Carrington's Letters by Dora Carrington

Author:Dora Carrington
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House

1923

To Gerald Brenan

The Mill House

[1 January 1923]

Kunak,

Write please to me soon. Now that is all over, and we are free again, are we so chicken-spirited that we have no affections left?

I tell you Ralph has completely altered. I told him both times I wrote to you, and asked him if he would like to read my letters to you. He never bothered to, and then simply laughed at me when I said I had posted them two days later. Is all this to have a Tchekhov ending? ‘That after months of self denial, and anguish, when they could write they found all desire had vanished.’ Or you may be ill? Or perhaps on a ship bound to Buenos Aires, or the West Indies? I send you all my love for this New Year. Lately, perhaps because I have nothing of you now, I have been living in a ghostly world of memories. I can’t help being very fond. I am now so grateful that I had the little of you that I did have. It might have been even less. Here is a book on El Greco. I don’t know if you have one on him already. He is almost my favourite artist. I am reading Hogg’s life of Shelley now by myself in the evenings.fn160 Please, unless you feel disinclined write to me, or Ralph soon, if that (disinclined) I can wait. My dear, I wish I could see you again soon. I send all the love you want, and my best wishes for your work.

Your loving Doric

To Gerald Brenan

Tidmarsh-in-the-snow

Sunday, 14 January 1923

Your last letter was perhaps the best you have ever written. I take it as an honour that I should be a Fanny Brawne … I read Keats’ letters last night. They gave me a pleasure I cannot describe, one of great affection for a dead human. Now I sit over a grilling red fire. Lytton reads Dante in an exquisite first edition which he has just bought, in the big chair, Ralph is absent in the library typing for his Master, outside a cold wind howls & the ground is white with snow […]

I am rather feeble mentally & otherwise, so you must forgive this sluggish letter.

I always write to you in this moment of my life it seems – is it symbolic or merely an excuse for writing badly. No, it is because there are only two idle days in every month with me!

I have little to tell you. Last week I went up to London & saw my mother. It makes me very sad every time I see her. I see a doom – a vision of myself perhaps at the age of 70 – she had an awful time in Spain with my eldest brother. He has married a young Irish lady who leads a gay life, riding, balls at Gibraltar, combined with a most sluttish life on their farm in the stables & mud. My poor mother was forced to cook, clean

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