Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from Berryfield Cottage, Ashford, Petersfield, Hampshire. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/130
Ashford, Berryfield, 1.ix.09
My dear Gordon, I have just given up reading because I could read no more and it is midnight. But as I [illegible] this morning I would write to you today so I do. [illegible] the victim of my lofty principles, forgive me. I have been very restless lately. I have had practically no work, and I have had several disappointments - a chance of a book offered and then apparently dropped, and now the hope of publishing a first collection of my recent sketches and tales dwindles to a little volume uniform with Horce Solitarie and The Road mender and designed to expend on its superficial resemblance to that work for its success with the footing public. However it is a little better than nothing to have got my stories into print and so far outside me as to be judged with equanimity (by myself). They may be out this year, Will you help me with the proofs? 'The South Country' long delayed is now being preferred and if you are fit and still willing to do so I shall ask you to help me with that also. I am to make nothing out of my stories, I fear. In fact save reviews, I have nothing probable to do except edit a volume of unpublished and uncollated essays by Jeffries. Dare I ask you to read that also? My only prospect of this work is in a guide to Wiltshire. The chief charm of that is will mean 2 or 3 months (off and on) out of doors. It is not to be quite the driest kind of guide but in any rate will be a pretty severe task for me an you can imagine. It averse, it is far from
settled and I should be as much pleased if I dod not get it in if I did - being afraid. I have been giving way for I think the first time to some very useless annoyance that my position is so bad and insecure and unimproved, though wiser men told me my 'Jeffries' would help. There is no news and there is no other.
I dare say you are right about 'The Feud'. I am no critic. I saw a fine intention and a fine outline and words passable: add to this my knowledge of Garnett's character and singularity and you will see the way of my [illegible] if such it is. But I can't disown it. In any case I should never have thought of saying it proves Garrett's powers. I am here to see and hear him to know them and I am convinced he van never write anything worthy of them. He knows himself this weakness in literary expression and though he must feel my inferiority to hum is a nature and a mind he says quite honestly with a smiling administration that I have a natural talent for writing which he had not.
Have you seen Synger's poems? They are raw poetry and something more - wonderfully lean and bare and yet compelling but to clothe them in the warm and radiant life which they disdain.
About the Painted Lady, she is not tall or at all upper-classish. She dresses mostly in a semi modish rusticity of the china shepardess type. She is short and full-hearted and has a way of clapping her hands when pleased that looks as if it had been burnt by art. When I first say her I thought she might be a prostitute.
SHe is in no sense beautiful. But she has very bright eyes and nice hair of neither too dark nor too fair a brown. She is tomboyish but of compliment to her Bohemian spouse who is [illegible] visiting 'Bohemia in Foxfield' and drinking the local ale by way of preparation and inspiration - all which I do not exactly mean. I so not feel as spiteful as I sound. But I give way the facile thing the more readily because he had changed with something indescribably remote and family had very repulsive under this charmer's charms. His miniature ivory horn suggests something evil in which I combine the two of them...she is such that I could not be or say a sincere thing on this same room or house with her.
My feet are cold now. What a year! I have now learnt that I cannot enjoy everything the weather does so long as I remain attached to my bones - which are rheumaticky. I hope you got well well again in that spell of fine weather which I know really did visit us but was utterly forgotten in twenty four hours of rain and cold that followed. Tell me, and accept this as an apology for not writing before. I should like to come to you but expect that if I can get away again this year it must be somewhere close at hand - Wiltshire I hope.
We are all well except Mervyn who had a 'rheumatic throat' for the time being which keeps him in bed and other luxuries. We send our love to Emily and you. Ever yours, Edward Thomas.