Dolly, to Natalie
This came from Emily without a word! (I do hope you didn’t ask her!) Isn’t it strange as we were talking about this very letter in Paris. I was amazed reading it – it seemed so profoundly serious – so really unhappy. You are the only serious thing in my life emotionally. I remember in those days feeling as if you overshadowed me like a great mountain – that at once uplifted me and awed me. I blush now at my description of your character (though parts of it are very true) – but I retract “no tenderness” darling! You don’t assume it ‘like a cloak’ your tenderness seems my very security now.
“Darling” is so inadequate for a beginning - you who have been the world’s darling for so long - the Mary Pickford of your day! “Wonderful” must express affectionate accuracy in its place - my wonderful one who took such an indifferent farewell of me at the station that its chill congealed my always ready pen and prevented me flying to my desk... Honey had prepared a golden net for me to fall into and life is exciting, wonderful and interesting. The possibilities of entertainment are inexhaustible thank Heavens – the kingdom of God is within one.
To begin with, I am supremely happy in this house. Real taste possesses such enchantment that literally a glow of rich serenity seems to hang round every object in a diffused light.
Such interesting people all the time. Imagine – Virginia Woolf was lunching but postponed at the last moment. I was so curious to see her, because of her books and Romaine’s talk of her. She is delightful it appears. . . And says she owes all her best work to Joyce’s Ulysses, England is wonderful and I should stay the winter here and move with delight among the quiet brilliance of real people. (Romaine should meet them. She would exercise a more severe choice than I do, but even the choosing would be exhilarating.)
Just as the French have appreciated Romaine as a painter, the English should appreciate her as a writer... It is rare to find such purity of style, such sincerity and richness of thought combined as in this ms. you showed me.
Anyone who knows about writing would realize also how well she blended straight narrative and abstract thought. The transition is never abrupt, one is never jerked into another key. It is not easy to balance simplicity and profundity. There is no wandering in byways, there is no disharmony, and the one follows the other with logical sequence.
I only thought of this long after the reading. Only later an analysis made me aware of how beautifully she had maintained the balance throughout...How easily the runaway horses of ones thoughts, get beyond control, and how admirably she had handled the restive steeds in double harness.
Zita has been in bed a week. She looks transparent and of such delicate loveliness that people draw in their breath as she floats indifferently through a party.
Honey is perfection and all my pleasure is made manifest by long hours with her alone – and always that getting back to her mellow elegance of thought. She is much less worldly than I am, and in answer to her somewhat questioning intolerance of people I told her we were more “evolved”! She is delighted with the discovery and we carry that enviable epithet on our heads like crowns and fall asleep very proud of ourselves!
How flippant I am. And only love letters or business letters interest you.
You have set such a seal upon my lips that I still feel the line of suffering formed between them. I am bewitched by all around me but am willingly enslaved to you with deep secret thoughtfulness. So success comes easily to a preoccupied heart.
O. S. proposed to me last night with the sudden bravado of a suppressed nature. He was infinitely relieved when I refused him and we are happy together. Such fun at his first night. The 1st act pulled like a cracker.
Please see the flat. A charming American girl I met for the first time who has just taken it and is going round the world - such unexpected kindness is once more the result of my tailor made - or my “real figure.” Amusing things to tell you on my return... I seem to be lucky. The prize fortunately always goes to the unworthy!
My own darling,
A horrid dream of desolation and you trying to rescue me has filled me with desire to be near you. You will wonder why I haven’t written before. Mais, pour moi, tout comprendre c’est de ne pas agir. What could I say? You must have realized my sorrow and intense loneliness when you left and I fear that my letters would only – could only express all this and distress you. My flat and Marie and gentle friendships like Antoinette’s and Edmond’s and Ethel’s have exercised a certain balm. But I walk like a somnambule – waiting. How adjust myself to life in this period of uncertainty? But more and more I weave my own cocoon around me, and rarely break through the entangled silk to the outside world. And if this makes things a little out of focus it at least prevents one from needlessly hurting oneself with other contacts. I cannot understand unnecessary unkindness and complications. I accept everything with such “défaitisme” that I fear all emotions will soon be dead and that I shall soon not have the strength to stretch out a hand to any would-be saviour.
I am paying for not allowing my pleasures to be interrupted and to-day am in bed - my death bed I feel. Mourn for me, dear tender, heartless, paradoxical One and mingle your love and regrets! Strange this last week how dazed I’ve felt - charmingly drugged - in a dream. I wait for the moment of awakening to a sense of reality, that is really why I have not written to you. How could I write in a trance? I read sad things and am surprised at not feeling that intimate understanding twinge in response. I read and talk of lovers and cannot remember that bewildering madness – I talk of longings and feel myself a stranger of desire. I feel asleep – with all sleep’s soft indifference. How dangerous to tell you all this – (a danger already linked to the danger of letting you slip from me by not writing, etc.) – when to-night – tomorrow that strange drug will wear off and every vibrant feeling will sweep over me – drowning me deliciously in its flood – if you are there. If you are there! Turn your blonde head towards me, retrace your footsteps before you are too far away from me.
I met Carlos Blacker here – a charming man – dying alas! but railing against religion and virtue in fine spirit. Extremely intelligent. Knows Solomon and talked a lot of Renée Vivien, etc. Admires Romaine very much and her pictures and says she is one of the few women with taste – perfect taste! He knew Oscar very well and all the interesting people of that time. Tried to prove to me that my dear scholastic grandmother had an affair with Oscar, King of Sweden, and indeed the resemblance is uncanny. Amusing, isn’t it?
...The ice of indifference has thawed and once more you conquer my imagination – o! gently as yet – but to think of you is to thrill in secret delight, and remembrance is almost too sharp a pang. My trance-like state is ending: I am once more sensible to this new moon and follow her silver course towards you.
Life goes at break-neck speed here to the rhythm of dancing – dancing all the time. Youth is abroad with its inevitable beauty – its careless charming beauty – ensnaring me in its golden meshes, as one stands a cold witness criticizing its raw immaturity. With a new courage – learnt of you – and a little dazzled by the glitter I have caught up youth in my arms, and assuaged my desire in realization – familiarity making one independent of its charm!
Love making seems to me the logical conclusion to admiration!
...I find it difficult to believe you miss me - you are so deeply snuggled into the ermine of content. Compassion can never have been meted out to you - you need it so little.
No letter from you. I begin to experience the sharp disappointment of receiving no letters. Are you cross, forgetful or faithless? Or all three? Be the first only please, darling, and allay my fears. Why do I linger? Because I have no news of my house, because Dorothy will not let me go & because the days slip by as in a lotus-eating land ... because tho’ tired (unutterably tired) I don’t feel worried or nervy here and enjoy the respite and fear to break the calm, because I am lazy, weak and prevaricating. And after all this how convince you of my love? A paradox – but with enigmatic, epigrammatic truth hidden in it all. You compel my imagination, make turmoil of my thoughts. Are you working hard? Are you a butterfly à rebours and sealed up in your grey chrysalis now for long patient months? Do you look with almost a Mrs. Grundy eye on my life of pleasure, from the vantage-point of serious work? Shall I return Monday?
Dearest, this empty house and those sad poems of Renée Vivien’s produce a happy melancholy of spirit - but I miss you - I miss you. Where are you gadding my darling, my unworldly arch-angel? Where are you? I feel lonely and jealous – although you are everywhere in the rooms - You inhabit your empty house more powerfully with your spirit than when you walk in it in the indifferent flesh. It’s terrible this presence – all round me - as indisputable as the dead in their graves... I shall go sadly downstairs, talk re-assuringly to Louise at her window sewing and make my way to some warm welcoming friend... Do come before I leave – I write slowly to give you every chance. Read “Paroles Soupirées” - so lovely.
I seek distraction in every form – Yesterday went to the revue at the Marigny – witty and intimately beautiful. A delicious act portraying Paris in 1900 and all those heavenly ladies in every kind of incident, petit laver and all! Also a presentation of ‘the school for mufles’ which amused me and has given me a comprehensive idea of that much disputed word! To dinner with Don and Tudor who killed a fatted lamb to comfort me. Your name fluttered all through the conversation, and like a bird darted on unexpected wing back and forth. Then home to bed, shamming indifference to my loneliness, reading with doleful assiduity until sleep became my defence ... I think of you at the new villa and am comforted in being able to visualize your surroundings – surely a ghostly presence took possession of you every now and again? ... Alas! the pie-crust of my flippancy will soon be broken through and I shall realize your dreadful absence. My love to R. with her head in the clouds.
Source: Oscaria: In Memory of Dorothy Ierne Wilde. Ed. Natalie Clifford Barney. Privately printed, 1951.