2019-09-27 - The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall ===================================================== I found this book in a free pile. It is about a queer woman's life around the time of world war one. I appreciated the psychological commentary narrated in this book. It was published in 1928. Interesting that the British court judged the book obscene but it was published in the USA. > Though Sappho burned with a peculiar flame > God understands her, we must do the same, > And of such eccentricities we say > "'Tis true, 'tis pity: she was made that way." Below are exerpts from the book that stood out to me. A queer mixture, Sir Philip, part sportsman, part student. He had one of the finest libraries in England, and just lately he had taken to reading half the night, which had not hitherto been his custom. Alone in that grave-looking, quiet study, he would unlock a drawer in his ample desk, and would get out a slim volume recently acquired, and would read and re-read it in the silence. The author was a German, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, and reading, Sir Philip's eyes would grow puzzled; then groping for a pencil he would make little notes all along the immaculate margins. ... The next morning, he would be very tender to Anna--but even more tender to Stephen. Karl Heinrich Ulrichs @Wikipedia [Sir Philip speaking to Stephen] "And now I'm going to treat you like a boy, and a boy must always be brave, remember. I'm not going to pretend as though you were a coward; why should I, when I know that you're brave? ... If you need me, remember that I'm always near you--you can come to my study whenever you like. You can talk to me about it whenever you're unhappy, and you want a companion to talk to." "You're all the son that I've got," he told her. "You're brave and strong-limbed, but I want you to be wise--I want you to be wise for your own sake, Stephen, because at the best life requires great wisdom. I want you to learn to make friends of your books; some day you may need them, because--" He hesitated, "because you mayn't find life at all easy, we none of us do, and books are good friends." [Stephen's teacher "Puddle" musing to herself:] "Good Lord," she would think, "why can't she hit back? It's absurd, it's outrageous to be so disgruntled by a handful of petty, half-educated yokels--a girl with her brain too, it's simply outrageous! She'll have to tackle life more forcibly than this, if she's not going to let herself go under!" The eye of youth is very observant. Youth has its moments and keen intuition, even normal youth--but the intuition of those who stand midway between the sexes, is so ruthless, so poignant, so accurate, so deadly, as to be in the nature of an added scourge... And when Martin spoke of those mighty forests [in British Columbia], his voice changed, it became almost reverential; for this young man loved trees with a primitive instinct, with a strange and inexplicable devotion. ... And Stephen, the awkward, the bashful, the tongue-tied, heard herself talking in her turn, quite freely, heard herself asking him endless questions about forestry, farming and the care of vast orchards; thoughtful questions, unromantic but apt--such as one man will ask of another. Then Martin wished to learn about her, and they talked of her fencing, her studies, her riding, and she told him about Raftery [the horse Stephen cares for] who was named for the poet. And all the while she felt natural and happy because here was a man who was taking her for granted, who appeared to find nothing eccentric about her or her tastes, but who quite simply took her for granted. Had you asked Martin Hallam to explain why it was that he accepted the girl at her own valuation, he would surely have been unable to tell you--it had happened, that was all, and there the thing ended. But whatever the reason, he felt drawn to this friendship that had leapt so suddenly into being. And one day he said: "Don't think me quite mad, but if we survive death then the trees will survive it; there must be some sort of a forest heaven for all the faithful--the faithful of trees." People gossiped a little because of the freedom allowed Martin and Stephen by her parents; but on the whole they gossiped quite kindly, with a great deal of smiling and nodding of heads. After all the girl was just like other girls--they almost ceased to resent her. Then suddenly terror and deep repugnance because of that unforeseen change in Martin, the change that had turned the friend into the lover--in reality it had been no more than that, the friend had turned lover and had wanted from her what she could not give him, or indeed any man, because of that deep repugnance. Yet there should have been nothing repugnant about Martin, nor was she a child to have felt such terror. She had known certain facts about life for some time and they had not repelled her in other people--not until they had been brought home to herself had these facts both terrified and repelled her. After she had spoken for quite a long time, she at length found the courage to ask her question: "Is there anything strange about me, Father, that I should have felt as I did about Martin?" ... She was waiting, and now she was asking again: "Father, is there anything strange about me? I remember when I was a little child--I was never quite like all the other children--" ...he turned round and deliberately faced her; smiling right into her eyes he lied glibly: "My dear, don't be foolish, there's nothing strange about you, some day you may meet a man you can love. And supposing you don't, well, what of it, Stephen? Marriage isn't the only career for a woman. I've been thinking about your writing just lately, and I'm going to let you go up to Oxford; but meanwhile you mustn't get foolish fancies, that won't do at all--it's not like you, Stephen..." After she had gone he sat on alone, and the lie was still bitter to his spirit as he sat there, and he covered his face for the shame that was in him--but because of the love that was in him he wept. Sir Philip's death deprived his child of three things; of companionship of mind born of real understanding, of a stalwart barrier between her and the world, and above all of love--that faithful love that would gladly have suffered all things for her sake, in order to spare her suffering. And now also she knew the desolation of small things, the power to give infinite pain that lies hidden in the little inanimate objects that persist, in a book, in a well-worn garment, in a half-finished letter, in a favourite arm-chair. She thought: "They go on--they mean nothing at all, and yet they go on," and the handling of them was anguish, and yet she must always touch them. Stephen was never to forget this summer when she fell quite simply and naturally in love, in accordance with the dictates of her nature. ... To her there seemed nothing strange or unholy in the love that she felt for Angela Crossby. To her it seemed an inevitable thing, as much a part of herself as her breathing... For Angela could never quite let the girl go. She herself would be rather bewildered at moments--she did not love Stephen, she was quite sure of that, and yet the very strangeness of it all was an attraction. Stephen was becoming a kind of strong drug, a kind of anodyne against boredom. And then Angela knew her own power to subdue; she could play with fire yet remain unscathed by it... [Puddle, Stephen's teacher, thinking about what she would like to tell Stephen:] "You're neither unnatural, nor abominable, nor mad; you're as much a part of what people call nature as anyone else; only you're unexplained as yet--you've not got your niche in creation. But some day that will come, and meanwhile don't shrink from yourself, but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do the best you can with your burden. But above all be honourable. Cling to your honour for the sake of those others who share the same burden. For their sakes show the world that people like you and they can be quite as selfless and fine as the rest of mankind. Let your life go to prove this--it would be a really great life-work, Stephen." An unworthy and tiresome thing money, at best, but it can at least ease the heart of the lover. When he lightens his purse he lightens his heart, though this can hardly be accounted a virtue, for such giving is perhaps the most insidious form of self-indulgence that is known to mankind. Then from out of that still and unearthly night, there crept upon Stephen an unearthly longing. A longing that was not any more of the body but rather of the weary and homesick spirit that endured the chains of that body. Puddle put an arm round Stephen's bowed shoulders, and she said: "You've got work to do--come and do it! Why, just because you are what you are, you may actually find that you've got an advantage. You may write with a curious double insight--write both men and women from a personal knowledge. Nothing's completely misplaced or wasted, I'm sure of that--and we're all part of nature. Some day the world will recognize this, but meanwhile there's plenty of work that's waiting. For the sake of all the others who are like you, but less strong and less gifted perhaps, many of them, it's up to you to have the courage to make good, and I'm here to help you to do it, Stephen." [Stephen's friend Jonathan Brockett:] "It's a difficult question, Stephen. Your own temperament is so much against you. You're so strong in some ways and yet so timid--such a mixture--and you're terribly frightened of life. Now why? You must try to stop being frightened, to stop hiding your head. You need life, you need people. People are the food that we writers live on; get out and devour them..." Valerie suddenly smiled at Stephen. Turning her back on the chattering Brockett, she started to talk to her guest quite gravely about her work, about books in general, about life in general; and as she did so Stephen began to understand better the charm that many had found in this woman; a charm that lay less in physical attraction than in a great courtesy and understanding, a great will to please, a great impulse towards beauty in all its forms--yes, therein lay her charm. And as they talked on it dawned upon Stephen that here was no mere libertine in love's garden, but rather a creature born out of her epoch, a pagan chained to an age that was Christian... There is something that mankind can never destroy in spite of an unreasoning will to destruction, and this is its own idealism, that integral part of its very being. The ageing and the cynical may make wars, but the young and the idealistic must fight them, and thus there are bound to come quick reactions, blind impulses not always comprehended. Men will curse as they kill, yet accomplish deeds of self-sacrifice, giving their lives for others; poets will write with their pens dipped in blood, yet will write not of death but of life eternal; strong and courteous friendships will be born, to endure in the face of enmity and destruction. And so persistent is this urge to the ideal, above all in the presence of great disaster, that mankind, the wilful destroyer of beauty, must immediately strive to create new beauties, lest it perish from a sense of its own desolation... [Roger Antrim] had been shot down while winning his V.C. through saving the life of a wounded captain. All alone he had gone over to no-man's-land and had rescued his friend where he lay unconscious, receiving a bullet through the head at the moment of flinging the wounded man into safety. Roger--so lacking in understanding, so crude, so cruel and remorseless a bully--Roger had been changed in the twinkling of an eye into something superb because utterly selfless. Thus it was that the undying urge of mankind towards the ideal had come upon Roger. And Stephen as she sat there and read of his passing, suddenly knew that she wished him well, that his courage had wiped one great bitterness out of her heart and her life for ever. And so by dying as he had died, Roger, all unknowing, had fulfilled the law that must be extended to enemy and friend alike--the immutable law of service. If you come to me, Mary, the world will abhor you, will persecute you, will call you unclean. Our love may be faithful even unto death and beyond--yet the world will call it unclean. We may harm no living creature by our love; we may grow more perfect in understanding and in charity because of our loving; but all this will not save you from the scourge of a world that will turn away its eyes from your noblest actions, finding only corruption and vileness in you. ... I cannot protect you, Mary, the world has deprived me of my right to protect; I am utterly helpless, I can only love you. Something primitive and age-old as Nature herself, did their love appear to Mary and Stephen. For now they were in the grip of Creation, of Creation's terrific urge to create; the urge that will sometimes sweep forward blindly alike into fruitful and sterile channels. That well-nigh intolerable life force would grip them, making them a part of its own existence; so that they who might never create a new life, were yet one at such moments with the fountain of living... Language is surely too small a vessel to contain those emotions of mind and body that have somehow awakened a response in the spirit. But this much she [Valerie Seymour] gave to her brethren, the freedom of her salon, the protection of her friendship; if it eased them to come to her monthly gatherings they were always welcome provided they were sober. Drink and drugs she abhorred because they were ugly--one drank tea, iced coffee, sirops and orangeade in that celebrated flat... These, then, were the people to whom Stephen turned at last in her fear of isolation for Mary; to her own kind she turned and was made very welcome, for no bond is more binding than that of affliction. But her vision stretched beyond to the day when happier folk would also accept her... Their Christmas was naturally overshadowed, and so, as it were by a common impulse, they turned to such people as Barbara and Jamie, people who would neither despise nor insult them. They are terrible, Miss Gordon, because they are those who have fallen but have not risen again--there is surely no sin so great for them, so unpardonable as the sin of despair; yet as surely you and I can forgive... Many die, many kill their bodies and souls, but they cannot kill the justice of God, even they cannot kill the eternal spirit. From their very degradation that spirit will rise up to demand of the world compassion and justice. Like most inverts [people who are queer] she found a passing relief in discussing the intolerable situation; in dissecting it ruthlessly bit by bit, even though she arrived at no solution... Valerie ... was always ready to listen. Thus it was that between them a real friendship sprang up... And what of that curious craving for religion which so often went hand in hand with inversion? Many such people were deeply religious, and this surely was one of their bitterest problems. They believed, and believing they craved a blessing on what to some of them seemed very sacred--a faithful and deeply devoted union. But the church's blessing was not for them. Faithful they might be, leading orderly lives, harming no one, and yet the church turned away; her blessings were strictly reserved for the normal. Nature was trying to do her bit; inverts were being born in increasing numbers, and after a while their numbers would tell, even with the fools who still ignored Nature. They must just bide their time--recognition was coming. But meanwhile they should all cultivate more pride, should learn to be proud of their isolation. Valerie seemed well-nigh inhuman at times, completely detached from all personal interest. But one day she remarked to Stephen abruptly: "I really know very little about you, but this I do know--you're a bird of passage, you don't belong to the life here in Paris. ... You're rather a terrible combination: you've the nerves of the abnormal with all that they stand for--you're appallingly over-sensitive, Stephen--[and] you've all the respectable county instincts of the man who cultivates children and acres--any gaps in your fences would always disturb you; one side of your mind is so aggressive tidy. ... But supposing you could bring the two sides of your nature into some sort of friendly amalgamation and compel them to serve you and through you your work--well then I really don't see what's to stop you." Stephen said: "... I want to ... tell you how grateful I am for your kindness. You're so patient when I come here and talk for hours, and it's such a relief; you'll never know the relief it is to have some one to talk to." "Come as often as you feel like it," Valerie told her; "and if ever you should want my help or advice, here I am. But do try to remember this: even the world's not so black as it's painted." With Martin's return Stephen realized how very deeply she had missed him; how much she still needed the thing he now offered, how long indeed she had starved for just this--the friendship of a normal and sympathetic man whose mentality being very much her own, was not only welcome but reassuring. Mary was growing gentle again; infinitely gentle she now was at times, for happiness makes for gentleness, and in these days Mary was strangely happy. Reassured by the presence of Martin Hallam, re-established in pride and self-respect, she was able to contemplate the world without her erstwhile sense of isolation, was able for the moment to sheathe her sword, and this respite brought her a sense of well-being. She discovered that at heart she was neither so courageous nor so defiant as she had imagined, that like many another woman before her, she was well content to feel herself protected; and gradually as the weeks went by, she began to forget her bitter resentment. To herself she seemed all eyes and ears, a monstrous thing, a complete degradation, yet endowed with an almost unbearable skill, with a subtlety passing her own understanding. You're courageous and fine and you mean to make good, but life with you is spiritually murdering Mary. Can't you see it? Can't you realize that she needs all the things that it's not in your power to give her? Children, protection, friends whom she can respect and who'll respect her--don't you realize this, Stephen? A few may survive such relationships as yours, but Mary Llewellyn won't be among them. She's not strong enough to fight the whole world, to stand up against persecution and insult; it will drive her down, it's begun to already--already she's been forced to turn to people like Wanda. I know what I'm saying, I've seen the thing--the bars, the drinking, the pitiful defiance, the horrible, useless wastage of lives--well, I tell you it's spiritual murder for Mary. And now she must pay very dearly indeed for that inherent respect of the normal which nothing had ever been able to destroy, not even the long years of persecution--an added burden it was, handed down by the silent but watchful founders of Morton. She must pay for the instinct which, in earliest childhood, had made her feel something akin to worship for the perfect thing which she had divined in the love that existed between her parents. author: Hall, Radclyffe detail: LOC: PZ3.H1468 We PR6015.A33 source: tags: biography,ebook,fiction,history,queer title: The Well of Loneliness Tags ==== biography ebook fiction history queer