BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, [29–30 APR. 1911]
BRACERS 17115,  17116. ALS. Morrell papers #48, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell et al.

<letterhead>
Trinity College,
Cambridge.1^,2
Sat. night in bed

My own Dearest

The day has been a little long with no letter from you, but I was so glad of your letter last night that it was worth having none today. By the way, how did you get thea letter to my hotel last night? Things here are a little depressing, as is often the case — it is a world of anxiety and difficulty, but morally it is very fine. Coming back into it, habits of mind reassert themselves, I fall easily into the thoughts and feelings I have been for years accustomed to, and it is hard not to believe that you are a dream from which I shall wake — I think that is why I have found this atmosphere depressing lately in a way it was not when I had no joy to contrast it with. But this time I feel the depression less, and of course it is no longer necessary to discuss our affairs, which is a great relief.

It is quite amazing how our love has made me light-hearted and young, after years of anxiousness and repression and depression. I fear there is some selfishness and forgetfulness of others about it. Do you think one earns a right to forget others’ sorrows for a while, if one has lived long in the thought of them? I am not less sympathetic when they are brought to my mind, but I forget them and come back to you and joy as soon as I am away from people in trouble. I was stretched almost to breaking-point before — yet sometimes it seems terrible to be so happy in such a world. But I am happy, and so long as our love remains nothing can touch that.

I find the Whiteheads are coming to London on Monday by the same train with me, so you must keep inside the waiting-room if by any chance you arrive before me. They would not wish their children to see us.

My Darling, I long to be with you always, and I feel that it will happen in time. But it must not happen in a way that will fill you with remorse. Remorse would destroy your inward peace, and in the long run would make you hate me. If you come to me, it must be with the full approval of your conscience — and of your conscience as it is in itself, not as I might make it by arguing. Those first days, I did not know the strength of your conscience, or how your mental and moral health depends upon it. I believe, tho’ I do not know, that if I were in your place I should feel that it would gradually become right to leave — but I don’t feel it would be possible to know yet. But if you wanted me to make a statement of reasons why you should not leave, I would do it most persuasively, tho’ I would rather not.

O my Dearest, I do love you, seriously, solemnly. You know that the passion in my love is strong, but it is not so strong as the reverence and the determination that you shall not suffer injury by my fault. That, you secured by resisting my first demands. When I first saw joy within reach, I was seized with terror lest it should be snatched away, but now I know it is secure except for the inevitable outward chances of life. But my longing to be with you always is so great that it seems almost to be its own justification. There does come a point where it becomes useless to resist further — and that point seems to be approaching with us. All this sounds cold, but Dearest sometimes I feel clear, exact words are the only ones that will convey one’s most serious feeling. I love you, and nothing but you seems important to me. And now goodnight Dearest.

I hope the inoculation will do you good, and not make you ill meanwhile.

<letterhead>
Trinity College,
Cambridge.
[25 Glebe Place]
Sunday morning in bed

I have no note paper left here except this, on which I had noted houses in Chelsea.3 Your letter and short note have just been brought me, and they are a joy to have. Of course I am free to dine tomorrow — there is only my poor brother on Religion and Science, and he doesn’t matter. Yes, Darling, I too found Friday quite perfect. I am thankful you find you can say everything to me. No, I am not stern with you am I? Did you expect me to hold up a finger and say O fie? Perhaps we shall both become sterner with each other when we know each other better? I don’t think you have much realized my faults yet, but when you do I shall want you to make me know it. — I couldn’t possibly think you were not true — you are most wonderfully sincere — more unerringly so than I am. With me the truth is sometimes so complicated that I have great difficulty in getting at it. And I too find sympathy a temptation.

I am so sorry Darling that you had a headache — I hope it is gone. Yes, I want you to speak of yourself whenever you are willing. I would let you see at once if I ever felt dissatisfaction or ennui, and I should expect you to let me see if you felt disgust. It would be no use to start humbug. You may rely upon me to give you truth, pleasant or unpleasant. — Your letter doesn’t seem at all cold — it is the same mood as mine. Words are so hopeless —

I am sorry you disturbed Desmond’s slumber — it is a pity you were not a little later. Moral: Don’t do your duty if there is anything better to do!

Yes, I understand fully all you feel about Mrs. Whitehead. She would I know like you to be friends with her. It will be easier, because it won’t be necessary to discuss ourselves. Darling I must get up as it is late. Yes I do feel the utter humility that comes of your love — I feel so far beneath what I should have to be to deserve it — Darling your love is so perfect and so beautiful that it utterly surpasses anything I had thought possible. It fills me full of joy in every part, utterly, and satisfies me absolutely. — I long for tomorrow — Goodbye my Darling, my Ottoline —

Your
B.

• 1

  [document] Document 000048. Proofread against a colour scan of the original.

• 2

  [envelope] A circled “48”. The Lady Ottoline Morrell | 44 Bedford Square | London W.C. Pmk: MARLBOROUGH | 8.45 PM | AP 30 | 11

• 3

  noted houses in Chelsea  25 Glebe Place Cheyne Cottage Cheyne Row C W 18, 15, 20 Lawrence Str

Textual Notes

• a

  the written over my