_72 Eliot Mansions, Chelsea, S.W._
_April 18._
_Dear Edward,--I think we were wise to part. We were too unsuited to one
another, and our difficulties could only have increased. The knot of
marriage between two persons of differing temperaments is so intricate
that it can only be cut: you may try to unravel it, and think you are
succeeding, but another turn shows you that the tangle is only worse
than ever. Even time is powerless. Some things are impossible; you
cannot heap water up like stones, you cannot measure one man by another
man’s rule. I am certain we were wise to separate. I see that if we had
continued to live together our quarrels would have perpetually
increased. It is horrible to look back upon those vulgar brawls--we
wrangled like fishwives. I cannot understand how my mouth could have
uttered such things._
_It is very bitter to look back and compare my anticipations with what
has really happened. Did I expect too much from life? Ah me, I only
expected that my husband would love me. It is because I asked so little
that I have received nothing. In this world you must ask much, you must
spread your praises abroad, you must trample under-foot those who stand
in your path, you must take up all the room you can or you will be
elbowed away; you must be irredeemably selfish, or you will be a thing
of no account, a frippery that man plays with and flings aside._
_Of course I expected the impossible, I was not satisfied with the
conventional unity of marriage; I wanted to be really one with you.
Oneself is the whole world, and all other people are merely strangers.
At first in my vehement desire, I used to despair because I knew you so
little; I was heartbroken at the impossibility of really understanding
you, of getting right down into your heart of hearts. Never, to the
best of my knowledge, have I seen your veritable self; you are nearly as
much a stranger to me as if I had known you but an hour. I bared my soul
to you, concealing nothing--there is in you a man I do not know and have
never seen. We are so absolutely different, I don’t know a single thing
that we have in common; often when we have been talking and fallen into
silence, our thoughts, starting from the same standpoint, have travelled
in contrary directions, and on speaking again, we found how widely they
had diverged. I hoped to know you to the bottom of your soul. Oh, I
hoped that we should be united, so as to have but one soul between us;
and yet on the most commonplace occasion, I can never know your
thoughts. Perhaps it might have been different if we had had children;
they might have formed between us a truer link, and perhaps in the
delight of them I should have forgotten my impracticable dreams. But
fate was against us, I come from a rotten stock. It is written in the
book that the Leys should depart from the sight of men, and return to
their mother the earth, to be incorporated with her; and who knows in
the future what may be our lot! I like to think that in the course of
ages I may be the wheat on a fertile plain, or the smoke from a fire of
brambles on the common. I wish I could be buried in the open fields,
rather than in the grim coldness of a churchyard, so that I might
anticipate the change, and return more quickly to the life of nature._
_Believe me, separation was the only possible outcome. I loved you too
passionately to be content with the cold regard which you gave me. Oh,
of course I was exacting, and tyrannical, and unkind; I can confess all
my faults now; my only excuse is that I was very unhappy. For all the
pain I have caused you, I beg you to forgive me. We may as well part
friends, and I freely forgive you for all you have made me suffer. Now I
can afford also to tell you how near I was to not carrying out my
intention. Yesterday and this morning I scarcely held back my tears; the
parting seemed too hard, I felt I could not leave you. If you had asked
me not to go, if you had even shown the smallest sign of regretting my
departure, I think I should have broken down. Yes, I can tell you now,
that I would have given anything to stay. Alas! I am so weak. In the
train I cried bitterly. It is the first time we have been apart since
our marriage, the first time that we have slept under different roofs.
But now the worst is over. I have taken the step, and I shall adhere to
what I have done. I am sure I have acted for the best. I see no harm in
our writing to one another occasionally if it pleases you to receive
letters from me. I think I had better not see you, at all events for
some time. Perhaps when we are both a good deal older we may, without
danger, see one another now and then; but not yet. I should be afraid to
see your face._
_Aunt Polly has no suspicion. I can assure you it has been an effort to
laugh and talk during the evening, and I was glad to get to my room. Now
it is past midnight and I am still writing to you. I felt I ought to let
you know my thoughts, and I can tell them more easily by letter than by
word of mouth. Does it not show how separated in heart we have become,
that I should hesitate to say to you what I think--and I had hoped to
have my heart always open to you. I fancied that I need never conceal a
thing, nor hesitate to show you every emotion and every
thought.--Good-bye._
_BERTHA_.
_72 Eliot Mansions, Chelsea, S.W.
April 23._
_My poor Edward,--You say you hope I shall soon get better and come back
to Court Leys. You misunderstand my meaning so completely that I almost
laughed. It is true I was out of spirits and tired when I wrote--but
that was not the reason of my letter. Cannot you conceive emotions not
entirely due to one’s physical condition? You cannot understand me, you
never have; and yet I would not take up the vulgar and hackneyed
position of a femme incomprise. There is nothing to understand about me.
I am very simple and unmysterious. I only wanted love, and you could not
give it me. No, our parting is final and irrevocable. What can you want
me back for? You have Court Leys and your farms. Every one likes you in
the neighbourhood; I was the only bar to your complete happiness. Court
Leys I freely give you for my life; until you came it brought in
nothing, and the income now arising from it is entirely due to your
efforts; you earn it and I beg you to keep it. For me the small income I
have from my mother is sufficient._
_Aunt Polly still thinks I am on a visit, and constantly speaks of you.
I throw dust in her eyes, but I cannot hope to keep her in ignorance for
long. At present I am engaged in periodically seeing the doctor for an
imaginary ill, and getting one or two new things._
_Shall we write to one another once a week? I know writing is a trouble
to you; but I do not wish you to forget me altogether. If you like, I
will write to you every Sunday, and you may answer or not as you
please._
_BERTHA._
P.S.--_Please do not think of any_ rapprochement. _I am
sure you will eventually see that we are both much happier
apart._
_72 Eliot Mansions, Chelsea, S.W.
May 15._
_My dear Eddie,--I was pleased to get your letter. I am a little touched
at your wanting to see me. You suggest coming to town--perhaps it is
fortunate that I shall be no longer here. If you had expressed such a
wish before, much might have gone differently._
_Aunt Polly having let her flat to friends, goes to Paris for the rest
of the season. She starts to-night, and I have offered to accompany her.
I am sick of London. I do not know whether she suspects anything, but I
notice that now she never mentions your name. She looked a little
sceptical the other day when I explained that I had long wished to go to
Paris, and that you were having the inside of Court Leys painted.
Fortunately, however, she makes it a practice not to inquire into other
people’s business, and I can rest assured that she will never ask me a
single question._
_Forgive the shortness of this letter, but I am very busy,
packing.--Your affectionate wife,_
_BERTHA._
_41 Rue des Ecoliers, Paris,
May 16._
_My dearest Eddie,--I have been unkind to you. It is nice of you to want
to see me, and my repugnance to it was perhaps unnatural. On thinking it
over, I cannot think it will do any harm if we should see one another.
Of course, I can never come back to Court Leys--there are some chains
that having broken you can never weld together; and no fetters are so
intolerable as the fetters of love. But if you want to see me I will put
no obstacle in your way; I will not deny that I also should like to see
you. I am farther away now, but if you care for me at all you will not
hesitate to make the short journey._
_We have here a very nice apartment, in the Latin Quarter, away from the
rich people and the tourists. I do not know which is more vulgar, the
average tripper or the part of Paris which he infests: I must say they
become one another to a nicety. I loathe the shoddiness of the
boulevards, with their gaudy cafés over-gilt and over-sumptuous, and
their crowds of ill-dressed foreigners. But if you come I can show you a
different Paris--a restful and old-fashioned Paris, theatres to which
tourists do not go; gardens full of pretty children and nursemaids with
long ribbons to their caps. I can take you down innumerable gray streets
with funny shops, in old churches where you see people actually praying;
and it is all very quiet and calming to the nerves. And I can take you
to the Louvre at hours when there are few visitors, and show you
beautiful pictures and statues that have come from Italy and Greece,
where the gods have their home to this day. Come, Eddie.--Your ever
loving wife,_
_BERTHA._
_41 Rue des Ecoliers, Paris,
May 25._
_My dearest Eddie,--I am disappointed that you will not come. I should
have thought, if you wanted to see me, you could have found time to
leave the farms for a few days. But perhaps it is really better that we
should not meet. I cannot conceal from you that sometimes I long for you
dreadfully. I forget all that has happened, and desire with all my heart
to be with you once more. What a fool I am! I know that we can never
meet again, and you are never absent from my thoughts. I look forward to
your letters almost madly, and your handwriting makes my heart beat as
if I were a schoolgirl. Oh, you don’t know how your letters disappoint
me, they are so cold; you never say what I want you to say. It would be
madness if we came together--I can only preserve my love to you by not
seeing you. Does that sound horrible? And yet I would give anything to
see you once more. I cannot help asking you to come here. It is not so
very often I have asked you anything. Do come. I will meet you at the
station, and you will have no trouble or bother--everything is perfectly
simple, and Cook’s Interpreters are everywhere. I’m sure you would enjoy
yourself so much.--If you love me, come._
_BERTHA._
_Court Leys, Blackstable, Kent,
May 30._
_My dearest Bertha,--Sorry I haven’t answered yours of 25th inst.
before, but I’ve been up to my eyes in work. You wouldn’t think there
could be so much to do on a farm at this time of year, unless you saw it
with your own eyes. I can’t possibly get away to Paris, and besides I
can’t stomach the French. I don’t want to see their capital, and when I
want a holiday, London’s good enough for me. You’d better come back
here, people are asking after you, and the place seems all topsy-turvy
without you. Love to Aunt P.--In haste, your affectionate husband,_
_E. CRADDOCK._
_41 Rue des Ecoliers, Paris,
June 1._
_My dearest, dearest Eddie,--You don’t know how disappointed I was to
get your letter and how I longed for it. Whatever you do, don’t keep me
waiting so long for an answer. I imagined all sorts of things--that you
were ill or dying. I was on the point of wiring. I want you to promise
me that if you are ever ill, you will let me know. If you want me
urgently I shall be pleased to come. But do not think that I can ever
come back to Court Leys for good. Sometimes I feel ill and weak and I
long for you, but I know I must not give way. I’m sure, for your good as
well as for mine, I must never risk the unhappiness of our old life
again. It was too degrading. With firm mind and the utmost resolution I
swear that I will never, never return to Court Leys.--Your affectionate
and loving wife,_
_BERTHA._
TELEGRAM
_Gare du Nord, 9.50 a.m., June 2.
Craddock, Court Leys, Blackstable.
Arriving 7.25 to-night.--BERTHA._
_41 Rue des Ecoliers, Paris._
_My dear young Friend,--I am perturbed. Bertha, as you know, has for the
last six weeks lived with me, for reasons the naturalness of which
aroused my strongest suspicions. No one, I thought, would need so many
absolutely conclusive motives to do so very simple a thing. I resisted
the temptation to write to Edward (her husband--a nice man, but stupid!)
to ask for an explanation, fearing that the reasons given me were the
right ones (although I could not believe it); in which case I should
have made myself ridiculous. Bertha in London pretended to go to a
physician, but never was seen to take medicine, and I am certain no
well-established specialist would venture to take two guineas from a_
malade imaginaire _and not administer copious drugs. She accompanied me
to Paris, ostensibly to get dresses, but has behaved as if their fit
were of no more consequence than a change of ministry. She has taken
great pains to conceal her emotions and thereby made them the more
conspicuous. I cannot tell you how often she has gone through the
various stages from an almost hysterical elation to an equal
despondency. She has mused as profoundly as was fashionable for the
young ladies of fifty years ago (we were all young ladies then--not
girls!); she has played Tristan and Isolde to the distraction of myself;
she has snubbed an amorous French artist to the distraction of his wife;
finally she has wept, and after weeping over-powdered her eyes, which in
a pretty woman is an infallible sign of extreme mental prostration._
_This morning when I got up I found at my door the following message:_
“Don’t think me an utter fool, but I couldn’t stand another day away
from Edward. Leaving by the 10 o’clock train.--B.” _Now at 10.30 she had
an appointment at Paquin’s to try on the most ravishing dinner-dress you
could imagine._
_I will not insult you by drawing inferences from all these facts: I know
you would much sooner draw them yourself, and I have a sufficiently good
opinion of you to be certain that they will coincide with mine.--Yours
very sincerely,_
_MARY LEY._
P.S.--_I am sending this to await you at Seville. Remember
me to Mrs. J._