BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, [9 MAY 1911]
BRACERS 17130. ALS. Morrell papers #60, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell et al.

<letterhead>
Trinity College,
Cambridge.1^, 2
Tuesday evg.

My Dearest Dearest

I ought to be doing all sorts of business, but I am so overcome with love that I must write to you. Your letter which reached me just now is very wonderful. I shall never worry about anything past — nothing has sullied me inwardly, and nothing would surprise you — and whatever foolish actions you may have done I take no interest in, because as you say they are best not spoken of, and they would not surprise me. I feared you would idealize me and some day find out your mistake — but I don’t think you do — and I don’t idealize you one bit. It is weak not to be able to love without idealizing, and it is a kind of weakness I am not subject to, tho’ I was when I was very young.

My Dearest, I love you so much, so much — it is quite beyond what I thought possible. You are the whole world to me. I have to remind myself of other things — work, friends whom I care for deeply, purposes from which I hope I should not budge if you hated them instead of loving them — but for the present these things seem to have left their independent power, and nothing seems to count accept you, and other things as they interest you and as we can share them. Yet I do believe “Whoso loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me”. Only you so love what is good that it all gets blended and comes together in one great perfect love of you and goodness together.

Yes I should like you to make me more actively tender. I have not hidden it from people in trouble, and I think many must have known of it because I have often found that people in trouble trusted me. But in ordinary life it gets athwart my critical side. It is more vital that I should be a clear and incisive critic of things and theories than that I should show tenderness, because it is more what I am specially capable of, and it is nearer to the faith I live by. There has always been some difficulty in combining the two — one of the things I sent you (rather a poor one) was on that subject. But it is not impossible to combine them, and you will help me. Happiness in itself is a help.

This morning I had my lecture to prepare and to give, then Miss Silcox, then in the middle of giving her lunch Dickinson turned up and joined our lunch, then he and North Whitehead and I bicycled in the country, then I had to go and teach my Danish Newnham student. I had just got back from all this rush when your letter came, and my free thoughts rushed back to you in a great flood. When I am full of business, I still think of you, but it is not the same thing as when I have leisure. Tomorrow will be divine. I wish there was a later train back, but I suppose it wouldn’t do for you to stay the night at the hotel. Why don’t you accept Lytton’s invitation?

I am sorry the inoculation makes you feel horrid, but I hope it will really be useful. Your house has a very restful atmosphere, and moving is a bother — but I can believe the expense is serious.

Dearest I have had hardly any time yet to read your books. I used to read a lot in bed, but now I always get to sleep at once, so I have lost that time. I long for time to read all sorts of books with you — all the books that have been important to you or me. I should like to make you know about Spinoza, which I could easily do with time. And you might give me lessons in Aristotle. As years go by there will be times I hope. There is so much and so much to share — and everything grows so much richer in being shared with you. I seem to feel my soul expanding and growing richer and greater day by day, as your love fills it more and more. It all seems utterly boundless — I told you before you were like the rising sun — it is the rising sun in the Alps, that brings out all the distant mountain-tops and makes them shine — I feel as if my heart would burst for excess of joy, I cannot tell you all I feel, but you know, because you feel it too.

I shall wait for you patiently in my rooms till you come tomorrow. It will be divine — I long for your kiss my Dearest. Goodbye, my Life, my joy —

Your loving
B.

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  [document] Document 000060. Proofread against a colour scan of the original.

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  [envelope] A circled “60”. The Lady Ottoline Morrell | 44 Bedford Square | London W.C.