Читать книгу "Not I, but the Wind..." - Frieda von Richthofen Lawrence - Страница 20

Waldbröl—Thursday

I have worked quite hard at my novel today. This morning we went to see the Ascension Day procession, and it rained like hell on the poor devils. Yesterday, when we were driving home, luckily in a closed carriage, the hail came on in immense stones, as big as walnuts, the largest. The place seemed covered with lumps of sugar.

You are far more ill than I am, now. Can’t you begin to get well? It makes me miserable to think of you so badly off the hooks. No, I am well here. I am always well. But last week made me feel queer—in my soul mostly—and I want to get that well before I start the new enterprise of living with you. Does it seem strange to you? Give me till tomorrow or Saturday week, will you? I think it is better for us both. Till the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth give me. Does it seem unloving and unnatural to you? No? See, when the airman fell, I was only a weak spot in your soul. Round the thought of me—all your fear. Don’t let it be so. Believe in me enough.

Perhaps it is a bit of the monk in me. No, it is not. It is simply a desire to start with you, having a strong, healthy soul. The letters seem a long time getting from me to you. Tell me you understand, and you think it is—at least perhaps, best. A good deal depends on the start. You never got over your bad beginning with E....

If you want H ... , or anybody, have him. But I don’t want anybody, till I see you. But all natures aren’t alike. But I don’t believe even you are your best, when you are using H ... as a dose of morphia—he’s not much else to you. But sometimes one needs a dose of morphia, I’ve had many a one. So you know best. Only, my dear, because I love you, don’t be sick, do will to be well and sane.

This is also a long wait. I also am a carcass without you. But having a rather sick soul, I’ll let it get up and be stronger before I ask it to run and live with you again.

Because, I’m not coming to you now for rest, but to start living. It’s a marriage, not a meeting. What an inevitable thing it seems. Only inevitable things—things that feel inevitable—are right. I am still a trifle afraid, but I know we are right. One is afraid to be born, I’m sure.

I have written and written and written. I shall be glad to know you understand. I wonder if you’ll be ill. Don’t, if you can help it. But if you need me—Frieda!

Vale!

D. H. Lawrence