Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from Elses Farm, The Weald, Kent. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/58
3.v.06
My dear Gordon,
Your letter etc came when I could not answer it; then I had to be in town two days, and today has been as busy as ever, but suddenly this evening, in the midst of reading about hallucinations I thought I would write to you. Helen and Merfyn are away for a few days, and I get very lonely when I am so under buried about unnecessary things.
I showed your letter at once to Davies and I enclose his answer, hoping you can read the poem.
I don't object to 'loins': only I am sure that most people, perhaps remembering 'The fruit of his loins' will be slightly uncomfortable at the word, and I know that 'literature' once cut into a translation of mine from Flaubert which spoke of a summer's loins. Probably I shall substitute 'flank'. And many thanks for re-arranging and supplementing the article which now does well.
'for which the season and fate then worse
than dogs and cats do sow gardens'.
Says Hadibus; but I son't know whether sones ever were gelded as bitches sometimes are.
Doughty - I am reading him again and find hardly any difficulty in the performance: No doubt he is wrong, though I believe he could not have done otherwise. I feel that this total effect is finer than that of any long English poem except the Faerie Queenel but I haven't time to find out why. Hueffer wrote well about him
the weald, nr sevenoaks
in 'The Tribune', and someone unknown in 'The Times'.
I ran into Ransome in town. He had intended not to let me know he had come, but was affable and explanatory. Apparently he have been convincing publishers with words.
Will this book suit Rathbone? It is one of the best solemn literary books I have had.
We have many nightingales here, but after this year we shall not hear them again for we have just had notice to leave at Michelmas, We don't know what to do. Helen wont take a neighbouring farmhouse because she must have the responsibility for Merfyn shared by a schoolmaster: yet we can't really afford a good school, so fat have not heard of a house near Bedales. It upsets my word. Still I go on and now I think I have less than 1/3 left to do for "The Heart of England": it seems like imitating 'Wales' rather badly.
Oh, I have asked Dalman for the poem, but he has not answered.
I am nearly asleep.
Here comes a poor Rhys and if I can find it, the [illegible] Moore you want.
I am sick at heart because I am writing badly and much, because I am getting little money, because I am leaving here, and because I am always laughing at myself and yet truly I am still the same funny entimental egoist that I was before I learned how to indate laughter. I am remorseful after my poems with Freeman and Clayton when I dod nothing
but indatively laugh at things I can cry at when nobody is looking. And yet I went gravely amazing on Tuesday morning. I wonder what I really am? Well, I am Emily's devoted and yours ever. Edward Thomas.
and I thank Emily for remembering me even in words.