Lawrence and Brett (Softcover)

A Friendship

Dorothy Brett

• Publisher: Sunstone Press
• Year: 2006
• ISBN:
  9781611394870
• Topic: Arte
• Subtopic: Biografías de artistas

In March of 1924, D. H. Lawrence, Frieda Lawrence and the Honorable Dorothy Brett went to Taos, New Mexico, to absorb the color and romance of what was to them a mysterious and compelling land. Dorothy Brett recreated those days in this fascinating first-hand account, and also writes of when she was the close friend of Aldous Huxley, Lytton Strachey, Katherine Mansfield, and other important literary and artistic figures. But more importantly, she focused on her relationship with Lawrence and the book was specifically addressed to him as if he were to read it, reminding him personally of her long-standing devotion.Such devotion was not rebuffed by Lawrence, it seems, but it was met differently by the two other women orbiting the famous writer: his wife, Frieda Lawrence, and Mabel Dodge Luhan. They were in turn cross and conciliatory to her. But it seems that she just accepted them as other intense admirers of Lawrence, took it all simply and wrote it all down with a minimum of comment. When this book was first published in 1933, it was praised by critics as well as the general public. Alfred Stieglitz said: "It was a rare spiritual experience--no student of Lawrence can afford to miss this book.. There is an integrity in the book--a sense of the eternal--a sense of Light--which raises it above all the other books I have read about Lawrence." And, interestingly, Mabel Dodge Luhan called it "clearly and explicitly drawn." Here it all is again with additional material added by Dorothy Brett herself when the 1974 edition was first published by Sunstone Press.

PART I

ENGLAND

"Friendship is as Binding

As the Marriage Vow —

As important—as Eternal —”

D. H. L.

Part I

DAWN. . . . A pale skyrises slowly over the sharp edge of the mountain. Far away below me the light steals towards me over the soft gray desert, creeps slowly up the mountain as the shadow of night withdraws. The sun touches the tips of the pine-trees, lighting them like torches to the coming day, runs down them, floods over the field, over me, over everything but you in your starlit grave . . . your grave, Lorenzo, under the fruit trees and flowers on that hillside at Vence. While I . . . here alone for years, writing to you, guarding the little Ranch for your return . . . tell you of the dawn, of the days, and starlit nights; of the horses, the Sacred Mountain and your great Pine-tree. You, wandering through Italy to Spain, from England to Germany, back to Italy, write me. You are coming in the Spring; no you cannot after all; but in the Fall you will come without fail. Four years I wait thus. My Indians come up from the Pueblo every summer to look after me, I begin to paint them. I unfold the tale to you, writing always to you, you to me; yours lie in my steel box, and mine lie buried in ashes here, there, and everywhere on your wide travels.

Your clothes hang in the cupboard, your cowboy boots, your big Stetson. Your horses and mine idly swish their long tails, standing close together under the young cottonwood trees. Everything waits for you. Why was I not told you were slowly, imperceptibly dying? I wait while you die. Now Frieda is coming; so for the last time I lie on your porch, looking across the field at the Sangre de Cristo Mountains thrown up against the sky like the petals of a Lotus Flower, and I am writing once more . . . writing of you, for you have chosen death.

The peace be with you and with you the peace.

* * *

I go back to our first inauspicious meeting in 1915. In those days I was living at home, with a very pretty studio in the Earls Court Road. I owe my first meeting you to Mark Gertler. How vivacious, how amusing, how barbaric Gertler was in those days, until the same dreaded disease took hold of him that destroyed Katherine and you. With his thick, dark, curly hair, cut like a Florentine boy, the delicate, clear-cut features, the long gray eyes, he was as beautiful as a Botticelli angel or a wild creature out of some Keltic myth. And he danced as no one else could. He plagued and plagued me; it was his insisting that I meet you that overcame my shyness and brought your invitation to tea. So we come to your tiny box of a house in the Vale of Health. It is dark and poky; there is a large woman, Frieda, and a little man who scuttles out as we come in, Murry, and you . . . dark-looking in that dark house.

A bright fire burns in the tiny sitting-room. Gertler, you and I sit in a row in front of the fire discussing O.—our mutual friend and enemy. I, terribly shy, in agonies of nervousness; you gentle, gently coaxing me out of my shyness. You had your beard, then, and a bang of thick hair on your forehead. You sit very upright with your hands tucked under your thighs sitting on the palms. We sit drinking tea, tearing poor O. to pieces. We pull her feathers out in handfuls until I stop, aghast, and try to be merciful, saying, “We will leave her just one feather.” You laugh at that, a high, tinkling laugh, mischievous, saying, “We will leave her just one draggled feather in her tail, the poor plucked hen!” Then it is arranged I give you a farewell party in my studio, as you are shortly leaving for abroad—and that is all I remember.

* * *

A few days later in my studio, I give the party to you, consisting of Gertler, Kotiliansky, Murry and Katherine Mansfield, Carrington and myself, you and Frieda and Estelle Rice, a very close friend of Katherine’s.

I await your arrival anxiously. The studio with its polished floor, glowing stove, big divans and neat little white-railed balcony, looks cosy and pretty.

Gertler and Kotiliansky are the first to arrive; Kotiliansky so broad-shouldered that he looks short, his black hair brushed straight up “en brosse,” his dark eyes set perhaps a trifle too close to his nose, the nose a delicate well-made arch, gold eye-glasses pinched onto it. He has an air of distinction, of power, and also a tremendous capacity for fun and enjoyment.

A little later Katherine Mansfield and Murry appear. Katherine small, her sleek dark hair brushed close to her head, her fringe sleeked down over her white forehead; she dresses nearly always in black with a touch of white or scarlet or a rich, deep purple. This evening she is dressed in black. Her movements are quaintly restricted; controlled, small, reserved gestures. The dark eyes glance about much like a bird’s, the pale face is a quiet mask, full of hidden laughter, wit and gaiety. But she is cautious, a bit suspicious and on her guard. Middleton Murry rolls in with the gait of a sailor, his curly dark hair is getting a bit thin on top. He is nervous, shy, a small man. The eyes are large and hazel, with a strange unseeing look; the nose is curved one side and perfectly straight the other, due to its having been broken. His lips are finely cut, the mouth sensitive, the chin determined. A fine and beautiful head, more masculine than Gertler; the head of a poet, of a recluse, of a dreamer. When the shyness wears off him, he also is full of fun.

Carrington is one of my Slade School friends, as Gertler is. Her heavy, bobbed, golden hair falls round her face like a curtain; she looks up from under it with two sly blue eyes. She is dressed like an Augustus John girl, in a brick-red material. She sidles in, rather than walks. What charm and fascination she has, what genius for drawing.

We have supper on the balcony round the small, square table. Afterwards we start playing charades. What good actors you all are. In the midst of an engrossing bandit scene, there is a loud knock on the door and twenty-two drunken people stagger in. From where? The news that I am giving a studio rag brings them, most of them strangers to me; and all of them have bottles in their pockets. They push in and take possession. Our quiet, gay little party is ruined.

I can see someone carrying a woman I did not know across the room; of you I have little recollection, except hearing you talk Italian to Iris Tree. K is sitting on the sofa clasped in some man’s arms; Kotiliansky is singing on the balcony; Gertler and Carrington are squabbling as usual. While I, distraught, play the pianola fast and furiously, watching the party reflected in the bright woodwork of the piano. Some are dancing, some talking, all are more or less drunk. The party is spoiled to me. At last it ends in the early hours of the morning; they are gone and we are propping a very amiable, completely drunk Murry up against the wall, and every time down he falls again. He is carried away, somehow, and we arrange that I give another farewell party, secretly, and we all pray fervently to be left in peace.

* * *

Two nights later we gather together again, and this time the secret has been well kept! No “gate crashers,” as they say in this country. We play charades—what fun they are. You trotting round the room riding an imaginary bicycle, ringing the bell, crying in a high falsetto voice, “Ting-a-ling-a-ling!” and running over us all. I, too shy to act well, choose as often as possible to be in the audience, about which there is much squabbling and much laughter.

The very next day you leave for abroad; I never see you again until 1923. Katherine Mansfield is dead; I am living in a small, old, Queen Anne house in Hampstead; and just before Christmas you come.

* * *

Frieda has come over about six weeks before you and is staying with Kotiliansky, in Acacio Road. Handsome, blonde, light-eyed, a massive German. I see a good deal of her—a great deal when she moves into a flat in Hampstead. Will you come, or won’t you? is the urgent question amongst us all. Even Frieda herself does not know. It may be a parting or it may not, she hints. You are in Old Mexico; then suddenly you have taken a ship, a slow ship, from Vera Cruz. You are coming. We are all tense with excitement. You come. I am not allowed to meet you at the station. I see and hear nothing for a couple of days, until you ’phone me that I am invited to the dinner that is being given you at the Cafe Royale.

* * *

Murry is living in the house next door to me. He has a small room at the top of Boris Anrep’s house, but he has his meals with me. Katherine’s rooms are just as she left them, but Murry can never bring himself to use them much. He and I start for the Cafe Royale. A private room has been engaged, an ornate, over-gilded, red-plushed room. Kotiliansky, Gertler and Mrs. Gilbert Cannan are grouped round the fire with Catherine Carswell and her husband, Don. Kotiliansky happy, exuberant; Gertler cheeky and gay; Mrs. Cannan small and still lovely in evening dress with a large black picture hat. We wait, wondering whether you have got lost. A waiter suddenly flings open the door, and you are there. You step into the room, pause, and look at us all.

Slim, neat, with your overcoat folded over your arm, you stand looking at us, proudly, like a God, the Lord of us all, the light streaming down on your dark, gold hair. I turn away, strangely moved, while the others cluster round, one taking your hat, the other your coat; until, stepping out from among them, you say:

“Where is Brett? I want to meet her.”

I turn round, you come quickly forward, saying: “So this is Brett.”

I look up, realizing with surprise the eyes are blue, not black, as I had thought. How quick and eager and alert you are. I am to sit on your left and Mrs. Cannan on your right; next her, Kotiliansky, Don Carswell, Gertler, Catherine Carswell, Frieda, and Murry.

I put my ear machine on the table beside you; you look at it and laugh, a bit quizzically, making a few ribald remarks about the impossibility of making love into such a box. I, shy, attentive, silent, while you begin in your delicate, sensitive way to woo me. To what remark of mine do you reply, elfishly, mischievously, “Ah, no, Brett, I am not a man ... I am MAN.” And again and again: “Will you come to Taormina with me, Brett; will you come? Or shall it be New Mexico? . . . But will you come or would you be afraid?” And I, overwhelmed, terribly aware of you, evading, dodging, murmur: “I will go anywhere with you.”

“Would you be afraid to come to Taormina with me?”

“No. I would not be afraid,” comes my shy, nervous answer.

So around the table and around us goes the drink and laughter and talk. You make a speech, inviting all of us to go with you, to make a new life. Murry kisses you, fervently; Kotiliansky makes a return speech; the glasses are flung over our shoulders, splintering on the floor.

Then, in the midst of it all, the wine gets the better of you, and you lean forward, dazed, and start vomiting, in the midst of a silent consternation. I take hold of your hand and hold it, with the other I stroke your hair, that heavy, dark, gold hair, brushing it back from your hot forehead. You are speechless, dazed, helpless, after you stop vomiting. Kotiliansky and Murry carry you downstairs, into a taxi, and up the narrow stairs to your rooms at the top of Catherine Carswell’s house in Hampstead. For several days you are sick in bed. I come to see you. You are sitting up in bed in a red knitted shawl, looking very pale and ill and hurt. . . . You never spoke of it, nor we, and I never knew it happen to you again.

* * *

How often do you come running down to my little house in Pond Street? I don’t know. You hate that house, you hate my furniture, you hate the whole thing, but you come, nevertheless. We sit opposite each other, making flowers in clay and painting them; and you talk to me in that soft, midland voice, probing delicately into my life and ideas and feelings, sensitive to my sensitiveness; and I evade shyly, you laughing at my adroitness. And thus we sit, happily, sometimes quite silently, intensely aware of each other, modelling and painting pots of flowers.

* * *

One coldish day you climb the steep narrow stairs to my studio and sit in the chair Katherine sat in whenever she had the strength to climb those stairs. How scared I am when I show you my canvases. You are serious, interested, forceful. You ask me in that clear, quick, almost military abruptness, what I am trying to do in painting. You look at them, and in your masterful way you exclaim:

“They are dead, like all the paintings now; there is no life in them. They are dead, dead! All these still-lives—no life in the painting.”

I feel the power in you, then; the pent-up, stormy power. Murry comes in as I am explaining to you what I feel about light, “double lighting” I call it. Murry asks, “But what does she mean?” And you, impatient, replying, “I know what she means.” Then to me: “Go on.” Later your resentment that a woman should bother about art, your anger that the painters of to-day never faced life itself; and I, a bit crushed, yet obstinate, long to talk it out; but Murry takes you away, which probably is safer for me.

* * *

I am talking, in my sitting room, to a possible portrait client. The bell rings. I go to the front door and you are standing outside, looking with astonishment at the large Rolls Royce parked outside my door. May you come in? Of course. And in you come to find a lovely, though slightly faded woman sitting on my sofa. I introduce you to her by her married name, which means nothing to you as yours means nothing to her. She is talking about the portrait of myself, hanging above the sofa, and asks your opinion of it. Your laughing jeer fades away at my warning look, you bite your beard and say quickly: “Oh, nice, quite nice; a very good likeness.” And she clinches the bargain with me, for which she has come—an order to paint her mother, to enable me to go to New Mexico.

You sit beside her on the sofa, and she, struck by your appearance—the beard, the rough hair, your midland accent—begins to question. “Where do you come from?” Smiling, you reply, “The North Country, the Midlands.” She cannot make you out and you tell her that you write a bit. She is mystified and you are chuckling. After she leaves, I tell you that it is Edna May, the famous Belle of New York; and how delighted and amused you are at finding you had spent the afternoon with so famous an actress. And how disappointed that I had not told you at the time.

I have a kind of soiree one evening a week, Thursday, to which a chosen few come: Murry, Kotiliansky, Gertler, and J. W. N. Sullivan are the mainstay of it. A few other men add themselves to it later, and to these Thursdays no women are allowed, unless especially invited by the group. Frieda has not been invited; but when you came you are both invited and, after some hesitation, you both come. I think your curiosity brought you. We simply sit over the fire talking and drink tea—at least the men talk, and I try to listen in on my machine. To this gathering you come, and we sit around listening to your descriptions of New Mexico, the Mexicans and Indians. You get up and show us the curious tread of the Indian dance step, treading it slowly in a circle round the room, humming the Sun Dance song. Kot is angry, saying you belong to England, that you should live in England, that it is your right place; and you laugh, a tinge of bitterness in it, refusing to be held anywhere. Asking bitterly what has England ever done for you. Richard, Murry’s young brother, says that if you would remain in England, he and many young men would follow you, that they need a leader. You jeer and reply that the young men do not want a leader; you know, only too well, what kind of a mess that leads to, and you wouldn’t sacrifice your life for anything like that—oh, no, not for that. “If the young men or anyone wants to follow me, let them. It’s up to them. Let the dead bury their dead and the living follow me.”

* * *

Christmas Day. The dinner I am giving ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Lawrence and Brett
• Dedication
• Introduction
• Lawrence And Brett
• Preface
• Contents
• Part One: England
• Part Two: New Mexico
• Part Three: Old Mexico
• Part Four: Kiowa Ranch
• Part Five: Capri
• Notes
• Epilogue
• Index