BR TO OTTOLINE MORRELL, [29 JUNE 1913]
BRACERS 18112. ALS. Morrell papers #966, Texas
Proofread by K. Blackwell et al.

34 Russell Chambers Bury Str. W.C.1^, 2
Sunday night.

My Darling

Your letter which reached me this morning is very dear. I feel we ought to talk things over quietly, so if you are still free I will expect you tomorrow afternoon. I won’t say anything to Mrs W. till I see what comes of our talk tomorrow.

I am completely at sea about everything. I keep thinking I ought to be unhappy, but I am not in the least. I am interested in the people I see by the wayside, in my Aunt’s little affairs, in the books I am reading — but personal concerns simply don’t interest me. I have been trying to think about them, but all the springs of feeling are dead for the moment, and tho' my brain is very clear, it hasn’t the materials to work on. I suppose that is how you felt at Churn, but it is new and puzzling to me. The exercise and country air did me a world of good.

Some things have grown clear to me. First, I should be very sorry if you blamed yourself, or felt it had all been a mistake. Even if we part now or later, it will nota have been a mistake, and you will have no reason to blame yourself. I think your theory has been rather mistaken, and hasb sometimes led to bad results for which you were not to blame because you thought the theory right. I don’t think one ought, if one can help it, to let oneself become the chief person in the world to some one else, unless that some one is the chief person to oneself. I think it is from not realizing this that you have always found people so touchy and sensitive, and so ready to hurt you. I have not realized it either in the past — I don’t think the fact that all affection is to the good is quite a justification, because one absorbs what might be given to some one else who would make an equal return. But all this is not in the least said by way of blame, but as a painfully-acquired piece of knowledge.

Another thing that has become clear to me is that what you can give — which I really don’t underrate — would never make me really fundamentally happy, unless I had lost all the force that I require for my work. I don’t say this in any spirit of bitterness or hurt feelings — I have no feelings at present, hurt or otherwise. It is a piece of cold knowledge. I feel like Endymion loving the moon — at rare moments she descends from heaven and gives him a more than mortal bliss; then she mounts up again into the sky and shines on all the world, as she ought, leaving him lonely on the cold hill-side. With more courage and a less acrid nature, I should find enough in what you give. As it is, I believe the sense of what you never would give would lead to an increasing despair. Apart from this, I rather believe any intimatec relation not involving a common life is rather bad for me nervously and morally — it makes me exacting and restless and unkind.

I cannot believe there is any real happiness for you in our relations. It seems to me what is important for you is to avoid the sense of failure. Whatever happens you have done quite immense things for me. To begin with, you have given me divine memories — memories that have transformed my sense of what is possible in this world. I shall never forget them — I don’t forget anything of that kind ever — and they will always ennoble life for me. Then you have really brought much more harmony between my work and my religion — I have learnt things through you, in this respect, which I shall be the better for as long as I live. But that is not the chief thing. The chief thing you have given me is my real love for you, the religious, mystical love, which gets obscured at times by the passionate possessive love, but would come much more to the surface if the passionate love were killed. As far as I can see clearly tonight, it seems to me thatd I must cease to look to you for instinctive happiness. If this can only be achieved by a time of separation, then I think we ought to separate for a time. I know that 11 years ago, tho’ there was only a brief moment when I supposed that more than friendship might be possible, during that brief moment what was of real value was obscured, and all the faults I have had towards you began to appear. But afterwards something very good took the place of passion — something better than could ever have existed if there had not been passion. And what then grew up has been permanent. As soon as passion was gone I became unselfish and considerate. But I cannot really judge tonight as to what is possible between you and me, because I am not alive enough to know the difficulties either on my side or on yours.

Forgive the coldness of this letter. I can’t write otherwise tonight. Whatever happens, you may rely on me to persist with work and not to be guilty of any fundamental cowardice. If I could feel anything, it would be anguish for the pain I give you. Goodnight.

Your
B.

• 1

  [document] Document 000996. Proofread against a colour scan of the original.

• 2

  [envelope] A circled “996”. Lady Ottoline Morrell | 44 Bedford Square | W.C. Pmk: none.

Textual Notes

• a

  not three underlines

• bhad written over obliterated word
• c

  intimate intimate <in Ottoline’s hand?> after an obliterated word in a different ink

• d

  that after obliteration in a different ink of about a dozen words of which the last ones appear to be to have a sexual relation