Carrington's Letters Read online

  Dear one, I felt some more love grow to you today. I hope you’ll look after yourself properly and do ask someone if you find it lonely. I shall come back Thurs. evening if I can. But I’ll write again, and let you know for certain.

  Do you know they sent a wire to me on Saturday which never reached Tidmarsh. How little one knows what the last state will be. As a little boy running in these lanes of Prestbury, my father little guessed he would die amongst those women folk, in such captivity in the same village. Dearest, your friendship means so much that I must just thank you. Because today more than most days I feel the importance of knowing you, my very dearest friend.

  Your Carrington

  1919

  To Lytton Strachey

  Tatchley

  Wednesday morning [1 January 1919]

  Dearest Lytton,

  It was good to get two letters from you this morning and so full of Tidmarsh and that little painted room of many colours. I don’t believe if I lived alone at the Mill, small boys would cut up logs of wood for me. No, it requires a beard and long white fingers to be served like that in this world. But you must have been far more tired that I was, by the time you reached home. Let’s make a vow here, and forever, never to go to Reading again.

  May I write you a really grim letter. It’s pure selfishness because I can’t bear it going round and round in my brain.

  It seemed like Sunday all yesterday for the blinds were all drawn. In the morning I had to go to town with my mother, and be fitted by the incomparably grand young Ladies at some female shop. They couldn’t see that it’s not very interesting choosing stockings and black coats. My mother seemed entirely engrossed and talked continuously about the ‘correctness’ of certain things. I couldn’t see what on earth all this had to do with my father being dead. All lunch the conversation was on clothes. My sister is unparalleled in her stoniness. I bought a pair of black boy’s boots when I was left alone, which enraged my sister and mother when they saw them. My spirits by the afternoon had become so depressed that at last I couldn’t bear it any longer. I hated them for being so indecently interested in his death and my mother went on talking about peculiarities to my sister who was so bored that she merely said ‘Yars’ ‘Yars’. The rooms are so arranged that to go to the lavatory one has to pass my father’s bedroom, which rooms are both at the end of a long passage on the ground floor.

  I went in to see him for all day I keep wondering how he lay. It was so different from anything I had imagined. I thought he would have been on his bed, as he used to lie in the mornings. But there was a long narrow coffin covered by a white sheet and the bed stood there by itself so big and empty.

  When I lifted a napkin, oh Lytton, there was not his face, but a face very small, and pale yellow. So dim and icy cold. Then I knew how very much I loved him and now how lost it all was. That cragged hoary old man with his bright eyes, and huge helpless body but so big always, now lay in this narrow box in white linen and it was a ghost compared to that man, that lay there. And then a vision of all those people whose faces I have loved came. Teddy too, must have gone all pale like that.

  I could not believe the change would be so horrible. I hated something for making his face so smooth. Yes it was saint like, like the marble bishops in the cathedrals. Oh Lytton why didn’t I love him more when he could feel. I might have fought for him; he was too helpless himself. I knew what he cared for; how my mother tormented him, and how he suffered, and yet I did so little. I read yesterday Tolstoy’s Ivan Ilyich. My father hadn’t even Geriasim to comfort him. I miss him so dreadfully this time, here. He was so like me, that I felt he always understood and was on my side. Now I am all alone with these two. I know my mother cared and is unhappy. But I can’t forgive her for taming him as she did, and for regarding all of his independence and wildness as ‘peculiarities’ and just making out he was a sentimental good husband. Then can she really care, when she talks as she does, knowing that pale ghost lies in that other room. I hate my sister seeing me. It’s so beastly not even to be allowed to cry without my mother calling for me to go with her to some infernal shop. And when my mother leaves the room, my sister speaks in such a way that my blood rushes hot into my head.

  But I am glad that he has escaped from it all. I like to think of him wandering vaguely in India in that bright light, really loved by people and perfectly happy. But instead I see him captive in all these houses, in the cold grey winters always being worried by domestic details, scolded like a child, restricted, wretched. And I knew, and never told him. Ten years must have been a long time for him.

  Dearest, I am glad that there is you for me to love. I knew you care: you did not have to tell me so. I shall beg my mother to let me leave on Thursday. You’ll forgive me for writing so. But it makes it better to know I can talk to you.

  Oh, I wish I could forget that ghostly face and in this little bedroom, on every side I see Teddy’s things. His books, and photographs. Your letters comforted me so much this morning. Dearest Lytton, you’ve meant more to me these past few days than ever before.

  Yr loving Carrington

  PS My mother has just been in the room and wants me stay on with her, I gather indefinitely. When I said I really couldn’t she accused me of being selfish, and said she couldn’t bear being left alone. I wish you were here to advise me, I can’t believe I can do any good, as I feel too wretched to cheer her up, which is what she says she wants. I thought I could come back, and stay. Or is it really selfish of me to go away because I can’t bear this?

  To Mark Gertler

  The Mill House

  3 January 1919

  Dearest Mark,

  I just got your long letter this evening as I have been away at home this last week. For my father died last Saturday and I had to go back home for the funeral. Oh Mark I did suffer horribly. It was ghastly to see a little yellow ghost with a saint like marble face lying in a narrow coffin instead of that splendid old man in his wheelchair by the fire. And then that hard china faced sister & my mother with her sentimental attitude was almost more hurting.

  How dreadful it is to see a human being alive and hard & callous without feelings.

  It was like one long nightmare from morning & through the night. At last I couldn’t bear it any longer and as I couldn’t possibly cheer my mother in my frame of mind, so rushed away this morning. It’s upset me rather. So many new ideas & emotions rushed through me every hour & day. Now I feel so tired & empty headed. How I hate death. He was so big and simple and more good than most people. That goodness which Blake had. Which one is compelled to reverence. Even if one does disbelieve in their religion & primitive beliefs in Heaven & Hell.

  […] Only for one thing am I sorry. That I who understood & knew what he cared for, never fought for him against my mother & her conventions & did not make his life happier. That I do regret.

  I have only seen lately one Cezanne & that is the one which Maynard Keynes hasfn80 which I must say I like immensely […]

  Alix took me up to London for a day after Xmas to see a new ballet & before it began I slipped into the National Gallery & saw the Ingres. But what excited me most was the little El Greco & the Bellini of Mehmet. I thought the large portrait by Ingres very astounding. – But somehow less inspired compared to that El Greco – no, inspired with a feeling which interested me less is a more true statement.

  I love that picture you gave me so much. Thank you again.

  I shall work hard now. That was one of the horrors of being at home. It was quite impossible to do any work so all day I was at the mercy of my own gloomy moods & the whims of my mother which meant going into a dreary fashionable town & buying black clothes. I get to dislike that female mind which delights in conventions & appearances more & more.

  The joy this afternoon to be back in my breeches & old grey jersey sitting over a fire – with no conversation. I did love that new ballet, Tales for Children. The conception of the mad girl in the bed is excellent & the outspread cloak with femal
es underneath.fn81 My love to you dear creature.

  Yr Carrington

  To Mark Gertler

  The Mill House

  Friday [January 1919]

  Dear Mark,

  Thank you for your long letter. Tonight I feel infinitely lonely, and rather depressed. Partly because I am alone and then I suddenly realized a few moments ago what a beastly ungenerous nature I had created inside my frame. Yet, you realize all my letters to you are like woodcuts, limited in their technique, and that certain elements, as colour, will never be shown. My brother has been spending the last two days here with me. Yesterday a friend of his [Rex Partridge] came down to stay – I had been reading Berty’sfn82 new book on the reform of the state, and foolishly fell into the belief that it was all very possible. That except for a few bloated capitalists, and politicians everyone really wanted to see such a life of freedom, and happiness. And when this young man and my brother started talking together after dinner, I woke up into realizing how hopeless, and distant such ideals are; that the educated people make the blockade which prevents revolutions, and progress. This young man thought himself very advanced and yet was so self satisfied, and narrow-minded, as to simply dismiss with a few cynical phrases any variety of mankind who he didn’t agree with. A certain callousness, and lack of reverence for life, and death appalled me. They neither of them felt any passion or interest in things like we do. They discussed their futures and weighed the advantages and disadvantages of certain professions. But there was no desire to do any creative work of their own. What a gulf this fixes between one and such people. My brother is so charming that it hurt to hear him become intolerant, and complicatedly conventional. Today was so beautiful, that I forgot, when I woke up and saw a golden moon disappearing like a guilty orange cat from the larder, down below the trees, and barns and the sun shone out.

  And Noel was so gay and happy, after all the disappointments and problems of life of last night. We borrowed a little pony trap from the blacksmith, and drove to some enchanted woods where Monkey Puzzle trees and great dark yews, and conifers grow and had lunch in a little inn. And then drove home in the afternoon. Now they have gone. And I feel depressed because I feel I may have hurt them, and spoilt their pleasure by being standoffish and superior. Noel looked so beautiful out in the garden that I really felt after all if he had such a good nature, his views and prejudices didn’t much matter. This is contrary to anything Berty [Bertrand Russell] would say. But I confess at that moment I felt it!!! I suspect this intolerance of young boisterous men is really old age on my part!

  To Lytton Strachey

  Tatchley

  Wednesday [22 January 1919]

  Dearest one,

  Well here I am, and you are pavement-tapping, boy-accosting on the streets of London. I don’t foresee much of interest happening to me here. So I am contenting myself with organizing a grand trunk to trunk Loot indoors. You groan. No I promise I won’t bring back a single Benares brass bowl, or one carved bracket. Haydn’s dictionary, a rattle to keep the birds from our cherries, some chintz to cover a chair, and an eiderdown quilt, also some new pyjamas which I suppose I shall have to give up to Le grand signor! My parent was of course perfectly well, having recovered the day of my arrival. What a waste of time all this business is. You see I am bad tempered already. You will write and tell me your plans? I gather she won’t go away till next week. So if you want the house for any lofty, or base purposes I can easily stay here till Monday. But if you would like my company to assist at cutting the cottage pie, I will come back on Saturday. I saw George’s name looming large in the Telegraph front sheet this morning! Even at the risk of driving you mad with my incessant repetition, I whisper very softly, not to disturb your siesta, that you have made me so very happy lately, and I have loved the evenings, and you become more precious to me every day.

  Such a nightmare last night, with Aldous in bed [a dream]. Everything went wrong, I couldn’t lock the door; all the bolts were crooked. At last, I chained it with a watch chain and two nails. Then I had a new pair of thick pyjamas on and he got so cross because I wouldn’t take them off and they were all scratchy. Everything got in a mess, and he got so angry, and kept on trying to find me in bed by peering with his eyeglass, and I thought all the time how I could account to my mother for the mess on my pyjamas!

  […] All my love

  from your

  Mopsa

  From Carrington’s diary

  [14 February 1919]

  Talking about Lytton, if one did try and write what happened to him every day, what a grim failure it would be. All his adventures and experiences are mental, and only enjoyed by himself. Outwardly it’s like the life of one of the hens. Meals dividing up the day, books read in the morning, siesta, walk to Pangbourne, more books. A French lesson with me, perhaps dinner. Reading aloud. Bed and hot water bottles, and every day the same apparently. But inside, what a variety, and what fantastic doings. And great schemes I suspect. Sometimes internal ragings which never come out. And plans for a future which I could never guess. I wonder how much his appearance captivates me. One learns very little of his inside. Some things one knew from the beginning. That his conversation is always fascinating, and instructive. He is kind and sympathetic, intolerant, prejudiced to a degree sometimes. Obstinate and with a grandness and aloofness I’ve never met before. But everything very sudden, like a bird flashes across the sky on a walk. I mean his angers, and laughter. Painted too vilely today. I give up the nude bathers with disgust and turn to something new tomorrow. A long walk, and talk about the Georges before tea.

  [18 February 1919]

  Today mother sent me Teddy’s sailor clothes. How awful it is to realize how little I knew, or appreciated him – Yet one’s senses become hardened by space or time. A year ago would I have not cried? And now I just felt dully miserable. Bones in some cloggy wet clay now, which used to fill those trowsers so tightly. How I loved him at Hurstbourne when he came on leave carrying his sack on his back. And in London at the Garnetts’ flat when Nellie the servant showed him into my bedroom and he sat on the bed, so brown with his black shining eyes and hair. No there will never be such a face again. His beauty was so immense and solid. Why need he have died? One feels he was a soldier. And never cared for life. He had seen so little of his life. And even if he had never would have cared for this. I selfishly wanted him. Little Roy, that child, reminds me of him, his grunts, and fat cheeks and smiles. And a little packet of sailor clothes in my bedroom is all that he has left to me. Cruel hateful war. That such loveliness should have been destroyed. There is no one to tell. They are old, and after all how can they feel when they never saw him. Yet Lytton has taught me how to feel as I do tonight.

  In March 1919 Carrington set off again with her brother and his friend Rex Partridge, this time to Spain, accompanied by Rex’s sister Dorothy. Her letters to both Gertler and Lytton stress how dull conventional young men were; in fact, both she and Lytton were increasingly attracted by Rex, who had returned to Oxford to pick up his interrupted studies.

  To Mark Gertler

  1917 Club, 4 Gerrard Street, London W.1

  write to c/o Thomas Cook, Madrid, Spain

  [March 1919]

  Dearest Mark,

  Thank you so much for your letter – Yes it was unfortunate that I couldn’t come to Garsington. But this Spanish business made everything so rushed that I hadn’t time to stay with Ottoline. But it was just good to see you for that little while. I enjoyed the dance. The young men were so lovely. But God how dreary, ordinary and stupid! They would make good bedding plants but not for use in the daytime. As they thought I was 16, and a nice young lady I didn’t have even any consolation in any direction! We sail tomorrow morning early. It sounds extraordinary. I can hardly believe it. I wish I had other company. I don’t take much to the young man, and his sister is still worse. Noel is alright, but completely influenced by the young man. Still if I see some El Grecos and Goyas I shall be quite contented, and re
ally one always enjoys these holidays in spite of people I find. I hope you’ll feel better after Brighton, and be able to get back to your work. I hope Brett’s scheme of your living with her at night, may make things rather happier for you. I’ve got a confounded swollen neck which doesn’t make me feel very cheerful today. But the doctor said it wasn’t serious, only I am so vain, that I hate being hideous. I cover it with scarfs and that nearly stifles one. It also is rather painful. I expect Spain will set one up in health again. You’ll write to me? And I’ll send you post cards, and a letter. It will be exciting coming back again. I’ll come and see you directly I get back to London. Be kind to Brett.

  My love to you dear friend.

  Yr Carrington

  Carrington sent long descriptive letters and drawings to Lytton almost every day from Spain. She found Dorothy Partridge, who was suspicious of her bohemian ways, tiresome and, as always, pined for Lytton’s company.

  To Lytton Strachey

  Madrid

  [15 April 1919]

  My Dearest Lytton,

  I got your letters this morning. I was overjoyed to hear from you. And to know you were with Alix and James, and so happy. How we’ll talk when we get back: – Lyme Regis, Castro del Rey, Regis Lyme, Rey de Castro and ad infinitum. This morning I spent in the Prado. How can one say what one feels when all the air has been pressed out of one’s lungs through the sheer exhaustion of marvelling.

  The portraits of Goya perhaps delighted me as much as anything. Especially the reposing lady draped. I forget her name. El Greco is quite, quite different from what you would imagine. The pictures are so large, and the colour incredibly beautiful. […] Several which were quite new to me. Then I saw some wonderful Titians. And other Italians. But one can’t look at them when one knows there are Goyas to feast upon.

  Downstairs there were great rooms filled with decorations by Goya and pen and ink, and red chalk drawings, sketches for the etchings and some new ones. Many very bawdy. But marvellously drawn. He had such wit, compared to most painters. But it nearly killed one with fatigue. Especially as I never slept at all last night in that 3rd class wooden seated train from Sevilla. There are disputes going on with Thomas Cook about a passage back, which may be difficult to arrange. Noel unfortunately is obliged to be back on the 25th, I would give much to linger a little longer in this country. What a statement to make to you. But oh Lytton, Lytton, Lytton, I am so happy here, and the sun is so good and hot.