D. H. Lawrence
Below, D. H. Lawrence writes to editor and close friend Edward Garnett (husband of Constance) regarding Paul Morel, a 400-page drama that, by the end of the year, would become Sons and Lovers. (A month later, he would write Garnett: “I wrote it again, pruning it and shaping it and filling it in. I tell you it has got form – form: haven’t I made it patiently, out of sweat as well as blood… It is a great tragedy, and I tell you I have written a great book.”) At the time of the following letter, Lawrence was in Italy, having left England with Frieda Weekley, the wife of his former university professor.
TO EDWARD GARNETT:
October 30, 1912, Italy
Dear Garnett,—
Thanks so much for the books. I hate Strindberg—he seems unnatural, forced, a bit indecent—a bit wooden, like Ibsen, a bit skin-erupty. The Conrad, after months of Europe, makes me furious—and the stories are so good. But why this giving in before you start, that pervades all Conrad and such folks—the Writers among the Ruins. I can’t forgive Conrad for being so sad and for giving in.
I’ve written the comedy I send you by this post in the last three days, as a sort of interlude to Paul Morel. I’ve done all but the last hundred or so pages of that great work, and those I funk [sic]. But it’ll be done easily in a fortnight, then I start Scargill Street. This comedy will amuse you fearfully—much of it is word for word true—it will interest you. I think it’s good. Frieda makes me send it you [sic] straight away. She says I have gilded myself beyond recognition, and put her in rags. I leave it to the world and to you to judge.
I’ll send you the book back in a minute.
We’re going to have our first visitor tomorrow—the landlady of the Hôtel Cervo, who is a German. She is fearfully honoured at the thought of coming to afternoon coffee. I am a howling gentleman and swell here—and those £50 are going to last me till March. So, because Signora Samuelli is coming tomorrow, I have spent an active afternoon scrubbing the bedroom—why F[rieda] insists on having the bedroom scrubbed I don’t know—or cleaning the silver—or nameless metal such as we use at the table. The “Wirtin” of the “Cervo” is a very strict housewife, and calls F. to account sometimes.
In the story above has come to live a hunchback and his mother and their maid. He is an artist, about 40, a painter. He talks a bit of weird, glutinous French. He’s my first acquaintance.
It is such a dark night—darker than ever in England. There is a mist on the lake, and the fishing boats with their great sails have seemed to hang in the air, like magic ships, all day long.
Do I bore you? You scare me by being so busy. I generally get up about 8 and make breakfast, but F. stops in bed, and I have to sit and talk to her until dinner time. I am a working man by instinct, and I feel as if the Almighty would punish me for my slacking. Do you think it’s wicked? Do I do my fair share of work?—I’ve got a horror of loafing—and yet—well, I’ll take my punishment later. But I feel guilty. But we live so hard, F. and I. And I’ve written 400 pages of Paul Morel, and this drama. Will Sons and Lovers do for a title? I’ve made the book heaps better—a million times.
F. sends her love. Where’s Bunny? He’s got to write us a letter, not a bit of sleep-walking, tell him. The time goes so fast it takes my breath away.
Yrs.,
D. H. Lawrence.
I’m in great misery, having broken my spectacles, and have eyes to write with, so must feel in the dark.—D. H. L.
Is your address always Downshire Hill? We haven’t heard from you for weeks.—D. H. L.
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FURTHER READING
For a good essay on Lawrence, Garnett and Paul Morel, as well as the manuscript’s eventual transformation into Sons and Lovers, click here.
For more on Lawrence and Frieda in Italy, and the effect of Italy upon Lawrence’s writing, click here.