[Vwoolf] Fw: Phyllis Rose on New "Edition" of VW/VSW Letters

[Emily Kopley]

Hi All,

Here's the text of Phyllis Rose's review, below my name.

Best,
Emily

When Virginia Woolf met Vita Sackville-West in December 1922, she had just
published, at the age of forty, the first of her distinctive novels, *Jacob’s
Room*, which followed the more traditional *The Voyage Out* (1915) and *Night
and Day* (1919). Most of her published writing consisted of unsigned book
reviews, so she was known to very few people.

Virginia belonged by descent and marriage to Britain’s elite of arts and
letters: her father, Leslie Stephen, had been a distinguished intellectual
whose first wife was Thackeray’s daughter. Julia Margaret Cameron, the
great Victorian photographer, was her aunt. Her sister, the painter Vanessa
Bell, was married to a prominent art critic, Clive Bell, though she lived
with another painter, Duncan Grant. Their intimate circle included Lytton
Strachey, E.M. Forster, John Maynard Keynes, and Roger Fry. Virginia’s
husband, Leonard, was a political journalist and editor. This was the
Bloomsbury group, named after the unpretentious area of London where many
of them lived; it was a world of plain living and high
thinking—“Gloomsbury,” the high-living, plain-thinking Vita would call it.

Treasured by her family and friends as a brilliant, witty, and original
presence, Virginia also had enormous mood swings and terrible headaches,
was sociable until she collapsed, was depressed until she was writing, then
depressed again as a book was finished and publication loomed. The doctors
in charge of her treatment had nothing to recommend but bed rest and
cessation of mental activity.

Her husband had become a dedicated caregiver, and, partly as occupational
therapy for Virginia, they ran a publishing house, the Hogarth Press, with
the printing press in their basement. That, along with her reviewing, kept
her in touch with the leading writers and critics of the day. Their life
was austere but full, their house in London always lively, and for rest
they had a cottage in the country. In 1922 Virginia was at the beginning of
the most fruitful part of her career, although she felt herself to be
behind where she should be: she ought to be considered, she said,
thirty-five, not forty, at least five years having been wasted in bed.

Most of the year preceding her meeting Vita was lost to repeated bouts of
flu, which left her heart so weakened that doctors warned Leonard she might
not live much longer. A sickroom-bound invalid in 1922 could not pick up
the phone and chat with friends. Letters provided the only relief from
isolation, and even that writing drained Virginia’s energy. Still, she
loved hearing from friends and, when she could manage it, answering. Her
letters, along with her diary, offer unusual access to the private life of
a great writer. So what was it like when she finally fell in love with
Vita, after living in a stable but sexless marriage with Leonard for so
many years, when her imagination was more aroused by women? To find out, we
turn eagerly to *Love Letters: Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West*, which
tells the story through their letters to each other, supplemented by
extracts from both women’s diaries and Vita’s letters to her husband. And
who exactly is telling the story? We do not know, as no editor is cited on
the title page. Buried on the copyright page we find “selection by Lily
Lindon,” but Alison Bechdel’s introduction sheds no light on how this
selection was made or what it offers that cannot be found in the letters as
masterfully edited in 1985 by Louise DeSalvo and Mitchell A. Leaska.

Vita, now the less celebrated of the couple and known primarily as the
cocreator of the magnificent gardens at Sissinghurst, was in the early
1920s by far the more famous writer. Although ten years younger than Woolf,
she was an established literary figure in London. Rich, aristocratic,
sensual, free-living, polyamorous, commanding, self-confident, boisterously
healthy, she was Woolf’s opposite in many ways, and not the least of her
appeal lay in her family history.

Her father, the 3rd Baron Sackville of Knole, belonged to the de la Warr
family (as in Delaware), whose titles dated back to the fourteenth century.
Knole, the family seat in Kent, a manor house as large as an entire
village, had been gifted to Thomas Sackville, the 1st Earl of Dorset, by
Queen Elizabeth I. Vita grew up at Knole without siblings, with a
beautiful, eccentric mother, who had been born illegitimate but nonetheless
a Sackville. Since Vita’s grandfather had no legitimate offspring, the
house and title passed to Vita’s father. Had Vita been born male, she would
have inherited Knole, with its four hundred rooms. As it was, on her
father’s death, it passed to his brother.

When she chose to marry Harold Nicolson, a diplomat from a family of
diplomats, Vita’s family was not pleased. They considered him a
disreputable intellectual, not at all a good match, without even the saving
grace of money. But compared to most men Vita had met, Harold had a lively
mind and tremendous vitality. It was a love match. Neither of them seemed
to realize at the time of their marriage how deeply they were attracted to
people of their own sex. After producing two sons, they constructed what in
later days would be called an open marriage. Unshakably committed to each
other, they were free to have other sexual partners. They wrote to each
other every day they were apart, sharing everything, even accounts of their
love affairs.

In general, Vita proved to be good at keeping her affairs relatively short
and unthreatening to Harold. But at about the time he was in Paris working
on the Treaty of Versailles, she got caught up in the most passionate
affair of her life, with Violet Keppel (later Trefusis), whose allure and
lack of discipline threatened the Nicolsons’ alliance. The details are to
be found in their son Nigel Nicolson’s enthralling book *Portrait of a
Marriage* (1973), an elegant melding of autobiographical writing by Vita
and parental biography by her son, which should be required reading for
anyone who thinks that marriage of any kind is effortless.

Both in London and in Paris, Vita and Violet went out together in public
with Vita cross-dressed as a recently repatriated soldier with a head wound
requiring a bandage. She had never known such freedom. But eventually
Violet’s fiancé and Vita’s husband retrieved the two runaways from France,
and Vita’s passions were subsumed into the pleasant regularities of country
life. Fundamentally upbeat, she got enormous pleasure from her house,
household, garden, and dogs.

And she wrote constantly. By the time she met Virginia, Vita had published
five volumes of poetry and two novels, one of which, *The Dragon in Shallow
Waters*, was a best seller. She had written an account of her family and
its estate, *Knole and the Sackvilles*, and had found her great theme in
the connection between real estate and a person’s sense of identity,
explored first in a novella, *The Heir*. She had also written a
fictionalized account of her affair with Violet, *Challenge*, which her
mother convinced her was too scandalous to publish in the UK. She was still
only thirty.

Virginia’s first impulse on meeting Vita at a dinner party at Clive Bell’s
was to look down on her as a facile writer: “She writes fifteen pages a
day—has finished another book—publishes with Heinemanns.” What attracted
her was above all Vita the aristocrat. “The aristocratic manner is
something like an actress’s—no false shyness or modesty—makes me feel
virgin, shy, and schoolgirlish,” she wrote. Vita’s long, languid face,
which Virginia later found so beautiful, did not at first appeal to her,
but “all these ancestors and centuries, silver and gold, have bred a
perfect body.” In Virginia’s imagination, Vita was often striding—through
fields, across plains, in Turkish pants, in emeralds—the supremely
competent and self-assured woman, managing children, nannies, gardeners,
butchers, dukes, duchesses, and motorcars with equal ease.

Vita’s feelings about Virginia were clear from the start and not quite so
fanciful. “I simply adore Virginia Woolf, and so would you,” she wrote to
her husband after their first meeting.

You would fall quite flat before her charm and personality…. She is utterly
unaffected: there is no outward adornments—she dresses quite atrociously.
At first you think she is plain; then a sort of spiritual beauty imposes
itself on you…. She is both detached and human, silent till she wants to
say something, and then says it supremely well…. Darling, I have quite lost
my heart.

Not many pages of *Love Letters *go by between their meeting in 1922 and
their becoming lovers in late 1925. But, of course, that is three
years—three years in which they were hardly focused on each other. Three
years in which Vita had a love affair with a man, Geoffrey Scott,
author of *The
Architecture of Humanism *(1914), which resulted in the breakup of his
marriage. Three years in which Virginia published both a fiction
masterpiece, *Mrs. Dalloway*, and a nonfiction masterpiece, *The Common
Reader*, began to make some money from her work, and became famous.

They became friends before they were lovers. Vita took Virginia to lunch
with her father, Lord Sackville, in the family home: “His Lordship lives in
the kernel of a vast nut. You perambulate miles of galleries; skip endless
treasures—chairs that Shakespeare might have sat on…. Then there is Mary
Stuart’s altar, where she prayed before execution.” Virginia asked Vita to
write something for Hogarth, and Vita tossed off the novella *Seducers in
Ecuador* while on a walking trip in Italy with her husband. Who was doing
whom a favor in this case is unclear. Vita had a good commercial publisher,
Heinemann, but being published by the Hogarth Press represented a different
kind of prestige, and in return she brought with her a large fan base.
*Seducers
in Ecuador* sold well, and the two women, now with an editorial
relationship, became closer. Vita was a guest at Monk’s House, the Woolfs’
place in Sussex; Virginia was a guest at Long Barn, the Nicolsons’ country
house in Kent.

In December 1925 Vita and Virginia spent three days together at Long Barn.
Harold had been posted to the British Legation in Tehran, where Vita was to
join him later that winter. It was the first time they had been alone
overnight, and something happened that marked a turning point. Vita’s
references to this night suggest that Virginia declared herself or threw
herself at Vita, but Virginia did not see it that way. “These Sapphists
*love* women,” she wrote in her diary upon returning home.

Friendship is never untinged with amorosity. I like her and being with her,
and the splendour—she shines in the grocer’s shop in Sevenoaks with a
candle-lit radiance, stalking on legs like beech trees, pink glowing, grape
clustered, pearl hung…. In brain and insight she is not as highly organised
as I am. But then she is aware of this, and so lavishes on me the maternal
protection which, for some reason, is what I have always most wished from
everyone.

Whatever happened changed their relationship forever, deepening it,
allowing Virginia to think of Vita as her lover and to be jealous of all
the other women with whom she continued, over the years, to have affairs,
while Vita had to reassure an increasingly nervous and jealous Harold that
she would not be swept away by Virginia as she had been by Violet Trefusis.

Their feelings for each other became even more intense when Vita left to
join Harold in Persia and they were in merely epistolary contact. I say
“merely,” but there is nothing negligible about the arousal capacity of
letters from distant friends, the traveler treasuring the connection to
home with the desperation of a drowning swimmer, and the stay-at-home
living on the traveler’s passion. On the long voyage through the
Mediterranean and Red Seas and across the Indian Ocean to Bombay, Vita had
time to contemplate, with characteristic generosity, her beloved’s talents
and difficulties, telling her, “I don’t know whether to be dejected or
encouraged when I read the works of Virginia Woolf. Dejected because I
shall never be able to write like that, or encouraged because somebody else
can?”

Three days later she wrote:

You are the only person I have ever known properly who was aloof from the
more vulgarly jolly sides of life. And I wonder whether you lose or gain? I
fancy that you gain,—you, Virginia,—because you are so constituted and have
a sufficient fund of excitement within yourself, though I don’t fancy it
would be to the advantage of anybody else.

Once arrived in Tehran, after the overland journey from Baghdad, Vita wrote
letters that later helped Virginia create the fabulous shape-shifting
adventurer Orlando:

I have been stuck in a river, crawled between ramparts of snow, been
attacked by a bandit, been baked and frozen alternatively, travelled alone
with ten men (all strangers), slept in odd places, eaten wayside meals,
crossed high passes, seen Kurds and Medes and caravans, and running
streams, and black lambs skipping under blossom, seen hills of porphyry
stained with copper sulfate, snow-mountains in a great circle, endless
plains, with flocks on the slopes. Dead camels pecked by vultures, a dying
donkey, a dying man. Came to mud towns at nightfall, stayed with odd gruff
Scotchmen, drunk Persian wine. Worn a silk dress one day, and a sheepskin
and fur cap the next.

The grueling journey and the austere, otherworldly beauty of Persia
produced Vita’s wonderful *Passenger to Teheran* and vivid letters to
Virginia. Virginia responded with childlike devotion. Vita’s departure
seems to have set off a kind of panic in her, and she clung to the letters
for reassurance.

Their reunion, after months apart, was awkward. Expected physical passion
did not immediately materialize. Still, the period of their greatest
intimacy followed. Vita had to reassure Harold again that she was not
having a love affair with Virginia, and this time she was more explicit.
Yes, they had been to bed together twice, but Vita did not consider their
relationship sexual. To have sex with Virginia, she said, would be playing
with fire. She was “scared to death of arousing physical feelings in her,
because of the madness.” In any case, Virginia was not the kind of woman
she was sexually attracted to. There was something “incongruous and almost
indecent in the idea.”

Vita had every reason to pull her punches with Harold, downplaying her
passion for and with Virginia. Still, there was a difference between her
protective love for Virginia and her phosphorescent love for Violet
Trefusis. She adored Virginia for her brilliance, beyond any she had ever
known, and for the touching contrast between her intellectual power and her
physical fragility, but that cerebral appeal did not provoke the same kind
of passion as Violet’s wildness and flamboyance. Vita and Virginia loved
each other’s company. They looked forward to the precious times they had
alone, which certainly included physical intimacy. They sympathized with
each other’s problems, encouraged each other’s work. Reading the
proofs of *Passenger
to Teheran*, Virginia reports to Vita, “I kept saying ‘How I should like to
know this woman’ and then thinking ‘But I do,’ and then ‘No, I don’t—not
altogether the woman who writes this.’ I don’t know the extent of your
subtleties.”

Fittingly, their relationship was consummated in a work of the imagination—
*Orlando*, a wholly original account of Vita’s lineage embodied in the
title character, who begins as a male aristocrat, in the Renaissance, lives
through centuries, and becomes at some point a female aristocrat—to no
one’s surprise, least of all her own. When the idea for the book came to
Virginia, she immediately wrote to Vita to ask if she minded. Vita was
thrilled. She sat for photographs of Orlando in modern times, which were
included in the design of the first edition. Dedicated to Vita, in every
sense, *Orlando* was a monument to their relationship, almost a brag,
claiming Vita for Virginia while Vita fell repeatedly for other women and
Virginia experienced jealousy, the most easily recognized form of love.

Nigel Nicolson described *Orlando* as a charming love letter to his mother,
but it can be seen more precisely as a love letter to Vita’s inherited
certainty about who she was, a dazzlingly imaginative and enjoyable
transformation of Vita’s dutiful book on the same subject, *Knole and the
Sackvilles*. The change of gender is one among many magic tricks the novel
performs, the greatest of which is the protagonist’s endurance in time.
Tilda Swinton’s performance as Orlando in the 1992 film directed by Sally
Potter captures this perfectly: nothing surprises her. She is the same
person no matter what. That certainty about continuity of self is what Vita
had that Virginia most wanted, and in writing *Orlando* she momentarily,
imaginatively acquired it.

By 1934, the friendship was tapering off. Virginia’s closest friend became
Ethel Smyth, and Vita’s her sister-in-law Gwen St. Aubyn. Besides, Vita,
upon Harold’s retirement from the Foreign Office and commencing work as a
journalist, had bought the property at Sissinghurst, and the couple
embarked on their joint project of turning it into one of England’s most
beloved locales, famous the world over for its gardens. Vita, now less
interested in social life than Virginia was, spent most of her time in the
country, and Virginia found her less exciting. “My friendship with Vita is
over,” Virginia wrote in her diary in 1935. “Not with a quarrel, not with a
bang, but as ripe fruit falls.”

Like any selection, this volume is partial, and different readers, from the
same mass of correspondence and diary entries, would construct a different
story. I did not find the title *Love Letters *justified. The volume might
better have been called *Portrait of a Friendship*, showing how many
different forms intimacy might take, how it can change with time and
circumstance, how even the most intense and satisfying friendships may end.
The emphasis on a love story seems forced, and somehow prurient.

Woolf is one of the great letter writers of all time, full of wit and
kindness, crafting her letters as personal responses to each friend and
never sending out blanket recaps of events in her life. Teasing,
flirtatious, charming, sophisticated, fun to spend time with even if you
don’t know half the people she talks about or refers to, for sheer
liveliness and joie de vivre, she can be compared as a letter writer in
English only to Byron and Keats. Her descriptions of the people she sees in
the course of her day are offhandedly novelistic, and her constant
socializing gave her lots of material: “She [her cousin, Dorothea Stephen]
said how d’y do in her condescending way, and began to eat like a poor
woman at a charity tea, fast, stealthily, every crumb, thanking me with
insincere sweetness.” And all of a sudden you hear her speaking voice:
“What a bore it must be to be a painter, and need light and landscape,
instead of a fire and a book!”

Her best, fullest letters, the most like conversation polished by a master
stylist, were written to her sister throughout her life and to Vita in the
time of their great intimacy. The letters twist and turn, from lively
reports of Virginia’s own doings to vivid imaginings of Vita’s, wherever
she happens to be, surrounded by animals and flowers at her country home or
traveling in Persia. They throw off sparks of observations about life and
art:

I had wanted to go into the matter of profound natural happiness; as
revealed to me yesterday at a family party of an English Banker; where the
passion and joys of sons and daughters in their own society struck me
almost to tears with self-pity and amazement. Nothing of that sort do we
any of us know—profound emotions, which are yet natural and taken for
granted, so that nothing inhibits or restrains—How deep these are, and
unself conscious. There is a book called Father and Son, by [Edmund] Gosse,
which says that all the coast of England was fringed with little sea
anemones and lovely tassels of seaweed and sprays of emerald moss and so
on, from the beginning of time till Jan 1858, when, for some reason, hordes
of clergy and spinsters in mushroom hats and goggles began collecting, and
so scraped and rifled the coast that this accumulation was destroyed
forever—A parable this, of what we have done to the deposits of family
happiness.

The phrase “family happiness” makes her think of *Anna Karenina*, so she
pivots from the thought of how sophistication has destroyed simple emotion,
embodied in the metaphor of the lost sea anemones of the English coast, as
described by Gosse, to an observation about the Russian novel:

Its growing unreality to us who have no real condemnation in our hearts any
longer for adultery as such. But Tolstoy hoists all his book on that
support. Take it away, say, no it doesn’t offend me that AK. should
copulate with Vronsky, and what remains?

The version I just quoted is from Woolf’s complete correspondence, and all
that gets quoted in *Love Letters* from this delicious and revealing letter
about bourgeois happiness and Virginia’s private moral code is this:

How odd it is—the effect geography has on the mind! I write to you
differently now you’re coming back. The pathos is melting. I felt it
pathetic when you were going away; as if you were sinking below the verge.
Now that you are rising, I’m jolly again.

By focusing so relentlessly on their relationship, *Love Letters* narrows
our sense of who Vita and Virginia are to each other, as though a person on
a beautiful hike, instead of sending pictures of the landscape, merely sent
a string of GPS coordinates. The helter-skelter of style, which is to say,
their full selves, is edited out, and each letter tends to be used as a
marker on the path of intimacy.

“The accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came
not here but there,” Woolf wrote in her essay “Modern Fiction.” What makes
her original in both fiction and nonfiction is that the accent falls not
here but there. *Love Letters* tries to make the accents fall squarely
where we would expect them to be—two people meet, they fall in love, they
become lovers—and sends one back to the original material to make up a love
story of one’s own.

On Mon, Feb 28, 2022 at 10:46 AM Emily Kopley <emily.kopley at gmail.com>
wrote:

> Hi All,
>
> Here's Phyllis Rose's review.
>
> Best,
> Emily
>
> On Mon, Feb 28, 2022 at 10:21 AM Stuart N. Clarke via Vwoolf <
> vwoolf at lists.osu.edu> wrote:
>
>>
>>
>> It’s really not worth the effort to take this new “edition” textually
>> seriously, but I did do a bit of work on it.  E.g. see
>> https://urldefense.com/v3/__https://beyondabookshelf.co.uk/2021/lily-lindon-vita-and-virginia/__;!!KGKeukY!jQPOF2PfeREGx7NfGjhEx79_bxS0EtDuzGPKDgK36JqxlNT4yWYlS9eqFGsbAjP_Iik$ 
>> <https://urldefense.com/v3/__https://beyondabookshelf.co.uk/2021/lily-lindon-vita-and-virginia/__;!!KGKeukY!j-JwG-_orUSnXkTgIF8OQznUtoIL635UU9qp-hWf03phsOGmhERmj8uyb5946LIb5ko$>
>>
>> Also: "main texts ended up being: the Virago [US] 1992 letters from Vita
>> to Virginia; the Vintage Classics Virginia Woolf Selected Diaries and
>> Selected Letters, and the letters of Vita to her husband Harold, edited by
>> their son Nigel Nicolson."
>>
>> Stuart
>>
>>
>>
>> *From:* Hagen, Benjamin D via Vwoolf
>> *Sent:* Monday, February 28, 2022 1:12 PM
>> *To:* Vwoolf at lists.osu.edu
>> *Subject:* [Vwoolf] Phyllis Rose on New "Edition" of VW/VSW Letters
>>
>>
>> Dear Woolfians,
>>
>>
>>
>> (Apologies if this already came through the listserv.) Though the full
>> review is behind a paywall, Phyllis Rose has reviewed *Love Letters:
>> Virginia Woolf and Vita **Sackville-West* (intro by Alison Bechdel) for
>> the *The New York Review of Books* (appears in the 10 March 2022 issue).
>> Here is the link, should you have a subscription (or a way to access
>> someone else’s):
>> https://urldefense.com/v3/__https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2022/03/10/i-have-quite-lost-my-heart-virginia-woolf-vita-sackville-west/__;!!KGKeukY!jQPOF2PfeREGx7NfGjhEx79_bxS0EtDuzGPKDgK36JqxlNT4yWYlS9eqFGsbIMlQeYY$ 
>> <https://urldefense.com/v3/__https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2022/03/10/i-have-quite-lost-my-heart-virginia-woolf-vita-sackville-west/__;!!KGKeukY!iuW8kqziFMWOEE94ShaVfM1_MbMuy58HXbxrxecZerCswiVq0LrSVmLZ0dtk4Dt6ETE$>.
>> If you subscribe to print issues, you probably already received your copy.
>> (A colleague of mine here in South Dakota told me about the piece after
>> receiving his newest issue.)
>>
>>
>>
>> Relevant, perhaps, to discourse on the Woolf List about recent “editions”
>> of Woolf’s work, the available snippet of Rose’s review ends:
>>
>>
>>
>> And who exactly is telling the story? We do not know, as no editor is
>> cited on the title page. Buried on the copyright page we find “selection by
>> Lily Lindon,” but Alison Bechdel’s introduction sheds no light on how this
>> selection was made or what it offers that cannot be found in the letters as
>> masterfully edited in 1985 by Louise DeSalvo and Mitchell Leaska.
>>
>>
>>
>> Best,
>>
>> Ben
>>
>> –
>>
>> Benjamin D. Hagen, Ph.D. (he/him/his)
>>
>> Associate Professor | Dept of English | University of South Dakota
>>
>> Author | The Sensuous Pedagogies of Virginia Woolf and D.H. Lawrence
>> <https://urldefense.com/v3/__https://libraries.clemson.edu/press/books/the-sensuous-pedagogies-of-virginia-woolf-and-d-h-lawrence/__;!!KGKeukY!iuW8kqziFMWOEE94ShaVfM1_MbMuy58HXbxrxecZerCswiVq0LrSVmLZ0dtktRtVlzU$>
>>
>> Editor | Woolf Studies Annual
>> <https://urldefense.com/v3/__https://press.pace.edu/woolf-studies-annual-wsa/__;!!KGKeukY!iuW8kqziFMWOEE94ShaVfM1_MbMuy58HXbxrxecZerCswiVq0LrSVmLZ0dtk1ybWduA$>
>>
>> President | International Virginia Woolf Society
>> <https://urldefense.com/v3/__https://www.v-woolf-society.com/__;!!KGKeukY!iuW8kqziFMWOEE94ShaVfM1_MbMuy58HXbxrxecZerCswiVq0LrSVmLZ0dtkixK97ZE$>
>>
>> –
>>
>> *I acknowledge that the University of South Dakota is on indigenous
>> territory. This land is the traditional territory of Dakota, Lakota,
>> Umonhon, Ponca, Otoe, and Ioway nations.*
>>
>> ------------------------------
>> _______________________________________________
>> Vwoolf mailing list
>> Vwoolf at lists.osu.edu
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>>
>> _______________________________________________
>> Vwoolf mailing list
>> Vwoolf at lists.osu.edu
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>>
>
>
> --
> https://urldefense.com/v3/__http://concordia.academia.edu/EmilyKopley__;!!KGKeukY!jQPOF2PfeREGx7NfGjhEx79_bxS0EtDuzGPKDgK36JqxlNT4yWYlS9eqFGsbkGR8UrA$ 
>


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