Bloomsbury: An Encounter with Edith Sitwell
I have been living in London for ten weeks and will give what can only be called first impressions. I have been living in Bloomsbury, that is to say, the students’ and young writers’ quarter. It is as different from Clapham or Ealing suburban, as you can imagine, and is in its way distinctive, so absolutely different from life in the West Indies, that it stands out as easily the most striking of my first impressions. In later articles, I shall go more into detail about such things as have struck me – houses, food, clothes, men, women, the streets, scores of things. But for the present my chief concern will be with Bloomsbury and the Bloomsbury atmosphere. I shall best describe it by not trying to describe it at all, but by merely setting down faithfully the events of three or four days, just as they happened. If there is a lot of T and T and T, it cannot be helped. I can only give my own impressions, and what happened to me. To generalize about so large a district and such numbers of people after only ten weeks would be the limit of rashness.
I shall begin with Wednesday the eighteenth of May. I reached home from the city at about half past three having twice sat before food and both times been unable to eat. I knew from long experience that I had a sleepless night before me, and to make matters worse, my right hand which had been going for some time decided finally to go. I tried to write and found that I could not – nervous strain I expect. I went to bed, got out of bed, went to bed again, knocked about the place a bit, tried to read, failed, in fact did not know what to do with myself. But I was in Bloomsbury, so would always find distractions.
Restlessness was the only reason which made me go to a lecture at the Student Movement House by Miss Edith Sitwell. I had promised to go with a girl whom I have met here, extremely interesting, and the only person I have ever met, who, if we are looking down a book or newspaper together, has to wait at the end of the page for me, and not by three or four lines but sometimes by ten. I had almost intended to telephone to say that I was not going, but the prospect of my own company in a room of a Bloomsbury lodging-house, aesthetically speaking, one of the worst places in the world, made me decide to summon up some energy and go to hear Miss Sitwell. I went over to my friend’s room and met there, herself and another girl friend of hers who had ridden five miles to come to the lecture, and was to ride five miles afterwards to get home. We walked over to the Student House, which is a club for London students, white and coloured, but with its chief aim giving coloured students in London an opportunity to meet together and fraternize with English students and with one another. The atmosphere of the place is definitely intellectual, in intention at least.
Now I had heard a lot about Miss Edith Sitwell before. She is supposed to be eccentric, in appearance and manner at least. She and her two brothers, Osbert and Sacheverell, are a family of wealthy people who have devoted themselves to literature (chiefly poetry) and the arts. They have made quite a name for themselves as poets and critics, and although few modern writers have attracted such a storm of hostile criticism, yet that in itself is perhaps a testimony of a certain amount of virility in their work. Today, however, they have won their position and are among the first flight of the younger generation of English writers. Miss Edith Sitwell, I had been told in Trinidad, rather posed. She wore robes, not dresses, and, to judge from her photographs, was not only handsome, but distinctly evil-looking in appearance. She had an underlip that seemed the last word in spite and malice, and in nearly every photograph that I had seen a rebellious lock of hair waved formidably about her forehead.
At a quarter past eight there was the usual whisper and the lady walked into the room. If ever rumour had been lying, this certainly was a case. She did wear robes, some old brocaded stuff, dark in colour with a pattern of some kind. The waist was about six inches below where the waist of the ordinary dress is and the skirt was not joined to the bodice in a straight line but by means of many half circles looking somewhat like the rim of an opened umbrella. Women will know the kind of design I mean. But the chief thing was that she could carry the dress. She is tall and though mature, still slim and the dress fitted beautifully. But even more remarkable than the dress was the face, a thin aristocratic well-formed face, very sharp and very keen. Her eyes too, were bright and keen. The Up I saw later did look spiteful at times but it was only when she shot an arrow at some of her fellow poets and writers, and to speak the truth, she had a good many to shoot. The lock of hair I can say nothing about, because she wore a small white cap which would have kept the most rebellious locks in order. She stood on the little platform to address us, a striking figure, decidedly good-looking, and even more decidedly a personality. Perhaps the outstanding impression was one of fitness and keenness together, the same impression I had got from a bronze head of her brother, which I had seen in the Tate.
I do not intend to go into her lecture, which consisted partly of readings from her own and other works and partly of short dissertations on certain aspects of modern work, the Sitwells being essentially of the modern school. Her voice was not exceptional and she was rather hoarse but she read well. Most interesting to me, however, were the bombs she threw at writer after writer. For a sample, Mr D. H. Lawrence, who would be judged by most people as the finest English writer of the post-war period. Miss Sitwell (sparkling with malicious enjoyment) told us that in the course of a lecture at Liverpool she had defined Mr Lawrence as the chief of the Jaeger school of poetry. This was reported in the press and a few days afterwards she received a dignified letter from the famous firm of underwear makers, saying that they had noted her remark and would like to know what she meant by that reference to their goods.
Miss Sitwell replied that she had called Mr Lawrence the head of the Jaeger School because his poetry was like Jaeger underwear, hot, soft and woolly; whereupon the Jaeger Company replied that while their products were soft and woolly they begged to deny that they were in any way hot, owing to their special process which resulted in non-conductivity of heat. Miss Sitwell begged to apologize and asked the Jaeger Company if they could discover a special process for Mr D. H. Lawrence which would have the same effect of non-conductivity. Unfortunately Mr Lawrence died too soon and nothing could be done. That is a sample of the kind of compliment she distributed and it is only fair to say that she and her two brothers if they give hard knocks have received quite as many. Naturally I was very much interested in all this and soon realized that I had done very well to come. But more was to follow. Speaking of D. H. Lawrence, she said that she did not think much of his work, that even his novels were very much overrated, and that she knew a young American writer of 31 or 32 who was a far finer novelist than D. H. Lawrence. However wild horses would not draw his name from her.
Of course that was easy. I told her at once that it was William Faulkner and she rather blinked a bit, though honestly I do not think that there was much in it. Anyone who is really interested in fiction would at least have heard Faulkner’s name.
As the evening progressed Miss Sitwell grew more and more animated and told us a story of that very brilliant writer who has just died, Mr Lytton Strachey. To appreciate the story properly, you must understand that Mr Strachey was a very thin, tall man, well over six feet, with a long beard and in appearance the essence of calm, assured, dignified superiority. I had heard of this and fortunately had seen, also in the Tate, first, a portrait of Mr Strachey, full size, which though a mediocre painting, gave one some idea of the man and secondly, a bust which was an admirable piece of work and gave a strong impression of his personality. To return to Miss Sitwell’s story. She said that a young composer, a big bustling fellow, whose name she certainly would not tell us, had met Mr Strachey at a party. Two years afterwards he met Mr Strachey at another party, hustled up to him and said, ‘Hello! I met you at a party two years ago, didn’t I?’ Mr Strachey drew himself up, pointed his beard in the air, and looking serenely over the head of the intruder on his peace said quietly, ‘Yes, two years ago. A nice long interval, isn’t it?’ As soon as the meeting was over I went to her and told her that I hoped I wasn’t intruding, but I would be glad to know if her young composer was not Constant Lambert. You never saw a woman look so surprised. She had to admit that it was and wanted to know how in the name of Heaven I knew that.
I do not know Constant Lambert’s music at all, but since the reorganization of the New Statesman as the New Statesman and Nation he has been writing musical criticism for the new paper, and writes quite well. One day I saw in the Tatler or Sketch or some picture-book of the kind, a photograph of Mr Constant Lambert and his bride. It was his wife that interested me, however. She was a cute woman with features rather resembling someone whom I knew, and yet no two women could have looked more different. She was rather a striking little woman in her way, and I looked at the photograph for some time, paying little attention, however, to Mr Lambert himself, who was big and beefy and burly, and looked rather like a prize-fighter. But when Miss Sitwell began her story with this young composer who was so big and who came pushing his way in, then the connection was simple enough. I had one shot and it went straight home.
But before the evening was over, I am afraid I had an argument with the good lady. After the lecture proper, came questions when Miss Sitwell sat down and answered whatever anyone chose to ask. Here she was at her best, showed a wide range of reading, was terse and incisive and every now and then when she got in a particularly good shot which set the house in roars of laughter, her lower lip quivered for a fraction of a second in a fascinating way.
After a while I asked her a question on which I have definite views of my own. There is a lot of experimentation in all modern art today, in technique particularly. People are writing free verse, verse which I believe Shakespeare and Keats and Shelley would find it difficult to recognize as kindred to their own work. Some people say that poetry must find new forms. It is my belief, though only a belief, that a great poet is first and foremost a poet, that is to say a man of strong feeling and delicate nerves, and secondly a technician and interested in technique, as such only as a means of getting the best manner of expressing what he has in him; and I also incline to the belief that if a great poet were born today he could use the traditional forms of verse and write the most magnificent poetry without bothering himself about new forms of poetry and technical experiments and the other preoccupations of most modern writers. These preoccupations it seems to me are things of essentially secondary importance. But with the spread of education and multiplication of books, people with little genuine poetic fire occupy themselves with poetry and thus have to concentrate on technique. Real poetic genius they cannot cultivate, because they have not got it.
At any rate I asked her the question, quite straightforwardly.
‘Do you believe that a genuine poet coming into the world today would be able to write great poetry in the old traditional form, the sonnet form for instance?’ I chose the sonnet particularly. From Sir Thomas Wyatt in the sixteenth century to the present day, Englishmen have written these poems of fourteen lines. Shakespeare and Milton, Keats and Wordsworth, nearly all the great English poets have exercised themselves with the sonnet. Could a modern Shakespeare write a sonnet which would be able to take its place beside the sonnets of Shakespeare or Milton?
Miss S: ‘To begin with I do not think that any modern sonnets of the first class have been written since the sonnets of Keats and Wordsworth.’
Myself: ‘What about Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet from the Portuguese, particularly the one beginning, “If thou would’st love me, let it be for nought, Except for love’s sake only.”’
Miss S: (Shaking her head) ‘No, as a matter of fact I think that no woman could ever write a really great sonnet. I happen to believe that technique is largely a matter of physique. Pope for instance though an invalid had very strong and beautiful hands … and I do not think that any woman is strong enough physically to weight the syllables as a man can in order to strengthen the lines.’
Myself: ‘But you will admit that the Ode to a Nightingale and the Ode to a Grecian Urn are magnificent poetry.’
Miss S: ‘Yes, certainly.’
Myself: ‘But nevertheless Keats was always very frail.’
Miss S: ‘Of course I do not mean that to write fine poetry a man must be big and strong like a butcher.’
It was the reply of a skilful controversialist. The audience was much amused. And as it was her lecture and not mine I let it pass. Nevertheless I think it was pretty clear to a good many in the hall that she was concerned.
But that is not all there is to it. At odd moments I have been thinking over the matter and while I cannot say that she is right I am becoming less and less able to say that she is wrong. Unfortunately for her I happened to hit almost immediately on the chief example which seemed to confound her theories at once. But on close observation even the case of Keats can be defended. Keats’s poetry is very beautiful but it is not strong as the work of Shakespeare or Milton is strong; even Shelley, magnificent poet as he is, has force and fire, but not strength in the sense that Shakespeare has strength. Take for instance these two lines from one of the sonnets:
Oh how can summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days.
Anyone who read that aloud can feel the almost physical weight behind the lines. One does not get it often in Keats and in Shelley. And it is particularly the kind of weight that the sonnet form, compact as it is, needs in order that every line of the fourteen should tell. It is not an easy question, and this is not the place to discuss it. Anyway, after many more questions the regular meeting ended. Then came general conversation in which those who wished went up to the platform and talked to Miss Sitwell while the audience broke up into groups. Students went up and came down, but stranger as I was, I did not go, and was talking to a girl who spoke thirteen languages, when the chairman touched me on the shoulder. Would I give my name and address to Miss S. and would I come up on the platform to speak to her? Certainly, no one was more pleased than I.
Up on the platform Miss Sitwell sat in the centre of a group of students. There was the chairman also and there was a Miss Trevelyan, some relation I believe of the Oxford historian. The talk ran chiefly on the work of the moderns. There is no need to go into what was said, except that Miss Sitwell agreed thoroughly with what I have always felt, that, for instance, to take an outstanding figure among the moderns, while one listens with the greatest interest to the music of Stravinsky, neither he nor any other modern can ever move your feelings as can Bach or Haydn, Mozart or Beethoven. It is the great weakness of most modern work. Well, it ended as all good things have to end. Miss Sitwell promised to send me a book written by her brother in traditional verse. I was bold enough to say that I hoped I would see her again. She said, yes certainly.
We may seem to have got some distance from Bloomsbury. We have not. That is Bloomsbury. Some group or society is always having lectures or talks by some distinguished person who comes and talks and is always willing to do anything for anyone who wishes assistance or guidance of some sort. On the Sunday following Miss Sitwell’s lecture, Mr Sidney Dark was to speak. Still later in the term Mr Walter de la Mare is to speak on Modern Fiction. Something of that kind in music, art, literature, architecture, philosophy, history, by the most distinguished persons, day after day. You have your choice. And however distinguished the lecturers, they are always willing to do their very best for anyone who seems more than usually interested. I went to two lectures by Professor Bidet of the University of Ghent on Greece and the Near East. The lectures were in French and I found them rather difficult to follow, but the man was so interesting that I wrote him a short note asking if there were any small books on the subject, or magazine articles which he himself had written. He did not reply at once, but did so when he reached back home. He wrote that he was delighted to have heard from me, that the interest I took in his subject gave him great pleasure, that my writing him about it meant far more to him than anything which he could do for me. He sent me one of his own articles, signed, as a souvenir and told me that although he had not written as yet his book on the subject would soon be published and he would be extremely glad to send me a copy. He does not know me and in all probability never will. There is the case of John Clarke, who along with law has been doing literature, and economics, and sociology, and goodness knows what not. He attended a series of lectures on sociology given by Mrs Beatrice Webb, Lord Passfield’s wife. He was not too certain of himself and wrote to her asking for some guidance. He told me that he was surprised at the result. She did not send him information of what books to read, but sent him actual manuscripts, sheets and sheets of her own work. She invited him to tea, filled him with food and knowledge and told him to come again. That is not exactly Bloomsbury, but it is the atmosphere of Bloomsbury. Anyone who lives in this place for any length of time and remains dull need not worry himself. Nothing he will ever do will help him. He was born that way.
George Orwell
[1903–50]
George Orwell was born Eric Arthur Blair in Bengal, India. In 1904 he and his older sister accompanied their mother to England. His father, a member of the Indian Civil Service, joined them after his retirement in 1912. Orwell was formally educated at St Cyprian’s, a preparatory school in Eastbourne, Sussex, and at Eton. In 1922 he left Britain and joined the Imperial Police in Burma, serving for five years before a growing distaste for imperialism caused him to resign.
The next few years were spent in Paris and London, where a series of low-paying jobs left him struggling against severe poverty. Finally in 1930 Orwell became a regular contributor to The Adelphi, but his earlier experiences induced him to write the autobiographical Down and Out in Paris and London (1933). & 1934 he coined the pen-name George Orwell and published his first novel, Burmese Days, a work that reflected his anger over the political injustice that he had experienced and observed. This was followed by two more novels, A Clergyman’s Daughter (1935) and Keep the Aspidistra Flying (1936). In 1936 he married Eileen O’Shaughnessy.
It was Orwell’s flair for non-fiction that led the publisher Victor Gollancz to commission him for the Left Book Club. Gollancz was interested in a documentary account of unemployment in the north of England. The result was the journalistic landmark The Road to Wigan Pier (1937). In part an exploration of human misery and in part a study of socialism as a remedy, it established Orwell’s growing reputation as a brilliant and polemical social commentator. His position as an unaligned democratic socialist was further clarified in Homage to Catalonia (1938), which told of his experiences as a volunteer for the Republican Army during the Spanish Civil War. In his fictional work, Orwell was also able to express many of his own aspirations, frustrations and political concerns.
From 1943 to 1945 Orwell contributed to Tribune, of which he was literary editor, and to newspapers such as the Observer and the Manchester Evening News. He possessed the ability to illustrate the effects and dangers of totalitarianism through his depictions of everyday life, and it was particularly in this guise, as pamphleteer, that the clarity and colloquial nature of his writing shone through. His first wife died in 1945 and he remarried in 1949, a year before his own death. His second wife, Sonia Brownwell, coedited with Ian Angus a four-volume, posthumous compilation, Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters (1968), which contains over 200 of Orwell’s ruminations on literature, politics and English life, and includes the famous essay ‘Inside the Whale’ (1940).
Orwell’s most popular and universally enduring works are the two satirical novels Animal Farm (1945) and Nineteen Eighty-four (1949). The political and social resonance of the latter in particular has been especially marked, and since its publication Orwellian terms such as ‘newspeak’ and ‘doublethink’ have entered the English language. It is a bleak and bitter work on the threat of political tyranny, written as Orwell was dying of the tuberculosis he had contracted in childhood. Having spent much of his short writing career in relative obscurity, Orwell died in 1950 with a widespread reputation as a novelist, essayist and journalist.
‘Confessions of a Down and Out’ points to the remarkable obsession the English have with outward appearances and decorum. In matters of dress and accent, one has to ‘act’ as though one belongs in order to belong. To fail to do so merely invites the inevitable spiral down the staircase of social acceptability. Both a colonial and an old Etonian, Orwell certainly understood life at the higher levels of society. In this piece he reveals something of the trauma for those, including himself, who appear to have temporarily lost their footing.
Confessions of a Down and Out
I travelled to England third class via Dunkirk and Tilbury, which is the cheapest and not the worst way of crossing the Channel. You had to pay extra for a cabin, so I slept in the saloon, together with most of the third-class passengers. I find this entry in my diary for that day:
‘Sleeping in the saloon, twenty-seven men, sixteen women. Of the women, not a single one has washed her face this morning. The men mostly went to the bathroom; the women merely produced vanity cases and covered the dirt with powder. Q. A secondary sexual difference?’
