(COPY)

A LETTER TO BRYHER

It was in one of the earliest days of "Shakespeare and
Company" that you came into my bookshop and my life, dear Bryher,
and that we became a Protectorate of yours. We might have had the
words: "By Special Appointment to Bryher" painted above the door.

You were wearing a dark blue hat with streamers ending in
tassels, which didn't seem to go with your boyish face, and a plain
tailormade suit - or what my British friends would call a 'costume'.
I thought: "what beautiful eyes she has.' The eyes, with the kindest
expression, were observing everything in the place, including me.

As a rule, the people who frequented my bookshop took its
existence and services more or less for granted, as children their
home. You, my dear Bryher, on the contrary, gave me the impression
of a protection as well as of a complete understanding of my work.
This was typical of the attention you have always given to the occu-
pations whether bookselling, gardening, housework, a tea-room or a
travel-bureau of those about you.

Conversation with Bryher was one-sided; you listened with
interest to even the smallest small-talk, managing to hold up your end
without contributing more than a few syllables here and there. I was
amused by this contrast to the witty chatter of my countrymen and the
inexhaustible flow of ideas among my French friends, and I liked your
way very much.

I wonder, dear Bryher, whether you remember your first gift
to "Shakespeare and Company" -

As you soon observed, I was running for my Left Bank friends
an equivalent in its way to the Mail Dept. at the American Express Co.
for their tourists. But it was a job to sort out and to extricate
other peoples' letters from among mine, and not a good idea to have
this mail lying around waiting for the rightful owners to drop in and
claim it. The service would gain in efficiency, you thought, if
there were a letter-box - and soon everybody was admiring a handsome
box with divisions for every letter in the alphabet, that the carpenter
had built between the chimney and the clock - the gift of Bryher
reminding me every day of your thoughtfulness.

Shortly after this event your mother presented us with the
Staffordshire-ware bust of Shakespeare, henceforth chief ornament on
the mantelpiece. She came across it in Brighton, or was it Bath ?
I have always venerated and cherished this treasure and am convinced
that Shakespeare & Co would never have got anywhere without it.

Now, as one familiar with your writing, pardon me, dear Bryher

2.

for chuckling when I see what one of your "Two Selves" has done to
the other. What on earth has become of the brave determination of
the heroine of your autobiographical novels to free herself of family
ties? Could that be Bryher, mother of the largest family in the
world, whose members you have watched over and assisted in every way
for years and years?

I see a map of the world. From a little room (yours is
always the smallest in the house you live in) furnished with a bed
and a typewriter, a network of life-lines extend from Bryher to points
far and near. What infinite trouble you have taken in looking after
your vast family.' What a lot of contriving you have done to save
and comfort us.'

But after all, and in fact, first of all, there is the
writer Bryher.

The bells in Paris had hardly stopped ringing for the
Liberation when Perdita came bringing us the news that Bryher and
H.D. were safe - and "Beowulf" ' "Beowulf", which later was dedicated to Adrienne and me.

Who but Bryher in the London of those days could have
quietly, patiently, attentively observed the lives of two British
ladies running their tea-room - and the conversation of their
customers - nothing escaped you, Bryher. The "Warming Pan" with
the bulldog called "Beowulf" in the window, will live on, thanks to
Bryher, dear Bryher.'

When, on your invitation, Adrienne and I visited London
after the War, the place, now a vacant lot, where the tea-room once
stood, was pointed out to us from the window of your flat. We were
deepl y moved as we gazed at what had been the scene of "Beowulf".

Here's to Britain.' Here's to Beowulf.'

Here's to you, dear Bryher.

Sylvia Beach

For your birthday September 2nd 1950

(COPY)

A LETTER TO BRYHER

Shortly after this event your mother presented us with the
Staffordshire ware bust of Shakespeare, henceforth chief ornament on
the mantelpiece. She came across it in Brighton, or was it Bath ?
I have always venerated and cherished this treasure and am convinced
that Shakespeare & Co would never have got anywhere without it.

Now, as one familiar with your writing, pardon me, dear Bry'

2.

I see a map of the world. From a little room (yours is
always the smallest in the house you live in) furnished with a bed
and a typewriter, a network of life-lines extend from Bryher to points
far and near. What infinite trouble you have taken in looking after
your vast family. What a lot of contriving you have done to save
and comfort us.

The bells in Paris had hardly stopped ringing for the
Liberation when Perdita came bringing us the news that Bryher and
H.D. were safe - and "Beowulf". "Beowulf", which later was dedi-
cated to Adrienne and me.

When, on your invitation, Adrienne and I visited London
after the War, the place, now a vacant lot, where the tea-room once
stood, was pointed out to us from the window of your flat. We were
deeply moved as we gazed at what had been the scene of "Beowulf".

Here's to Britain. Here's to Beowulf.

Here's to you, dear Bryher.

Sylvia Beach