BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, [16 APR. 1911]
BRACERS 17099. ALS. Morrell papers #34, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell and A.G. Bone

Fernhurst1 ^, 2
Sunday night

My Dearest Dearest

This should be my last letter before we meet, tho’ I don’t know what I shall do with my time tomorrow evening. It seems to me as if the time grew longer instead of shorter — I can’t imagine how the next 36 hours are to pass. Fortunately packing and travelling will keep me occupied a good part of the time. — Of course I knew your deprecatory remarks about your long letters were what you really felt. But in fact those letters were very very interesting indeed to me, and helped me to understand you — at first I didn’t fully, because shyness and reserve kept you from explaining things. I ought to have fathomed everything without explanation, but understanding takes time. I quite understand your wanting me to know the worst — one wants to feel secure, and one is not secure till one’s worst is known. But what you call “stupidity” does not affect me. Would you expect me to think better of your mind than of you, because she knows how to spell ecstatic and you don’t? No doubt knowing how to spell ecstatic is an almost irresistible charm — still ...

I went to Hindhead today to see my poor Aunt Agatha. I have a sort of liking for her, tho’ I can hardly think of one good quality she possesses. She has been wrapped up in her chauffeur for years, but the faithless wretch has become engaged and is therefore less interesting. I like her because I am sorry for her, and from family feeling, and because she likes me. During the reign of the chauffeur I rather kept away, because she got on just as well without me. But now I ought to go occasionally.

Yes it was Hugh Meredith who came into Dickinson’s that night. I won’t give you his poems, because they are in many ways offensive. They have one great quality, but in other ways are trying, like him. But if you care to try them, do, only I don’t answer for your liking them. You must tell me what it is you want me to give you some day.

Darling, I hope you are feeling less ill. It is a wretched business. As for me, you will find me sunburnt and not at all the tired person I was.

I shall look out for you as I come along in my cab from Swanage, and I will let my luggage go on without me. I still don’t really believe it will happen. It won’t get into my belief. I am superstitious somewhere, tho’ I know that is silly. Dearest, I only live for Tuesday — it is too near now for philosophy or patience — there is nothing left but longing for the moment. I shall be shy and stiff meeting you first on a public road — but oh the joy of your presence — to hear your voice and see your dear face and feel your love — it is more than I can bear. O my heart, my heart, I love you, love you, love you. It will be a hard fight whether love dominates me or I dominate love. So long as the bulk of our lives has to be separate, I must dominate it. But I would easily cease to be interested in anything but you, which would never do. Only it is hard to have to check love. However, very soon now we shall be together. And now I must go to bed. Goodnight, my Darling, my Ottoline.

Your
B.

Monday morning. No letter this morning, but I shall hope for one at Southampton. Goodbye till tomorrow, my Dearest Dearest —

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  [document] Document 000034. Proofread against a colour scan of the original.

• 2[envelope] A circled “34”. The Lady Ottoline Morrell | Cliff End | Studland | Dorset. Pmk: FERNHURST | AP 17 |11. On the verso: WAREHAM | 2 30 AM | AP 18 | 11