BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, 23 SEPT. 1911
BRACERS 17272. ALS. Morrell papers #191, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell et al.

Ipsden.1^, 2
Saturday night. Sp. 23. 1911

My Darling

Having written 20 pages today of my Aristotelian paper, I feel I have done my duty. I have been engaged in debating whether there is any sense in which it is true that a thing can’t be in two places at once, and I believe I have at last found a sense. The question of particulars and universals, which is the one I am concerned with, turns upon it: Space is the particularizer. I think my address will puzzle its hearers, tho’ I have done my best to be plain. There are three possible views (a) there are only particulars — this is held by Berkeley and Hume, and is demonstrably false; (b) there are only universals — this is held by the American realists with whom I generally agree, and it is very nearly held by Bradley; (c) there are both, which is my view and Moore’s, and must have been Plato’s, tho’ he likes to speak as if particulars were less real than universals. My problem has been to find arguments for (c) against (b), and also to state what is the difference between particulars and universals, which is no easy matter. — The rest of my day has been spent in going twice to Goring to post letters for you, and in reading Nevinson, who interests me very much more than I expected. I like his accounts of religious men whom he talked with. There one sees mysticism fully developed. It is plain that too much of it ruins a man or a nation; it doesn’t do to suppose that nothing matters. Yet one can’t help admiring it.

As to going away before I must, I find I have no real wish to see anybody, and I like being in the place where I was all through that wonderful time. I like the freedom and the absence of engagements and the opportunity for the sort of thoughts that grow slowly and need an absence of daily preoccupations. One sees one’s life as a whole at such times, which is wholesome. But it wouldn’t be good for me to have very much of it — I should grow torpid.

I very much fear I shall get no letter from you tomorrow. Your letters now always come by 2nd post, which doesn’t exist on Sundays. Your letters are the central point of my day. I read them over and over at all sorts of odd times. I agree entirely with all you say about Karamazov. But something in me rebels against the glorification of sinners. I have more joy over one just man who needs no repentance than over 99 sinners who repent — it is part of my wish for perfection. And I feel I can do the virtuous-sinner business myself, so it doesn’t impress me. I confess the just men usually bore me, because they are usually very limited. But that is accidental — they need not be. And when they are not, they are restful and give one hope for mankind as no one else does. I always want the best better rather than the worst less bad. If a fairy offered me a gift, I should ask for more brains, but if I were a stupid saint, I should ask for more saintliness.

The rain is pouring in a steady autumnal downpour. I suppose now it will set to work to make up its average. Marienbad must be cold and dreary, and gloomy with everyone gone and everything shut up. I do hope the Dr. is right in thinking it will have done you real good. It would make such a lightening of your life if your head were better.

It is getting late and I must go to bed. My 20 pages have left me mildly tired, but very much relieved to have got them written. In spite of experience, I still always feel, with whatever I have to write, as if it were impossible I should get it done, until suddenly I see my way and it all comes out. All the real work is over when I begin writing. But anyone would think, beforehand, that I was shamefully idle, as I spend most of my day on anything but work. I do enough sitting over the job to have my mind quite full of it, and then the rest of the time I occupy myself with other things, until I see how to do it. In former times I used to sit over the job all day long, and think my brain had got addled. Writing is a funny business. I can’t imagine Logan’s plan of minute re-writing. If the first draft doesn’t do, I always find the second has to be done all over again, quite independently. And even in matters of pure style, I do best when I write fastest.

Now goodnight, Dearest. I will finish tomorrow.

Sunday. My Darling, To my great joy a letter came from you this morning — I was glad. The prospect of a day without a letter was desolate. The manager is a prize beast. I wonder how he ascertained that it was my cigarette that had made the hole. I should like to know how the quarrel concluded. Were you present?

I have heard from my Uncle Rollo in answer to a letter of mine, and apparently I made some muddle before, so they can’t have me on the 29th and I shan’t go there. So I shall go to Trinity on Friday unless I telegraph to the contrary. So please address Wednesday’s letter to Cambridge. Today is fine and warm. My Aristn. paper will soon be finished.

Yes, I genuinely liked Sandra immensely. She herself is delightful, and has none of the qualities one often dislikes in Meredith. I am sorry about the carpet-beating. I am sure Steward Samuel must be charming — I can never remember the name of the hotel I am staying at — I was 4 days at M. before I remembered Heimdall — so I think that a charming trait. Edward the Caresser seems an excellent name for his late Majesty!

All you say about Miss Pennant is very sad. It is awful to bring women up without education or occupation or interests.

Dearest, I am so grateful to you for writing about Mother Julian. Everything you say makes me know how wonderful she was — and I do feel almost as if I had known her. I realize what she was and is to you, for her memory remains with you. Goodbye Beloved. Remember my love is with you always.

Your
B.

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  [document] Document 000191. Proofread against a colour scan of the original.

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  [envelope] A circled “191”.