In 1939,George Orwell (real name Eric Blair) considered the literary merits and moral shortcomings of Charles Dickens. It was irrelevant,he insisted,that Dickens was an abominable shit of a husband. “A writer’s literary personality has little or nothing to do with his private character,” Orwell wrote. Other critics disagreed. The debate persists,and we still read Dickens. We can also read about his wife,Catherine Hogarth,and the writing life she led (and enabled). Our literary worldview is all the richer for it.
Orwell,it turns out,was also an abominable shit of a husband. Anna Funder’s new book,Wifedom,tells the story of his first marriage. Funder comes to the page,like Orwell did with Dickens,from a position of deep admiration (“Orwell’s work is precious to me. I didn’t want to take it,or him,down in any way”).
But she cannot ignore the wilful silences,both in the story the writer cultivated in his lifetime,and the one his male biographers have so carefully manufactured. When those silences are mapped,Orwell’s wife,Eileen Blair (nee O’Shaughnessy),emerges in silhouette – visible in her invisibility. “The ways the text buckles and strains to avoid her is the way I can see the shape she left,” Funder writes.
Wifedom sets out to reverse the “patriarchal magic trick” that made Eileen disappear. And in doing so,Funder hopes to reverse the trickery in her own life. “If my three children – two teens and a tween – were going to emerge from childhood and see me for what I am,I would have to become visible to myself.”
But Funder does not become visible – at least not to us – she slips inside Eileen. In 2005,a sheaf of letters was discovered from Eileen to her best friend,spanning the period of the Orwells’ marriage (1936-1945,ending with her death at the age of 39). It was a little archival miracle. These letters – wry,scabrous and revealing – form the backbone ofWifedom. Funder embroiders around and through them to conjure the woman behind the pen – a kind of psychological ventriloquism,a “counterfiction”.