Feb.(i.e. March) 8 [1915].
I don’t know whether my letters reach you — if they do, do you like having so many letters? I don’t like having so few. And now when shall I hear? All the day I’m here alone. I go very early to my office, & I go like a reluctant schoolgirl, dragging myself from the dreams in which I live. I can scarcely leave them. Then all the day endless work. I think I’ll take an hour off & go out & walk, but in the end I never do. Sometimes I don’t even sieze (sic) the possible half hour after lunch — I sit still in my room & dream. And then at dinner time I come back, free at last. Tiger’s away. I have the evening to myself. But today I was shaken out of my usual/unreal[?] courage. The setback in Mesopotamia, which might well turn into 59 a disaster, woke me. It’s because they won’t foresee necessity, won’t prepare for it. And if they did that in C’ple — sent too few troops & courted failure and waste of life? That sets me shivering — I’ll try not to think of it. Two nights ago — I didn’t tell you — I dined with Louis Mallet & Sir A. Lawley. Ursula Lawley was there, one of his daughters, whom I like very much — on her way to a hospital in Dunkirk. And lots of other people were there. I sat by Sir A. & talked to him. He’s a great peace maker & believes he has patched up the rents between the Red X and St John — they were very near tearing asunder, so Sir W. Garstin told me. Now it’s set straight again. I hope Sir A. will stay out here permanently as Commissioner. It’s very nice for me having him & it’s very good for the Red X. After dinner I fell into the arms — no, not so far — of Sir Walter Lawrence, who looked very old & fat & blear eyed. I don’t really like him much & I don’t trust him. He’ll turn his back on me some day — & I shan’t mind. He has a sort of roving commission to be father and mother to the Indians. He had just come down from G.H.Q. where I believe he had got Sir John to promise that he would handle the Indian army very tenderly until, at least, the sun has had time to strengthen and bring it back to life. That’s well. He was very full of confidence. He said the new French army is wonderful & Joffre is certain he can break through whenever he likes. I wonder if it’s true? Sir Walter says the French say it won’t tall much on us; we have to sit still & hold the northern lines while they burst through the barrier further down. Can it be true? Yet there’s an atmosphere of confidence & no one can tell why. It’s quite different from what it was before I left. Or is it that I am quite different and quite confident[?] — no, not only that. Today there came in a man called Porter, an R.A.M.C. doctor & a cousin of Philip’s. He’s with the 4th Hussars, and was here only for an hour or two. I knew him because he used to be here and he came to give me tidings of Philip. (I haven’t written to Philip for a month & now I seem to have no time except to write to you — no thoughts.) Mr Porter told the same story of confidence — even Philip is beginning to be an optimist. We’re learning the game; Philip has learnt it very well, better than most. His work in the trenches is wonderful. He makes mental notes all the time and tells them afterwards why poor so & so was killed, when he might with a little more care and knowledge have lived. Yet India is not rose coloured. There has been trouble in Lahore — a cavalry regiment — easily put down, but still — Yet it’s a side issue. The Indian .... is held[?] here, and perhaps a little in the Dardanelles. Sir Louis came to tea and stayed long talking. I like having him here, and in all modesty I must be a godsend to him in this wilderness of Red X! — Where are you? At your 60 destination by this time & sending a word back to me? I know those magic seas — have you looked on them unmoved? My dear, my dear, when shall I look on them with you? I told you about headlands of paradise & as I wrote I had a picture in my mind of those fairy coasts and islands rising sunlit from the blue water. It snowed here today, infernal, but I don’t heed it. Nothing touches me. I wear such armour. I mayn’t write — when may I write? So now I’ll go back to dreams. Dick, George & his wife won’t mind, & Aubrey & his wife won’t mind. You needn’t after all leave me in Italy — I’ll have friends enough to bear me through. It’s you; there’s the rub. Am I worth it? I can only give one answer to that question alas. is that your answer? ask your soul & if it replies that way, cast me out, throw me away, have done with me. Only don’t tell me so in a letter — I should walk straight into the cold Channel, out of depth. Tell me face to face, and I’ll drop back into Hades like Eurydice. Was that what Orpheus whispered to her when he brought her out into the chill light of day — it isn’t worth all that bitter time I spent in winning you! was that what he said? & no wonder she slipped back out of his arms into the underworld again — There’s another thing not to think of, & I won’t. Hear me, I won’t think of it. And anyhow he lived to find out he had been wrong — I’ve gone back to Orpheus — or the books lie.
March 9. I’ve had such a day, work & work, and in the middle a long vagrancy, for this reason. Arthur Tod came through, the Baghdad man. I went down to the train to see him & stayed on the boat for an hour talking. And as I came back I met Sir Louis & carried him off to tea with me, when presently Gilbert Russell joined us & we sat talking for another hour. So then I went back to the office & found neglected work there which kept me in till past 9. I was too tired to dress & go down to dinner & after some hasty soup and fish upstairs. I had to write to all the Govt offices to tell them to see Mr Tod & now at last I’m alone with you. I’ll tell you what he said — it’s not the least what I want to talk about but perhaps you’ll like it best — will you? He left Baghdad in Dec. with 40 Englishmen — they wouldn’t let them take the women & they forced the men to go. His wife was in Italy so that it wasn’t so bad for him. All the big[?] Baghdad people did everything they could for him — as far as they dared — & the Turks showed unbelievable consideration. When they reached Aleppo he telegraphed to Jemal in Syria & again received the most distinguished treatment. They were sent to Alexandretta, but before they reached the Beilan Pass we shelled the road and destroyed it utterly. They had to go round behind the hills to Adana & 61 so by Mernica[?] to Egypt. He thinks the Arab question very serious & he’s right. He says we have missed the golden opportunity of severing Arab from Turk — a show of real force at the right time could have done it. Jemal has given up the attack on Egypt & his troops are moving into Mesopotamia which we can’t hold with the troops that are there. As soon as the Turks appear the Arabs will go solidly with them — they’ll have to. He says the people he saw coming from Anatolia — in Adana & Tarsus — don’t care a pin about our having set up a Sultan in Egypt. They even think we’ve made him Khalif & they don’t mind that either. But I know the Arabs would mind it if we did. It’s not the family matter to the Turks that it is to the Arabs, & besides where’s Islam except in Arabia? I know that. There’s no feeling for the war in Turkey — we know that too. If they lose C’ple they’ll just return & sit in Anatolia. He doesn’t think they’ll massacre the Germans — when do the Turks massacre unless bidden, & who is there to bid them? No one’s left. They are fed with lies — know nothing of the war & think the Germans demi gods. The things the papers publish! One was — it made a great sensation — that the Germans had captured an English admiral’s uniform — they didn’t stop to mention whether the admiral was inside. Think how the bazaar talked! There was an Admiralty man — Osborn — on the boat, whom I just knew. He gave me the latest Dardanelles news — Agamemnon, not yet out here[?] & so on. But are they sending enough troops? Oh Dick write to me — when shall I hear! A fortnight since you left — how many fortnights more & then what? I trust, I believe; you’ll take care of me — let me stand upright & say I never walked by furtive ways. Then they’ll forgive me — & you. My people & all people that matter will forgive. There’s no other issue; the more I think of, the more sure I am. But it’s you who should be saying this, not I. Are you saying it now, realizing it, by some divine affinity between us? I’ll put a seal on my lips — I won’t say it any more. I’ll try not to say it. Oh come back — & yet don’t come back now to the war in Flanders. That would be worse. What is it you say? It’s in the book. My book is written by you; write what you like. I’ve confidence, & trust. It’s so bitter cold I’ve caught cold again, confound it — a thing I never do. I sleep so restlessly that all the coverings tumble off & I wake a dozen times to find myself like ice. There’s no alternative but to shut the windows which I hate; it makes me feel like lead next day. But you must think of the big game. Don’t be troubled. I’ll wait in confidence. Anyhow we’ll have the hour, & devil take the rest. Now I’ll go & drink .... .... .... in glassfulls (sic) — a poor comforter!
March 10. Today Judith appeared in my office. I asked her to lunch. We talked of nothing save the hospital, but I hated it. Don’t make me have that to bear. — Dick I’m so torn with regret tonight & with desires. They’re worst to bear. I can’t keep still, or think or speak, & I’ve the night to pass, the long night. Don’t forget me — you won’t leave me? It’s not possible. It’s[?] torture, eternal torture, which never loses its edge. Oh my dear it might be ecstacy. I found wild daffodils today in the market. Their calm little faces watch me & ask me how I shall endure another spring which is all winter. They mock at me because I turned away from life — I think I’ll throw them out of window, but then I should throw my life after them perhaps. No we’ll wait for the sun. There are rumours of a great attack today — heaven help all who suffer.
March 11. We’re hanging on news from La Bassee. It’s taken — it’s not taken — I feel sure that it isn’t taken yet. But we’re moving down on it. The hospitals are full — the wounded in the highest spirits. Yet it can’t be a German debacle; such a thing is never known. The tide will turn again. Maurice isn’t out yet. I don’t think of him, poor darling. That I should say it! but it’s true and the measure of my love for you. Do you know, do you yet know? I ask myself was the fire less bright, less warm, less clear, when you came close to it than it had seemed to you from over the far desert? If I had given more should I have held you closer, drawn you back more surely? I look back & rage at my reluctances. At that moment & at that moment it might have been — so I tell myself. And suppose the other thing had happened, the thing you feared — that I half feared — that must have brought you back. If I had it now, the thing you feared, I would magnify the Lord & fear nothing. Do you remember what Gautamer said? “A bond has come into being.” But it’s more than that — far more. You can’t know, I never knew before. Suddenly I woke knowing it. Not only the final greatest gift to give you - a greater gift even than love - but for me, the divine pledge of fulfillment, created in rapture, the handing on of life in fire to be cherished & worshipped & lived for with the selfsame ardour that cherishes and worships the creator Not two gods but one god to adore. That casts out fear. I‘ve gone on a step — do you know it & can you follow? We thought then of the moment — I think of it still, hourly. But inseparably linked to it is the longing for the fruit of it. What woman fears when that is in the scale? I’m telling you the profoundest secret of life, newly revealed to me, blindingly. Are you who welcome life afraid to hear? You who have never failed to understand, understand this too, for it is the deepest strongest instinct of mankind, the most irresistible a flowing together of the two mightiest desires — to love and be loved - & thereby to carry on life. And knowing this I know too that. I was right when I rewrote the first chapter of Genesis. Not my hand wrote, but Nature’s. I’ve gone too deep? a great deal too deep for the phantom censor — but for you? Would you rather I went back to the little things, things you rembered [sic] and repeated to me out of my letters that weren‘t worth remembering. I can write you fifty thousand more like those but I won’t — lest I should create in my letters a serious rival, the only one! When we are together, what if you missed them more than you rejoiced in me? But no, I’m not afraid of that either, or why did you rage, bless you! I catch at that & know the same force rules us. Let us obey we’ve - no choice really. And in that I rest. My very dear how can you resist me? I am the voice of your own life that speaks in you. Lest the empty rumour of the world should ring too loudly in your ears, stand apart and listen. After the long and laborious process of going to sleep, I wake again, as usual, and turn to you. Listen . You know what those 18 months were like? yes, you know. The eagle eating my heart & I chained, not free to die — bound by the hope of seeing you. Hear me. I tell you solemnly the price was not too great for the short hours of being with you. I’m chained now, by the same hope but; I don’t want to die, I want life from you. If you give me that what price is there that’s large enough to be worth the reckoning, even? And the price? my dear let’s laugh at it together — a dry chrysalis shell of habit which I’ve long outgrown – I’ve grown, too, in the last fortnight — which hurts me at every point. Let me spread wings & fly into the sun. You said passion would spend itself — you’ld [sic] sleep. Yes, but between my breasts, one arm round me, your back half turned[?] to me, & my body part sheath to you, part pillow — I’ve learnt . Sleep shared, languor; rest folding us round - would that be less good? — Bother! if they read these things. You told me not to write. Well think - there are all the Abyssinian letters on the sea, read, unread; some you haven’t read & I can’ t remember what’ s in them. If they choose to open them & read perhaps they’ll know! - poor fools they’ll know — one instant what it is to love. And this one more or less won’t make much difference. They don‘t know me, & your repute in these matters isn’t much to conjure with — is it’? Still I don’t want them read - it’s sacred and secret to you & me. — It’s day. Do you remember how I once wrote to you which day stepped down onto the Tigris, brushed the palm trees of Baghdad? So now I write which leaden, grey dawn 64 hurries shame faced along the squalid street. But there’s the same story round me here as there - your love.
March 12. Since I came back Lil Douglas Pennant [sic] has been working in my office. I didn’t know her till I came here; we like each other — it’s nice having her. Today I had to tell her that her brother in the Grenadiers was killed yesterday. I heard late in the evening, near 8 o’clock — we had had a heavy day & were just going away. She was wonderfully brave. She leant on my shoulder, clung to me & cried a little. She is very reticent — that she should put her arms round me & cry on my shoulder meant a great deal. I was so much touched, so much moved — And then she told me about him. She hasn’t seen him much these last years. He was restless, travelled a great deal, tumbled about the world. “He wasn’t happy” she said. Oh Dick to have lived and died & not been happy. I’ve had a few resplendent hours — I could die on them & not be pitied. But you — you’ve not had what you wanted. Live to have it. Let me make you happy, so that you could sing a Nunc Dimittis. I can give you happiness greater than anything you have ever dreamed — soul & body made for you, fitted to you, no flaw in it. Fire to warm you, new life to beat through you, love to encompass you — take it all from me & make me prouder, more exalted than the most exalted. Poor Henry Pennant — poor Lil, who knows he never had what I hold out to you. Take it, my dear, whatever way you choose, whatever way will make you happiest. It’s all one to me, for I, can be content only in your contentment. All the rest has no significance. Your happiness is mine. It’s not surrender of any/my[?] wish or hope, but fulfilment of my deepest wish, a hope that keeps company with the stars of heaven. Can I go on adding words to words? — yet I can if any mist of doubt or indecision obscures for you the very smallest corner of my mind, makes you hesitate, tells you to weigh imagined evils when there is nothing but certain good. Do you remember I told you not to hurry me — you didn’t & I’ve swung of my own self into the rhythm which you beat out on my shoulder[?], the great rhythm of existence. I’m in tune with that measure, part of it; I shan’t fall into discord — don’t fear for me, but let it be that which is easiest & best for you. That’s my best too. Dick I won’t/can’t[?] go on - I’ve said. The choice is yours & I am yours. Will you tell me if you get this letter.