5
It came, one morning when the first gale had started to sweep in upon the season’s painted picture; a day when lights, shadows, leaves and wings of birds moved, flew, shone, flickered, paused in a restless harmony.
Darling,
Something makes me write to you now. I have often nearly started and then given it up, but now it feels as if I must, it feels rather like an evening that perhaps you don’t remember but I do, when I had to come and see you after not having been able to for ages—that time you were ill.
I have felt such a sort of disgrace to myself, and you, and College, and English girlhood, going away like that, that I decided I’d better keep quiet for a bit. I couldn’t write. But now I must. Have you been waiting and waiting for a letter, and thinking I’d forgotten you? Darling, I haven’t forgotten you. Perhaps you’ve forgotten me. But I don’t think so. It is most damnably difficult writing to you. As you see, this is more illegible even than usual with the effort. College does seem so far away. Higher Education for Women never did me any good—except it gave me you and you are an angel and so lovely. I feel very old and different. You remember my hair—you liked it—I have had it all cut off. Just because Geraldine’s was short I thought I must have mine the same. Just like me. Mother can’t get over it, she now thinks my morals are past praying about, which is a step in the right direction. It all waves and curls and it is marvellous to be without the weight of it and the bloody hairpins prodding my scalp under hats. I thought getting rid of it would be a good way to cut off the past as well. I thought I’d be a different person, more adapted to Geraldine, if I did it. And anyway I couldn’t bear her brushing it after you. You remember Geraldine. It was because of her I left College.
Darling, do you hate me now, you ought to. Oh, that last term and the night when I said good-bye to you. I try never to think about it, because it makes me feel so awful. I promised I’d explain everything, didn’t I, but it’s not much easier now than then because I suppose whatever’s been happening to you you’re still an innocent baby, while I feel like the most corrupt disreputable I don’t know what. Have you had a tremendous love-affair yet? I always used to think there was a man you were on the verge of loving. Perhaps he’s made you understand by now what it really means being in love. I loved you frightfully from the very first. I used to think about you night and day. I was in a fever about you. I began to be absolutely afraid of my feelings for you, they were so extremely strong. I couldn’t understand them. Then I met Geraldine, and I realized a lot of things. You know what I am—she swept me off my feet. I was too excited to think. She dazzled me. I simply let everybody and everything else go. And all the time I loved you more than ever. You may not believe it but it’s true. But I couldn’t explain to you how I felt—I didn’t care. You’d have hated it really, wouldn’t you? You are pure and ethereal and I am not. Nor was Geraldine. You used to look after me and kiss me as if you were my mother (not really mine of course, who is quite awful, one of those lipless women. I suppose Nature wanted to readjust the balance of mouth and that accounts for mine.) I got into such a ghastly muddle over it all, I thought the best thing I could do was to go away. Geraldine clung rather—I knew she’d always be coming up, and I didn’t want her and you to meet, I knew she’d be jealous (she’s the most jealous person I ever knew). And I saw things could never be happy between you and me again. Oh, it was a hellish muddle. It doesn’t bear thinking of. I had to go away and try and forget. Just like me. I’m such a coward. I went abroad with her and she gave me a marvellous time, I must say. I was absolutely fascinated by her to start with, almost hypnotized, and we went all over Europe. You know I can’t help more or less enjoying life frightfully, especially when it’s being rather wild and queer—and it was. But then one or two people I met fell in love with me and I suppose I fell a bit in love with them, I always do, and she got jealous and more and more full of accusations and reproaches. I was so sick of her I could hardly bear to look at her. She never could see a joke. So in the end I left her and came home. She goes on writing me reproachful letters, but I don’t answer them.
Oh, dear, you seem to be very far away from me now. I shall never find anyone who understands like you again. Why did you ever waste your time over me? I’m rotten and I always shall be. As you see I’m at home now, but I shan’t stay long. There are far too many raised eyebrows and disapproving chins about. I’m only waiting till I can raise some money and then I expect I’ll go abroad again. I always prophesied I’d come to a bad end, didn’t I? I seem to like nearly all the vices.
I suppose we shall never meet again. What’s the good? You’re probably full of new things and people by now, and I daresay I’m changed for the worse. Quite a Fallen Woman. And you wouldn’t like me any more. I simply couldn’t face it. But write to me once and tell me everything. Tell me if you understand. Tell me I was right to go away. Oh, I’d like to be back with you in Cambridge—just for a day, even for an hour—just you and me. There’ll never be anything like that, again.
Darling, have you cut off your hair I wonder. It was lovely too, parted in the middle, so smooth and thick and dark purple. You can’t have changed it. You will never change, will you, only get more and more deep and clear and yourself. I shall change, but you must always remember I love you.
Jennifer.
She sat down clasping the letter between her palms, feeling the familiar glow steal over her, rising from the very sheets close-written in that sensitive erratic hand. Now, while her heart still beat with relief, joy, surprise, now while Jennifer seemed to have drawn near once more of her own accord, to be enquiring, holding out hands, hinting that she needed her—now it seemed plain at last what was to come. Whatever Jennifer had done, would do, they two must be together again.
She took up a pen and wrote.
My darling,
I knew your letter would come, because I wanted it so badly.
There are no new things and people. There is nothing. I haven’t got on very well without you and being happy seems to belong to a far-back time when you wore a green straw hat with a wreath of pink clover.
You have explained everything at last. Thank you, darling. Perhaps if we had both explained things more to each other, there wouldn’t have been such blanks and failures.
I am at home, alone, wondering, like you, what to do next. I am quite free. I want to be with you again. Let us meet and think of something to do together. I shall go to Cambridge for a day at the beginning of next term. Meet me there. I’d hate to find you again for the first time in a different setting. I promise not to remind you of the past or of things you want to forget. I too only want to see a future now.
I am living in an utter solitude, which is thrilling but insidious. This time of year always reminds me of you. I wish you were here to bathe at mid-day, when the haze is warm and golden, to share my fruity meals, and drift on the cold white-misted moony river after dark.
Tell me a date and I will come.
To think of you without your hair! Mine is exactly as it used to be.
Judith.