cowardice.
It reminds me of when Dennis was killed: and I dared not go down from the balcony...
From SHIRLEY FORSDIKE, Barbizon, France, to Sir HUGH WEIGH, Dartmouth
July 15th , 1937
MY DEAREST,—It has happened! A letter has come from you! Oh, such a cold, disapproving letter—but a letter none the less. To-day I left my room where I have been brooding all these days and went for a drive in the Forest of Fontainebleau. This is the first time that I have been out of the garden since coming here. Your letter has done this. And now as I write, late, with Mother and all the guests asleep—all except the young Dutch couple on honeymoon who quarrel and do not turn out their light—I touch this one sheet of notepaper over and over again, I put my lips to it, because you, too, have touched it, your hands have rested there. Do not laugh at me for this: rather pity me. A letter is all that I have of you—a cold, disapproving letter.
If I could die! If I had the courage! But something prevents me—the certainty that some day, somehow, I shall be of service to you, that you will call me, that you will accept this love of mine. It is this that keeps me alive: it is only this that makes each day bearable—these days of summer, long, serene, but void, empty, like the smile on a dead face. (You see, I am being literary. ‘Like the smile on a dead face.’ But how else can I express this ache, this void? I cannot write over and over again: ‘I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you’.)
Plato was it who said that we all go through the world seeking a twin soul? I think I believe that. I feel as if you had been torn from me—as if we had been sundered. And this one half must always cry out for the other; must always hunger for it; must always bleed: for nothing can heal it, nothing, till the halves be one. Why should I only be so certain of this—that we are halves, twin-souls? Why should I only bear the ache? We belong to each other, inseparably. Claim what is yours: return to me what is mine.
...I came here to France because I was ill. Nothing could be diagnosed, the doctors were puzzled. Should I have said to them then: I am starving, I am bleeding to death? Would they have believed that? But it is true, true.
Your letter: I have read it over and over again. When I went for my drive this afternoon, alone, in a horse-carriage, I kept on opening my bag, taking it out, looking at it, each time as though I expected some miraculous change, so that what was formal and cold might be tender, might be loving. And each time my eyes filled with tears. You should not have written to me like that. I had rather you had been angry: this coldness freezes, kills.
You write: ‘Be reasonable. No sane person could have sent such a letter.’ No sane person! But are we ever sane when we are in love? And is it unreasonable, extraordinary, for me to love you? Is it strange that I should say to you: ‘Take me, I am yours’, when you are a god. What else can mortals do? What else but this—to dedicate themselves? ‘I am yours’: what else?
A book has just appeared here in France, called Pitié pour les Femmes ; it has caused a stir, my mother has lent it to me. You must imagine a writer, Costals, a libertine, cynical, degenerate, a brute: yet to this man two women are willing to concede everything —because they have read his books. Understand: they have not met him. Yet they love him, as I love you. And they are starved—starved of all true companionship. While I—I could have been married over and over if I had wished it.
Does my love seem strange then? Costals is amoral, a cowardly degenerate: but you—you are noble, ascetic, good! There is nothing strange here. There is nothing mad in my wish to give myself to you. I am pouring my precious ointment on your feet. Oh, do not spurn it! Do not spurn it!
It is growing very late. Again I am weeping—as I always weep when I write to you. The young Dutch couple have turned out
It reminds me of when Dennis was killed: and I dared not go down from the balcony...
From SHIRLEY FORSDIKE, Barbizon, France, to Sir HUGH WEIGH, Dartmouth
July 15th , 1937
MY DEAREST,—It has happened! A letter has come from you! Oh, such a cold, disapproving letter—but a letter none the less. To-day I left my room where I have been brooding all these days and went for a drive in the Forest of Fontainebleau. This is the first time that I have been out of the garden since coming here. Your letter has done this. And now as I write, late, with Mother and all the guests asleep—all except the young Dutch couple on honeymoon who quarrel and do not turn out their light—I touch this one sheet of notepaper over and over again, I put my lips to it, because you, too, have touched it, your hands have rested there. Do not laugh at me for this: rather pity me. A letter is all that I have of you—a cold, disapproving letter.
If I could die! If I had the courage! But something prevents me—the certainty that some day, somehow, I shall be of service to you, that you will call me, that you will accept this love of mine. It is this that keeps me alive: it is only this that makes each day bearable—these days of summer, long, serene, but void, empty, like the smile on a dead face. (You see, I am being literary. ‘Like the smile on a dead face.’ But how else can I express this ache, this void? I cannot write over and over again: ‘I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you’.)
Plato was it who said that we all go through the world seeking a twin soul? I think I believe that. I feel as if you had been torn from me—as if we had been sundered. And this one half must always cry out for the other; must always hunger for it; must always bleed: for nothing can heal it, nothing, till the halves be one. Why should I only be so certain of this—that we are halves, twin-souls? Why should I only bear the ache? We belong to each other, inseparably. Claim what is yours: return to me what is mine.
...I came here to France because I was ill. Nothing could be diagnosed, the doctors were puzzled. Should I have said to them then: I am starving, I am bleeding to death? Would they have believed that? But it is true, true.
Your letter: I have read it over and over again. When I went for my drive this afternoon, alone, in a horse-carriage, I kept on opening my bag, taking it out, looking at it, each time as though I expected some miraculous change, so that what was formal and cold might be tender, might be loving. And each time my eyes filled with tears. You should not have written to me like that. I had rather you had been angry: this coldness freezes, kills.
You write: ‘Be reasonable. No sane person could have sent such a letter.’ No sane person! But are we ever sane when we are in love? And is it unreasonable, extraordinary, for me to love you? Is it strange that I should say to you: ‘Take me, I am yours’, when you are a god. What else can mortals do? What else but this—to dedicate themselves? ‘I am yours’: what else?
A book has just appeared here in France, called Pitié pour les Femmes ; it has caused a stir, my mother has lent it to me. You must imagine a writer, Costals, a libertine, cynical, degenerate, a brute: yet to this man two women are willing to concede everything —because they have read his books. Understand: they have not met him. Yet they love him, as I love you. And they are starved—starved of all true companionship. While I—I could have been married over and over if I had wished it.
Does my love seem strange then? Costals is amoral, a cowardly degenerate: but you—you are noble, ascetic, good! There is nothing strange here. There is nothing mad in my wish to give myself to you. I am pouring my precious ointment on your feet. Oh, do not spurn it! Do not spurn it!
It is growing very late. Again I am weeping—as I always weep when I write to you. The young Dutch couple have turned out
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