Читать книгу "Not I, but the Wind..." - Frieda von Richthofen Lawrence - Страница 13

Hotel Rheinischer Hof, Trier

8 May 1912

I am here—I have dined—it seems rather nice. The hotel is little—the man is proprietor, waiter, bureau, and everything else, apparently—speaks English and French and German quite sweetly—has evidently been in swell restaurants abroad—has an instinct for doing things decently, with just a touch of swank—is cheap—his wife (they’re a youngish couple) draws the beer—it’s awfully nice. The bedroom is two marks fifty per day, including breakfast—per person. That’s no more than my room at the Deutscher Hof, and this is much nicer. It’s on the second floor—two beds—rather decent. Now, you ought to be here, you ought to be here. Remember, you are to be my wife—see that they don’t send you any letters, or only under cover to me. But you aren’t here yet. I shall love Trier—it isn’t a ghastly medley like Metz—new town, old town, barracks, barracks, cathedral, Montigny. This is nice, old, with trees down the town. I wish you were here. The valley all along coming is full of apple trees in blossom, pink puffs like the smoke of an explosion, and then bristling vine sticks, so that the hills are angry hedgehogs.

I love you so much. No doubt there’ll be another dish of tragedy in the morning, and we’ve only enough money to run us a fortnight, and we don’t know where the next will come from, but still I’m happy, I am happy. But I wish you were here. But you’ll come, and it isn’t Metz. Curse Metz.

They are all men in this hotel—business men. They are the connoisseurs of comfort and moderate price. Be sure men will get the best for the money. I think it’ll be nice for you. You don’t mind a masculine atmosphere, I know.

I begin to feel quite a man of the world. I ought, I suppose, with this wickedness of waiting for another man’s wife in my heart. Never mind, in heaven there is no marriage nor giving in marriage.

I must hurry to post—it’s getting late. Come early on Saturday morning. Ask the Black Hussy at Deutscher Hof if there are any letters for me. I love you—and Else—I do more than thank her. Love

D. H. Lawrence