To the Letter

by Simon Garfield

  Woolf died at what may be regarded as the very lowest point of the war for Britain, and many of the condolences are tinged with a general mood of despair. They vary a great deal in length and the large variety of stationery, some of it distinctly ragged (particularly that from the general public), again show the effects of the war. The letters from fans are perhaps the most moving, coloured with trepidation for intruding upon private grief but overwhelmed by gratitude towards Woolf and her work. One of these, from Isabel Prentice, was written from Montreal on Easter Sunday:

  Dear Mr Woolf,

  From all over the world where English is read, you will be receiving letters such as this. So many will come, that they will probably be a trial to you. And yet, people like myself must be allowed to send you some small comfort for your great personal loss.

  We have all lost so much in the disappearance of a lovely person like Virginia Woolf. There must be many like myself who have read her books since schoolgirl days and who regarded them as personal treasures. We still have the beauty and the sensitive personality expressed in her writing, to turn to again and again, but how sad to know that there will be no more.

  A letter like this, from a complete stranger intruding on your grief should be apologetic; and I have hesitated long before writing. If I didn’t feel so torn with anxiety about England, and so constantly wishing to help all English people who are suffering so today, I should not be writing. It has seemed to me that a brief message to say that others are sad and share in your grief might be welcome now.

  Please do not answer this, but accept for what small comfort it may bring.

  I was in England last Spring at this time and regret very much that I am not there now to share the trials you are all so bravely enduring. Many of us have no wish to survive in a world where there is no free England and would be only too glad to be there to help.

  Very sincerely yours

  Isabel Prentice (Mrs Norman A Prentice)

  Some of the letters were angry, not least at the negative connotations attached to Woolf’s suicide following a misquote in the Sunday Times of one of her suicide notes, which suggested that Woolf killed herself on account of her inability to cope with pressures of the war rather than her own depression, that she was a defeatist rather than a depressive.*

  ‘A weak and inadequate thing’: The Woolf condolence letters become an archive at the University of Sussex.

  Other letters, including one from P.H. Wallis of Hampstead, London, said that they would not have dared to have written were it not for the fact that Woolf had once composed such a generous letter to them, ‘that I treasure to this day’. On 5 April, John Farrelly Jr. wrote from Allerton, Missouri.

  My dear Mr Woolf

  I was shocked and saddened by the news of your wife’s death. For two days I have been stunned and sick at the thought. You may question this from a person who knew absolutely [nothing] of Mrs Woolf’s private life, who had never even met her. But I think that anyone who has known her books feels the same. Through all her writing runs the thread of a lovely and lovable person, so that one naturally felt a personal affection for Mrs Woolf herself. And we knew her at her very best.

  I know that so many felt this from the way many of my friends speak. Hers is not just the death of a public figure for them. [St Louis] Post Dispatch (our main newspaper – and a hard-boiled political sheet, at that) ran a sympathetic and admiring editorial about her last night. And my English professor (I am a freshman at college) devoted yesterday’s class to an enthusiastic lecture on her. They all felt a deep personal loss.

  So if it is any consolation to you to know that so many everywhere share your sorrow, draw upon that consolation.

  I wrote a letter to Mrs Woolf last fall which she answered. I mailed another one from St Louis about January 15. I wonder if she ever received it. Sympathy is a weak and inadequate thing – particularly from a stranger, but one needs to do or say something – yet is left gaping. I know that I feel much that words would only falsify and make clumsy and ridiculous. In a sense, I write this for myself. Not only for you am I grieved, but with you.

  Sincerely yours,

  John Farrelly Jr.*

  And how did those closest to her respond? On 31 March, Vita Sackville-West wrote to Leonard three days after his letter to her reporting her disappearance.

  My dear Leonard

  I have no words of grief. Your letter stunned me, and at present I can only think of you, with feelings I will not attempt to express. The loveliest mind and spirit I ever knew, immortal both to the world and us who loved her. It was so utterly unexpected as I did not know she had been ill lately and had had a letter from her only about a fortnight ago.

  I do not like to send you a telegram as you may be trying to keep it private for the moment, but you will know that that was my only reason.

  This is not really a hard letter to write as you will know something of what I feel and words are unnecessary. For you I feel a really overwhelming sorrow, and for myself a loss which can never diminish.

  Vita

  I am more touched than I can say by your having written to me.

  And on 7 April 1941, with Woolf’s body still undiscovered, Sackville-West also wrote to Woolf’s friend Ethel Smyth. ‘Darling Ethel I wish I could say something comforting. All I can feel is that it is better for her to be dead than mad, and I do thank God that she has not been found. The river is tidal so she has probably been carried out to sea. She loved the sea.’

  Greece and London, Liberation and Capture

  The following letter was written two weeks after the Germans withdrew from their occupation of Greece. Chris and Bert Barker had sailed towards Athens in the same homecoming fleet as the Allied Forces leader General Scobie and Greek prime minister George Papandreou.

  27th October 1944

  My Dear Bessie,

  Athens is a city on holiday, a people celebrating after years of suffering, a great communal smile; laughter, happiness, joy, jubilation everywhere. It would do jaded Londoners good to see what I, treading on the heels of the Germans, have seen. It would do them good to have the Athenian welcome as I have had it.

  Imagine travelling with half a dozen other chaps in a truck, running through banner-bedecked festooned streets hung with bright coloured declarations of welcome and praise for England, being cheered and applauded, loud and long, by single individuals or groups of people, as we rushed along. Imagine everyone sitting outside a cafe getting to their feet and clapping. Imagine that happening at a hundred cafes. Turn a city into a stage, make the British Army the players and hear us warm to the genuine joyous proud applause of the appreciative audience. Imagine every house flying flags, sometimes only the Greek, but generally our own, the U.S., and the Red Flag. Imagine every wall painted with well-meant slogans and salutations, many in English (some pidgin English!) and many in Greek: ‘Welcome Our Liberators’ – ‘Greetings Allies’ – ‘Good Luck to our Greit Allies’ – ‘Hip [Hooray] for the British Army’ – ‘Welcome Heroic English’ – ‘EAM-ELAS Welcomes You’. Great signs, little signs, printed posters, chalked or painted walls. Bright posters, streamers, banners carried by processions, signs flung across streets (dangerously low in some cases, one chap in my truck was hit on the head, and had three stitches in it). Imagine having flowers thrown into the truck. That is our luck as we make our way through the beautiful avenues and squares, the first non-goosesteppers since 1941.

  Don’t get thinking that these announcements about home leave are of any earthly use to you and I, by the way. The statement about 6,000 men a month is just useless to all but a very few of the men. It is window-dressing. I am afraid that we must reconcile ourselves to at least another year apart, and probably two. It is pretty bad, but thank the Lord there are letters to give visible evidence of belief and interest in one another. You must always remember that I am interested in you, vitally in
terested, wholly, completely conscious of you, and how you and I are one, no matter where we are.

  How can I tell you I want to implant myself; how my lips need to meet your flesh everywhere, to kiss your hair, your ears, your lips, to kiss your breasts; to kiss you, to put my face between your legs, in homage, in love, in obedience – and because I must. You are my aim in life, you are my goodness, and I must and will claim you, claim you for ever. I want to run my hands on, over, around the vital, vibrant spot. I want to warm my hands by being there. I want to warm you, inflame you, too. It is a wonderful thought to think that one day I may really touch wondrous, lovely you.

  I love you.

  Chris

  The socialist-led anti-Nazi resistance movement EAM, and its military wing ELAS, had won control of most of Greece, apart from the large cities. This led to civil war between EAM and the right-wing, royalist EDES party. Churchill was alarmed at the prospect of communist rule, and with the return of George Papandreou and the British forces, confrontation with EAM seemed inevitable. After 15 communist protesters were shot dead, fighting broke out between ELAS and the British on 3rd December. Chris Barker would soon be involved.

  5th December 1944

  Dearest,

  I expect the news of Greece has by now nicely alarmed you, and that you are not without concern for me. I hope you will take this as a token of my continued safety and welfare. I am enduring no hardship or privation, and am subject to very little inconvenience. Later on I shall doubtless be able to tell you something about the present happenings, but for the present you must put 2 and 2 together and – if you are wise – not be too sure that the answer is 4. I listen to the wireless news from London with great interest, and find much food for thought in this whole proceeding. A flickering oil lamp illuminates this page as I write now, for it is night, but when I wrote before, there was a smoke pall over the city and I could hear the ‘PUFF-BOOM, BOOM-PUFF’ of the guns. I

  should very much like to tell you what I think and know, but this is not possible with me a soldier. Perhaps you will feel aggrieved and misled that I did not tell you this was liable to take place. I could not have done so without breaking the regulations, and in any case, I did not think it would be so soon.

  I

  t is true that some of our rations are going to the Greeks. I hope it is going to the many poor and not the few rich. I went round the market in town the other day, saw some lovely fish on sale – octopus! I didn’t like the look of them at all but they are said to be very nice to taste. There is no coal here for domestic consumption. Wood is the only agent, and the use of charcoal is usual.

  I saw ‘Citizen Kane’ and thought it remarkable, extraordinary, puzzling, different. A far better film than 90 out of a hundred others, and one certainly possessing qualities that none of the others I have seen had got. Welles may be mad. But he is not Hollywood mad.

  Regarding your cookery programme. I have no doubt you’ll be alright. I reckon I’d be alright myself after the slight Army training in independence that I have had. It could be a fair idea to buy a cookery book if you feel you need one, and I should get a secondhand one for preference. But you should certainly be doing some cooking now. I know that if I was back home I should want to ‘have a go’ at things, although probably only while the novelty lasted.

  I love you.

  Chris

  27 WOOLACOMBE RD, LONDON SE3

  6th December 1944

  Dearest,

  So very worried about what is happening in Greece. On the news tonight it spoke of it spreading and seems to have become a battle, my worst suspicions of what the British Army went to Greece for are fulfilled. I don’t know how this is affecting you and whether the ordinary people are involved. Of course you won’t be able to tell me much, I can only just hope for your safety. Your safety – oh! Darling! The trouble seems to be centred in Athens, and you spoke of visiting it, so I presume you aren’t billeted there. We should have them to settle their own troubles, we will regain the name of perfidious Albion again before this war is through.

  All but 16 of Bessie’s letters to Chris Barker have perished. Many were burnt by Chris as he moved billets to save them from prying eyes. Others were burnt after the war at Bessie’s request. This is the first letter to have survived.

  Darling, I have no complaints about your letters, I am too happy that it is my body that you want, that occupies your thoughts. If you didn’t write and tell me these things, I should suspect you of being interested in somebody else’s body; you keep concentrating on mine, my breasts, my vital vibrant spot, my hands and my desires.

  Well, I am glad you have 4 blankets to keep you warm – if I was there you wouldn’t want any, you’d be hot enough. Here am I, a blooming iceberg of a maiden waiting to be roused into a fire, not just melted but changed into a fire, and there are you, miles and miles away, needing an extra blanket.

  During this last month I have reached rock bottom, I now feel something like a convalescent – no longer need a nurse, Christopher, I need the whole vital man in you, your strength, your energy, when, when, when will you make me a whole woman, when will I be one with this frustration, when? Stunted growth, that’s what I am suffering from! My body is stunted, my affections are stunted, even my blooming mind suffers from this incompleteness. I want to be your mistress, to be used to the uttermost, I want to fuss you, look after you, I want to be your companion in arms – away with depressions, fed upness, waiting. Angel, I want to feel human, I am so sick of being a cold, haughty virgin. Crikey, talk about untapped resources. Did I have to find the man of my life in the middle of a blooming desert, who then goes on a Cook’s tour and then gets himself into a hot spot of trouble – oh! Christopher, I do hope you’ll be alright.

  ‘My apprenticeship’ – books, books, books, I am sick of those too; I want to live, live with you, oh! Why couldn’t you have come home instead of going to Greece, why can’t I come out to Greece, so that I could stand in the way of any stray bullets.

  Write poetry to me Chris? You have already written poetry to me, music as well, I doubt whether you could surpass it, it isn’t easy to express these things in words, but you have done it, you have moved me, right down, down to the foundations, you have accomplished what I shouldn’t have thought was possible, you have opened a vision of a new world, a new experience for me, I cannot help but be so very very grateful to you. With that in front of me, I can overcome my black moods and rise up again and know that this life is worth the living.

  Pancakes, yes we had your lemons with them, that was why I made them. I rather think your lemons helped to get rid of my cold, maybe your letters as well. All those things help, you know, the lemons on the practical side, and the letters on the mental side.

  Thank you for the sultanas which are on the way, I do feel considered, my thoughtful lover, such a nice sensation. You don’t know what a relief it is to have a pair of slippers, I have been wearing my shoes in the house, it was wretched not having anything to slip my feet in, you know, for when you get out of bed, after a bath, for evenings.

  I had to giggle about my ‘bravery’ in bombed London. I live here, work here, and there isn’t anything else to do but live here and work here, and like most things up to a point, you get used to it. It’s one’s low resources that one has to be brave about, all one’s usual aches and pains get you down easily, any extra effort tires you out, but as we are all in the same boat, that isn’t so bad as it sounds, it’s communal you know, makes a difference, besides the battle fronts sound so much worse, I concentrate on that when I feel pathetic. I shall be concentrating on Greece, can’t help it, the situation sounds so much worse, the news tonight says civil war. Darling I love you, love you, so very much.

  Bessie

  27 WOOLACOMBE RD, LONDON SE3

  8th December 1944

  My Darling,

  The stop press of tonight’s eveni
ng paper says it is quieter in Athens today. It is horribly difficult for us to get at the truth.

  The weather sounds lovely there, whereas here, well –! It tried to snow today, horribly cold. I don’t know whether I told you that I bought a pair of lined boots (getting all prepared for the worst), I wore them yesterday and it wasn’t necessary, and didn’t today when it was. What is a girl to do in this climate, had cold feet all day, very breezy these luxury flats – we have such a palatial entrance hall and carpeted stairs, but inside the flat, it’s bare boards, the lavatory is always going wrong, and the water in the bowl won’t run away – luxury? Our trouble now is that we have heard that our British Restaurant is being taken over by the War office, so that will mean 2/6 lunches, without any improvement on the B.R. I brightly asked one of the WVS women if it was true, and if so were they opening anywhere else – yes it was true, and there were plenty of places for us to go to, and anyway the B.R. wasn’t meant for us in the first place, it was for bombed-outs.

  Xmas is a family time, children’s time, I expect you will enjoy yourself in Greece with your friends’ families, anyway I hope you will be able to. Am just listening to the 9 o’clock news and it’s most disheartening, it says it’s spreading not slackening. Oh! Dear! Christopher! I really can’t think of anything else, Darling, I do really want to be cheerful, but it’s so blooming difficult, Xmas! And you out there. I love you, I love you, I love you, and my heart is aching, it is so lonely and desolate without you. My mind keeps going into such flights of fancy on how to get to you, from stowing away on a ship, to applying to the war office, so blooming silly, but it does get so bad sometimes.

  I went to see ‘The Circle’, John Gielgud’s production, a play by Somerset Maugham, didn’t think much of it, so was glad you couldn’t come. Lil Hale wasn’t very impressed either and she is rather keen on Gielgud’s acting, to me he seemed such a milk and water specimen, no fire, no life in him, just a beautiful voice, too too cultured. I think I have got a bit choosy over the theatre, have seen some really fine plays during the war, my standard has got a bit high.