BRACERS Record Detail for 17905
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BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, [12 MAY 1913]
BRACERS 17905. ALS. Morrell papers #773, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell et al.
My Darling
Your letter of Sat. came by 1st post today — I am glad Combe thought you better — I do really think you are better. I suppose that is why you like me better than you did. I think your affection depends on your health almost entirely, don’t you? — I know how agitating it is seeing Combe. What with that and J. being ill, I should not have thought your letter cold at all.
Last night I had Ward and J.A. Smith, Meredith, Norton, Hardy, Bevan. All my worst passions were gratified. The first hour, Smith told tedious anecdotes that had no point, while others listened in varying degrees of boredom; then gradually he began to give information on various subjects, on all of which somebody in the room knew more than he did, and showed him to be pretending to knowledge he did not possess. About birds, and about Bacon, Ward set him right; about China and Japan, Norton corrected him about points of fact from personal knowledge; but the worst was when he talked about the two sects of Mohammedans, and tried to quote an Arabic proverb. Bevan, who doesn’t really feel that anything in the world seriously matters except Arabic, felt all a pedant’s irritation, but drew him on to commit himself before letting his own knowledge appear. Smith is the kind of man to whom it never occurs as a possibility that some one present may know enough to show him up. I know I ought to feel Christian charity towards him, but I can’t — I feel him utterly hateful. After the Bevan episode, he collapsed into sulks, and said not another word, while the rest of us talked about Chinese poetry. Hardy said not one word the whole time but sat with his head down as if he were asleep — I thought he was at first, but looking again I saw he was only struggling to conceal his amusement. He will have made a wonderful story out of it. I felt I had been indulging in an orgy of evil passions. North arrived late, and stayed till 1.30 — but even now I am still in the grip of hatred. — Today I have to go 6½ miles into the country to lunch with the Waldsteins. He is a disgusting man, but I met him at the tea-party for H. Spender, and couldn’t get out of going.
Owing to all this dissipation, I have not got a word written on theory of knowledge today, beyond making an abstract for my next chapter. But I shall get my 10 pages done when I return from Waldstein easily enough. I shan’t publish it till after America, because I shall want it to be fresh for my lectures there.
I am re-reading Under Western Eyes. It is very good — but it is odd what a dislike of Russians I have come to feel. In Turgenieff and Tolstoy I used to like them, but in Dostojewsky, and here in Conrad, I find their evading of facts by high-sounding phrases intolerable. The only Russian I know at all well, Mrs Mathieson, is just like that. Crousehoff, her son, is not, but he has grown outwardly quite English.
This is a horrid letter, which will make you think me disgusting. Writing philosophy puts me in a dry critical mood — I am sorry but I can’t help it. It doesn’t go very deep.
I do hope J. is better. I shall be very anxious to hear what Combe says of her. Please tell me too as much as you possibly can of what he says about you — with details if you can bring yourself to it.
Goodbye Darling. All my love is with you every moment.
Your
B
