More Letters of Note
Page 24
To Dr. C. G. Jung, with grateful appreciation of his aid and counsel. James Joyce. Xmas 1934, Zurich.
Küsnacht-Zürich
Seestrasse 228
September 27th 1932
James Joyce Esq.
Hotel Elite
Zurich
Dear Sir,
Your Ulysses has presented the world such an upsetting psychological problem that repeatedly I have been called in as a supposed authority on psychological matters.
Ulysses proved to be an exceedingly hard nut and it has forced my mind not only to most unusual efforts, but also to rather extravagant peregrinations (speaking from the standpoint of a scientist). Your book as a whole has given me no end of trouble and I was brooding over it for about three years until I succeeded to put myself into it. But I must tell you that I’m profoundly grateful to yourself as well as to your gigantic opus, because I learned a great deal from it. I shall probably never be quite sure whether I did enjoy it, because it meant too much grinding of nerves and of grey matter. I also don’t know whether you will enjoy what I have written about Ulysses because I couldn’t help telling the world how much I was bored, how I grumbled, how I cursed and how I admired. The 40 pages of non stop run at the end is a string of veritable psychological peaches. I suppose the devil’s grandmother knows so much about the real psychology of a woman, I didn’t.
Well, I just try to recommend my little essay to you, as an amusing attempt of a perfect stranger that went astray in the labyrinth of your Ulysses and happened to get out of it again by sheer good luck. At all events you may gather from my article what Ulysses has done to a supposedly balanced psychologist.
With the expression of my deepest appreciation, I remain, dear Sir,
Yours faithfully,
C. G. Jung
Letter No. 091
THE APPALLING HORROR
FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE TO WILLIAM BOWMAN
November 14th, 1854
Florence Nightingale’s influence in the world of nursing is impossible to quantify. Born in 1820 to a wealthy family, she knew from a young age that caring for the sick and vulnerable was her calling in life, much to the disapproval of her parents. Little did they know that their daughter would one day become the founder of modern nursing; she would also, most famously, train and take a team of nurses to Turkey in 1854 in order to care for the thousands of soldiers injured during the Crimean War, most of whom were languishing in unspeakably horrific conditions. It was there that she wrote this letter to Dr..William Bowman of King’s College Hospital and described in great detail the “appalling horror”. Such was her impact, Nightingale returned home a hero.
“I came out, Ma’am, prepared to submit to everything—to be put upon in every way—but there are some things, Ma’am, one can’t submit to. There is caps, Ma’am, that suits one face and some that suits another’s, and if I’d known, Ma’am, about the caps, great as was my desire to come out to nurse at Scutari, I wouldn’t have come, Ma’am.”
Speech of Mrs Lawfield, 5 November.
Barrack Hospital Scutari,
Asiatic Side
14 November 1854
Dear Sir
Time must be at a discount with the man who can adjust the balance of such an important question as the above—and I, for one, have none, as you will easily suppose when I tell you that, on Thursday last, we had 1715 sick and wounded in this hospital (among whom 120 cholera patients) and 650 severely wounded in the building called the General Hospital, of which we also have charge, when a message came to me to prepare for 570 wounded on our side of the hospital, who were arriving from the dreadful affair of 5 November at Balaclava, where were 1763 wounded and 442 killed, besides 96 officers wounded and 38 killed.
I always expected to end my days as hospital matron, but I never expected to be barrack mistress. We had but half an hour’s notice before they began landing the wounded. Between 1 and 9 o’clock we had the mattresses stuffed, sewn up, laid down, alas! only upon matting on the floors, the men washed and put to bed, and all their wounds dressed. I wish I had time and I would write you a letter dear to a surgeon’s heart, I am as good as a Medical Times.
But oh! you gentlemen of England who sit at home in all the well-earned satisfaction of your successful cases can have little idea from reading the newspapers of the horror and misery (in a military hospital) of operating upon these dying and exhausted men—a London hospital is a garden of flowers to it.
We have had such a sea in the Bosphorus and the Turks, the very men for whom we are fighting, carry our wounded so cruelly that they arrive in a state of agony. One amputated stump died two hours after we received him, one compound fracture just as we were getting him into bed, in all twenty-four cases on the day of landing. The dysentery cases have died at the rate of one in two. Then the day of operations which follows. I have no doubt that Providence is quite right and that the kingdom of hell is the best beginning for the kingdom of heaven, but that this is the kingdom of hell no one can doubt.
We are very lucky in our medical heads. Two of them are brutes and four of them are angels—for this is a work which makes either angels or devils of men, and of women too. As for the assistants, they are all cubs, and will, while a man is breathing his last breath under the knife, lament the “arrogance of being called up from the dinners by such a fresh influx of wounded.” But wicked cubs grow up into good old bears, though I don’t know how—for certain it is the old bears are good.
We have now four miles of beds—and not eighteen inches apart. We have our quarters in one tower of the barrack, and all this fresh influx has been laid down between us and the main guard in two corridors with a line of beds down each side, just room for one man to step between, and four wards.
Yet in the midst of this appalling horror (we are steeped up to our necks in blood) there is good. And I can truly say, like St Peter, “it is good for us to be here,” though I doubt whether, if St Peter had been here, he would have said so.
As I went my night rounds among the newly wounded that first night there was not one murmur, not one groan—the strictest discipline, the most absolute silence and quiet prevailed—only the step of the sentry and I heard one man say, I was dreaming of my friends at home, and another said, And I was thinking of them. These poor fellows bear pain and mutilation with unshrinking heroism, and die or are cut up without a complaint.
Not so the officers, but we have nothing to do with the officers.
The wounded are now lying up to our very door, and we are landing forty more from the Andes.
I take rank in the army as brigadier general, because forty British females, whom I have with me, are more difficult to manage than 4000 men. Let no lady come out here who is not used to fatigue and privation. For the Devonport sisters, who ought to know what self-denial is, do nothing but complain. Occasionally the roof is torn off our quarters, or the windows blown in, and we are flooded and under water for the night. We have all sick cookery now to do, and have got in four men for the purpose, for the prophet Muhammad does not allow us a female. And we are now able to supply these poor fellows with something besides the government rations. The climate is very good for the healing of wounds.
I wish you would recall me to Dr Bence Jones’s remembrance when you see him, and tell him that I have had but too much occasion to remember him in the constant use of his dreadful presents. Now comes the time of hemorrhage and hospital gangrene, and every ten minutes an orderly runs and we have to go and cram lint into the wound till a surgeon can be sent for and stop the bleeding as well as we can.
In all our corridors I think we have not an average of three limbs per man—and there are two ships more “loading” at the Crimea with wounded—this is our phraseology. Then come the operations and a melancholy, not an encouraging list is this. They are all performed in the wards—no time to move them. One poor fellow, exhausted with hemorrhage, has his leg amputated as a last hope and dies ten minutes after the surgeons have left him.
Almost before the breath has left his body it is sewn up in its blanket and carried away—buried the same day. We have no room for corpses in the wards. The surgeons pass on to the next, an excision of the shoulder joint—beautifully performed and going on well—ball lodged just in the head of the joint, and the fracture starred all round. The next poor fellow has two stumps for arms, and the next has lost an arm and leg.
As for the balls, they go in where they like and do as much harm as they can in passing—that is the only rule they have. The next case has one eye put out and paralysis of the iris of the other. He can neither see nor understand.
But all who can walk come in to us for tobacco, but I tell them that we have not a bit to put into our own mouths—not a sponge, nor a rag of linen, not an anything have I left. Everything is gone to make slings and stump pillows and shirts. These poor fellows have not had a clean shirt nor been washed for two months before they came here, and the state in which they arrive from the transport is literally crawling.
I hope in a few days we shall establish a little cleanliness—but we have not a basin nor a towel nor a bit of soap nor a broom. I have ordered 300 scrubbing brushes. But one half the barrack is so sadly out of repair that it is impossible to use a drop of water on the stone floors, which are all laid upon rotten wood, and would give our men fever in no time.
The next case is a poor fellow where the ball went in at the side of the head, put out one eye, made a hole in his tongue and came out in the neck. The wound was doing very nicely when he was seized with agonizing pain and died suddenly, without convulsion or paralysis. At the P.M . an abscess in the anterior part of the head was found as big as my fist—yet the man kept his reasoning faculties till the last. And nature had thrown out a false coat all round it.
I am getting a screen now for the amputations, for when one poor fellow—who is to be amputated tomorrow—sees his comrade today die under the knife, it makes impression, and diminishes his chance. But, anyway, among these exhausted frames the mortality of the operations is frightful.
We have erysipelas, fever and gangrene. And the Russian wounded are the worst. We are getting on nicely though in many ways. They were so glad to see us.
The senior chaplain is a sensible man, which is a remarkable providence. I have not been out of the hospital wards yet. But the most beautiful view in the world lies outside. If you ever see Mr Whitfield, the house apothecary of St Thomas’, will you tell him that the nurse he sent me, Mrs Roberts, is worth her weight in gold.
There was another engagement on the 8th and more wounded, who are coming down to us. The text which heads my letter was expounded thus. Mrs Lawfield was recommended to return home and set her cap, vulgarly speaking, at somewhere else than here, but on begging for mercy, was allowed to make another trial. Mrs Drake is a treasure—the four others are not fit to take care of themselves nor of others in a military hospital. This is my first impression. But it may modify, if I can convince them of the absolute necessity of discipline and propriety in a drunken garrison…
This is only the beginning of things. We are still expecting the assault.
Letter No. 092
YOU ARE A HOMOSEXUAL AND MAY NEVER CHANGE
FELICIA BERNSTEIN TO LEONARD BERNSTEIN
c.1952
On September 10th of 1951, 29-year-old Chilean-born actress and singer Felicia Montealegre wed Leonard Bernstein, 33, a musical prodigy now considered one of the most accomplished conductors and composers in history. By 1962 they had three children and although they separated towards the end of their relationship, Felicia and Leonard remained married until her death in 1978. The letter seen here, written by Felicia approximately a year after the wedding, shines a light on their marriage from a different angle and concerns an aspect of the relationship of which she was seemingly very understanding and determined to accommodate: Bernstein’s sexuality.
Composer Leonard Bernstein aged 36, 1955
Darling,
If I seemed sad as you drove away today it was not because I felt in any way deserted but because I was left alone to face myself and this whole bloody mess which is our “connubial” life. I’ve done a lot of thinking and have decided that it’s not such a mess after all.
First: we are not committed to a life sentence—nothing is really irrevocable, not even marriage (though I used to think so).
Second: you are a homosexual and may never change—you don’t admit to the possibility of a double life, but if your peace of mind, your health, your whole nervous system depend on a certain sexual pattern what can you do?
Third: I am willing to accept you as you are, without being a martyr or sacrificing myself on the L.B. altar. (I happen to love you very much—this may be a disease and if it is what better cure?) It may be difficult but no more so than the “status quo” which exists now—at the moment you are not yourself and this produces painful barriers and tensions for both of us—let’s try and see what happens if you are free to do as you like, but without guilt and confession, please!
As for me—once you are rid of tensions I’m sure my own will disappear. A companionship will grow which probably no one else may be able to offer you. The feelings you have for me will be clearer and easier to express—our marriage is not based on passion but on tenderness and mutual respect. Why not have them?
I know now too that I need to work. It is a very important part of me and I feel incomplete without it. I may want to do something about it soon. I am used to an active life, and then there is that old ego problem.
We may have gotten married too soon and yet we needed to get married and we’ve not made a mistake. It is good for us even if we suffer now and make each other miserable—we will both grow up some day and be strong and unafraid either together or apart—after all we are both more important as individuals than a “marriage” is.
In any case my dearest darling ape, let’s give it a whirl. There’ll be crisis (?) from time to time but that doesn’t scare me any more. And let’s relax in the knowledge that neither of us is perfect and forget about being HUSBAND AND WIFE in such strained capital letters, it’s not that awful!
There’s a lot else I’ve got to say but the pill has overpowered me. I’ll write again soon. My wish for the week is that you come back guiltless and happy.
F
Letter No. 093
I NEVER STUDIED GRACE
CHARLES LAMB TO JACOB VALE ASBURY
1830
One evening in 1830, British essayist and poet Charles Lamb attended a party held by his friend and doctor, Jacob Vale Asbury, and Jacob’s wife, Dorothy. Never one to turn down an alcoholic beverage, Lamb proceeded to drink as much as his body could hold and soon lost all control of his faculties; unable to move more than a few inches, he was eventually carried home by a fellow guest. The next day, having been forced by his sister to ask forgiveness for his behaviour, Lamb wrote to his hosts with this impressively unapologetic letter of apology.
Dear Sir:
It is an observation of a wise man that “moderation is best in all things.” I cannot agree with him “in liquor.” There is a smoothness and oiliness in wine that makes it go down by a natural channel, which I am positive was made for that descending. Else, why does not wine choke us? Could Nature have made that sloping lane not to facilitate the downgoing? She does nothing in vain. You know that better than I. You know how often she has helped you at a dead lift, and how much better entitled she is to a fee than yourself sometimes, when you carry off the credit. Still there is something due to manners and customs, and I should apologize to you and Mrs. Asbury for being absolutely carried home upon a man’s shoulders through Silver Street, up Parson’s Lane, by the Chapels (which might have taught me better), and then to be deposited like a dead log at Gaffar Westwood’s, who it seems does not “insure” against intoxication. Not that the mode of conveyance is objectionable. On the contrary, it is more easy than a one-horse chaise. Ariel in The Tempest says
“On a Bat’s back
do I fly, after sunset merrily.”
Now, I take it that Ariel must sometimes have stayed out late of nights. Indeed, he pretends that “where the bee sucks, there lurks he,” as much as to say that his suction is as innocent as that little innocent (but damnably stinging when he is provoked) winged creature. But I take it that Ariel was fond of metheglin, of which the bees are notorious brewers. But then you will say, What a shocking sight to see a middle-aged gentleman-and-a-half riding upon a gentleman’s back up Parson’s Lane at midnight. Exactly the time for that sort of conveyance, when nobody can see him, nobody but heaven and his own conscience; now, heaven makes fools, and don’t expect much from her own creation; and as for conscience, she and I have long since come to a compromise. I have given up false modesty, and she allows me to abate a little of the true. I like to be liked, but I don’t care about being respected. I don’t respect myself. But, as I was saying, I thought he would have let me down just as we got to Lieutenant Barker’s coal shed (or emporium) but by a cunning jerk I eased myself and righted my posture. I protest, I thought myself in a palanquin, and never felt myself so grandly carried. It was a slave under me. There was I, all but my reason. And what is reason? And what is the loss of it? And how often in a day do we do without it, just as well? Reason is only counting, two and two makes four. And if on my passage home, I thought it made five, what matter? Two and two will just make four, as it always did, before I took the finishing glass that did my business. My sister has begged me to write an apology to Mrs. A and you for disgracing your party; now it does seem to me that I rather honored your party, for everyone that was not drunk (and one or two of the ladies, I am sure, were not) must have been set off greatly in the contrast to me. I was the scapegoat. The soberer they seemed. By the way, is magnesia good on these occasions? I am no licentiate, but know enough of simples to beg you to send me a draft after this model. But still you will say (or the men and maids at your house will say) that it is not a seemly sight for an old gentleman to go home pickaback. Well, maybe it is not. But I never studied grace. I take it to be a mere superficial accomplishment. I regard more the internal acquisitions. The great object after supper is to get home, and whether that is obtained in a horizontal posture or perpendicular (as foolish men and apes affect for dignity) I think is little to the purpose. The end is always greater than the means. Here I am, able to compose a sensible rational apology, and what signifies how I got here? I have just sense enough to remember I was very happy last night, and to thank our kind host and hostess, and that’s sense enough, I hope.