katherine mansfield
my darling,
do not imagine, because you find these lines in your private book 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...
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 newspaper.
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 in, 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 dought bit with two fingers. you always do that with a bun or a roll or piece of bread.
it is your way --
your head a little on one side the while.
when you opened your suit-case, i saw your old Feltie and a French book and a comb all higgledy-piggledy.
"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, 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 now 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 youth. i could not bear it 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 love and my friend and to nobody but you
shall i be faithful
i am yours for ever,
Tig.
do not imagine, because you find these lines in your private book 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...
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 newspaper.
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 in, 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 dought bit with two fingers. you always do that with a bun or a roll or piece of bread.
it is your way --
your head a little on one side the while.
when you opened your suit-case, i saw your old Feltie and a French book and a comb all higgledy-piggledy.
"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, 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 now 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 youth. i could not bear it 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 love and my friend and to nobody but you
shall i be faithful
i am yours for ever,
Tig.