More Letters of Note

by Shaun Usher

  Don’t let my house get into a mess, Mr. X. Building and furnishing it has taken Mrs. Feuchtwanger and myself a lot of effort. Running and maintaining it won’t take a lot of effort. Please take care of it a little. I’m also saying this in your own interest. Your “Führer” has promised that his rule will last a thousand years: thus I’m assuming that you will soon be in the position of negotiating the houses’ return with me.

  With many good wishes for our house,

  Lion Feuchtwanger

  P.S. By the way, do you agree that my statement that your “Führer” writes bad German is disproved by the fact that you are sitting in my house?

  Letter No. 023

  LETTER TO THE DEAD

  SHEPSI TO INKHENMET

  Circa 2000 BC

  According to ancient Egyptians, the deceased were so powerful that they could settle earthly disputes and deliver justice from the afterlife with guidance from the Great God. When such assistance was needed, letters to dead relatives were often written on bowls that were then filled with food and placed outside the tombs of their loved ones, the belief being that the letter would be read when the meal was collected by the deceased. This particular example, left outside the tomb of Inkhenmet approximately 4,000 years ago, was written by his son, Shepsi, and concerned a land dispute seemingly brought on by Inkhenmet’s other, dead son, Sebkhotep, for which Shepsi sought retribution.

  Terracotta bowl inscribed with a letter from a mother to her dead son, Middle Kingdom

  Inside:

  Shepsi speaks to his father Inkhenmet.

  This is a reminder of your journey to the dungeon, to the place where Sen’s son Hetepu was, when you brought the foreleg of an ox, and when this your son came with Newaef, and when you said, Welcome, both of you. Sit and eat meat! Am I to be injured in your presence, without this your son having done or said anything, by my brother? (And yet) I was the one who buried him, I brought him from the dungeon, I placed him among his desert tomb-dwellers, even though thirty measures of refined barley were due from him by a loan, and one bundle of garments, six measures of fine barley, one ball of flax, and a cup – even though I did for him what did not (need) to be done. He has done this against this your son evilly, evilly - but you had said to this your son, ‘All my property is vested in my son Shepsi along with my fields’. Now Sher’s son Henu has been taken. See, he is with you in the same city. You have to go to judgement with him now, since your scribes are with (you) in the same city. Can a man be joyful, when his spears are used [against his own son]?

  Outside:

  Shepsi speaks to his mother Iy.

  This is a reminder of the time that you said to this your son ‘Bring me quails for me to eat’, and when this your son brought to you seven quails for you to eat. Am I to be injured in your presence, so that the children are badly discontent with this your son? Who then will pour out water for you? If only you would judge between me and Sobekhotep! I brought him from another town, and placed him in his town among his male and female dead, and gave him burial cloth. Why then is he acting against this your son, when I have said and done nothing, evilly, evilly? Evil-doing is painful for the gods!

  Letter No. 024

  YOU’RE OFF, BY GOD!

  RICHARD BURTON TO ELIZABETH TAYLOR

  June 25th, 1973

  Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton were both already married when they fell in love on the set of Cleopatra in 1962 – she to fourth husband, Eddie Fisher, a singer and he to actress Sybil Christopher. In 1964, with divorces finalised, they wed and became one of the most famous, bankable couples in Hollywood history: all told, they shared the screen in eleven films, including, in 1966, the multi-award-winning classic, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. Nine years after marrying, as their extravagant and famously tempestuous relationship crumbled, Taylor gave Burton his marching orders – this passionate letter, just one of many he sent to her during and after their union, was his response. A year after he wrote it, they divorced; sixteen months after that, they wed each other again. Their second marriage lasted just nine months.

  Elizabeth Taylor with Richard Burton, Budapest, 1973

  June 25, 1973

  So My Lumps,

  You’re off, by God!

  I can barely believe it since I am so unaccustomed to anybody leaving me. But reflectively I wonder why nobody did so before. All I care about—honest to God—is that you are happy and I don’t much care who you’ll find happiness with. I mean as long as he’s a friendly bloke and treats you nice and kind. If he doesn’t I’ll come at him with a hammer and clinker. God’s eye may be on the sparrow but my eye will always be on you. Never forget your strange virtues. Never forget that underneath that veneer of raucous language is a remarkable and puritanical LADY. I am a smashing bore and why you’ve stuck by me so long is an indication of your loyalty. I shall miss you with passion and wild regret.

  You may rest assured that I will not have affairs with any other female. I shall gloom a lot and stare morosely into unimaginable distances and act a bit—probably on the stage—to keep me in booze and butter, but chiefly and above all I shall write. Not about you, I hasten to add. No Millerinski Me, with a double M. There are many other and ludicrous and human comedies to constitute my shroud.

  I’ll leave it to you to announce the parting of the ways while I shall never say or write one word except this valedictory note to you. Try and look after yourself. Much love. Don’t forget that you are probably the greatest actress in the world. I wish I could borrow a minute portion of your passion and commitment, but there you are—cold is cold as ice is ice.

  Letter No. 025

  THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT

  BEATRIX POTTER TO NOEL MOORE

  September 4th, 1893

  In September of 1893, at 26 years of age, aspiring artist Beatrix Potter sent this illustrated letter to Noel, the five-year-old son of her friend and former governess, Annie Moore. The letter contained a tale of four rabbits, and in fact featured the first ever appearance of Peter Rabbit, the character for which Potter would one day become famous; however, it wasn’t until 1901, eight years later, that she decided to revisit her letter to Noel and develop the idea. The resulting story, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, was published in 1902 by Frederick Warne & Co., and has since become one of the most popular children’s books of all time.

  Eastwood

  Dunkeld

  Sep 4th 93

  My dear Noel,

  I don’t know what to write to you, so I shall tell you a story about four little rabbits whose names were – Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter.

  They lived with their mother in a sand bank under the root of a big fir tree.

  “Now my dears,” said old Mrs Bunny “you may go into the field or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr McGregor’s garden.”

  Flopsy, Mopsy & Cottontail, who were good little rabbits went down the lane to gather blackberries, but Peter, who was very naughty ran straight away to Mr McGregor’s garden and squeezed underneath the gate.

  First he ate some lettuce, and some broad beans, then some radishes, and then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley; but round the end of a cucumber frame whom should he meet but Mr McGregor!

  Mr McGregor was planting out young cabbages but he jumped up & ran after Peter waving a rake & calling out “Stop thief”!

  Peter was most dreadfully frightened & rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages and the other shoe amongst the potatoes. After losing them he ran on four legs & went faster, so that I think he would have got away altogether, if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net and got caught fast by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.

  Mr McGregor came up with a basket which he intended to pop on the top of Peter, but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind, and this time he found the gate, slipped underneath and ran home safely.
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  Mr McGregor hung up the little jacket & shoes for a scarecrow, to frighten the blackbirds.

  Peter was ill during the evening, in consequence of overeating himself. His mother put him to bed and gave him a dose of camomile tea, but Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.

  I am coming back to London next Thursday, so I hope I shall see you soon, and the new baby.

  I remain, dear Noel, yours affectionately

  Beatrix Potter

  Letter No. 026

  YOUR EAGER MOTHER

  JESSIE BERNARD TO HER UNBORN CHILD

  May 4th, 1941

  Renowned American sociologist and feminist Jessie Bernard studied and taught at a number of institutes up until her retirement in 1964, and it was really only then that she became one of feminism’s most important voices by writing most of the seminal books and articles for which she is now known, including The Future of Marriage and The Female World. She did much of this as a single parent to her three children following the loss of her husband, Luther, to cancer in 1951, six months after the birth of their third child. In 1941, aged 38 and pregnant with their first, Jessie wrote their unborn daughter a letter.

  * * *

  4 May 1941

  My dearest,

  Eleven weeks from today you will be ready for this outside world. And what a world it is this year! It has been the most beautiful spring I have ever seen. Miss Morris (a faculty colleague) says it is because I have you to look forward to. She says she has noticed a creative look on my face in my appreciation of this spring. And she is right. But also the world itself has been so particularly sweet, aglow with color. The forsythia were fragrant and feathery. And now the spirea, heavy with their little round blooms, stand like wonderful igloos, a mass of white. I doff my scientific mantle long enough to pretend that Nature is outdoing herself to prepare this earth for you. But also I want to let all this beauty get into my body. I cannot help but think of that other world. The world of Europe where babies are born to hunger, stunted growth, breasts dried up with anxiety and fatigue. That is part of the picture too. And I sometimes think that while my body in this idyllic spring creates a miracle, forces are at work which within twenty or twenty-five years may be preparing to destroy the creation of my body. My own street, the war takes on a terrible new significance when I think of that. I think of all those mothers who carried their precious cargoes so carefully for nine long months - and you have no idea how long nine months can be when you are impatient for the end - lovingly nurtured their babies at their breasts, and watched them grow for twenty years. I think of their anguish when all this comes to naught. Your father thinks parents ought to get down on their knees and beg forgiveness of children for bringing them into such a world. And there is much truth in that. But I hope you will never feel like that. I hope you will never regret the life we have created for you out of our seed. To me the only answer a woman can make to the destructive forces of the world is creation. And the most ecstatic form of creation is the creation of new life. I have so many dreams for you. There are so many virtues I would endow you with if I could. First of all, I would make you tough and strong. And how I have labored at that! I have eaten vitamins and minerals instead of food. Gallons of milk, pounds of lettuce, dozens of eggs … Hours of sunshine. To make your body a strong one because everything [depends] on that. I would give you resiliency of body so that all the blows and buffets of this world would leave you still unbeaten. I would have you creative. I would have you a creative scientist. But if the shuffling genes have made of you an artist, that will make me happy too. And even if you have no special talent either artistic or scientific, I would still have you creative no matter what you do. To build things, to make things, to create - that is what I covet for you. If you have a strong body and a creative mind you will be happy. I will help in that. Already I can see how parents long to shield their children from disappointments and defeat. But I also know that I cannot re-make life for you. You will suffer. You will have moments of disappointment and defeat. You will have your share of buffeting. I cannot spare you that. But I hope to help you be such a strong, radiant, self-integrated person that you will take all this in your stride, assimilate it, and rise to conquer …

  Eleven more weeks. It seems a long time. Until another time, then, my precious one, I say good-bye.

  Your eager mother

  Letter No. 027

  THE MATCHBOX

  SYLVIA TOWNSEND WARNER TO ALYSE GREGORY

  December 23rd, 1946

  Born in 1893, English author and poet Sylvia Townsend Warner wrote seven novels in her lifetime beginning with Lolly Willowes – the quirky tale of a lady who moves away from home following the death of her father and, as is often the case, takes up witchcraft – the book for which she is now remembered by too few people; in fact, she found more success in the US where she was celebrated by many and frequently wrote for The New Yorker magazine. Away from public life, Townsend Warner also had an unrivalled knack for writing entertaining letters, and in 1946 penned this exquisite example to friend and fellow writer, Alyse Gregory, in response to a Christmas gift which, if given to anyone else, would have elicited little more than a blank expression.

  Dearest Alyse,

  Usually one begins a thank-letter by some graceless comparison, by saying, I have never been given such a very scarlet muffler, or, This is the largest horse I have ever been sent for Christmas. But your matchbox is a nonpareil, for never in my life have I been given a matchbox. Stamps, yes, drawing-pins, yes, balls of string, yes, yes, menacingly too often; but never a matchbox. Now that it has happened I ask myself why it has never happened before. They are such charming things, neat as wrens, and what a deal of ingenuity and human artfulness has gone into their construction; for if they were like the ordinary box with a lid they would not be one half so convenient. This one though is especially neat, charming, and ingenious, and the tray slides in and out as though Chippendale had made it.

  But what I like best of all about my matchbox is that it is an empty one. I have often thought how much I should enjoy being given an empty house in Norway, what pleasure it would be to walk into those bare wood-smelling chambers, walls, floor, ceiling, all wood, which is after all the natural shelter of man, or at any rate the most congenial. And when I opened your matchbox which is now my matchbox and saw that beautiful clean sweet-smelling empty rectangular expanse it was exactly as though my house in Norway had come true; with the added advantage of being just the right size to carry in my hand. I shut my imagination up in it instantly, and it is still sitting there, listening to the wind in the firwood outside. Sitting there in a couple of days time I shall hear the Lutheran bell calling me to go and sing Lutheran hymns while the pastor’s wife gazes abstractedly at her husband in a bower of evergreen while she wonders if she remembered to put pepper in the goose-stuffing; but I shan’t go, I shall be far too happy sitting in my house that Alyse gave me for Christmas.

  Oh, I must tell you I have finished my book—begun in 1941 and a hundred times imperilled but finished at last. So I can give an undivided mind to enjoying my matchbox.

  [Signed]

  P.S. There is still so much to say...carried away by my delight in form and texture I forgot to praise the picture on the back. I have never seen such an agreeable likeness of a hedgehog, and the volcano in the background is magnificent.

  Letter No. 028

  ALL THIS I DID WITHOUT YOU

  GERALD DURRELL TO LEE MCGEORGE

  July 31st, 1978

  Gerald Durrell and Lee McGeorge first met in 1977 when Durrell, a respected conservationist and author 24 years her senior, was giving a lecture at Duke University in North Carolina where she was a PhD student. Her area of interest, animal behaviour, gave them plenty to discuss and they immediately became close: two years later they were married. By the time Durrell died in 1995 they had travelled the world together on numerous conservation expeditions and co-written two books: A
Practical Guide for the Amateur Naturalist, and Durrell in Russia.

  In 1978, a year after they first met, Gerald Durrell wrote a love letter to his future wife.

  My darling McGeorge,

  You said that things seemed clearer when they were written down. Well, herewith a very boring letter in which I will try and put everything down so that you may read and re- read it in horror at your folly in getting involved with me. Deep breath.

  To begin with I love you with a depth and passion that I have felt for no one else in this life and if it astonishes you it astonishes me as well. Not, I hasten to say, because you are not worth loving. Far from it. It’s just that, first of all, I swore I would not get involved with another woman. Secondly, I have never had such a feeling before and it is almost frightening. Thirdly, I would never have thought it possible that another human being could occupy my waking (and sleeping) thoughts to the exclusion of almost everything else. Fourthly, I never thought that – even if one was in love – one could get so completely besotted with another person, so that a minute away from them felt like a thousand years. Fifthly, I never hoped, aspired, dreamed that one could find everything one wanted in one person. I was not such an idiot as to believe this was possible. Yet in you I have found everything I want: you are beautiful, gay, giving, gentle, idiotically and deliciously feminine, sexy, wonderfully intelligent and wonderfully silly as well. I want nothing else in this life than to be with you, to listen and watch you (your beautiful voice, your beauty), to argue with you, to laugh with you, to show you things and share things with you, to explore your magnificent mind, to explore your wonderful body, to help you, protect you, serve you, and bash you on the head when I think you are wrong … Not to put too fine a point on it I consider that I am the only man outside mythology to have found the crock of gold at the rainbow’s end.