Theberton Hall,
Leiston
Suffolk
31 Dec.
My dear.

The last night in the old year – I want so much to see you, to tell you a million things, to wish you all the happy new years – at one with you.

Every night I read in your book, - and love you for it, and want you – every day come things & people – my thoughts go to you, but I cannot write – not even tonight, - its very late and for a time I am alone with you – but write – no – there is too much to say – I’ll read your book & tell your ghost the things which run in my blood – just whisper them or in some heavenly case signal them wordless –

Where are you? Sometimes I can’t bear to think of you out in the huge desert – among dangers I dream of – and of which (worst of all) I am ignorant - are you even well? All the homely simple things come & come – Has Fattuch joined? What are those other men like? Is there enough to eat? Has anyone robbed you? Do you now sleep soundly as a tired explorer? And I can’t know –

The book – shall I tell you what I think of that strange sweet passionate thing – of the moving wonder & beauty of it – for your heart my heart blesses you – so much so that I can’t talk of it – it lives & breathes and talks – and I read & think and see the blessed isles where we might love like that – dreams & dreams –

And that terrible country has you – and the long stir of adventure and change and the meeting of the world, sweet to you and to me – our faith our destiny – But which on don’t I know it, has its empty quarter – where jinns & devils of sand – aches wonders & discontents and deep weariness of life. But these are of the soul not of the desert – There is a book I love though I have not seen it for so many years – Do you remember how Faustus asks of hell - & Mephistopholes answers him that “this is hell – nor am I out of it – for hell is a bubble blown before the hearth of God” – misquoted probably – but you will know.

We have a “roba el khali”. Ah my dear – you tell me things I have longed for and dreamed of all my life – deep sweet noble things they are – they exist – but not for us – yet every day of my life I shall bless you for them – like dawn and sunset – to be loved in the sky – close to us, low down, but still untouchable.

Nor is that so true – For most of it, I will take & keep – If we miss so much of splendour we miss too something of the road-side, when one is tired, cold & hungry –

Somewhere in that wonderful book, and once at Rounton, you told me that I was wrong about solitude – but am I? I think not. For it is in solitude that I live & love you – in solitude only I become real, my own self – jinn a sand devil, a thornbuck – or a quiet breeze under the clouds – I don’t know, but that in that empty quarter I am I – You should come too you only – you that I trust and love – but perhaps when you were breeze I would be jinn, when I was the shadow of a stone, you would be sandstorm and blot me over – oh no – its as easy and far dearer to dream of the perfect things – as likely after all, as easy to realise once, in some hushed desert of ourselves – And if there were differences, why I love differences. Its you I love, your thoughts, your way of seeing things – your heart & body to explore – not mine – I would have your love & you –

This isn’t what I want to say – what was it? Something that eludes me always, something to content you, some breath of love and care for you – some strong desire to please you and be happy. I can’t find it. You tell me I can write – but its not true – I can only read and dream.

I might tell you things of here and today – things that go wrong, things that trouble me or please me. But I can’t do that either – once began this writing, it is like some genii that carries me where I would be – Its nearly dawn with you now. I’ll sit in your tent door – by your bed – and give you sleep and waking – and the old happy strength and desire of life at morning – where today? Its all good – God’s in his heaven. And you won’t speak to me because you can’t. But only you shall feel well and fresh and fit for any adventure – if there were fatigues and troubles at night with dawn they shall go. Then we’ll breakfast while the tent goes down and your bed is packed – and the camels grunt and gurgle – and they load. And when you’ve mounted and go rocking away, I’ll leave my heart on your lap with the compass and the note book, and come back.

And I shan’t write to you much more – not to Devez – I must wait – and Africa may have me. No news of it yet. I never think of it one way or the other – it is in the book.

But I think of when I shall see you – and I don’t know. That’s a cold wind blowing – yet still there is the book and I know that we shall meet –

Its nearly dawn here – or it would be if it wasn’t winter. Its deep snow – and too cold to go out as I love to do on my bedroom balcony at night – But I know its rosy heaven in the desert – at least I am so hoping – But perhaps even there as in your last voyage, there may be snow. I hope not – I’ll come then into your bed and whisper to you – warm & quiet you shall dream of peace –

I’ve got to shoot all tomorrow – I’d better go to bed – goodnight dream woman – I wish I was in the desert – if not with you, then in my empty quarter of the sand devils, to learn of their wisdom –

Keep well – keep happy & come back to me.
Dick.