BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, [14 APR. 1911]
BRACERS 17094. ALS. Morrell papers #31A, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell and A.G. Bone

Fernhurst1
Good Friday morning

My Darling 

It is very good indeed to hear that all is settled about Tuesday and I can really come then. Thank you for your dear letter. Your letters are brought to me when I am called, soa I begin the day with them, and they fill me with happiness through all the later hours. Dearest, you really needn’t feel shy of talking to me about yourself, or imagine I shall think things “bald” or “foolish” or what not. I shall not think anything of that sort. But I don’t want to urge you to talk about things when you had rather be silent about them. Only you may really be at ease about being “stupid” — all that sort of thing belongs to polite conversation and not to real things.

I feel what you do about Janet Trevelyan, but nevertheless I am fond of her. I remember her as a timid bride — (before that I only knew her slightly —) needing occasional protection. She is kindness itself, but has no judgment and no power of holding her tongue over other people’s affairs. She did me a bad turn once by telling people the half of a matter in which I appeared in a bad light because I couldn’t tell the other half. (There would have been something, but very little, to be said against me anyhow.) Nevertheless I do like her. She is so honest and fearless, and has such a warm heart. The way she loved George was alone enough to make me like her. But of course she has the Arnold conceit and schoolmaster’s instincts.

The spring here is getting beautiful. We have had lovely sunny days, and the leaves grow visibly from day to day. Yes, I am quite rested, very much so. Long walks always do me good. I find my mind very much alive over everything. The people I meet and the books I read and the topics that come up — I seem to get to the heart of them now by instinct. Strong feeling of one’s own seems to lay bare other people’s hearts somehow.

If you haven’t written for John Woolman, I will give him to you.

Dearest, Dearest, I love you more and more every day. It is so hard to find words for it — I long to hold you in my arms and kiss you — then you will know — but words are terribly feeble — to try to make feelings travel by them is like sending an army over a bridge of gossamer. Dearest, I must stop. I am yours, Darling, utterly and completely.

B.

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  [document] Document 000031A. Proofread against a colour scan of the original.

Textual Notes

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  so written over obliterated word