|Penguin Twentieth Century Classics UK, 1989|
Time passed, and each year Flory found himself less at home in the world of the sahibs, more liable to get into trouble when he talked seriously on any subject whatever. So he had learned to live inwardly, secretly, in books and secret thoughts that could not be uttered. Even his talks with the doctor were a kind of talking to himself; for the doctor, good man, understood little of what was said to him. But it is a corrupting thing to live one's real life in secret. One should live with the stream of life, not against it. It would be better to be the thickest-skulled pukka sahib who ever hiccuped over 'Forty years on,' than to live silent, alone, consoling oneself in secret, sterile words.
The Novel: The British presence in India, which began in 1612 with the chartering of the British East India Company and ended in 1947 with the country being granted independence, has served as the background to many a fine novel. A Passage to India (EM Forster, 1924), The Raj Quartet (Paul Scott, 1966–1974) and Heat and Dust (Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, 1984) are just some of the more notable works of fiction which examine and criticize an unjust, sometimes savage imperial system which reduced the Indian people to the level of second-class citizens in their own country while raising their white rulers –– the 'pukka sahibs' and their wives the 'memsahibs' –– to the status of irreproachable demi-gods whose word was law and whose every whim was expected to be automatically satisfied.
Very little, on the other hand, has been written about the British presence in Burma, which became an imperial possession in 1886 following three 'minor' wars waged against its native population in order to gain the Empire unrestricted access to its teak forests, ruby mines and oil fields. This changed in 1934 with the publication of Burmese Days, still one of the most damning exposés of imperialism ever published and one written, not by a member of the ruling elite, but by a man who had spent five years working as an officer of the Indian Imperial Police, doing the dirty work –– supervising hangings and floggings, violently suppressing native insurgencies –– without which the British Government could not have maintained its stranglehold on power.
Burmese Days tells the story of John Flory, a middle-aged teak merchant who, since leaving England for the subcontinent at the age of twenty, has divided his time between various jungle logging camps and, in recent years, the small backwater station (ie. town) of Kyauktada. Flory's life in Burma is lonely, dull and, after fifteen years away from what no longer feels like 'Home,' utterly predictable. When he's not in camp, he spends his time being fussed over by his doting if jealous servant Ko S'La, sharing his bed with his Burmese mistress Ma Hla May –– a woman apparently unrepulsed by the dark blue birthmark that covers a quarter of his face –– and attempting to drink away his ennui at the local, whites only Club where he's forced, with increasing reluctance, to fraternize with his fellow servants of Empire. Although Flory secretly despises the tedious, Latin-spouting Deputy Commissioner Macgregor, the lecherous manager Lackersteen and his sallow shrew of a wife and feels nothing but contempt for the obnoxious Mr Ellis –– a fellow teak merchant who makes no secret of his opinion that the best way to control the 'niggers' is to have the police randomly execute a few of them from time to time –– he's learned to keep his feelings about them and their lack of tolerance, erudition and culture hidden in the grand British traditions of esprit de corps and keeping up appearances.
|Signet Classics USA, c. 1970|
The doctor, however, is facing a problem of his own. The local Subdivisional Magistrate –– a grossly obese, thoroughly corrupt individual named U Po Kyin –– is determined to ruin his career for the sole purpose of increasing his own prestige in the eyes of his British overlords. Veraswami's only hope of fighting this, he tells Flory, is to be elected a member of the Club. 'A nod and a wink,' he explains, 'will accomplish more than a thousand official reports. And you do not know what prestige it gives to an Indian to be a member of the European Club… No calumny can touch him. A Club member iss [sic] sacrosanct.' Flory, who has long been embarrassed by his inability to repay his friend's hospitality by inviting him to the Club, answers that his wish may not be as far-fetched as it sounds, given the order Macgregor recently received to include a 'native' amongst its members. But Flory draws the line at nominating Veraswami for membership himself, explaining that he can give him his vote should his name be put forward but this is all he can do, given the resistance the idea is likely to face from avowed racists like Ellis and his friends Westfield and Maxwell. Veraswami understands and even apologizes for having implied that he expected the Englishman to assist him. His greatest wish, he affirms before they part, is that Flory should be as wary of the machinations of U Po Kyin as he is. 'It will be hiss policy,' he warns, 'to detach my friends from me. Possibly he would even dare to spread hiss libels about you also.'
Neither Flory nor Veraswami have to wait very long for their nemesis to strike. U Po Kyin uses his connections to have a letter criticizing Macgregor's administration published in the local newspaper under the doctor's name, eliciting a typically outraged response from Ellis and his cronies. With no intention of sitting still for such an insult, they write a letter of their own demanding that the election of a native member to the Club be indefinitely postponed. Flory is a reluctant signatory to this incendiary document, preferring to add his name to it rather than risk further arguments with men who disapprove of his friendship with the doctor and what are his relatively tolerant attitudes towards the Burmese. 'He had done it for the same reason as he had done a thousand such things in his life; because he lacked the small spark of courage that was needed to refuse.' It's this same lack of moral courage, this lifelong unwillingness to engage with the enemies of what he holds dear, which has led Flory, at the age of thirty-five, to become haunted by guilt and to look, and feel, much older than his years.
Unfortunately, the problem of U Po Kyin does not go away. A few days later Flory receives an allegedly anonymous letter from the magistrate, warning him not sully his good name by continuing to associate with Dr Veraswami. Flory's first instinct is to show the letter to his friend, but he soon has a change of heart, deciding not to involve himself in what is probably no more than another 'native quarrel.' There are, he hastens to remind himself, strict rules about what constitutes proper and improper conduct for an Englishman in this type of situation. 'With Indians there must be no loyalty, no real friendship… intimacy is allowable, at the right moments. But alliance, partisanship, never! Even to know the rights and wrongs of a "native" quarrel is a loss of prestige.'
Flory's train of thought is soon interrupted by the sound of a girl screaming for help –– not one of Ko S'la's endlessly bickering wives but, it transpires, a white girl. He rushes to her aid as a good sahib should, frightening off the harmless water buffalo whose calf she made the mistake of approaching too directly. The girl –– who turns out to be the twenty-two year old niece of the Lackersteens recently arrived from, all of places, Paris –– is exceedingly grateful for his help, her embarrassment at needing to be rescued making her all the more attractive to Flory even as it makes him more than ordinarily conscious of his age and his birthmark. Little persuasion is required to encourage the girl, whose name is Elizabeth, to accompany him to his house so she can rest on its veranda before returning home. To Flory's amazement, she seems keenly interested in everything he has to say, listening enthralled while he prattles on about books, art, life in the East and the rogue elephant he was once obliged to shoot at the insistence of some outraged villagers. Nor does the newcomer's apparent fascination with him go unnoticed by his servants, one of whom dutifully notifies Ma Hla May of her arrival who turns up moments later, demanding to know who the interloper is –– a question which compels Flory to send her away after threatening to give her no more money unless she obeys his order instantly. When Elizabeth, a little disturbed by her first face-to-face encounter with a Burmese woman, asks him who Ma Hla May was, Flory answers that she was one of the servant's wives who sometimes does his laundry for him. Knowing no better, Elizabeth naïvely accepts this lie and leaves, Flory sending Ko S'la and an umbrella with her so she won't succumb to sunstroke while she's returning to her aunt’s house.
Flory soon finds himself smitten with the blue-eyed, short-haired Ingaleikma [English girl], someone he can't help but idealize given her youth, what he mistakenly perceives to have been the glamorous life she must have lived in the cafés of Paris and, most attractively of all, her remoteness from the isolated, gin-soaked, semi-debauched life he's lived very much alone since coming to Burma. Here is someone, he tells himself, he can finally speak to freely about art and literature and ideas, a like-minded companion who'll join him in privately condemning the behaviour of people like Ellis and roly-poly Mr Macgregor whose silly jokes no one even takes the trouble to laugh at anymore.
But Elizabeth, it turns out, has come to Burma only because it represents her best chance of escaping the impoverished life she lived in Paris with her mother, a failed painter whose recent death has left her penniless and wholly dependent on the charity of her aunt and her alcoholic, bottom-pinching uncle. She despises art, artists and anything remotely literary or 'highbrow’, preferring shooting, riding and the company of people who share her disdain for all such 'beastly' activities. Rather than being the perceptive and empathic creature Flory imagines her to be, she's vacuous, priggish and determined to find and marry the right sort of husband so can follow in her aunt's footsteps and become just another shrill and narrow-minded memsahib.
Aware of none of this, Flory decides that his first order of business must be to send Ma Hla May away as soon as possible so as not to give Elizabeth an excuse to reject him as a suitor. He does this the following day, writing his mistress a cheque for one hundred rupees in exchange for her promise to leave Kyauktada and return to her village –– an offer Ma Hla May accepts with equanimity until it's actually time to leave, when she clings to the gatepost and pleads to be allowed to stay, obliging Ko S'la to step in and move her on while Flory, ashamed of what he's done to her despite the unavoidable necessity of it, watches silently from the veranda.
|Turkish edition, date unspecified|
Desperate to win Elizabeth's love before she learns of his true relationship with Ma Hla May and spurns him forever, Flory agrees to take the girl shooting for the day –– a decision which, given her obsession with all things upper class, reinstates him as a worthy prospect in her eyes. Their trip into the jungle, accompanied by Flo, Ko S'la and several native beaters, is more successful than anticipated, with both of them shooting several birds before Flory bags a leopard, the rarest prize of all. Elizabeth, who takes naturally to hunting and finds she adores it, happily accepts the gift of the animal's skin which Flory promises to have cured by one of the inmates in the local jail, unaware that this same inmate is shortly due to escape with the unpublicized assistance of U Po Kyin who has devised a plan to make the prisoner the head of an imaginary rebellion, the blame for which he intends to lay on the head of the unwitting Dr Veraswami.
The doctor, meanwhile, still views admission to the Club as being his only chance of salvation. 'But there is one other matter, Mr Flory,' he tells his friend when next they meet, 'that I did not care to mention before. It iss –– I hope this iss clearly understood –– that I have no intention of using the Club in any way. Membership iss all I desire. Even if I were elected, I should not, of course, presume to come to the Club… Simply I should pay my subscriptions. That, for me, iss a privilege high enough.' These statements, revealing as they are ridiculous, are enough to secure Flory’s promise to propose his friend for membership at the Club’s next general meeting –– a change of heart he puts down to the positive influence of having fallen in love with Elizabeth. 'Just by existing,' he tells himself, 'she had made it possible for him, she had even made it natural to him, to act decently.' This also inspires him to summon up his courage and propose to the girl a few nights later, only to find his proposal interrupted first by Mrs Lackersteen, who's just heard that a new Military Police officer by the name of Verrall will be arriving in Kyauktada the following day, and then by an earthquake –– a relatively common occurrence in the northern part of Burma. Confident that he's won Elizabeth's consent, but unable to confirm it because the earthquake leaves everyone too shaken to make it possible for the two of them to speak privately again, Flory tumbles into bed that night a tired but happy man.
But his happiness, of course, does not and can not last. The next day he meets Verrall while the young officer is practicing his polo strokes on horseback in the town square. Verrall, whose semi-aristocratic lineage entitles him to use the title 'the Honourable,' treats him very rudely, setting a precedent which sees him snub the entire expatriate community until Mrs Lackersteen takes matters into her own hands by marching her niece out to the square one morning so they might be properly introduced –– an introduction she ensures takes place after she's informed Elizabeth that Flory kept a native mistress prior to her arrival. Elizabeth, disgusted and horrified at this revelation, immediately drops Flory and throws herself at the more eligible Verrall, who takes her riding and appears at the Club each evening to dance with her, treating Macgregor, Ellis and the others with barely restrained contempt while he pursues what, to him, is no more than a convenient dalliance with the only attractive white girl he's come across in months. Heartbroken, Flory attempts to justify himself to Elizabeth, bringing along the leopard skin he promised her which, to his great consternation, has been improperly cured and is now a stinking mess. Elizabeth behaves as though Flory never proposed to her, dismissing him as she might dismiss a servant so she can go riding again with her new paramour. The moment her niece is out of the house, Mrs Lackersteen sends the offensive leopard skin away to be burned, an event which marks the symbolic severing of all ties between her niece and the man she now dismisses as 'the wholly unsuitable Mr Flory.'
|Harper and Brothers first US edition, 1934|
Called upon to do something by the terrified Elizabeth, who gives him unexpected encouragement by touching him on the arm, Flory sneaks out alone to summon help, swimming downriver with the aim of alerting both the Civil and the Military Police to what's happening in Kyauktada. But the police, armed only with sticks because they've received no official order to arm themselves with rifles, have been repulsed by the rioters while attempting to surprise them from the rear. Flory uncharacteristically takes charge of the situation, ordering the men to follow him to the Club where, to his amazement, he finds that Dr Veraswami, shaken but unwounded, has already ended the riot and guaranteed the safety of the British community. But it is U Po Kyin, emerging out of nowhere with a pistol in his belt, who attempts to claim credit for this, insisting that it was he, not the doctor, who brought the rioting villagers under control. But no one, least of all Flory, is deceived by his story. The doctor is rightfully hailed as the true hero of the hour and seems assured of having his Club membership approved, even by the unrepentant Ellis. Flory is also back in favour with Elizabeth and her aunt who once more begins to refer to him, as she did before Verrall appeared on the scene, as 'dear Mr Flory.'
The situation appears to take a further turn for the better with the sudden departure of Verrall, who disappears one day without bothering to say goodbye to Elizabeth –– let alone proposing marriage to her –– while Flory is once more attending to business in the jungle. He returns to Kyauktada to find himself reinstated as Elizabeth's suitor, gratefully accompanying her and her aunt to church one Sunday in full sight of Macgregor, Ellis and the other British-born members of the Club. But Flory did not reckon on the wiliness of U Po Kyin who, seeking revenge against him for foiling his plans to take credit for ending the riot, pays Ha Mla May another fifty rupees to barge into the church in the middle of the service and accuse him of mistreating her. 'Look at me, you white men,' she rants while the British squirm and fidget on their benches, 'and you women too, look at me! Look how he has ruined me! Look at these rags I am wearing! And he sitting there, the liar, the coward, pretending not to see me!... Turn around and look at me! Look at this body you have kissed a thousand times–look–look––' Her performance has the desired effect, spelling the end of any chance Flory has of marrying Elizabeth, who flees in horror only to tell him, when he runs after her, that they were never really engaged and that she has no intention of speaking to him again.
Flory is left with no choice, after this, except to return home in disgrace where he finds the ever watchful Ko S'la waiting to serve him dinner. He dismisses the servant and skulks off to his room, trying to convince himself that he can return to his former life –– 'books, his garden, drink, work, whoring, shooting, conversations with the doctor' –– as though he never met Elizabeth, resume his old habits as though the girl never entered the sterile wasteland his life was before they met. But he soon sees that this will be impossible because Elizabeth, for all her shallowness, has become the only thing that gives his life any sense of meaning. 'Since Elizabeth's coming the power to suffer and above all to hope, which he had thought dead in him, had sprung to new life… And if he suffered now, there was far worse to come. In a little while someone else would marry her. How he could picture it, the moment where he heard the news!… And then her wedding day approaching, her bridal night –– ah, not that! Obscene, obscene. Keep your eyes fixed on that. Obscene.' His only alternative to waiting for this to happen is, as he sees it, obvious. After calling Flo into his room and shooting the whimpering dog in the head, he re-cocks the trigger and turns the weapon on himself.
His death proves to be disastrous for Dr Veraswami. Without the friendship of a white man to protect him, the doctor becomes an easy target for U Po Kyin who, within a few weeks, has spread enough scandalous rumours about him to ruin his reputation and have him demoted and transferred to another district. The magistrate then joins the Club in his place, becoming popular with his fellow members –– despite Ellis's protests that he has no right to be there –– due to his willingness to stand everybody drinks and his unsuspected skill as a bridge player. In time, U Po Kyin is promoted and transferred himself, only to die of stroke soon after he retires, his plan to build the pagodas that would have guaranteed his entrance to heaven left unstarted (the implication being that he'll go to hell and, according to Buddhist belief, return to earth reincarnated as some lowly creature like a frog or a rat). Only Elizabeth, all thoughts of Flory and what she once meant to him conveniently expunged from her memory, emerges triumphant from the situation, marrying Macgregor –– who, it turns out, has been in love with her since the day he first laid eyes on her –– a few months after his funeral, becoming exactly the sort of servant beating 'burra memsahib’ she and her aunt intended she should be all along.
|Penguin Books UK, c. 1982|
But what makes Burmese Days even more remarkable for its time was Orwell’s decision to describe certain key events of the novel from an exclusively native point of view. Ko S’la and Ma Hla May are shown as people with functioning minds and genuine emotions, not as garish if picturesque puppets, while the chapters devoted to U Po Kyin and his scheming are two of the most interesting chapters in the book, shedding a great deal of light not only on what motivates his reprehensible behaviour but also on Burmese attitudes to imperialism and the issue of so-called ‘white supremacy.’ Dr Veraswami is perhaps the book’s most important character in this respect, his polite, sometimes overly elaborate way of expressing himself serving to underscore the differences between him and Flory despite both being engaged in what they’ve convinced themselves, albeit for different reasons, is a sincere, respectful and mutually beneficial friendship. While it may seem a minor point, it’s necessary to remember that writing from a ‘non-white’ point of view was not a practice widely indulged in by novelists of Orwell’s generation, perhaps proving that he was a more experimental writer than he’s generally considered to have been. Elements of this same Modernistic approach can also be seen in his handling of Flory and his refusal to make him mawkish and overtly sympathetic by downplaying or attempting to justify what are his many flaws and weaknesses. While the device of the birthmark –– the visible symbol of his long suppressed feelings of guilt and shame –– may seem a little obvious if not clichéd to modern readers, it succeeds in drawing attention to the high cost that imperialism exacted not only from the people it subjugated but also from those whose task it was to rule, manage, exploit and, in rare cases, understand them. Flory is as much its victim as anyone, a martyr to the idea that white people must be 'superior' simply because their skin is lighter than those of the people whose countries they invaded.
|ERIC BLAIR (aka GEORGE ORWELL), c. 1924|
Eric Arthur Blair, the middle child of thirty-nine year old Indian Civil Servant Richard Walmesley Blair and his twenty-eight year old half-French wife Ida (née Limouzin), was born in the town in Motihari, located in the Gaya province of what was then known as the Bengal Presidency, on 25 June 1903. The boy had wealthy ancestors on both sides –– his paternal great-grandfather made enough from slavery and his Jamaican sugar plantation to marry into the aristocracy and produce an eccentric clergyman son, while his mother’s French father became an important shipping contractor in the Burmese port city of Moulmein –– but both the paternal and maternal branches of the family had fallen on hard financial times by the time his parents married in June 1897. In 1904, at the age of one, his mother took him and his elder sister Marjorie (born in April 1898) to live in the town of Henley-on-Thames in the English county of Oxfordshire. Richard Blair did not accompany his family to England and, with the exception of a brief ‘Home leave’ visit in 1907 which resulted in the birth of a second daughter named Avril in April 1908, did not live with them again until January 1912 when he retired from his lowly job as a Sub-Deputy Opium Agent on a small annual pension of £400.
|ERIC ARTHUR BLAIR, c. 1906|
It was in Shiplake that Eric met Jacintha Buddicom, a neighbour two years his senior who shared his passions for poetry and writing and what would become his lifelong love of nature. Nature, in fact, was to become a key theme of his work as a writer, with all of his novels and many of his essays and journalistic pieces containing lyrical descriptions of the English countryside which, in his mind, was forever associated with the vanished Edwardian world of his youth and represented, for many of his characters, their lost ideal of heaven-on-earth. Jacintha was the second girl he fell in love with –– the first had been a young woman named Elsie who had been a teaching assistant to the nuns –– and one who would play a defining role both in his development as a man and as an artist, critiquing his poetry and providing the support and literary encouragement routinely denied him by his family. It was the knowledge that he was going to spend the holidays with Jacintha and her brother Prosper, with whom he regularly went shooting and fishing, that helped him survive what became the nightmare of his life as a student at St Cyprian’s.
|ERIC BLAIR at Eton, c. 1918|
It was surprising to many at Eton, if perhaps not entirely unforeseen given his fondness for confounding expectations, that Blair would choose to become the servant of imperialism –– a system of government he loathed and considered doomed –– over attending university or seeking a job in England as, say, a teacher or a clerk. (He would work in both occupations following his return from Burma in 1927.) While part of his motivation for doing this may have been the sheer absurdity of pursuing a career for which he was so obviously unsuited, another part of him no doubt viewed it as a way to escape the stultifying lower middle class world epitomized by people like his parents and his newly-married older sister. Determined to become a poet, he was also eager to experience, at first hand, some of the ‘romance’ the East allegedly had to offer –– a desire that becomes more understandable in light of the fact that World War One had only recently ended and that, to boys of his generation who had been too young to take any direct part in it, it still seemed like a glorious adventure rather than the excuse for four miserable years of absurd and mindless slaughter.
His relationship with Jacintha Buddicom was also a factor in his decision to forsake what had been his safe English existence for the unknown perils of life as a colonial policeman. He was now eighteen and a half –– no longer a callow schoolboy but someone who thought of himself as a man even if his lack of experience, particularly sexual experience, tended to contradict that belief. Had he done well enough at Eton to earn a scholarship to Cambridge or Oxford, then Jacintha, who had academic ambitions of her own, may have been willing to take his burgeoning love (and self-confessed lust) for her far more seriously than she did. There’s even some evidence to suggest that she may have been unaware of Blair’s true feelings about her –– evidence difficult to accept, given the number of poems he wrote (and showed to her) in which those same feelings are made abundantly clear in almost every line. Blair further complicated matters by proposing to her in 1922, hoping she would agree to accompany him to Burma, only to have his proposal immediately rejected –– something his masochistic temperament may have needed him to do in order to reinforce the idea that he was an outsider 'forced' to abandon himself to a life of physical, emotional and sexual exile. While they would remain friendly enough to correspond for a few more months, any thoughts he had of one day marrying Jacintha were thereafter excluded from his mind. (He did not hear from her again until Animal Farm was published in 1945 and her aunt informed her that George Orwell was, in fact, the same Eric Blair she and Prosper had played with as children.) In October, after comfortably passing his police exam, he boarded the SS Herefordshire and sailed to Rangoon via the Suez Canal and Ceylon, taking with him £150 worth of clothing and equipment –– a sum that, in those days, would have covered the cost of a year’s tuition at even the finest English university.
|ERIC BLAIR in Mandalay, 1923|
By April 1926 he was stationed in Moulmein, source of his family’s now vanished wealth and the town where his maternal grandmother still resided. It was in Moulmein that two other incidents occurred –– his attendance at a hanging and his shooting, spurred on by a crowd of Burmese, of a rogue elephant which had rampaged through their village –– that would cause him to question not only his role as a servant of Empire but the future long-term direction of his life. The latter incident, which he revisited in his magnificent 1936 essay Shooting An Elephant, led to him being packed off to the isolated northern province of Katha as ‘punishment’ for having wantonly murdered the private property of the Steel Brothers, the country’s largest and most prosperous timber firm. But this may not have been the only reason for his banishment to what was both figuratively and literally the end of the line. Blair, it seems, was as unpopular with some of his imperial superiors as he’d been with some (but not all) of his former teachers at Eton, expressing what were considered to be dangerous opinions for someone of his race, class and gender to be expressing in a close-knit, rule dominated society where the very British ideas of ‘sticking together’ and 'not letting one's own side down' were held to be inviolable. It’s possible that his reassignment to Katha, where he soon became ill with dengue fever, had been arranged for the purpose of driving him out of the police service if not out of Burma altogether. (This may have been true despite the fact the transfer was also accompanied by a promotion to the role of District Commissioner for Katha province.) Nor was it a coincidence that 1927 marked the end of his first five years of imperial service, entitling him to return to England for his first extended period of ‘Home leave.’ Granted permission to leave the country early for health reasons, he arrived in the southern French city of Marseilles in mid-August, travelling on to England –– specifically, to his family’s new home in Southwold –– overland via Paris.
It was in Southwold, a seaside town in Suffolk to which his increasingly impoverished parents had now relocated, that Eric Blair decided to resign from the Indian Imperial Police and reinvent himself as the writer he had always been certain, deep down, he was one day destined to become. His parents were horrified at the news that he planned to give up a perfectly good job and his father, whose own failure to rise out of obscurity in the colonies had left him a bitter and very disappointed man, particularly so. While the decision created a rift between them which never fully healed, the twenty-four year old Blair stuck to his guns. 'I was already half determined to throw up my job,’ he would write a decade later in The Road to Wigan Pier, his damning portrait of Depression-ravaged England, 'and one sniff of English air decided me. I was not going back to be part of that evil despotism.’
|ERIC BLAIR, c. 1928|
In March 1929 he became seriously ill with bronchitis and, when he began to cough up blood, had himself admitted to the Hôpital Cochin, a pauper’s facility near the city’s Santé prison which also doubled as a training hospital. In addition to confirming what had been his long-held fear of hospitals, his experiences here –– living in a cramped, overcrowded ward filled with the dying and the dead, insufficient food and virtually non-existent sanitation, nurses and doctors who treated its working class patients like cattle –– would go on to inspire How The Poor Die (1946), one of his most confronting if enlightening essays. Thankfully, he was released within a few weeks and well enough, after a little more rest, to take a job as a plongeur [dishwasher] in a restaurant serving haute cuisine on the fashionable and exclusive Rue Rivoli. (Some sources claim it was the Hôtel Crillon near the Palais Royale, others that it was the Hôtel Lotti.) Like his hospital experiences, what Blair witnessed as a plongeur –– dirt, exploitation, humiliation and intimidation –– would also find its way into his work, forming the basis for the first half of what, in 1933, became his first published book Down and Out in Paris and London.
Blair returned to England in December 1929 where he once again stayed with his disapproving family in Southwold –– living arrangements that were to endure, on and off, for the next five years as he continued to write and publish articles, some based on his resumed ‘secret life’ as a tramp, in publications including the Adelphi and The New Statesman. He also visited the north of England, where his sister Marjorie was now living with her husband (a man who shared Richard Blair’s entirely negative view of his son's new choice of career), and spent time as a hop-picker in rural Kent, an experience he would fictionalize in his second novel A Clergyman’s Daughter (1935). So great was his need to immerse himself in the lives of the poor –– a need some critics have described as his masochistic, self-destructive way of atoning for the sin of having been on the side of the oppressors during his time in Burma –– that he succeeded in getting himself arrested in December 1931 with the aim of learning what it was like to spend Christmas in prison. In the end, he only spent two days in a cell, the judge deciding that his drunk and disorderly behaviour did not qualify him to receive a longer sentence. Luckily, his conviction did not prevent him from being hired, in April 1932, as the only full-time teacher at a small, boys only day school called The Hawthorns or from putting the finishing touches to the book he was still referring to as A Scullion’s Diary.
|Penguin Books UK, 2013|
While mostly well-received by the critics, the book did not make its thirty year old author either rich or succeed in making ‘George Orwell’ the 'GREAT AUTHOR' he'd dreamed of becoming as a boy. In June 1933, finding himself unable to live on his royalties, Blair left The Hawthorns and accepted a new teaching post at Frays College in West London, buying himself a motorcycle –– a machine he had originally learned to ride in Burma –– upon which he took long trips into the countryside without taking what, for him, was the essential precaution of wearing appropriately warm clothing. Catching a chill which soon developed into pneumonia, he was hospitalized again in December, bringing an end to his teaching career and, with only his parents to rely upon for financial support, emphasizing his need to earn a steady living from his writing.
1934 proved to be the year he was at last able to do this, with the American publication of Burmese Days by the US firm of Harper and Brothers in October followed by its English publication by the firm of Gollancz in early 1935. But this did not mean that Blair/Orwell was satisfied. ‘I would have rewritten large chunks of it,’ he confided to a friend shortly after receiving his copy of the book, ‘only that costs money and means delay as well.’ He was even less satisfied with his second novel, going so far as to contemplate banning it from being re-published after his death –– a decision he later reversed on the grounds that a cheap paperback edition might 'earn a few pennies' for his relatives. He need not have worried about this because he remains, even today, one of the most widely read and frequently studied British writers of the twentieth century, his name a byword for honesty and integrity in a world where both seem to become increasingly rare with each passing year.
|GEORGE ORWELL, c. 1943|
Click HERE to visit the website of THE ORWELL PRIZE, which consists of three annual awards designed to recognise 'work which comes closest to George Orwell's ambition to "make political writing into an art".' The website also contains useful biographical and bibliographical information about GEORGE ORWELL and features links to many other websites.
You can also click HERE to read GEORGE ORWELL's complete diaries, written between 1938 and 1942 when he was living and working in London as a journalist and, during the war years, as a writer of political broadcasts for the BBC.
Like all of ORWELL's other fiction and non-fiction work, Burmese Days has seldom been out of print since it was first published in 1934 and should be easily obtainable via your local library, bookstore or favourite online retailer. The book was also adapted as a play by the English AYA Theatre Company, who performed it in New York in late 2011. Click HERE to view photographs from the production and to read a few brief reviews of it.
Many GEORGE ORWELL biographies have been published over the years, including The Unknown Orwell (1972) by PETER STANSKY and WILLIAM ABRAHAMS, George Orwell: A Life (1980) by BERNARD CRICK, Orwell: The Authorised Biography (1983) by MICHAEL SHELDEN, Inside George Orwell (2003) by GORDON BOWKER and George Orwell: English Rebel (2014) by ROBERT COLLS. There are a similar number of studies, appreciations and treatises covering everything from ORWELL's politics to his love of nature to his iconic status as the 'quintessential Englishman' and his ongoing importance as a novelist, journalist, visionary and unflinchingly honest social commentator. Why Orwell Matters (2003) by CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS is a good place to start for anyone interested in exploring his literary, political and wider cultural legacy.
You might also enjoy:
WRITERS ON WRITING #22: George Orwell
WRITERS ON WRITING #47: W Somerset Maugham
ALBERT CAMUS La chute [The Fall] (1956)