R1
(Torn page from a very old book of famous love letters)
Saturday Night, May 19, 1917
My darling,
Do not imagine, because you find these lines in your journal that I have been trespassing. You know I have not - and where else shall I leave a love letter? For I long to write you a love-letter tonight.
You are all about me - I seem to breathe you, hear you, feel you in me and of me.
What am I doing here? You are away. I have seen you in the train, at the station, driving up, sitting in the lamplight, talking, greeting people, washing your hands... And I am here - in your tent - sitting at your table.
There are some wall-flower petals on the table and a dead match, a blue pencil and a Magdeburgische Zeitung. I am just as much at home as they.
When dusk came, flowing up the silent garden, lapping against the blind windows, my first and last terror started up. I was making some coffee in the kitchen. It was so violent, so dreadful I put down the coffee pot - and simply ran away - ran, ran out of the studio and up the street with my bag under one arm and a block of writing paper and a pen under the other. I felt that if I could get here and find Mrs. F. I should be safe.
I found her and I lighted your gas, wound up your clock, drew your curtains and embraced your black overcoat before I sat down, frightened no longer. Do not be angry with me, Bogey. Ca a ete plus fort que moi ... That is why I am here.
When you came to tea this afternoon you took a brioche, broke it in half and padded the inside doughy bit with two fingers. You always do that with a bun or roll or a piece of bread. It is your way - your head a little on one side the while.
When you opened your suitcase, I saw your old Feltie and a French book and a com all higgledy-piggedly. 'Tig, I've only got 3 handkerchiefs.' Why should that memory be so sweet to me?...
Last night, there was a moment before you got into bed. You stood, quite naked, bending forward a little, talking. It was only for an instant. I saw you - I loved you so, loved your body with such tenderness. Ah, my dear!
And I am not thinking of passion. No, of that other thing that makes me feel that every inch of you is so precious to me - your soft shoulders - your creamy warm skin, your ears cold like shells are cold - your long legs and your feet that I love to clasp with my feet - the feeling of your belly - and your thin young back. Just below that bone that sticks out at the back of your neck you have a little mole.
It is partly because we are young that I feel this tenderness. I love your mouth. I could not bear that it should be touched even by a cold wind if I were the Lord.
We two, you know, have everything before us, and we shall do very great things. I have perfect faith in us, and so perfect is my love for you that I am, as it were, still, silent to my very soul.
I want nobody but you for my lover and my friend and to nobody but you shall I be faithful.