‘Cantleman’s Spring-Mate’. John Quinn appeared for the defence, but the case went against the magazine. TSE, in ‘Literature and the American Courts’, lamented that as a result of the ruling, ‘In America the small number of people who are sensitive to good literature are now forbidden to read one of the finest pieces of prose in the language’ (Egoist 5: 3, Mar. 1918).
TO John Quinn1
TS NYPL (MS)
4 March 1918
18 Crawford Mansions
Dear Mr Quinn,
I am told by Pound that you expressed satisfaction with the brochure on his work.2 I am very glad if this is so, because I wrote it under considerable pressure of time, and was very much aware of its shortcomings; I lamented not being able to have sight of the proofs. I only hope that it will serve the desired purpose, and shall be very glad if it induces any one unacquainted with Pound’s stuff to buy and read his books.
I wish more particularly to express my gratitude to you for your activity on my behalf against the Pirates.3 I appreciated it the more because I knew you had recently undergone a serious operation: I do not think that there are many people who under such conditions would bestir themselves so actively even for personal friends, still less for a man who was personally unknown to them.
I cannot see how these publishers can find a leg to stand on. As most of the poems have been published in America, they could be within their rights only in printing the ‘Rhapsody on a Windy Night’, and the ‘Preludes’ – hardly sufficient for a profitable volume.
I wish that I had enough material for a volume of suitable size for the American public.4 I am afraid that it will be some time before I have enough material to double the size of my small book. I have only written half a dozen small poems in the last year, and the last I have been unable to finish. I regret still more that I have been unable to do anything this winter for The Little Review. The cause has been chiefly the simple reason of lack of time, and in the second place I have been too tired to do any original work. I spend a sufficiently fatiguing day in a Bank, and during this winter have supplemented my income by giving two lectures a week, involving considerable preparation, in the evenings to working people. Then also I have The Egoist to look after; having an official connection with it I must perform my share each month. At about Easter my courses of lectures will be finished, and I hope then to find time and energy to write. I have been very keenly interested in the success of The Little Review, and Pound’s enthusiasm on the subject is infectious. I hope to continue my dialogue5 (not that I was at all satisfied with the first two parts), and if I do any verse Pound shall have it.
Pound showed me a letter a few days ago which he had from Miss Monroe declining his last poems.6 Although I knew that she had shown herself obtuse on the subject of the Cantos I was very much surprised; her tone was offensively patronising. I had gone over these poems carefully before Pound sent them; and had applauded them. The Provençal stuff was amazingly well done, and in two or three of the modern poems I was sure that he had gone some distance beyond the modern poems in Lustra [1915]. Anyway, they were first-rate, and it never occurred to me that Harriet would be able to find any excuse for rejecting them. I suppose there were mixed motives, but probably she was jealous of the attention Pound was giving to The Little Review.7
I am really very glad the crisis occurred. Personally, I cannot forget the length of time that elapsed before Pound succeeded in persuading Miss Monroe to print ‘Prufrock’ for me, nor do I forget that [in Poetry, Sept. 1916] she expunged, in another poem, a whole line containing the word ‘foetus’8 without asking my permission. But what is the important point is that Pound is I think very glad to feel no further responsibility toward Poetry. He is deprived of the price of his rent, I believe, but I think that he is delighted at being able to devote all his attention to The Little Review. I saw him a few days ago, in very good spirits, and I think morally sustained and stimulated by the subsidy which you have assembled. It will be a great thing to get all his serious prose and verse for the L.R. from now on.
You see I value his verse far higher than that of any other living poet. And he and Wyndham Lewis are the only men in England of my acquaintance, I believe, who have not in any respect allowed the war to demoralise them.
I am putting a short notice of the Cantleman trial in this month’s Egoist. I think the typical American attitude in such matters is like that of Miss Amy Lowell, who is always decrying abstract Puritanism, but who when faced with some particular work of art offensive to Puritan taste curls up like a hedgehog. The American Liberal Varnish. I am sure that everyone who knows about the case here is very grateful to you for your part in it.
Again with thanks for your action against Boni, and best wishes for your rapid convalescence, I am
Sincerely yours
T. S. Eliot
1–John Quinn, American lawyer and patron of the arts: see Glossary of Names.
2–TSE’s pamphlet, published anonymously, was Ezra Pound: His Metric and Poetry (New York: Knopf, 1918). On 9 Sept. 1917, EP had told Quinn, who donated $80 towards the publication, that TSE had ‘made an excellent job’ and that it should ‘at least choke off the imbeciles’ (Selected Letters of Ezra Pound to John Quinn, 1915–1924, ed. Timothy Materer [1991], 129).
3–Quinn investigated an unfounded rumour, started by the editors of the Little Review, that Boni & Liveright planned to pirate Prufrock. Soon, on 25Mar., Albert Boni wrote to Quinn’s associate Justus Sheffield, ‘Regarding Prufrock by T. S. Eliot, will you kindly advise Mr. Quinn that I am under the impression that these poems have not been published as yet in book form in the States. If he cares to arrange for their American publication, I should be pleased to take up the matter with him or anyone else authorized to conclude arrangements.’ On 19 Apr., Quinn sent a copy of this note to TSE, adding: ‘They are a new firm, young Jews, and are sort of making a business of republishing uncopyrighted things or standard works on which copyright has expired … I don’t think you want to hook up with them. When you get enough material for a volume of suitable size for the American public, I don’t think there will be much difficulty about arranging for a publisher.’
4–The publisher Alfred Knopf (see Glossary of Names) had been worried about length when Quinn first recommended TSE to him on 6 Aug. 1917. All the same, Quinn sent the book, and Knopf replied on 17 Aug.: ‘I have read Eliot’s little book of poems with immense enjoyment. I do not know whether it is great poetry or not. I do know that it is great fun and I like it. I surely hope that he writes some more of it so that we can make a book of him over here. You see the present volume consists of only 32 pages of poetry, and it would be quite impossible to do anything with such a thing over here, except to give it away as an advertisement’ (NYPL).
5–‘Eeldr
op and Appleplex’: Part II had been published in Sept. 1917, but TSE never continued it.
6–‘Homage à la Langue d’Oc’ and ‘Moeurs Contemporaines’ appeared in the Little Review in May. TSE included both in EP’s Selected Poems (1928): ‘One of Pound’s most indubitable claims to genuine originality’ was his ‘revivification of the Provençal and the early Italian poetry’ (xii).
7–EP became Foreign Editor of the Little Review in Mar. 1917 without informing Harriet Monroe (he was already ‘Foreign Correspondent’ for her magazine Poetry). In the Little Review (May) he compounded the offence: ‘Poetry has shown an unflagging courtesy to a lot of old fools and fogies whom I would have told to go to hell tout pleinment and bonnement.’ See A History of ‘Poetry’ in Letters: The First Fifty Years, ed. Joseph Parisi and Stephen Young (2002), 198–206.
8–‘He laughed like an irresponsible foetus’ (‘Mr. Apollinax’).
Vivien Eliot TO Charlotte C. Eliot
MS Houghton
11 March 1918
18 Crawford Mansions
Dear Mrs Eliot
I hope that you will not get tired of seeing my writing instead of Tom’s – at least I think it is instead of Tom’s this week. He may have managed to write a line at the Bank, but I know that all yesterday he never moved out of his chair except for meals. Writing incessantly, until very late at night. There is so much else to do, that the lectures always get put off till the last minute, and Sundays and Thursdays, being the days before the lectures, are always terrible days. Tom looks very white and thin. The winter has tried him beyond endurance. I feel that he must not ever do this lecturing again. It is too much. It is more than one can endure to see a young man so worn and old-looking, and it is always through fretting that he has no time to do the only thing he wants to do, the only thing he likes. That is the truth of it – it is a good half of it sheer over work, and the other half is fretting. It wears me out to see him. I only wish we were near someone of his own family. Of course you must know how he longs to see you. Poetry and literature are the very only things Tom cares for or has the faintest interest in. And not the kind of Poetry or literature which earns money. He hates to write for money. The Banking frets and irks him less than all his other work, because it is so quite different and separate from what he cares about so intensely.