Oh, how wonderful it was, darling, to see you again, even under the
Gorgon’s eye—such a cold stony eye, darling, and with all those people
around. I had been dead all through those dreadful months. When you went
away, I felt as if the big frost had got right into my heart. Do you
know, it made me laugh when the pipes froze up in the bathroom and we
couldn’t get any water and He was so angry. I thought if he only knew I
was just like that inside, and when the terrible numb feeling had passed
off, something would snap in me, too. Was that a foolish thing to think,
Petra? Not a very poetical idea, I am afraid, but I wished I could have
told it to you and heard your big, lovely laugh at your Darling Donkey!
Oh, Petra, we can’t go on like this, can we? I couldn’t go through those
long, long weeks again without seeing or hearing you, not so much as
your dear untidy writing on an envelope. And, darling, it was so
dreadful to hear you say you couldn’t work without your Inspiration,
because your work is so wonderful and so important. Why should He stand
between you and what God meant you to do? The life we live here is so
cramped and useless; the only way I can fulfil any great purpose is in
being a little help in your divine work of creation. It is so wonderful
to know that one can really be of use—part of the beauty you make and
spread all about you. It isn’t even as if I counted for anything in
_His_ work. A woman can’t be an inspiration for an electrical profit and
loss account, or a set of estimates, can she? He doesn’t think so,
anyway. He just wants to have me in a cage to look at, darling—not even
to love. He doesn’t care or know about love—thank God! I say now,
because I can keep myself all for my own marvellous Man. Oh, I have so
much to give, so much, all myself, such as I am—not clever, darling,
you know I am not that, though I love to hear about clever, interesting
things—but loving and real and _alive_ for you, only you, darling,
darling Petra. I never knew how much beauty there was in the world till
you showed it to me, and that’s why I feel so sure that our love must be
a _right_ thing, because one could not feel so much beauty in anything
that was wrong, could one? Fancy going on living for years and years,
starved of beauty and love, when there is all that great treasure of
happiness waiting to be taken. Oh, darling, he was going on at dinner
last night about how his grandfather lived to be a hundred and his
father about ninety-four, and what a strong family they were, and I
could see them, going on year after year, grinding all the happiness out
of their wives and families and making a desert all round them, just as
He does. I looked up Gorgons in a book, darling, and it said they were
immortal, all except the one Perseus killed, and I’m sure they are,
darling, the stony horrors. Sometimes I wish I could die. Do you think
they would let me come and be near you after I was dead? But I know you
think we don’t live after we are dead, but just turn into flowers and
earth again. It does seem much more likely, doesn’t it, whatever the
clergymen say—so I suppose it would be no good me dying, would it? Just
think—only one life, and to be able to do nothing with it—nothing at
all, and then just die and be finished. It makes me shudder. It’s all so
cold and dreary. What right have people to make life such a wasted,
frozen thing? Why are they allowed to live at all if they don’t _live_
in the true sense of the word? And life can be such a great thing if it
is really _lived_. Oh, Pet darling, thank you for having taught me to
live, even if it was only for a few short, wonderful weeks! When I’m all
alone (and I’m always alone, nowadays, not even poor Milsom to talk to
now), I sit and try to read some of the books you told me about. But I
stop reading, and my mind wanders away, and I’m just living over again
the hours we had together, and the feel of your dear arms round me.
Sometimes he comes in and finds me like that, and scolds me for letting
the fire out and not putting the light on. “You’re always mooning
about,” he says, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing.” Oh,
darling, if he only did know, how angry he would be and how wicked he
would think me in his ugly little mind!
Dear one, you won’t leave me all alone again, will you? We said we would
try to forget one another, but I think you knew as well as I did how
impossible it was. Well, we have tried, haven’t we, and we’ve found it
is no good. You thought it would be better for me, but it isn’t. I feel
far, far more miserable than I did, even in the days when we were seeing
each other and trying to keep down all the things we were thinking and
feeling together. I would rather suffer the awful pain of seeing and
wanting you, than feel so dead and empty, as if my heart had been all
drained out of me, beloved. And I know now that it is just as bad for
you, because you can’t do your work without me, and your work ought to
come first, darling, even if you have to mix your paints with my heart’s
blood.
Darling, if you think it’s better we shouldn’t be real lovers, don’t
leave me altogether. Let us see each other sometimes. It doesn’t matter
even if the Gorgon is there and we have to talk the silly meaningless
tea-party talk. Our real selves will be saying the real things to one
another all the time, and we can look at one another and be a little bit
happy. I can _feel_ with my eyes, can’t you, darling? When you met us
yesterday and stood there with that absurd top-hat in your hand—it was
so funny to see you in that stiff, formal morning dress, but you looked
very splendid and it made me so proud to think you were really all mine
and no one knew it—well, when I saw you, I could feel in all my
fingers, darling, the queer lovely feel of your hair that first day—do
you remember—when you put your head on my knees and broke down and said
you loved me. Such a dear head, darling, all rough and crisp, and the
strong, splendid bones under it, full of wonderful thoughts. If I shut
my eyes I can feel it—I’m doing it now, darling. Shut yours—now, this
minute—and see if you can’t feel my hands. Did you, Petra darling—did
you feel all the love and life in them? Tell me when you write if you
can feel me as I feel you!
You will write, darling, won’t you? You will spare me that little ray at
least from the great fire of your life and love. Don’t leave me all in
the dark, Petra, and I’ll be content with whatever you give me.
Everything has been so ghastly that I haven’t got it in me to be
exacting, dear.
Always your own, only, for ever,
LOLO