BRACERS Record Detail for 17138
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Doesn't like the Apostles any more—"frivolous".
"I am very glad indeed that Moore will be up—he is splendid. His nature is transparent, crystal, like a mountain spring—he always speaks the exact truth, because it does not occur to him to do otherwise, and he does it so simply that nobody ever minds."
"The Whs. [Whiteheads] have gone to Alys at Fernhurst this weekend—I shall hear their report on Tuesday."
Wants their love to produce something [written] for the world.
BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, [14 MAY 1911]
BRACERS 17138. ALS. Morrell papers #67, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell et al.
My Dearest Dearest
It is dreadful to be already so longing to be with you. Your dear little letter written in the train reached me this morning; I am glad it didn’t reach me sooner, or I should have had nothing today. It is foolish, but the feeling that you are such a long way off makes a difference. I feel how much longer it would take to get to you. Owing to being here for the week-end, I find myself not busy, and that leaves me time to think and wish I were with you. I find it hard to believe there ever was such happiness in the world before as you give me.
Last night, as Moore was up, I went to “the Society” as it is called [the Apostles]. (You know that there is a practice of pretending not to speak of it.) I was depressed by the extent to which I was out of sympathy with the young men, except one or two. They seemed frivolous, and I found no pleasure in being with them. Already last term I had come to the conclusion that the people I sympathize most with here are not the cleverest people — they tire me by their lack of simplicity. Strong feeling is the great simplifier, and these people don’t have that. I don’t know how that is to be remedied — certainly not by exhortation. I think the trouble comes largely from overwork in boyhood, which destroys their vigour — that in turn comes of the scholarship and examination system — and so you get into a vast network. I don’t know what is to be done.
I wonder whether Clutton Brock really hates pictures, or only hates them professionally, as one hates whatever one makes one’s living by. I dare say if he would see rather less of them he would love them. I don’t know him — is he nice?
I am lunching with Goldie — we had meant to bicycle out to a place in the fens which he loves, but as it is raining I suppose we shan’t. I go to tea with Purnell Strachey (the Newnham don). My days pass in almost continual talk — I find it very difficult to settle down to anything else. Yesterday we had an endless dull meeting of the Newnham Council — sometimes it is exciting, and I have had magnificent pitched battles with Mrs Sidgwick about salaries. I like and respect Mrs Sidgwick up to a point: she is fine, self-denying, honourable (which heads of institutions hardly ever are), and very able in business. But austerity in her has turned to coldness: she has no sympathetic understanding of other people, thinks all the Newnham dons ought to run the College in a religious spirit, as a cause, without thought of pay, and does not realize that the pay was often insufficient to keep them efficient. This has been the cause of our battles — but I won, and they are over, so that now things are dull. After that I talked awhile with Miss Harrison; then I went into the backs with a book, but read almost none of it, as I got into talks successively with my Scotch pupil Laird, then Moore, then North Whitehead. I am very glad indeed that Moore will be up — he is splendid. His nature is transparent, crystal, like a mountain spring — he always speaks the exact truth, because it does not occur to him to do otherwise, and he does it so simply that nobody ever minds. That reminds me that I am getting to love the Idiot, and shall go on with it without any effort. He is a really delightful person. — I wonder what you are talking about with your Russians. I keep writing to you about everything, because I can’t bear to stop, and nothing else seems really worth doing. I find no difficulty in interesting myself in human things — anything to do with people I can throw myself into whole-heartedly — but at present purely abstract things don’t feel important. That will stop, probably quite suddenly, but it is so at present. It is just as well — I shall come back to abstract things all the fresher. — The Whiteheads have gone to Alys at Fernhurst this week-end — I shall hear their report on Tuesday. — Dearest, I am hungry for you — with you there is peace, away from you things invade my peace, and the injustice of others’ lives oppresses me. Happiness brings a very great responsibility — not to grow selfish, not to forget the others. But yet I do long to be with you always. I must not grow too dependent. Some day I should like to go over the things I sent you, and hear in detail what you think of them, and see if anything can be made of any of them. I do want our love to produce something for the world. That is the one consecration that it still needs. And for that we must talk about what could be done — O my life, I am longing for you.
Your
B.
