Yours Always E-Book

• Herausgeber: Icon Books
• Kategorie: Ratgeber
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 244

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Love letters are potent. They breathe. They speak. They can arouse, comfort, captivate. They can also cut deep.  The powerful, deeply personal letters collected here reveal the painful underside of love. Witness Winston Churchill 'growl with anger to be treated with benevolent indifference' and Edith Piaf reel in the throes of a 'terrible' passion.  Through the letters of literary icons Charlotte Brontë, Oscar Wilde and Virginia Woolf, Hollywood stars Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton and statesmen Henry VIII and Franklin D. Roosevelt, Yours Always offers an unusually intimate insight into the lives of such illustrious figures.  Love is revealed here in its many shades of disharmony and confusion: unrequited, uncertain, imbalanced, unconventional, thwarted, failed and forbidden. Love is not always rose-tinted, and Yours Always illuminates the sorrows that can accompany falling in, falling out, and staying in love.  Includes letter to and from: Charlotte Brontë, Richard Burton, Lord Byron, Winston Churchill, Marie Curie, Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, Henry VIII, Ted Hughes, Graham Greene, Franz Kafka, Marilyn Monroe, Iris Murdoch, Edith Piaf, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Elizabeth Taylor, Oscar Wilde, Virginia Woolf, W.B. Yeats 

Leseprobe

Yours Always

Letters of Longing

Edited by

Eleanor Bass

For Nick

CONTENTS

Title PageDedicationEditorial NoteIntroductionUnrequited and Unequal LoveCharlotte Brontë to Professor Constantin HégerWinston Churchill to Muriel WilsonIris Murdoch to David Hicks and Raymond QueneauW.B. Yeats and Maud GonneAndre de Dienes to Marilyn MonroeHenry VIII to Anne BoleynVirginia Stephen and Leonard WoolfDavid Hume to La Comtesse de BoufflersCharles Dickens to Maria BeadnellClaire Clairmont to Lord ByronEdith Wharton to Morton FullertonRebecca West to H.G. WellsConflicted and Condemned LoveFranz Kaf ka to Felice BauerSylvia Townsend Warner and Valentine AcklandErnest Hemingway and Agnes von KurowskyEdith Piaf to Dmitris Horn and Louis GérardinRichard Burton and Elizabeth TaylorLoretta Young to Spencer TracyGraham Greene to Catherine WalstonAbelard and HéloïseMarie Curie to Paul LangevinOscar Wilde to Lord Alfred DouglasKatherine Parr and Thomas SeymourFranklin D. Roosevelt to Lucy RutherfurdA Final WordVera Brittain and Roland LeightonTed Hughes to Sylvia PlathSources, Copyright and ThanksSelect BibliographyAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

EDITORIAL NOTE

Letters come in all shapes, sizes and degrees of legibility. It has therefore been necessary to exercise some editorial privileges in presentation.

Where applicable, I have standardised the date and place headings. When there is uncertainty over the precise date of a letter, or over a specific word within a letter, this is indicated by the use of square brackets. I have corrected spelling and, on rare occasions, grammatical errors, where these interfere with the readability of the text.

In many instances letters have been abridged, or an extract from a longer letter presented. Abridgements, which vary in length from a number of words or sentences to one or more paragraphs, are indicated by the insertion of ‘…’. Where a particularly lengthy portion of text has been removed this is signalled by ‘…’ on a separate line.

Full details of the sources of letters can be found in the ‘Sources, Copyright and Thanks’ section on page 187.

INTRODUCTION

In Classical mythology Eros, God of Love, was not always benevolent. In the story of Apollo and Daphne he employs his powers to painful effect. Angered by Apollo’s arrogance as an archer, Eros trains his arrow upon him, causing Apollo to fall passionately in love with the chaste nymph Daphne. The capricious Eros then shoots Daphne with another arrow – lead-tipped and blunt – that is guaranteed to repel all thoughts of love. In his fervour Apollo chases Daphne who, moments before being caught in his embrace, transforms into a laurel tree. Still gripped by desire, Apollo caresses the branches of the tree as if they were the limbs of his beloved.

The feverish longing of unrequited love has, it would seem, plagued mankind from ancient times. Stories of love’s frustrations and disappointments have proved a staple in Western literature: from courtly tales of knights labouring valorously to win the regard of a remote and often disdainful lady, through the complicated webs of unreciprocated love favoured by Shakespeare, and the dangerous and seductive face of love revealed by the Romantic poets, to the extended exploration of love’s challenges in novels of the Victorian and modern periods. The cultural history of love thus buttresses the well-known contention, originating in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, that ‘the course of true love never did run smooth’. Romance favours lovers with the heady experiences of emotional fulfilment, sexual delight and unprecedented joy in life, yet simultaneously opens the door to despair.

Like love stories, the writing of love letters has a long heritage. Over the course of millennia, letters have allowed communication between lovers separated by circumstance and have provided an outlet for love’s intensities of emotion – whether adulation and infatuation, or frustration and complaint. The letters collected in this book span many periods; the oldest dates from the medieval age, the most recent from the twentieth century. The writers and recipients of these letters are also varied; they include philosophers and scientists, politicians and royalty, novelists, poets and stars of stage and screen. The collection is organised so as to draw out resonances between their diverse stories. Thus the entries slip back and forth across history, loosely grouped according to the type of romantic experiences, emotions and circumstances being expressed. They illuminate the uneven path of love – from hairline fractures that emerge in the everyday routine to tectonic shifts of lovers’ affections. In their expression of troubled love, these letters reveal not only the personal struggles faced by a host of prominent figures, but the complexity of love: the multitudinous ways in which romance can be derailed and love go wrong.

The first section of the book begins with the relentless tug of unrequited love. Letters expose the vulnerability inherent in loving without being loved in return. Yet there are also notes of self-preservation within these pages, manifesting sometimes as anger towards the beloved, sometimes as stoicism towards the dictates of fate. A less definitive uncertainty in love then emerges in two sets of courtship letters, written centuries apart, in which one party withholds their consent to marry. A further interesting example of reticence towards marriage (though one not included in this book) can be found in the letters of D.H. Lawrence to his lover Frieda Weekley. Lawrence was not in any way unsure in his desire to marry Frieda; rather, ‘like the old knights’, he required a period of reflection – ‘a sort of vigil with myself’ – ahead of the momentous change. Towards the end of this section the theme of uneven or imbalanced affection asserts itself. In these instances one party emerges as more devoted, more invested, than the other; the letters lay bare the hurt occasioned by misaligned expectations, thoughtlessness and neglect.

Focus then shifts, in the book’s second section, to letters expressive of damaged, broken and thwarted love. A number of the letters illustrate how relationships may be attacked from within, warping under the pressure of partners’ ill-matched needs and expectations. Others reveal couplings more thoroughly in the midst of collapse, eroded by instances of betrayal or dissipating affection. Moral and religious misgivings emerge as the primary source of strife in a number of the love affairs represented, while societal strictures of various kinds inhibit and on occasion devastate others. Outside of this collection, the impact of specific social mores upon romantic love can be observed in some of the oldest surviving love letters in the English language, those exchanged between John Paston and Margery Brews in 1476–77. Despite Margery’s assurance in her letters that financial concerns are of little importance to her (‘For if you had not half the livelihood that you have, and if I had to do the greatest labour that any woman alive might, I would not forsake you’), parental disharmony over the size of her dowry presented a material stumbling block to the couple’s intention to marry.

The last two entries in this collection square up to the greatest challenge posed to romantic love: the inevitability of death. The first is taken from the wartime correspondence of Vera Brittain and Roland Leighton who, in 1915 with a battle looming, rushed to exchange some parting words. There are many other instances of letters penned under the descending pall of death, one famous example being the unfinished letter of Horatio Nelson to Emma Hamilton, written from the Victory during the Battle of Trafalgar. So too, a surviving lover may turn to the act of letter-writing as a means of reconnecting with their beloved or reflecting upon their loss. In a sixteenth-century Korean letter discovered resting on the mummified remains of its intended recipient, a grief-wracked wife cries out to her husband, ‘How could you go ahead of me? … Please take me where you are.’ The final entry in this collection is a poem by Ted Hughes, published almost fifty years after his estranged wife Sylvia Plath’s death, in which he revisits the night of her suicide.

Love letters are potent. They breathe. They speak. They can arouse, comfort, enamour. They can also cut deep. This potency is captured in Sylvia Plath’s poem ‘Burning the Letters’, written only a month after her discovery of Hughes’ affair with Assia Wevill. The poem depicts a woman standing in the drizzling rain, watching a stash of old love letters burn. Since their initial, loving inception these letters have become menacing ‘white fists’, the postmarks sinister ‘eyes’. They are hooked, cringing entities; ‘papers that breathe like people’. It is with relief that she relegates them to the fire, rendering them blind and silencing their chatter.

One of the draws of love letters is precisely this enlivened, almost embodied quality – the way they pitch-fork the reader into the midst of vital, unfolding relationships. The words lovers write to each other are part of their love; they contribute to the texture of that attachment and fashion its future course. Reading other people’s love letters is an intimate, perhaps intrusive pastime; yet it is also enriching. It provides access to the personal and emotional hinterland of some of history’s great names. It reveals how, at specific moments in time, individuals responded to millennia-long traditions around love and its expression. In the case of literary figures, it demonstrates another dimension of their writerly identity and frequently offers intriguing biographical insight into their published works.

Above all, love letters teach us something of love. They demonstrate not only the many trajectories of romance, but the staggering variability of human nature; the different ways of understanding, navigating, sustaining, enduring and renouncing the experience of love. In the pages that follow, love affairs emerge as lived, evolving entities, played out in every corner of the lover’s life and psyche. The letters provide a privileged glimpse into these elusive worlds of experience, and prompt the reader to reflect upon their own romantic journey – however rough the terrain.

UNREQUITED AND UNEQUAL LOVE

CHARLOTTE BRONTË TO PROFESSOR CONSTANTIN HÉGER

Charlotte Brontë 1816–1855; Constantin Héger 1809–1896

Charlotte Brontë acknowledges the potency of letters in her novel Villette, when she has protagonist Lucy Snowe surreptitiously bury, in a sealed glass jar, precious letters from a man whom she loves who does not love her back. A degree of mystery has surrounded the letters Charlotte herself wrote to her former teacher, Professor Héger. Only four remain, penned during 1844–45, from what would appear a longer correspondence. Three of those four have been torn into pieces and reassembled.

Charlotte first met Monsieur Héger during her sojourn as a student of languages at the Pensionnat Héger in Brussels, which she attended alongside her sister Emily in 1842, and again as an assistant governess in 1843–44. Having grown up in the weaving village of Haworth on the edge of the Yorkshire moors, these trips offered the exhilaration of new surroundings and the opportunity for learning that Charlotte craved. Departing the Pensionnat in January 1844, she wrote mournfully to her good friend Ellen Nussey: ‘I think however long I live I shall not forget what the parting with Monsr. Héger cost me’.

Charlotte had not, however, been immediately enamoured. In a letter to Ellen dated May 1842 she described ‘a man of power as to mind but very choleric and irritable in temperament – a little, black, ugly being’. Over time her initial impression altered. An enthusiastic educator, Héger was at pains to stretch the Brontë girls; he gifted books, provided extended commentary upon their work, and troubled himself over their pronunciation of French. It is conceivable that mutual attraction may have entered into the acquaintance between Charlotte and Monsieur Héger, yet this remains conjecture. More certain is the deepening devotion Charlotte felt towards her ‘maître’ (master), as expressed in the letters she wrote to him on her return to Britain. Héger, however, was married with five children, and apparently disinclined to maintain this correspondence.

Writing to the professor in French, Charlotte clings to her proficiency in the language as a means of nurturing the connection between them. She keeps him abreast of her progress and candidly explains that ‘I love French for your sake with all my heart and soul’. Respect for her former teacher slips repeatedly into a more pining, infatuated tone, and emotion escalates with each letter. The first, while peppered with expressions of her regard, is conversational. The second is brief, yet gently demanding of his consideration. The third speaks of her hurt at having received no word from him, of ‘unbearable’ suffering and ‘dreadful’ uncertainty. The fourth is the saddest; it laments her failed attempts to forget him, frankly acknowledging the humiliating aspect of such a lopsided affection.

Charlotte’s attachment to Monsieur Héger was fostered by the uncertainties she faced on her return from Brussels. She was unsure of her future direction in life – torn between the possibilities of teaching and writing, and conflicted in her desire to care for her ageing father and to broaden her horizons. With the immediate success of Jane Eyre, published in 1847, Charlotte’s opportunities would significantly increase; trips to London, a professional persona, and the acquaintance of other literary figures would feed her longing for stimulating and varied experience. Thus these letters – full of pained, sometimes desperate pleas for Héger’s attention – provide a disarmingly intimate insight into the interior life of a young woman still poised on the brink of literary renown.

24 July 1844

Monsieur,

… I am very pleased that the school-year is nearly over and that the holidays are approaching. – I am pleased on your account, Monsieur – for I am told that you are working too hard … For that reason I refrain from uttering a single complaint for your long silence … Ah, Monsieur! I once wrote you a letter that was less than reasonable, because sorrow was at my heart; but I shall do so no more. – I shall try to be selfish no longer; and even while I look upon your letters as one of the greatest felicities known to me, I shall await the receipt of them in patience until it pleases you and suits you to send me any …

I greatly fear that I shall forget French, for I am firmly convinced that I shall see you again some day … and then I should not wish to remain dumb before you … To avoid such a misfortune I learn every day by heart half a page of French from a book written in a familiar style: and I take pleasure in learning this lesson, Monsieur; as I pronounce the French words it seems to me as if I were chatting with you.

I have just been offered a situation as first governess in a large school in Manchester … I cannot accept it, for in accepting it I should have to leave my father …

… There is nothing I fear so much as idleness, the want of occupation, inactivity, the lethargy of the faculties: when the body is idle, the spirit suffers painfully.

I should not know this lethargy if I could write. Formerly I passed whole days and weeks and months in writing … but now my sight is too weak to write … Otherwise do you know what I should do, Monsieur? – I should write a book, and I should dedicate it to my literature-master – to the only master I ever had – to you, Monsieur …

Goodbye, Monsieur,

Your grateful pupil

C. Bronte

I have not begged you to write to me soon as I fear to importune you – but you are too kind to forget that I wish it all the same … If, then, I received a letter, and if I thought that you had written it out of pity – I should feel deeply wounded.

24 October 1844

Monsieur,

I am in high glee this morning … It is because a gentleman of my acquaintance is going to Brussels, and has offered to take charge of a letter for you …

I am not going to write a long letter; in the first place, I have not the time – it must leave at once; and then, I am afraid of worrying you. I would only ask of you if you heard from me at the beginning of May and again in the month of August? For six months I have been awaiting a letter from Monsieur – six months’ waiting is very long, you know! However, I do not complain, and I shall be richly rewarded for a little sorrow if you will now write a letter and give it to this gentleman – or his sister – who will hand it to me without fail.

… the remembrances of your kindnesses will never fade from my memory, and as long as that remembrance endures the respect with which it has inspired me will endure likewise.

Your very devoted pupil,

C. Bronte

8 January 1845

Mr. Taylor has returned. I asked him if he had a letter for me. ‘No; nothing.’ ‘Patience,’ said I – ‘his sister will be here soon.’ Miss Taylor has returned. ‘I have nothing for you from Monsieur Héger,’ says she; ‘neither letter nor message.’

Having realised the meaning of these words, I said to myself what I should say to another similarly placed; ‘You must be resigned, and above all do not grieve at a misfortune which you have not deserved.’ I strove to restrain my tears, to utter no complaint.

But when one does not complain, when one seeks to dominate oneself with a tyrant’s grip, the faculties start in rebellion, and one pays for external calm with an internal struggle that is almost unbearable.

Day and night I find neither rest nor peace. If I sleep I am disturbed by tormenting dreams in which I see you, always severe, always grave, always incensed against me.

Forgive me then, Monsieur, if I adopt the course of writing to you again. How can I endure life if I make no effort to ease its sufferings?

I know that you will be irritated when you read this letter. You will say once more that I am hysterical – that I have black thoughts, &c. So be it, Monsieur … All I know is that I cannot, that I will not, resign myself to lose wholly the friendship of my master. I would rather suffer the greatest physical pain than always have my heart lacerated by smarting regrets. If my master withdraws his friendship from me entirely I shall be altogether without hope; if he gives me a little – just a little – I shall be satisfied – happy; I shall have reason for living on, for working.

… You will tell me perhaps – ‘I take not the slightest interest in you, Mademoiselle Charlotte. You are no longer an inmate of my House; I have forgotten you.’

Well, Monsieur, tell me so frankly. It will be a shock to me. It matters not. It would be less dreadful than uncertainty.

I shall not re-read this letter. I send it as I have written it. Nevertheless, I have a hidden consciousness that some people, cold and commonsense, in reading it would say – ‘She is talking nonsense.’ I would avenge myself on such persons in no other way than by wishing them one single day of the torments which I have suffered for eight months. We should then see if they would not talk nonsense too.

One suffers in silence so long as one has the strength so to do, and when that strength gives out one speaks without too carefully measuring one’s words.

I wish Monsieur happiness and prosperity.

C.B.

18 November [1845]

Monsieur,

The six months of silence have run their course … I may therefore write to you without failing in my promise.

… I tell you frankly that I have tried meanwhile to forget you … I have done everything; I have sought occupations; I have denied myself absolutely the pleasure of speaking about you … but I have been able to conquer neither my regrets nor my impatience. That, indeed, is humiliating – to be unable to control one’s own thoughts, to be the slave of a regret, of a memory, the slave of a fixed and dominant idea which lords it over the mind. Why cannot I have just as much friendship for you, as you for me – neither more nor less? Then should I be so tranquil, so free …

Monsieur, I have a favour to ask of you: when you reply to this letter, speak to me a little of yourself, not of me; for I know that if you speak of me it will be to scold me … Your last letter was stay and prop to me – nourishment to me for half a year. Now I need another and you will give it me; not because you bear me friendship – you cannot have much – but because you are compassionate of soul and you would condemn no one to prolonged suffering to save yourself a few moments’ trouble. To forbid me to write to you, to refuse to answer me, would be to tear from me my only joy on earth, to deprive me of my last privilege … So long as I believe you are pleased with me, so long as I have hope of receiving news from you, I can be at rest and not too sad. But when a prolonged and gloomy silence seems to threaten me with the estrangement of my master … then a fever claims me – I lose appetite and sleep – I pine away …

C. Bronte

… You will see by the defects in this letter that I am forgetting the French language – yet I read all the French books I can get … I love French for your sake with all my heart and soul.

WINSTON CHURCHILL TO MURIEL WILSON

Winston Churchill 1874–1965; Muriel Wilson 1871–1964

Winston Churchill is remembered for his stirring oratory and flinty determination as Prime Minister of Great Britain during the Second World War. He dedicated himself to a political career in 1899, winning his first seat as Conservative MP for Oldham in 1900. He was also a talented writer, publishing five books by the age of twenty-six. Yet these were not the only passions that stirred the young Churchill’s blood; he had his sights firmly fixed on matrimony, and was attracted to a number of beautiful society women during his twenties.

As his career began to gather steam, however, Winston’s private life was stalling. By 1904 he had suffered two failed marriage proposals. The first woman to capture his heart was flirtatious beauty Pamela Plowden, whom he met in India; the second, glamorous American actress Ethel Barrymore. At the age of twenty-nine, Churchill was again contemplating marriage. Muriel Wilson belonged to a grand and wealthy family, was considered one of Britain’s most beautiful women, and was highly accomplished. She had a flair for amateur dramatics, and cut a dashing figure in costume. Churchill had known her for many years and his feelings had morphed from the friendly into the romantic. He proposed, and was once again disappointed.

Over the course of 1904 and 1905 Churchill wrote a number of impassioned letters to Wilson, two of which are reproduced below. In the first, undated letter the sting of rejection is still palpable, as Churchill seeks desperately to persuade her to reconsider. However, his entreaties were to no avail. Wilson was fond of Churchill, but not romantically inclined towards him. Politics was of little interest to her, and she valued her independence too much to consider matrimony. It is evident from his letters that Churchill is attracted to her for her free-spiritedness; in contrast to the ‘grey world of politics’ she offers ‘warmth’ and ‘glitter’. However, the pleasure she took in male company sometimes rankled; Churchill was particularly infuriated by her flirtation with the Portuguese ambassador, and notorious womaniser, Luis de Soveray. Writing to her in Cannes, the letter of 1905 barely conceals a note of jealous petulance as he denies all claims upon her and bids her ‘career around Italy with anyone you choose’. Although the forays into personal news and political gossip imbue this letter with a certain light-heartedness, its lapse into ‘growl[ing]’ anger and despondency reveal that the wounds of the previous year have far from healed.

In 1906, Churchill was appointed to his first ministerial role in Balfour’s new Liberal government, and progressed quickly to the cabinet. By the outbreak of the First World War he held a key position in the Admiralty Office. His private affairs also took an upturn during this period. Having been introduced to Clementine Hozier in 1904 (when he was still pining for Wilson) the pair met again in 1908 and were married later that year. The interwar years brought Churchill chequered political fortunes; periods of influence were interspersed with spells of exclusion from office. Although active in advising the government in the period leading up to the Second World War, it was not until the day that war was declared, 3 September 1939, that Chamberlain reinstated Churchill in his government as a member of the War Cabinet. It was from this point that Churchill entered decisively upon the world stage, and the iconic figure of Britain’s wartime leader was born.

105, Mount Street, W.

[1904]

This is what I wanted to say on the way back – you are not certain in your own mind. Don’t slam the door. I can wait – perhaps I shall improve with waiting. Why shouldn’t you care about me someday? I have great faith in my instinct which was so very strong. Time and circumstances will work for me. Meanwhile I won’t pester you. Let me see you again before Monday. I will try to talk banalities. At present I feel quite sick – and I will write and tell you when I have rearranged my mind and can see you without alluding to the only thing that is of the slightest consequence.

Of course if you don’t care about me at all, you are quite right. But it is a sad pity & a scattering of treasure. I love you because you are good and beautiful, & you may be perfectly certain that I am not going to change or try to change. On the contrary the more I am opposed the more [tough] I shall feel – for I am not going to be thrust back into my grey world of politics without a struggle. But for that very reason you may see me safely – when I have got hold of myself again – for I won’t be such a fool as to bore you …

Yours always –

Winston S. C.

Send me one line back.

105, Mount Street, W. 7 September 1905

After all you are a friend. My letter was not really so rude as it looked – because I never in my most secret heart make any reproaches against you. I have absolutely no claim upon you. You have never given me the smallest scrap of encouragement. Indeed you have always been very kind to me. And if you choose to career around Italy with anyone you chose – I should have no right whatsoever to complain – even to myself. No that is not what I have asked for. I have asked to be enabled sometimes to see you – at my own risk – & I would gladly bear any subsequent disappointment or sorrow that might – & probably would come to me for the sake of the warmth and glitter of your presence.

All this is very humble; but I am not humble really & growl with anger to be treated with benevolent indifference. But what can I do? It is a stupid world & I am a fool in it. Write to me as you promise and tell me about your Italy … I shall look every morning for that looped handwriting which sometimes disturbs my letter bag so inconsequently …

I am concerned in an attempt to get Freddie into parliament. He is clever & has just the kind of flashy gifts which are a useful adjunct, if not a sufficient foundation for a politician’s reputation. If he gets in & Charlie Castlereagh too we shall have quite a good polo team.

I have practically finished my book. You cannot think how hard I have worked. Nearly 1100 pages of writing. But on the whole I am satisfied. I think it will be a solid step. Did I tell you that Longmans have offered me £4000 for it! I have replied. I want £6000 …

Have you followed the Curzon-Kitchener squabble? Of course I am a partisan of Curzon as representing the civil power against the military …

Harry Milner has accepted a most important office – v.i.z private secretary to Lord Derby. Everyone is astonished. But there is no accounting for tastes …

You will see by the fact that I am able to descend to gossip that I have somewhat composed & reorganised my mind. But … it was a struggle …