Of course the Council for Civil Liberties is some good; the question is, how much? And the answer to that is, how far are they prepared to go when it comes to the point. Utopian charters are irritating, of course; but, on the other hand, it isn’t a bad thing to get one’s i[. . . ?] clear while there’s still time. Later, events may move so fast and ti[. . . ?] may be need for such rapid action that unless you know exactly what yo[u] mean to do[,] you won’t do it.31
Meanwhile, I sit here, waver and am in a mess. On the one side, there is the logical course of duty to what I believe: come to England and do my bit, however small. On the other side, there is Heinz. But I’ve told you this before.
There remain, as you say, the curried eggs (which I don’t even know how to make)[,] the letters on coloured paper (but only yellow from the Hogarth Press and dark blue from John Lehmann) and the landscape dreams (which I can only get if I take aspirin).
I am glad the Danes are translating the Passage to India. Rather late in the day, isn’t it? No, I wasn’t responsible, I’m afraid.
Heinz and Paul Kryger send regards.
If only we could meet. It’s marvelous weather here, now.
Best love and write again soon,
Christopher Isherwood
[handwritten postscript:] Please remember me to Bob.
* * *
[11-5-35]
Dear Isherwood,
Have now read Mr. Norris twice and have much admiration and enjoyment. I liked it less the first time because it is not altogether my sort of book—
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seems to reveal people facet by facet whereas the Memorial if my memory serves tackled strata. However I get over that and managed to read what you’ve written, I think. The construction is fine and Margot was a complete surprise to me. It’s marvellous too the way you’ve maintained standards of right and wrong and yet left Norris an endearing person. And you’ve made him both silly and witty, like a character in Congreve.32 He’s awfully good.
The necessity of combining knowingness and honesty in William render him more of a problem, for in art these are uneasy bedfellows. However you bring him through pretty well. I was a little worried in Switzerland to what extent he was paying his employer’s way with the Baron. Did he go the whole hog or turn a pig-skin cheek? I don’t the least mind, but feel that in the first case he would violate the fastidiousness and in the second the integrity of his character. Still perhaps I needn’t worry, for he was only hired to make the Baron move, not to make him happy.
Do give me an address to write to. I suppose you are in Brussels by now and do hope all’s well. It was a great pleasure seeing you.
With love,
EM Forster
Otto for my island! Oh I do hope he got to the Saar!
* * *
1-6-35
West Hackhurst,
Abinger Hammer,
Dorking.
Dear Isherwood,
I didn’t mind what you said about T. E. [Lawrence] either at the time or afterwards, and it helped me towards sizing him up. The circumstances have been very distracting. I ought to have arrived there the day he was buried, and I did go there last Tuesday with the Sassoons. Pat Knowles, the bat-youth, received us and showed me all the preparations they were making for my visit. Everything very grey and quiet and touching in that rhododendron dell, but outside I know Lord Lloyd was waiting. S. said he looked absolutely foul at the funeral. Well he must vomit for someone else now.
On the top of this worry has been another one connected with property—
our “family friends” the Farrens have been trying to close our thirty-year old path to the village and to take away our field: for announcing this iniquity by a “humourous” poem professing to come from a mare and actually written by pal-zeik-01 4/21/08 10:51 AM Page 44
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a bitch. The disorders of life are much confused: in my half-waking worries I scarcely know whether I am thinking of the lost path or the lost friend.
Well Bob’s there anyhow, and I got him down on the Sassoons my last day there. It is a gigantic plain country house in Wiltshire, lawns and woods rising to the sky, no gardens or trimmings, very attractive and grand.
Sassoon’s wife sweet, S. I have always been charmed by. I have come away thinking what a gap there is between war writers, especially poets (S.S., Blunden, etc.)33 and post-war writers. The pre war writers (self) seem actually nearer to the war than what is being produced at the present time. I don’t mean that I follow it but anyhow I’m not affronted or scared by it.
Any liaison work to be done here? And by Day Lewis? I don’t know him but feel he might connect groups who are rather regrettably out of touch.
There are such shits of every age now about and they are so powerful that some secret groping in decent quarters seems desirable.
This has led me I don’t know how far from Bob. He was delighted with Heytesbury House,34 and drove me up to the flat after tea. How I do wish we could come to Holland, but expense will be one thing, dates another. He hasn’t yet fixed his lease. His wife is “ever so much better,” whatever that means. She has come out well and people have been nice to her. I should have gone with him today to see her if he could have got the car but he couldn’t. We will think about Holland. All else failing, I might run over alone. Did you know I am going to Paris to this freedom-congress for writers on June 21st?35
Well this is a letter of sorts. I am writing in the garden which has suffered more from the frost of 10 days back than any other place in England: not only wisteria, azaleas, tulip tree, tree of heaven, weigelia, ci . . . tus[?] gone, but even beeches and oaks. You will have gathered that if not a lovely it is anyhow a fluffy garden: planned by one old lady—my aunt—conserved by another—
my mother—, and only ennobled by my own excessively moderate austerity.
It is quite ridiculous to reflect how seldom I have felt happy here.
I am getting Lowes Dickinson’s autobiography typed. It is a remarkable work. It makes me sad and a little irritable.
With best love and also love to Heintz.
E. M. F.
I am very sorry about the passport.
* * *
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From this place (Edinburgh) and its tedious wind I send a line about our visit. We shall certainly come if you are still there. Will you send me a line as soon as it is certain about Heintz’s Passport. We shouldn’t come if you’re not there. The notion is to arrive about Aug. 25th for four or five days, and be with you and go around with you as far as your plans allow. I presume your address isn’t a hotel. I was told that the Y.M.C.A. is good but noisy.
I seem to have quantities of letters to write to people who are ill, so must stop—not to write them, but to remind myself that I am doing nothing pleasant. Down below, three agreeable and enlightened women discuss the affairs of the University, and the Professor, who has been inoculated against Russia, sits apart with a gloomy arm. Edinburgh is a strange place. Last night was Saturday night—all the gardens closed, the castle illuminated, Princes Street deserted, an enormous crowd circulating inside the Railway Station and nowhere else. It might be such a fun-city. There was a man here called Raffalovitch who was said to have a salon. I went to a depressing lunch party with him once. Now he is dead.
Well I will finish up now and write again soon. The fact is I am sleepy and cold and haven’t been out all day, but wanted to write definitely about our holiday. The news of Bob’s wife is good and his child continues to get larger and to recognise him.