Faced with Ralph’s emotional blackmail, Carrington gave in. Her correspondence with Gerald was increasingly an outlet and a comfort.
To Gerald Brenan
The Mill House
30 September 1920
My Dearest Gerald,
I have not written to you for a long time. Yet it is not because I have not felt affectionate, on the contrary your letter accusing us of treachery threw me into a great state.
Often when the sun glimmers out for a few moments & I am reminded of your real sunny land I say I must leave this vile misty bleak place […] and when visions of your roof, & the many coloured mountains, & those poplar groves come up before me, I feel I can’t bear the flatness & greenery of England a second longer […] Often I feel the only thing is to lead your simple life in that most exquisite country. Yet you see I do not move – I suppose partly because I am too female, & partly because my affections are so involved. Now R. P. has taken a job in the Woolf Printing Press, & become Leonard Woolf’s secretary so he can’t leave England. And I have committed myself to living with him at 41 Gordon Square this winter, as a sort of trial to see how we get on together. I feel it’s only fair to him after I have made him so unhappy up till now. Fundamentally I can’t believe I shall ever settle down, & be domestic, & responsible. The whole reason why I have lived so peaceably here with Lytton is that he never controls me, in fact he takes no interest in my movements, & never intrudes into my life […] I loved the mountains, & the wild valleys in Westmoreland but I hated violently the rich Liverpool un-intellectuals with their dull tepid minds. But I’ve been on several expeditions since Westmoreland – one week-end to the Woolfs at Rodmell on the Newhaven & Lewes Downs – with R. P. – Virginia is a most extraordinary woman, touched with madness but so full charm and wit. I am very glad R. P. is going to work with them. It would have ruined him to have entered an enterprising business, & made money. And Leonard is very much connected with international politics, & yet they lead a most simple life at Richmond in a house full of Books, & printing presses. Eventually R. P. will control the printing Press, & if it’s a success perhaps run a book shop for them in London also to sell the copies […] I work very hard now, Gerald. I think one loses all respect for oneself unless one does paint seriously.fn117 Lytton is busy writing Victoria every day. I think it’s better than his last book. R. P. comes down for weekends, & splits the wood, & saws it, with a naked torso. It was a wonderful vision to watch his huge marble body, with the great muscles swinging the hammer in rhythm yesterday in the garden. He is quite happy again now. I feel so often sorry Gerald that we weren’t at our best for our visit to you. That you should have seen the worser side of all our characters … Promise you will write to me very soon. The flat R. P. has taken in London belongs to James Strachey (& my friend Alix Florence who he has lately married. They are now in Vienna. He is studying under the great Freud.) It has one of the best librarys, over six thousand books. R. P. now leads a very proper life reading the Russians until the Woolfs return from Sussex and start work. I shall have a studio in one of the rooms & paint there this winter, when I leave Tidmarsh. What a stupid disconnected letter this is. But you won’t mind because it carries so much love with it to you. Now write at once to me in great detail all your doings. My love to your good Maria. I would like a poem from you also.
Yr Carrington
To Gerald Brenan
The Mill House
6 October 1920
Amigo Gerald,
Do you know I just wrote to you & posted the letter, when lo, the socialist postman who wears a green tie at funerals, & doesn’t believe in a God, rang the door bell, & gave me the best of letters possible to receive, with a post mark from Spain. I wanted to sit down & write at once. But then after all I had nothing to sit down & write because I had just written, only I was so extreemly (as Queen Victoria would underline) delighted with your letter. Do you know I just whisper this praise for it is for you alone, Lytton said after he had read your letters ‘He certainly has a talent for writing. What good letters … He certainly will be a writer.’ There. Now you mustn’t be too puffed up. For really it’s the very highest praise possible […]
I must protest in being coupled with Ralph. That’s the danger when people appear together, & talk with the same mannerisms … But it is not true … I am not frank. It is often a burden to me my deceit. Like you I had an awful childhood, and honestly when I escaped & came to London at the age of 17 I couldn’t speak the truth if I wanted to, I had acquired such an art of self protection, and even to Ralph I find I never can give myself completely away. But these people with whom I live, Lytton, I mean, Alix, and Lytton’s brother, & their friends all assume a frankess of conversation which (as you were at our conversation) appalled me at first. Then afterwards I saw it was a kind of technique, and behind it all there was a great reserve. I think I’ve caught rather these habits of conversation, but I never feel I give anyone except perhaps Alix my complete frankness. Do you know I have one character with Lytton, with one set of reserves for him, and another with Ralph, & then another with the general world. I think Ralph is really a frank person. I fear I must now conclude that I undoubtly come under ‘the nondescript’ heading ‘without intellectual or moral capacity to be either’ which isn’t flattering, but probably the most truthful remark I’ve yet made in this letter.
I wrote to you about a week ago. What has happened since? Very little except I’ve been lain low with a most vile cold, which I caught from that wretch Lytton. Last weekend, Marjorie Strachey came, Lytton’s younger sister, and Ralph. Marjorie is a most interesting person, like one of those violent student females that suddenly appear in [a] Tcheckov story. She has a curious witch like appearance, & makes sudden violent movements which start one out of one’s skin with terror. She imitates everything she speaks about with gestures. Once at tea she imitated an angry hen & I was terrified. Her knowledge is immense, on every subject, and her views always extreme, & violent […] She attacks Lytton, and refuses to be whimsical to his whims. Yet she is very amusing, full of stinging wit, and with so much conversation, & good bawdy jokes. Her profession is that of an educationalist & she teaches female children in Debenham & Freebodys continuation school. She also writes stories, translations of folk love stories, which I didn’t quite see the point of. Ralph was very charming and sat for a portrait. I am painting very hard now. My complaint is, that I so easily get despondent, & dislike my picture, and then abandon it without finishing it.
Lytton is insisting this month, on penalty of a great breach of affection, that I must send a picture to the London Group Show, so I suppose I shall have to. But the mere thought of seeing my half hatched efforts displayed in public almost makes me sick, & suicidal. But I shall not see them, even if they are accepted. For I shall never go. I am dear Gerald going to do you a Book Plate for a Xmas present. So tell me what device you would like. I shall do a wood cut with your name underneath it and an inscription in Spanish if you like to say that you are willing, or not willing, as the case may be to lend your books. But you must tell me soon, or otherwise it will not be done by the anniversary of our Lord’s death […]
Always write here, as I am rather vague about when I shall take up my abode in London. I hope so much you will soon be well again. Give Maria my love. And write me another letter immediately.
Yr loving Carrington
To Lytton Strachey
41 Gordon Square, London W. C. 1
12 October 1920
My Dearest Lytton,
The young men have just taken them off to Heals!fn118 There. Now give me a kiss & tell me I am a good girl. I could not write yesterday. I was so busy painting smudges, and making new smudges, which the journey up had made on the wet portions of the pictures. Vanessa yesterday rather disappointed me, she was so vague, and didn’t seem to know anything about the prices, or even which of the three I should send, or if I could send three. But she came in this morning, and was much more awake, &
helpful & suggested sending all three, and seeing what happened, and brought an introduction for me to send with them. She told me £15 for the big mill picture and £10 for the others. So I put £30 on the mill, as you said that, and £10 & £15 on the other two, which I thought would be alright either way. It’s a great mercy to have them shipped off, and to have been so brave. Bless you dear, for spurring me on. You know I was so grateful, & I didn’t mean to be tiresome. Mark and Brett are not sending. I went up yesterday at 6.30 & spent the evening there. Mark looked dreadfully white and worn, but was completely cheerful and very amusing, talking the entire time, until we left at 9.30. Kot [Koteliansky] was there when we arrived. He seems very sensible, and capable. Brett hopelessly vague of course, and talking about her tennis with Murry most of the time. As Mark says she seems to find her sexual outlet playing with tennis balls with Murry, instead of Murry’s balls. But I’ll tell you all about Mark when I see you tomorrow […]
Having agreed to live with Ralph in London during the week, Carrington found the separation from Lytton hard to bear. Ralph’s efforts to make her happy only made her feel guilty and miserable and his constant presence brought out her devious side.
To Lytton Strachey
41 Gordon Square
25 October 1920
My Dearest Lytton,
I feel dreadfully depressed now, installed high up in this gloomy grey Square. The beauty of that walk made me long to be in the country again. To sit on the edge of the river and paint those barns against the red stained woods. But all these thoughts are backsliding – and Bull of Bashanish. I love the smell of fallen poplar leaves and the loveliness of the coloured trees and Tidmarsh so passionately: I can’t write what I feel, because I cannot trust you to tear up my letters, and Ralph will read them. Will you burn this one? I won’t write another one ever again like it. Perhaps you thought I didn’t care leaving you this morning, and when you told me you were depressed last week and had not written Victoria, that I did not mind. Oh God. You said the middle of the week would go so quickly, but the weekends, they go quicker far. And I saw so little of you … Yet I must try honestly to forget now that I have given my promise to stay here with him. Perhaps in a few weeks I will either numb some senses or realize I cannot bear it. He is so good to me. He tries to make me happy. But I have to hide my pain, which makes it harder. For I do miss you so frightfully. Promise this, dear, to me, if you feel it matters to you, my being away, if you feel ill, and worried to write and tell me […] I shall not tell you this again, because if he knew it would only make him wretched so please directly you have read this burn it in the fire. It is just an admission that I feel I must make to you, and that it can be the secret of an afternoon between us … The secret of my grief at leaving – Next weekend we will talk a little together. You will tell me how you feel. Oh wasn’t it a wonderful talk this morning. I see you now crawling under the fence on your hands and knees like a mild red bear in spectacles, in the orange leaves.
You mustn’t think I am not happy here. It’s only I had to tell you and you alone, how much I cared. Oh Lytton, why should it be so difficult? Write to me, but say nothing of this.
My dear one goodbye. This week I will come on Friday afternoon. Tell me if the Dogfn119 is coming.
Yr most loving Carrington
To Gerald Brenan
41 Gordon Square
End of October 1920
Amigo Geraldo,
How I will do my best to live up to your insidious flattery and write you a good letter. How shall I give you a great discourse on marriage and the folly of your sentiments? One cannot be a female creator of works of art & have children. That is the real reason why so few women have reached any high plane of creators. And the few that did become artists; I think you will admit, were never married, or had children. Emily Bronte & her sisters, Jane Austen, Sappho. Lady Hester Stanhope. Queen Elizabeth. And even lesser people like the French female artists Berthe Morisot, Le Brun, Julie de Lespinasse & Du Deffand. There has been a controversy lately in the New Statesman between Virginia Woolf & Desmond MacCarthy, as to the reason why females have never produced great writers, poets or artists or even musicians. Virginia gave bad education, and upbringing as the chief reason, also prejudice, and child bearing. I am sure it is impossible unless one is so rich that one need never look after a child which would mean one would be very insensible to bear one’s child brought up by others – or so supremely impossibly competent that one can control a house, children, & husband & still preserve the concentration, and singleness of purpose that is necessary to all artists. These seem to me good reasons if one wishes to be an artist for refusing to marry or bear children. My real reason however is that I dislike merging into a person, which marriage involves, and I do not care for children. They seem so tedious, & interrupting. I prefer the friendships of grown-up human beings.
If when I am 30, I am not an artist, and I think it is no good my persevering with my painting, I might have a child. But I doubt if I shall ever had maternal feelings enough to go through the bother & tedium of childbearing. Amen.
Then your ‘two in one organization’ how can you write those words, and then favour marriage. I hate those little self-centred worlds which married people live in. But enough of this sermon. What is Virginia Woolf like? Well I will send you when I get hold of one a photograph of her. That will be a truthful outside representation. Inside it’s rather difficult to describe her. She has been mad, seriously, twice. The last time for three or four years. One always feels this a little with her, as if she had lived a life one had not lived, and as if she had visions one could never see. She is the most imaginative person, always attacking people from odd angles, full of curiosity and very thorough with her analysis of characters. Her simplicity is her great charm. She has no snobbery but a real dignity because she recognizes her own value honestly. I am sure she would charm you. She has the manners of a man, unaffected, and earnest, & yet is very graceful & full of a woman’s competence. She cooks wonderful home-made bread, & makes country preserves, & pickles, and knows such names of plants, & enjoys friendships with such various people as her servants, a chemist in Richmond, old women who she reads to, authors, and young educated women. She has no prejudices, and is always absorbed in her immediate surroundings. Then she has a classical background which one feels in her conversation. She is a great reader of Greek. I always when I am with her feel overpowered with her brilliance, & charm. Then I like her husband also. He is a Jew, but very interesting and simple & free from the limitations of most Jews. I feel they were quite the best people for Ralph to be with and he is doing good work with them. Will you really let them bring out your first book? Think, Lytton said ‘I am sure Brenan will be the coming author of this century’. That is actually what Lytton said, after reading your letter, and he is always crushing in his criticism. But perhaps you don’t revere him and his praise quite as much as I do!
Do write to Lytton sometimes. I am sure he would so like it. Secretly he feels a little sorry he didn’t write to you when he got back from Spain & now he feels a little ashamed of not having written, and yet could not apologise, because it is not his way. Of course he never told me this. But I surmised it … He is writing Victoria at Tidmarsh now. Those that have read Victoria think it is a great deal better than Eminent Victorians. I will send you E. V. out by J. H. -J.fn120 if you tell me if you would like it …
I’ve been in London at 41 G. S. a week now. Oh how I miss the autumn country. But I’ve promised to stay here, so I mustn’t cry! But do you realize what it means to leave Tidmarsh after living there for three years, & being intimate with almost every leaf & Bird in the garden. Last weekend we went back very early on Saturday morning to Tidmarsh. Ralph the sloven was loath to get up at six o’ck & catch the 7.30 train down there, but I insisted, & how it rewarded one, the beauty of the walk from Pangbourne at nine o’clock, with the mists rising from the little river was indescribable. Then there was Lytton over his fire, & little Annie i
n the kitchen with a smiling face […] I planted rows of tulips for next spring, & coloured irises in the garden on Saturday morning.
On Sunday afternoon we went an amazing walk up to Sulham Woods. It was most beautiful in the great Forest of Beeches. Their smooth green trunks, & underneath soft crunchy carpet of coloured leaves like some Titian painting, varnished reds & browns. On the way back we saw dangling in the sun, on the bar of an old rusty field-roller two adders, which some game keeper had caught and killed, and hung there. They were the most lovely creatures. I had never held an adder in my hands before. The feeling was amazing, the soft pliant bodies with the cold smooth scales. All mottle black & ivory. I opened their dead mouths and saw the big black fangs, and do you know even although maggots were breeding in their jaws, the tail of one of them still wriggled in a hand, and curved up & down, as if in pain. We stood for a long time in the sun, on the edge of the big Beech Wood looking at them. I wanted to take one back with me to draw. But Lytton was against it, as they were long dead. Then crossing the Fields near the Mill, we saw a cow give birth to a calf in a field, and almost the minute afterwards she rose up & walked across a little river ditch, with the absurd little white calf, with its knees rocking together, and its natal cord dribbling in the sun, stumbling after her, like some clumsy big dog. On Sunday morning instead of coming up to London from Pangbourne station, we walked along the edge of the Thames, along the tow path to Tilehurst station, some six miles. It was 11 o’ck in the morning, & the sun shone furiously through the clear frosty air.
The woods mounted up on the Whitchurch Downs, & looked all stained with red ink like a water colour picture which has run. Really the beauty of the scene made me feel exhausted with emotion. I saw a king-fisher some lovely coloured ducks, a big kestrel over the downs, and six grey cygnets gliding along the river, like dignified ships. Then I like those Stately Homes of England which grow by the edge of river with their sloping lawns & cedar trees. They are so English. We got lost in the end of our walk in a private estate and had to climb a high wall to reach Tilehurst station. Lytton was so gay on this walk, and he and Ralph looked so well in the English landscape […] Then at Tilehurst we parted. Lytton back to Tidmarsh in one train, and Ralph & I up to Gordon Square in the other train. I suffered great depressions when I got back here. The beauty of the country rends me inside … and then Tidmarsh is such a wonderful place to me.
Carrington's Letters Page 18
