Edward Thomas: from Adlestrop to Arras: A Biography

EDWARD THOMAS

From Adlestrop to Arras:

A Biography

Jean Moorcroft Wilson

For Cecil Woolf

&

in memory of

Sir Martin Gilbert (1936–2015)

CONTENTS

Map of ‘The Edward Thomas Country’, Steep, Hampshire

List of Illustrations

Family Trees of Edward Thomas’s Father and Mother

Line Drawing of Edward Thomas by Ernest Thomas

Introduction

1. Beginnings (1878–1880)

2. ‘All Being, Doing and Suffering’ (1880–1888)

3. ‘The Foolish Years’ (1889–1893)

4. St Paul’s and Helen Noble: Alone Together (1894–1897)

5. A Glimpse of Paradise (October 1897–September 1898)

6. Paradise Gained (1898–1899)

7. Paradise Lost (1899–1900)

8. Grub Street (September 1900–September 1901)

9. Rose Acre Cottage (October 1901–July 1903)

10. ‘The Valley of the Shadow’: Ivy Cottage, Bearsted Green (July 1903–May 1904)

11. Elses Farm (May 1904–October 1906)

12. Berryfield Cottage: ‘When First I Came Here I Had Hope’ (December 1906–February 1907)

13. Hope and Loss of Hope (January 1907–December 1909)

14. ‘Your Hurried and Harried Prose Man’: Wick Green (December 1909–December 1910)

15. The Bax–Baynes Effect (1911–1912)

16. Pursued by the Other in Pursuit of Spring (January–September 1913)

17. ‘The Only Brother I Ever Had’ (6 October 1913–March 1914)

18. ‘While We Two Walked Slowly Together’: Thomas and Frost in Gloucestershire (April–July 1914)

19. The Sun Used to Shine (August–September 1914)

20. The Road Taken (September–November 1914)

21. ‘The Only Begetter’ (December 1914)

22. This England (January–February 1915)

23. Marlborough and the Fields of Flanders (March–July 1915)

24. The Extreme Decision (July–November 1915)

25. ‘A Heart that was Dark’ (November 1915–August 1916)

26. The Long Goodbye (August 1916–January 1917)

27. ‘No More Goodbyes Now’ (January–April 1917)

Acknowledgements

Abbreviations

Notes

Bibliography

Index

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

First Plate Section

1. The Thomas family c. 1894

2. 61 Shelgate Road, London, SW11

3. Mary Elizabeth Thomas, 1896

4. Edward Thomas, 1898

5. Helen Berenice Noble and Edward Thomas

6. Edward Thomas, 1898

7. Helen Noble, 1898

8. The Lincoln College Torpids Crew, 1899

9. Edward Thomas in his rooms at Lincoln College, Oxford, 1899

10. Edward Thomas at Oxford, 1899

11. Helen Thomas and Merfyn, 1900

12. Edward Thomas and Merfyn at Ammanford, 1900

13. Thomas family, with Edward, Merfyn and grandmother, 1902/3

14. Helen Thomas with Merfyn, c.1902

15. Rose Acre Cottage, with Edward and Merfyn Thomas

16. Ivy Cottage, Bearsted

17. Elses Farm, The Weald, Kent

18. Edward Thomas, 1905

19. Henry Nevinson (© Alamy)

20. Edward Garnett

21. W.H. Hudson (© Alamy)

22. W.H. Davies (© Alamy)

23. Walter de la Mare (© Alamy)

24. Edward Thomas , Berryfield Cottage, 1907

25. Edward Thomas, 1907–8

26. Helen with Bronwen and Merfyn, Petersfield, 1907

27. Berryfield Cottage, Steep

28. Wick Green (Courtesy of Colin Thornton)

29. Myfanwy at Wick Green

30. 2 Yew Tree Cottages, Steep (Courtesy of Colin Thornton)

Second plate section

31. Clifford Bax (© Alamy)

32. (Helton) Godwin Baynes

33. Edward Thomas at Broughton Gifford

34. Edward Thomas at Calne, with the group staying at Broughton Gifford for Cricket Week

35. Eleanor Farjeon, 1913 (Courtesy of Anne Harvey)

36. Robert Frost, 1913

37. The Georgians: John Drinkwater, Wilfrid Gibson, Edward Marsh, Lascelles Abercrombie, Geraldine Gibson and Catherine Abercrombie, outside the Birmingham Repertory Theatre, May 1914 (Courtesy of Jeff Cooper)

38. Adlestrop Station Platform

39. Old Fields, the Thomases’ lodgings

40. Little Iddens, the Frosts’ lodgings (Courtesy of Ray Canham)

41. The Old Nailshop, the Gibsons’ house (Courtesy of Ray Canham)

42. Glyn Iddens, Eleanor Farjeon’s lodgings (Courtesy of Ray Canham)

43, 44 and 45. Edward Thomas, Steep, 1914

46. Helen Thomas, Steep, 1914

47. Hut 35

48. Edward Thomas on leave at Steep, 1916

49. Ralph Hodgson in Royal Artillery uniform, 1916/17

50. Signatures on the reverse of the group photograph of Hut 35, December 1915 (Courtesy of John Dimmock)

51. The Foundling Hospital, London, 1916

52. Edward Thomas with Gordon Bottomley on his last leave, late 1916

53. Edna Clarke Hall

54. Codford Camp

55. Edward Thomas’s grave at Agny, near Arras

56. Bronwen, Myfanwy and Merfyn Thomas, shortly after Merfyn enlisted in a Kentish regiment in early 1918

‘Sir, the biographical part of literature is what I love most. Give us as many anecdotes as you can.’

Dr Johnson

Line Drawing of Edward Thomas by his brother Ernest Henry Thomas, 1905, National Portrait Gallery, London.

INTRODUCTION

Astopped watch, a half-filled clay pipe and a pocket-diary with curiously creased pages were among the personal effects of Edward Thomas sent home to his distraught wife after his death at the Battle of Arras on 9 April 1917. From such sad memorials she drew what comfort she could, coming to believe that her husband’s body had remained unblemished and that the shell which killed him had done so simply by drawing the breath from his body. The true details of Thomas's death have remained obscured, generations of biographers repeating Helen Thomas's highly subjective version. I am now able to give the actual, very different facts here for the first time.

Thomas did not live to see the first edition of his poems, which were not published as a collection until after his death, but they have never since been out of print. For almost a century his work has attracted strong advocates and disciples, including some of the best-known names in modern poetry – Thomas Hardy, W. H. Auden, Dylan Thomas, Philip Larkin, Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney among them. (Hughes famously called him ‘the father of us all’.) He features on the First World War memorial plaque in Westminster Abbey, yet his status among the privileged few to appear there is still uncertain. His name is perhaps not currently as widely known as that of Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon or even Isaac Rosenberg.

Yet with the exception of Rosenberg and his fellow-Modernist David Jones, Thomas’s ‘distinctively modern sensibility’ (to use F. R. Leavis’s phrase),¹ is probably the one most in tune with our twenty-first-century outlook. As his great contemporary admirer Andrew Motion has pointed out, Thomas occupies a ‘crucial place in the development of twentieth-century poetry’,² forming something of a bridge or hinge between Georgian poets like Gordon Bottomley and Lascelles Abercrombie and fully fledged Modernists such as Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot, whom he anticipates. After a lifetime study of Thomas’s work and its context Edna Longley sees him as ‘situated on the cusp of history and on the brink of modern selfhood’,³ one of the half-dozen poets who ‘remade English poetry’ in the early twentieth century.⁴

A characteristic poem by Thomas, in contrast to the apparently more ‘composed’ work of the Georgians, gives the sense of a jotting down of random impressions and feelings, expressed in quiet, reflective speech. His exploration of such topics as memory, identity, disintegration, directionlessness and loss anticipate many of the themes of modern poetry. In addition, his verse is, as Longley also argues, ‘psychoanalytical before psychoanalytical criticism’, his ‘ecological vision’ a pioneer of ‘ecocriticism’ and his environmentalism prophetic of our own concerns.⁵ A poem like ‘Old Man’, for instance, which opens with a meditation on the herb of that name otherwise known as ‘lad’s love’, unfolds through the simple action of a child ‘pluck[ing] a feather from the door-side bush / Whenever she goes in or out of the house’ and the narrator wondering how much she will recall of the scene in later life. It is a deceptively artless start which enables the poet to arrive without apparent contrivance, yet with a sense of inevitability, at his regretful conclusion:

As for myself,

Where first I met the bitter scent is lost.

I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,

Sniff them and think and sniff again and try

Once more to think what it is I am remembering,

Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,

Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,

With no meaning, than this bitter one.

I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray

And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing;

Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait

For what I should, yet never can, remember:

No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush

Of Lad’s-love, or Old Man, no child beside,

Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate;

Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end.⁶

The elusiveness here, as Motion suggests, ‘is so scrupulously reflected in the disarmingly low-keyed tone of voice’⁷ that it is not difficult to see why Thomas has suffered some neglect. Yet the poem could have been written yesterday, so contemporary are its content, technique and what Philip Larkin has called Thomas’s ‘almost infinitely-qualified states of mind’.⁸

Thomas’s verse was, in fact, written between 1914 and 1917 and his most famous English contemporaries were all war poets. Here, too, he occupies a significant central position. Neither as jingoistic as Brooke, Julian Grenfell, or Sassoon before he experienced front-line conditions, nor as critical of the conflict as the later Sassoon or Owen, Thomas’s more measured approach most nearly resembles another relatively neglected war poet, Charles Hamilton Sorley. In both cases, and despite a considerable age difference, their attitude towards the war is remarkably mature and perceptive from the start. They also share a strong sense of the past and profound love of the countryside. In Thomas’s case this eco-historical sense leads him, in poems like ‘The Gallows’ and ‘The Combe’, for instance, to correlate the war with human violence to other species, a concept which again resonates with modern readers:

The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.

. . . But far more ancient and dark

The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,

Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,

That most ancient Briton of English beasts.⁹

There are those who would deny that Thomas is a war poet at all, including such respected critics of the genre as Bernard Bergonzi and John H. Johnston. Some prefer to include him in the ‘Georgian’ camp, or to label him a ‘Pastoral’, ‘Nature’ or a ‘Mystic’ poet.¹⁰ Even here there is no consensus. The belief that war poetry, to qualify as such, must deal only with actual fighting appears simplistic in view of Thomas’s powerful achievements in this area. Though none of his poems were written in France, all (save a few undergraduate dabblings) were composed after the outbreak of war, which tinges many and directly inspires not a few of them. The war is always hovering as a sinister, metaphorical background to the English countryside. An ostensibly pastoral poem like ‘Haymaking’, for instance, is no less a reflection of what Thomas himself called the ‘dark chaotic character’¹¹ of war than ‘This is no petty case of right or wrong’ or ‘In Memoriam (Easter 1915)’ which refers more openly to the war:

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood

This Eastertide call into mind the men,

Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should

Have gathered them and will do never again.¹²

For as Larkin wrote in a review of Wilfred Owen’s Collected Poems: ‘A war poet is not one who chooses to commemorate or celebrate a war, but one who reacts against having a war thrust upon him.’¹³ Robert Frost, who played a crucial role in Thomas’s turn from prose to poetry in late 1914, wrote to Edward Garnett after Thomas’s death: ‘His poetry is so very brave – so unconsciously brave. He didn’t think of it for a moment as war poetry, though that is what it is. It ought to be called [echoing Thomas’s ‘Now all roads lead to France’] Roads to France.’¹⁴ Despite being included in most Great War anthologies, however, there is truth in Longley’s claim that Thomas ‘eludes or disturbs the category war poet ’ as he does those of ‘Georgian’, ‘Pastoral’, ‘Nature’ or ‘Mystic’.¹⁵ (‘I ain’t a mystic,’ Thomas himself wrote to Bottomley.¹⁶) It may be that this problem in placing Thomas is another factor which has militated against his wider acceptance. An age of ever-growing interdisciplinary studies may now be more receptive to his versatility and wide range.

His life alone makes for absorbing reading: his marriage to Helen, the daughter of his first literary mentor, James Ashcroft Noble, while still at Oxford; his dependence on laudanum; his rejection of a safe Civil Service career and determination to make a living by writing; his friendships with many of the well-known magazine editors and writers of the Edwardian and early Georgian period – Edward Garnett, Rupert Brooke, Gordon Bottomley, Joseph Conrad, Lascelles Abercrombie, Hilaire Belloc, Wilfrid Gibson, Walter de la Mare and many others; his thoughts of suicide; his infatuation with a schoolgirl over a decade younger than himself and later a beautiful, but married woman; his meeting with Robert Frost in 1913 and subsequent shift from prose to poetry, even more unusual than Sassoon’s move in the other direction; his relationship with Eleanor Farjeon, who entered into a curious three-sided relationship with him and his wife; his decision to enlist in the army at the age of 37; and his death in France on 9 April 1917, the first day of the Battle of Arras. It is the stuff myths are made of and posterity has been quick to oblige. While making his name better known, however, this has threatened to obscure his worth as a writer.

The first and most enduring of these myths is that when Helen Noble’s pregnancy obliged Thomas to marry before even finishing his degree, he was then forced to support his wife and family by accepting any work available and that all his subsequent prose is ‘hackwork’. One admirer of his poetry, for instance, referred as recently as 2008 to Thomas ‘churning out’ prose.¹⁷ Yet Thomas’s critical biography of Richard Jefferies is a classic of the genre and still a standard work on the subject, his topographical and travel books, like The South Country, The Heart of England or In Pursuit of Spring anticipate by many years the experimental work of writers such as W. G. Sebald and his meditative essays and impressionistic fiction are still well worth rereading. In addition, his many reviews and articles frequently break new ground. (He was the first to recognize the genius of Walter de la Mare, W. H. Davies and Robert Frost, for example.) The beauty, subtlety and insight of his best prose are unsurpassed and in a significant number of cases have links with and a direct bearing on the poetry which followed. ‘Rain’, for instance, can stand on its own as a disturbing poem about solitude and death:

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain

On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me

Remembering again that I shall die

And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks

For washing me cleaner than I have been

Since I was born into this solitude.

Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:

But here I pray that none whom once I loved

Is dying tonight or lying still awake

Solitary, listening to the rain,

Either in pain or thus in sympathy

Helpless among the living and the dead,

Like a cold water among broken reeds,

Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,

Like me who have no love which this wild rain

Has not dissolved except the love of death,

If love it be towards what is perfect and

Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.¹⁸

Read in the context of Thomas’s life, which reveals that ‘Rain’ was written in army barracks in early 1916, the significance of the poem becomes clearer – ‘Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff’, for example, directing the reader’s imagination towards corpse-ridden battlefields in France. But looking at it in conjunction with his prose work The Icknield Way brings out an even greater depth to the poem.¹⁹

Another, related myth is that Thomas was grindingly poor, whereas his earnings between 1906 and 1912 were about the equivalent of a university professor’s. Admittedly Thomas’s income was not as secure as an academic’s and he probably had to work harder for it, but he did not live in penury; he could still afford to employ the household help denied to the really poverty-stricken. While this particular myth is less damaging to Thomas’s reputation as a writer, it nevertheless helps to perpetuate the rather distorted picture of a Grub Street hack painted by some biographers and critics.

Other aspects of the legend, such as the claim that Thomas was a true ‘Celt’ (whatever that may be), or that he found ‘serenity and fulfilment’ in the army,²⁰ are equally in need of re-examination, especially in light of the copious new material which has emerged since the last authoritative, full biography by R. George Thomas was published in 1985.

Perhaps the most serious distortion of the Thomas story concerns his character and here a new biography is urgently needed. The impression given by a significant number of those who have written on him is that he was almost permanently depressed. While it is true that he suffered from severe depression at times and had several nervous breakdowns, however, there is another side to him which needs to be brought out if he is to be fully understood. Otherwise his attraction for his contemporaries and his ability to form close friendships remains puzzling. Eleanor Farjeon, who fell deeply in love with him, warned one biographer: ‘Remember that when his moods weren’t on him like a sickness, when his nerves weren’t harassed by overwork and anxiety . . . he was among other things the best talker, the best thinker, the most humorous . . . His power of friendship was as great as his need of it.’²¹ She also warned that his was a ‘complicated nature – the Cretan labyrinth was not more tortuous – and though the thread is often knotted and ravelled, it is always true in fibre, twisted with nothing that is second-rate.’

The humour may have been sardonic at times but it was rarely in doubt. His clergyman friend, Jesse Berridge, noted that ‘his sense of the ridiculous often approached hysteria to my sober view and it was very catching’. Complaining to Bottomley in 1907 of being too busy with trivial work, Thomas concluded, for example: ‘Never mind; I am now, being just 29, insured against death, accident and disease – and shall get £500 if I lose both eyes or even both legs (but I am not sure about the legs).’²² As Richard Emeny notes, the standard picture of Thomas as ‘faun-like . . . a man so exquisitely sensitive that one could imagine him . . . modelling for the Death of Chatterton’ is seriously misleading; he was ‘in fact a very tough customer indeed – physically and mentally’.²³

The iconic studio photograph of Thomas which accentuates his handsome, refined face, brooding eyes, sensitive mouth and delicate yet powerful hands must bear some of the blame for this interpretation. Was it seeing this photograph that inspired Norman Douglas’s claim, for instance, that there was ‘something of the Byzantine angel; ethereal, refined, aloof’ about him and that what he lacked was ‘a little touch of bestiality’?²⁴

Helen Thomas’s two posthumous books on her husband, As It Was and World Without End, must also take some of the responsibility for the Thomas legend. Beautifully written and almost unbearably sad, they may nevertheless be as misleading as the photograph. In fairness to Helen, she never claimed that they were strictly autobiographical, using the fictional names Jenny and David for her main protagonists, as though to distance the material from her own married life. (Only in recent editions have they been renamed Helen and Edward.) She was prompted to write partly as therapy for her distraught condition following her husband’s death, and it is dangerous to take her books literally, as many critics have done. Though parallels with the Thomases’ life are many, recent evidence has shown that at least one of the central episodes – the idyllic honeymoon in ‘Dad’ Uzzell’s Wiltshire cottage – is not strictly true. Yet a 1978 reissue of Thomas’s Richard Jefferies claims that the picture of Uzzell’s original cottage on the dustjacket is where ‘Helen and Edward Thomas spent their honeymoon’.²⁵ This in itself is not necessarily serious but it does show that at least some of what Helen wrote is not to be taken as the literal truth. If, as I suspect, it was created from wish-fulfilment, then it suggests that her account is far from objective, for understandable reasons. It certainly warns the reader against interpreting the story literally, whether it concerns other events or the Edward-figure, ‘David’. The fact that generations of scholars have done so, often without corroborative evidence from a more reliable source, underlines the need for an up-to-date assessment.

Even those who suspected the accuracy of Helen’s account as autobiography felt understandably reluctant to question it while she and her children were alive. This was particularly true if they had received the family’s help and co-operation, as most biographers did, including Professor Thomas.

Now, over a quarter of a century after the publication of his Edward Thomas, a franker treatment of certain areas of his life is possible. The handling of his relationship with Helen, for example, suffered notably from such constraints. While it has always been clear that Helen remained deeply in love with him all her life, it has not always been possible to explore the full range of his feelings for her without risking offence. As the recent publication of an undergraduate poem from his letter to a close friend, Harry Hooton, in 1898 suggests, the true picture is more complex than the official version and implies that he was already questioning their relationship at this early stage.²⁶ Five years later, after the birth of two of their three children, he confided to his diary: ‘No-one knows how difficult I find it to live with Helen, though I admire her, like her, perhaps love her.’²⁷ And in 1904 he wrote to Helen herself: ‘If I could only love you and show my love as much as you deserve how happy would you (and I) be!’²⁸ A year later he told another close friend: ‘What I really ought to do is to live alone. But I can’t find the courage to do the many things necessary for taking that step. It is really kind H[elen] and the dear children who make life almost impossible.’²⁹ This was not a passing phase: a decade later in 1915 he wrote to Frost concerning the possibility of joining him in America: ‘There is no one to keep me here [in England] except my mother.’³⁰ Yet his final letters to Helen from France are signed ‘All and always yours’.

It is not prurience which calls for a franker examination of Edward and Helen’s relationship. Without a fuller understanding of Thomas’s complex character, it is impossible to appreciate his work completely. Given the considerable amount of new material which has come to light since 1985, the record needs to be brought up to date and, in a number of cases, adjusted.

Since there is no complete edition of Thomas’s letters, diaries, notebooks and prose writings, it has been necessary to go to original sources wherever possible. This has included spending a month at the Harry Ransom Center, University of Texas at Austin, studying not only the full collection of Thomas’s letters to Garnett, but also the countless letters to Garnett about Thomas after his death, letters from Thomas to Clifford Bax and other friends and following up references to Thomas in Bax’s personal diary. Material at Bryn Mawr in the Claud Lovat Fraser Collection has also yielded significant details about Thomas’s personality, as well as his relationship with Lovat Fraser’s close friend, Ralph Hodgson. Thomas’s letters to a fellow travel-writer, Norman Douglas, at Yale have helped illuminate Thomas’s important links with the English Review, as well as with Douglas himself. Walter de la Mare’s letters to Rowland Watson deposited in the Berg Collection of the New York Public Library earlier this century, though written after Thomas’s death mainly about raising money for a memorial to him, have provided new information. Even material already known has rewarded revisiting; Thomas’s 80 Field Notebooks in the Berg Collection, for example, have thrown new light on areas of Thomas’s personal life either previously unknown, or obscure. The earlier ones, as well as the later, have proved particularly helpful in understanding his poetry and placing it in context. Recent published material has also aided an understanding of Thomas; Robert MacFarlane’s The Old Ways (2012), in particular, has offered fresh insights into the importance of walking to Thomas and different ways of approaching his travel books.

New material has continued to emerge. As recently as 2006, when I had already started writing my biography, a scholar at the University of Virginia discovered an unpublished poem by Frost, ‘War Thoughts at Home’, which it seemed to me was written in response to news of Thomas’s death. Not one of Frost’s best, it is nevertheless of real interest, suggesting as it does that the influence between the two poets was by no means one way. Frost’s influence on Thomas has been well documented but this recently found poem indicates that Thomas also affected Frost. The scene appears to be an isolated house in the woods very like the one Helen and the children moved to at High Beech after Thomas enlisted. Birds play a prominent role in the poem, as they do in Thomas’s poems but less so in Frost’s. Glyn Maxwell claims that the first stanza, with its ‘alertness to the processes of sight and thought, defies imitation’,³¹ but its careful observation, low-keyed yet highly charged language, unobtrusive metaphor and easy movement are not unlike Thomas’s. And its concluding lines bring to mind Thomas’s own war poems, which so often fix on everyday objects – fallen leaves, broken reeds, rain, for instance − with symbolic overtones:

She draws down the winter shade

And it glows with an early lamp

On that old side of the house

The uneven sheds stretch back

Shed behind shed in train

Like cars [i.e. carriages] that long have lain

Dead on a side track.³²

At the very least, ‘War Thoughts at Home’ confirms the two men’s shared approach to poetry. It is not surprising, therefore, that the words which come closest to conveying Thomas’s essence as a writer come from his own review of Frost’s North of Boston. Describing this book as ‘the most revolutionary’ of modern times but ‘one of the quietest and least aggressive’, Thomas sums up Frost’s poetry in words which apply equally to his own: ‘It speaks and it is poetry.’³³

1

BEGINNINGS (1878–1880)

Edward Thomas’s sensibility strikes most readers as so modern that it comes as something of a shock to realize that he was born a Victorian, into an era of horse-drawn omnibuses, four-wheeled carriages, gas lighting, gin-palaces, crinolines and live-in servants for all but the poorest of families. There were as many as six to eight postal deliveries a day in London, but the telephone was virtually unheard of. In 1877, the year before Thomas’s birth, the Russo-Turkish War broke out and the University of London voted to admit women to degrees in medicine. In politics the Tories, under Disraeli, were in power, the Whigs (or Liberals), under Gladstone, in opposition, a situation which would cause Edward Thomas’s father, an ardent Liberal, to fight even harder for his party. Tennyson still reigned as Poet Laureate.

Origins fascinate most people, especially their own. They were of more than usual interest to Edward Thomas, who studied the past professionally, as a history scholar at Oxford, and, imaginatively, as the teller of Norse Tales, Celtic Stories and other works. He would draw up his own family tree at the age of 29. But his engagement with his past began much earlier, aged 5, with a visit to his parents’ native home of Wales. It was here he conceived a ‘passion for Wales’ which never left him. Inspired partly by his own ancestors and partly by the country’s colourful history his passion culminated, he recalled, in his singing of Thomas Moore’s ‘Minstrel Boy’ and his ‘harp’:

I knew only of Welsh harps [my italics]. I supposed the minstrel boy with his wild harp slung behind him was Welsh [i.e. rather than Irish as Moore intended] and as I sang the song I melted and trembled with a kind of gloomy pleasure in being about to die for Wales, Arthur’s and Llewelyn’s Wales, the ‘land of song’. While I shivered with exhaltation repeating his words:

Though each man else betrays thee

One sword at least thy rights shall guard,

One harp at least shall praise thee,

It might have been my harp and my sword.¹

Welsh scenery, too, inspired Edward as a child. Rivers like the Ebbw and the Usk, he remembered, ‘cut across my childhood with silver bars, and clouded it with their apple-flowers and their mountain-ash trees and ma[d]e it musical with the curlew’s despair and the sound of the blackbird singing in Eden still’.² Looking at a map of Britain at the age of 30 he could still write, with a proud roll-call of his family names and haunts: ‘the West calls, out of Wiltshire and out of Cornwall and Devon beyond, out of Monmouth and Glamorgan and Gower and Carmarthen, with a voice of dead Townsends, Eastaways, Thomases, Phillipses, Treharnes, Marendaz, sea men and mountain men’.³ His pride in his heritage emerges clearly: ‘Each man of us is as ancient and complicated, as lofty-spired and as deep-vaulted as cathedrals and castles of old.’⁴

Thomas’s own London birth on 3 March 1878, at 10 Upper Lansdowne Road, Lambeth, seemed to him an ‘accidentally Cockney nativity’.⁵ But it was one that shaped his life as surely as his Welsh ancestry; it is misleading to view him solely in terms of Wales, for he grew to love England, particularly its southern counties, just as keenly. Researching for The South Country made him realize how important it had become to him by 1908: ‘this country, though I am mainly Welsh, [is] a kind of home . . . These are the home counties. A man can hide away in them. The people are not hospitable, but the land is.’⁶ He would celebrate and try to capture ‘Englishness’ both in prose works like The Heart of England (1906), The Icknield Way (1913) and In Pursuit of Spring (1914) and in poems such as ‘Adelstrop’, ‘The Manor Farm’ and ‘Haymaking’. One of his most ambitious verses, ‘Lob’, written while he was compiling This England: An Anthology from Her Writers (1915), shows how precious ‘Englishness’ had become to him by the time war broke out in 1914 and how well he would convey it. After reading ‘Lob’, Robert Frost wrote to him: ‘I never saw anything like you for English.’⁷ And Walter de la Mare, on hearing of Thomas’s death in the First World War, would claim that ‘a mirror of England’ had been ‘shattered’.⁸

Thomas saw no contradiction in his dual allegiance. He seems to have shared the attitude of Mr Stodham in his semi-autobiographical novel, The Happy-Go-Lucky Morgans (1913), who asks: ‘Do you love the wilderness? Do you love Wales? If you do, you love what I understand by England. The more you love and know England the more deeply you can love the wilderness and Wales.’⁹

This love of England as well as Wales may have stemmed from his mother, with whom he identified more closely than with his father. For Mary Elizabeth Thomas had been born in Headingley, Yorkshire, and was partly English as well as Welsh. It is significant that when her son sketched in his family tree in 1907 he began, not only with his mother’s family, but with the English branch of it – the Townsends of Yorkshire origin. She and her family ‘proudly preserved’ the memory of her grandfather, Alderman William Townsend (1795–1877), and his descendants.¹⁰ One of Edward’s earliest memories was of visiting two daughters of Alderman Townsend with his mother on that first visit to Wales in 1883, his mother’s aunt Mary (Mrs Isaac Jacobs) in Swansea and her aunt Margaret at Caerleon, both carefully recorded in his autobiography and on his family tree.

He did not visit, however, the two great-aunts who brought up his mother and her sister after their mother died in 1858, when Mary Elizabeth was 4; it had been an unhappy experience for the girls, who had christened their aunt’s home, Hill House in Newport, ‘Hell House’. The great-aunts’ names are omitted from Edward’s family tree. His maternal grandfather (the girls’ father), however, is prominent, with a note in his grandson’s handwriting that, ‘though an English name’, Edward Thomas Townsend, if not born in Wales, had ‘long lived at Neath and Port Talbot’. He had ‘trained as a doctor’, but (in a prophetic reminder of Thomas’s own life) had ‘married very early and had to do what he could’. He took up a more lucrative job as an accountant and died, like his wife, when his eldest daughter (Edward’s mother) was only 4, her sister Margaret even younger.

It was a sad but romantic story made even more appealing to the highly imaginative young Edward Thomas by the fact that his maternal grandmother’s father had been a ‘Marendaz’, Marendaz’s own father (Thomas noted) ‘reputed a German’, but presumably Spanish or Portuguese.¹¹ There is little in Thomas’s description of his mother to suggest Mediterranean blood, however, either in looks or temperament. Her features were delicate and clear-cut, her hair a light golden-brown, her eyes blue; her temperament seems to have displayed none of the flamboyance associated with Spanish or Portuguese genes. Edward, who adored her, referred to her ‘uncertainty . . . her melancholy, unconfident way’.¹² ‘She is diffident and sad and not clever,’¹³ he would tell a close friend as an adult. Except in the last feature her eldest son resembled her. Even as a child he identified with her shy, introverted nature, and in other ways, too. His mother’s ‘straight nose and chin,’ he tells us, made a profile that ‘for years formed my standard’.¹⁴ His earliest memories were of her gentle presence and of her singing, a remembered bliss to him. His first notion of femaleness was the memory of her ‘not quite dressed, in white bodice and petticoat, her arms and shoulders rounded and creamy smooth’.¹⁵

Similarly, her role as a devoted mother and housewife, whose life revolved around her husband and six sons, seems to have become a model of what he would expect his own wife to be when he married. Her continual pregnancies throughout his childhood may well help explain his own reluctance to have children later on. At all points of crisis in his life thoughts of his mother would recur, whether he was contemplating suicide, considering leaving the country, or facing the possibility of death in France, when he would remember to make copies of his poems for her. As an adult his mother sometimes appears to take precedence over his wife. He believed himself to be her favourite son.

One of Mrs Thomas’s most important roles in Edward’s childhood was that of intermediary between him and his father, Philip Henry Thomas, an ‘eloquent, confident, black-haired, brown-eyed’ Welshman. The words are Edward’s, who saw his father as ‘all that my mother was not’.¹⁶ It is tempting to accept this neat dichotomy and argue that Edward, so like his mother in many ways, was also completely unlike his father. Edward wrote a poem to his father in 1916, so devastating that it remained unpublished until 1949, when it confirmed this as the popular view. It is certainly one which the poem itself encourages:

I may come near loving you

When you are dead

And there is nothing to do

And much to be said.

To repent that day will be

Impossible*

For you and vain for me

The truth to tell.

I shall be sorry for

Your impotence:

You can do and undo no more

When you go hence,

Cannot even forgive

The funeral.

But not so long as you live

Can I love you at all.

*In the first draft this line read ‘Far out of your reach’.

While it is worth noting that Edward addressed but did not send this poem to his father in his lifetime, there is no denying that it is a shocking statement and one which cannot be explained simply in terms of an Oedipus complex, whatever the charge of ‘impotence’ in stanza three suggests. There is no doubt that he appears to have been less proud altogether of his paternal ancestors, placing them second in his family tree in 1907 and devoting less space to them. As with his mother’s branch, he began with their most prominent English forebear, Captain Jack Eastaway, a sailor from Devon who settled in Glamorgan and one of whose daughters married a Thomas. Nevertheless, his father’s family was mainly Welsh, also less middle class overall than his mother’s – small farmers and railway workers. When Edward paid visits to his paternal grandmother, Rachel (née Phillips) Thomas, who had moved with her husband, Henry, to be near the Great Western Railway works at Swindon, he remembered her Welsh friends remarking ‘how well my father was doing, my grandfather who had long been dead having only been a [railway] fitter’.¹⁷ He would adopt his father’s family name of ‘Eastaway’ as a pseudonym less from pride in it than for its sound. Only one of the five explanatory notes on his family tree is devoted to his father’s branch. In addition (whether his own choice or not), though his first given name is ‘Philip’ after his father and his paternal grandmother’s maiden name, he was known by his second name, ‘Edward’ (nicknamed ‘Edwy’), echoing his mother’s father’s name, Edward Thomas Townsend.

This preference, if it was one, must not be exaggerated. After that first visit to his mother’s family at the age of 5, Edward was to enjoy many holidays with his father’s relatives, in particular with his grandmother, Rachel Thomas, at Swindon and his father’s cousin, T. Treharne Thomas and his family at Pontardulais, in South Wales. Yet there is no denying that Edward had a difficult relationship with his father, which the marked difference between them helps to explain. Beside the obvious physical contrast between the short, stocky, dark Welshman and his tall, slim, fair son, there were more important ones of temperament. Whereas Edward and his mother were introverts, given to melancholy and brooding, Philip Henry Thomas was a classic extrovert, certain of what he wanted from life and confident of achieving it. He failed completely to understand his eldest son’s uncertainty and lack of self-confidence. Rowland Watson, while collecting memories of Edward Thomas after his death, came across an anecdote about Philip Henry recalled by one of Edward’s friends: ‘Once, when staying with Edward, he said, I have never in my life done or said anything I am ashamed of. The son looked down at him and said, May God help you. ’¹⁸ Edward himself wrote of his father’s scorn when he gave up a school race in the one thing he excelled at, walking, not because he was losing or was exhausted, but because he ‘hated being pursued’ and could not stand the possibility of being beaten: ‘My father blamed me for cowardice, and for years after used to say to me at intervals: Ah well, it’s no use, I suppose. It’s just that mile race over again. Half-mile, said I.’¹⁹

Philip Henry never gave up his determination to better himself. This strength of character, combined with a powerful intellect, enabled him to rise from a humble background to become a teacher, learn three foreign languages and to pass the Home Civil Service Entrance Exam at Executive level with distinction. His plans for his equally clever, more privileged son, however, met with great resistance. A notable achiever himself, he was honestly puzzled by Edward’s lack of worldly ambition. His son’s sense of futility and failure may have been partly his father’s unintentional doing.

One aspect of Philip Henry’s extrovert nature, and another pronounced difference from his son, was his love of an audience. While Edward would be unable to consider a teaching career seriously, because of crippling shyness, Mr Thomas held forth with relish. His remarkable gift for public speaking was developed at the old Battersea Town Hall, known as the Battersea ‘Parliament’, which included such notable public figures as Stanley (later Lord) Buckmaster, John Burns and Horatio Bottomley. He also lectured on various subjects in many parts of the country and spoke every Sunday at Battersea Town Hall for the Ethical Society, becoming well known in Positivist circles, eventually occupying the pulpit at the Church of Humanity in Holborn.

For father and son differed in their interests as well as temperaments. Mr Thomas’s job at the Board of Trade debarred him from taking office with any political party during Edward’s childhood, but at his retirement in 1914 he would stand as Liberal Parliamentary candidate for South Battersea, whereas Edward rarely involved himself in politics throughout his life. A brief flirtation with politics at school was clearly motivated by an attempt to please his passionately committed father. Writing to tell his father, who was away on holiday, of his impressive exam results in French and grammar, he continues, ‘there is still unmarked an essay we had to write either on Bicycling or the General Election. Of course I did the General Election of 1892 was a great political crisis, – a struggle between privilege and reform. ’²⁰ Nor did he respond to the Positivism which had replaced his father’s more conventional Anglican and Methodist upbringing, and led him to become a Unitarian. Edward’s boredom at any kind of religious service – and these were generally Unitarian as a child – fills many pages of his autobiography and his resentment at his father for making him attend them is strongly expressed. He believed that ‘the radical and free-thinking influence of home’ had caused him to ‘neglect’ in his writing ‘the feeling that belonged to my own nature and my own times of life’.²¹ From a young age he turned to nature to satisfy his religious needs, another interest not shared by his father.

However, father and son did have some things in common and there is evidence to suggest that Edward was quite close to his father as a child. In the same letter to him reporting on the 1892 election, for instance, he tells his father about the pigeons he collected, implying a shared interest, and ends with the hope that he will be home in time to attend Edward’s Sports Day. Both father and son were intellectually more than able. And even though Edward made a good deal less effort to ‘improve’ himself than his father, he found school work no real challenge, in general, and frequently came top in exams. Like his father, he took easily to languages and would eventually read Latin, Greek and French fluently. They shared a love of words, the father reading to his son from an early age and publishing a book of his own, A Religion of This World. They both also loved music, in particular folk-song. Both were good with their hands, Edward in later life making some of his own furniture.

Ironically, it may have been one of their most marked similarities, their independence, which made relations between them so difficult at times. Perhaps, as Rowland Watson suggests, each in his own way was ‘self-centred, and neither had capacity to bridge the gulf’.²² Though Philip Henry Thomas’s stern moral outlook and expectations of a Victorian pattern of behaviour became increasingly unacceptable to his eldest son, Edward would show himself to share some of these values once he had children of his own.

Edward’s youngest brother, Julian, also subjected to his father’s inflexible standards, nevertheless believed that Edward was unfair to their father when he wrote: ‘nothing I ever heard at home attracted me to literature or the arts’.²³ Julian argued that:

To my father he owed more than he would ever admit, in especial the art of reading aloud, and through this the appreciation of poetry. One pleasant memory at least I have of the painful Sunday afternoons that he describes – my father’s reading aloud from Hiawatha, which began when he realized the failure of ‘improving’ literature to arouse any interest whatsoever in any of us. Only one more musical voice have I heard, and that was Edward’s own . . . He read in an almost unaccented monotone, slowly, clearly, so that not one word, not one shade of meaning was lost. Many years later he read aloud his first poem to me: and then, all too soon, that voice was stilled.²⁴

Beside reading and singing to Edward his father also helped him with his school-work; it was his interest, combined with ‘the pleasure of being top’, which made Edward ‘do such homework as [he] did’.²⁵ Philip Henry also tried to broaden his son’s education by sending him in his early teens to evening classes on botany, paying for special lessons in Latin and Greek and taking him to public lectures. ‘At Kelmscott house I heard Grant Allen recommending State endowment of literary genius,’ Edward recalled: ‘I saw William Morris and was pleased and awed.’²⁶

Though all six sons rebelled against his strict standards, Philip Henry Thomas genuinely wanted to instil worthy principles in them, reading them poems like Leigh Hunt’s ‘Abou Ben Adhem’, for instance, to ‘inspire a love of virtue’.²⁷ But he was not as harsh in this as Edward implied. When his eldest son, caught out in a wrongdoing, showed genuine remorse, even he was forced to admit how kind and forgiving his father could be.

Above all, Mr Thomas encouraged Edward when he started to write as a teenager, even helping him to refine his style. A later mentor, James Ashcroft Noble, responding to Edward’s early paper on Richard Jefferies, wrote: ‘I have not examined it carefully, sentence by sentence – indeed that has already been done by your good father.’²⁸ Whatever Mr Thomas’s shortcomings, there is no doubt that he wanted the best for his sons. In Edward’s case this would begin early and radically change the educational expectations that someone of his social standing may have had.

2

‘ALL BEING, DOING AND SUFFERING’ (1880–1888)

Edward Thomas’s description of his childhood gives little hint of what was to come. It reads like the experience of many other lower-middle-class boys of the period, rather than the formative years of someone who would emerge as one of the most subtle and sensitive writers of the twentieth century. The emphasis falls largely on outer not inner happenings. ‘I don’t know what I was,’ he writes later to a close friend of this period. ‘I only know what I did and, later on, sometimes what I thought.’¹

Up to the age of about 4 ‘a sweet darkness enfold[ed] his life with a faint blessing’.² One of his few memories from this period was ‘the voice of one singing as [he] sat or lay in her arms’, the songs (he afterwards worked out) of his mother, then of her younger sister Margaret.³ Music was already a significant element in Thomas’s life, though it was never to play a central role. When he started to plan his autobiography in 1913, ‘Music’ was the first item he noted in a list of only seven topics he wanted to cover.⁴

Unlike the tortured being he would become, one of his other memories of his infancy was of being ‘at peace with life’, wherever he was. Less surprisingly for someone who grew passionately close to nature, his sharpest sense of happiness at this time was ‘out of doors . . . ly[ing] in the tall grass and buttercups of a narrow field at the edge of London’.⁵ (This was almost certainly in his birthplace, Lambeth, still then on the fringes of London and the country.)

Many clearer memories followed after the age of 4. The setting was now Battersea. When Edward was nearly 2 and another child due, his hard-working and ambitious father had managed to move his family in 1880 from their South Lambeth lodgings to a house of their own at 2 Tremorvah Villas, 49 Wakehurst Road, where they were to remain until Edward was 9.⁶ The house itself was a modest, pale-brick semi-detached on two floors, situated in a rash of new terraces that had erupted along the edge of south London as the railway reached the area. Running parallel with Battersea Rise, Wakehurst Road was in two halves, climbing up opposite sides of a slight valley, along the bottom of which ran the main shopping centre, Northcote Road. The local school lay at the end of the street.

Wakehurst Road was, therefore, convenient in a number of ways, but its greatest advantage for Edward as a child was its proximity to Wandsworth Common, only minutes away. This allowed him and the younger brothers; who followed at two-year intervals during his nine years in the house, easy access to an area of relatively untamed nature. Even before they could walk the youngest children would have been taken there for an airing.

When it was too wet or too dark to be out of doors, 49 Wakehurst Road, despite its modest size, provided its own ‘playground’, in the form of a long passage which ran from the front to the back door. Here, when Edward had a brother old enough to run, they ‘raced up and down the passage,’ he recalled, ‘to be pounced upon by the servant out of a doorway and swallowed up in her arms with laughter’.⁷

It is hard to square this scene of carefree childish exuberance and adult affection with some of Thomas’s later descriptions of his family, in his autobiography, as ‘quiet’ and ‘stiff’.⁸ They were, he suggests, the opposite of ‘cheerful’, with little ‘ease and jollity’.⁹ There were ‘few visitors’, and ‘friends seldom came to the house’. His memories of Christmas are particularly bleak, the main impressions being ‘disappointment, chapel, a heavy dinner and crackers, some squabbling, comparison of our presents, tea . . . supper’.¹⁰ Yet his unflinching honesty, one of the virtues of his book, compels him to wonder, retrospectively, whether the fault lay partly in himself:

I think I had always an eager haste to unveil the mystery, always a flattering look of wonder which always sank dead like an extinguished torch into disgust with the imperfect thing. If it had only been something better or different. It mattered not how many or good were my presents: they fell below an indefinite imagined standard. If they were simply below last year’s it was worse.¹¹

The reflections of the 35-year-old Thomas looking back, this is one of the few indications of the restless, dissatisfied man he would become. The remainder of his account is full of the typical pleasures of childhood: of playing hide-and-seek, of ringing neighbours’ bells and running away, of asking for sweets in the shop with invented names, of breaking the greenhouse glass in a large, deserted garden nearby, of smoking illicit cigarettes from rolled brown paper. It was, as he told John Freeman, ‘all being, doing’ – and ‘suffering’ when his parents realized he had been smoking.

Some of these activities were undoubtedly carried out with his younger brothers in what, despite Thomas’s criticisms, must have been a lively household. Five, later six, growing boys could hardly have been less than a handful, the noise-level high. Edward was followed by Ernest, then Theodore, Reginald, Oscar and Julian, and, though he denied any close relationship with them later, all five of his younger brothers remembered childhood pursuits with him. Mrs Thomas was rarely without a servant to help, as well as a washerwoman who came every Monday from Lambeth and fascinated Edward with the mid-morning bread, cheese and beer she was given in their teetotal household. Though the ‘general domestics’ (as they were called) rarely stayed more than a year or two, he recalled most of these women, especially the younger ones, with evident affection – Eliza, Emily, Jane, Martha, Alice, Clara and so on. He was already appreciative of their femininity in that predominantly male household, their patience and kindness, their ‘sweet looks or presence’.¹² His father, brothers and schoolmasters are treated far less tenderly.

The only constant female presence in his family life, however, was his mother and, to a lesser extent, her sister, Margaret, when she came at regular intervals to help with the births of his five brothers. More lively and outgoing than his mother, she came to represent for him early on another appeal of the feminine, one which would complicate his life and change its direction as he grew up. For it was not just ‘the grace, smoothness and gentleness’ of his aunt Margaret’s voice which gave him pleasure: she also afforded him his ‘first conscious liking for the female body . . . at the sight of her sitting less than half dressed in a chair, her head bent and one foot on to which she was pulling the stocking lifted from the floor’.¹³

Margaret Townsend was the relative closest to Edward throughout his life. She had educated herself beyond her sister’s level to the standard required of a governess, an education which included wide reading in literature. She watched admiringly as Edward began to write and was proud to agree with a gentleman in her railway carriage who happened to be reading one of her nephew’s early nature essays and claimed that ‘he out-Jefferies Jefferies’.¹⁴ When she became a companion-secretary to a wealthy American lady who stayed in Oxford, she visited him several times there. After she left England in 1904 or 1905 to settle permanently on the west coast of America and became involved in Theosophical circles, they continued to communicate by letter for the rest of his life. His letters to her are full of details of his writing and of literature generally. Hers to him have not survived, but were evidently concerned partly with her search for religious truths. Though Edward did not always agree with her, her approach to life, so different from his pragmatic father’s, may (as R. George Thomas suggests) have given ‘approval to [his] sudden spurt of interest’ in later childhood ‘to the affective literature of Richard Jefferies and, even more, to the reading of poetry for its own sake’.¹⁵

More than a decade after Thomas left home he was to write a book called The Feminine Influence on the Poets (1910). He may have been thinking partly of his own early childhood, which was shaped by women. Apart from his mother and his aunt, the first school he attended, for instance, had a female head and he remembered only female teachers there. Since he entered the infants department in mid-1883 (under his baby nickname, ‘Edwy’) and was there until he moved up to junior school in April 1886, where the boys were separated from the girls, the first eight years of his life were dominated by women.

Belleville Road School was situated