Letter from Edward Thomas to his wife, Helen Thomas. Archival reference: 424/1/1/1/1/198
Monday 8.2.1904
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 being 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 one as I probably worried him; and I find myself talking, for an hour after I had meant 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 Warkingham the south side of all the hedges was full of spring and we enjoyed it. We wasted most of our time in foolish tattle, foolish whether serious or not, when [illegible] seriousness I was only endeavouring (half unintentionally) to entertain Haynes by humouring some silly notion in 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 Tovey whom I remember hearing at Oxford and an acquaintance of Haynes’. He was asked whether he or his brother who sat next to him was the elder: and replies ‘Well, Duncan has lost more opportunities’. I drank modestly and
Could not tell at all. So that the pleasure was much like being 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 dont 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 ie. 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 Murrago.
I almost forgot why I like my evening at Harry’s. But I suppose it was because we were really intimate, with much silence and no undermining 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, just back from Ambrose’s and am sleeping longest at Dal’s, because the bedroom here is impossible. Dam.
Goodbye. Kiss Merfyn and Bronwen.
I am ever and wholly yours
Edward