This systematic, thoroughly researched biography of George Orwell’s first wife Eileen Blair has been overshadowed by Anna Funder’s more recent, subjective and at times dramatised account, “Wifedom”. The latter’s damming portrayal of Orwell, as an appallingly selfish man whose clumsy advances would nowadays trigger the wrath of the #MeToo Movement, induced me to turn to Sylvia Topp’s work for a second opinion.

It is true that Orwell pursued his interests with a single-minded obsession, whether it was to rush off to Spain to fight Franco’s fascist forces, or to lead an arduous life of self-sufficiency in a rundown cottage in an isolated village, rearing goats and selling eggs to make ends meet. He also seems to have made frequent passes at women,  apparently regarding fidelity in marriage as  unimportant, yet still deviously concealing an attempted fling with one of his wife’s so-called best friends. The fact that a fascination with young Arab girls prompted him to ask  Eileen for permission to visit a Moroccan brothel is particularly disturbing. He seems callous in his lack of concern over her ill health, but perhaps because he was frequently so unwell himself, he underestimated the risks of her final operation, leaving her to die alone while he went abroad. The empathy which prompted him to comfort a traumatised stranger he came across during the London blitz did not seem to extend to his wife.

Yet Sylvia Topp makes it repeatedly clear that Eileen willingly chose to devote her life to supporting Orwell for the decade of their marriage. This was despite being sufficiently ambitious to be very disappointed not to get a First at Oxford, and eventually finding an interest which could have given her a fulfilling, independent career – she was working on a Masters in the psychology of education when she met Orwell. She was conventional enough to think that, approaching thirty, “it was time” for her to get married. She also seemed to have a leaning towards achieving success vicariously through others, not only Orwell but also her high-flying brother Eric whose medical articles and books she typed and edited long before she took on the same role for Orwell.

By modern standards, Eileen was not a feminist. Yet since Oxford University only started awarding women degrees in 1920, four years before she began to study there, while women only gained the right to vote in 1918, and then had to wait a decade to have the voting age reduced from 30 to 21, she possibly felt that this was sufficient clear evidence of advances in achieving equality. She was clearly not a victim but prepared to speak out,  and show initiative when she really wanted to do so.  Admittedly, Orwell’s frequent bouts of illness as his TB developed cramped her style, but she seems to have been an innately kind person who could not have done otherwise than care for him. 

The couple somehow found time for a very active social life, entertaining friends in their often uncomfortable homes, and there is a pattern in their guests’ comments on Eileen: energetic, lively and attractive. She had no shortage of admirers: while Orwell was fighting in Catalonia, she had an enjoyable social life in Barcelona, forming a close relationship with a man called George Kopp, who may have wanted to marry her. Yet when Orwell was shot, she helped to ensure he received the best possible treatment, and later saved him from arrest as a suspected communist, by contriving to give him advance warning.

With her belief in Orwell’s talent, Eileen seems to have enjoyed being closely involved in his creative writing.  There is evidence that her feedback led to a marked improvement in his style, which colleagues noticed without identifying the reason.  The couple were intellectually very compatible, able to discuss issues on equal terms, and Orwell valued her opinion and trusted her enough to tell his publishers to deal with her, and accept her decisions in his frequent absences. There is even a suggestion that aspects of “1984”, an certainly the title of the classic, were derived from a poem which she wrote before even meeting Orwell: “End of the Century, 1984”.

The couple were also bound by a rejection of materialism, concern for social justice, and perhaps a sense of there being some virtue in a life of struggle, although Sylvia Topp notes tartly how they frequently took advantage of the good will and home comforts of wealthier relatives.  Ironically, by the time of Eileen’s tragically early death, Orwell’s writing was beginning to bring in a good income, although he too only lived for a further five years.  They paid a high price for a shared addiction to strong black tobacco.

Despite a tendency to be overdetailed and to speculate too long over minor points, to the extent that in order to get “hooked” quickly, it might be advisable to skim-read the first three chapters, and later through Eileen’s final employment at the BBC, this biography proves in the main very absorbing and revealing, not only about Eileen and Orwell, but also the times in which they lived.