BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, [18 SEPT. 1911]
BRACERS 17265. ALS. Morrell papers #184, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell et al.

Ipsden.1^, 2
Monday 

My Dearest Dearest

Two letters came from you this morning, and were a great joy to get. But I am sorry you are not so well. It was so delightful seeing you so much better, while I was there. I do hope it is temporary and that you are again well now. For sunshine you ought to be in England. The weather is as bright and dry as ever here, though cold. I am interested in all you tell me about plans, but sorry the Conference is really off, particularly if it means you will be abroad all the Easter vacation — but that is too far off to worry about now. Darling I am already longing to be with you again — it will grow very hard as time goes on. It seems such a maimed sort of half-life when I am away from you. There seems so little colour or importance in things. I long to hear you laugh, and to tease and be teased about Gibbon. Yes I know the stuff about the early Xtians pretty well — he is at his best there. I fancy what he states is almost always true, but not what he insinuates. It is odd that such a good history could be written by a man who had no inner comprehension of anybody. — I find Les Frères Karamazoff very interesting; having read one Dostojewsky I know better what to expect and look out for. But I confess to the feeling of the respectable bourgeois that I think his characters ought to learn regular habits. I feel as if I could preach to them à la Logan, and with similar sentiments. He makes me, however, much more believe that I am getting the real Russia than Tolstoy does. His people are very mediaeval and have the mediaeval kind of religion. They confirm me in thinking Russia is what Europe was in the time of St. Francis. — I have finished my first reading of Broad: solid and sound and dull. He never makes either a mistake or an important discovery. His worst offences are his jokes, which have a kind of terrible flatness, like soda-water after the fizz has gone out of it.

Yes, it is a wonderful joy to think of all the years to come — how we shall know each other more and more, and have more and more of life in common. We have both so many separate memories — it is good that every day we are gathering common memories. We must try to read the same books as much as we can, only I read so little outside work. It is the misfortune of not having our outward lives in common that our events are different, except those that have to do with each other. It is odd tho’ how few common memories I have with Alys. From my marriage to the war, nothing of importance happened to me — the years are a blank in retrospect, except as regards work. Since then, all my events have been apart from her — the most uniting thing, in a way, was what we both suffered when I broke from her. It was the first time we had both been as serious as we were capable of being. I had come to think, from the years with Alys, that happiness and seriousness were antitheses — in fact I thought so instinctively when I was a boy. But now I see that is not true.

I dreamed last night that you were a man and I was a woman. The dream went on to the point where the difference was of most importance. — In my dream I thought I was very sensual, and that it was lucky for you that I was not a man, or I should have been brutal. People are said never to change their sex in dreams, but it isn’t true.

Prisons will be back from the typewriter on Saturday. I will send it you as soon as I know a safe address. I shall have another copy. I doubt if it will seem as good when you read it to yourself as when I read it to you. Things read by the writer always sound better.

I am once more sitting in a beech-wood — not so beautiful as the ones near Peppard, but still very good. I wish I still had Prisons to keep me company — writing that was almost as good as being with you because I felt it was every moment strengthening the bond between us, and giving expression to things in you that I longed to express. My work now is mere duty and doesn’t belong with you. Thank you very much for letting me see the note about Mother Julian. You know, don’t you, that she is constantly in my thoughts all these days, but I wait for you to speak.

I should think Prague, Vienna, Munich, Versailles would make a fairly pleasant round, tho’ of course not like Italy. I will avoid all avoidable engagements after Maurice Amos’s visit, which is the week-end of Oct. 15. It will be a very great joy if you are home earlier than you expected.

My Darling, I feel terribly dumb. It is the thought of all the long time to get through. I can’t ever tell you what joy it was being together as we were in Marienbad. My heart is so full of tenderness and longing to do every little thing for you that can be done — and it is so hard to express it all. Other things, that are really more important, get in the way when we only meet as we did before. There is an austerity in the affections, which is more of a sacrifice than austerity to oneself, and one is more glad when one can get away from it. The need of love is almost more a need to give it than to get it, but it is not enough to give it in one’s heart, one wants to give the expression of it. I think over every moment of our time with the sense of a precious and permanent possession. My Dearest Love, I love you more and more absolutely and with always more and more reverence. Goodbye, Goodbye, my Beloved.

Your
B.

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