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〃Certainly；〃 she says； 〃I want to hear from you； but I do not want
to see you。 There's a sort of abstract YOU that I want to go on
with。 Something I've made out of you。 。 。 。 I want to know things
about youbut I don't want to see or feel or imagine。 When some
day I have got rid of my intolerable sense of proprietorship； it may
be different。 Then perhaps we may meet again。 I think it is even
more the loss of our political work and dreams that I am feeling
than the loss of your presence。 Aching loss。 I thought so much of
the things we were DOING for the worldhad given myself so
unreservedly。 You've left me with nothing to DO。 I am suddenly at
loose ends。 。 。 。
〃We women are trained to be so dependent on a man。 I've got no life
of my own at all。 It seems now to me that I wore my clothes even
for you and your schemes。 。 。 。
〃After I have told myself a hundred times why this has happened； I
ask again； 'Why did he give things up？ Why did he give things
up？' 。 。 。
〃It is just as though you were wilfully dead。 。 。 。
〃Then I ask again and again whether this thing need have happened at
all； whether if I had had a warning； if I had understood better； I
might not have adapted myself to your restless mind and made this
catastrophe impossible。 。 。 。
〃Oh； my dear！ why hadn't you the pluck to hurt me at the beginning；
and tell me what you thought of me and life？ You didn't give me a
chance； not a chance。 I suppose you couldn't。 All these things you
and I stood away from。 You let my first repugnances repel you。 。 。 。
〃It is strange to think after all these years that I should be
asking myself； do I love you？ have I loved you？ In a sense I think
I HATE you。 I feel you have taken my life； dragged it in your wake
for a time； thrown it aside。 I am resentful。 Unfairly resentful；
for why should I exact that you should watch and understand my life；
when clearly I have understood so little of yours。 But I am savage
savage at the wrecking of all you were to do。
〃Oh； whywhy did you give things up？
〃No human being is his own to do what he likes with。 You were not
only pledged to my tiresome； ineffectual companionship； but to great
purposes。 They ARE great purposes。 。 。 。
〃If only I could take up your work as you leave it； with the
strength you hadthen indeed I feel I could let you goyou and
your young mistress。 。 。 。 All that matters so little to me。 。 。 。
〃Yet I think I must indeed love you yourself in my slower way。 At
times I am mad with jealousy at the thought of all I hadn't the wit
to give you。 。 。 。 I've always hidden my tears from youand what
was in my heart。 It's my nature to hideand you； you want things
brought to you to see。 You are so curious as to be almost cruel。
You don't understand reserves。 You have no mercy with restraints
and reservations。 You arc not really a CIVILISED man at all。 You
hate pretencesand not only pretences but decent coverings。 。 。 。
〃It's only after one has lost love and the chance of loving that
slow people like myself find what they might have done。 Why wasn't
I bold and reckless and abandoned？ It's as reasonable to ask that；
I suppose； as to ask why my hair is fair。 。 。 。
〃I go on with these perhapses over and over again here when I find
myself alone。 。 。 。
〃My dear； my dear； you can't think of the desolation of thingsI
shall never go back to that house we furnished together； that was to
have been the laboratory （do you remember calling it a laboratory？）
in which you were to forge so much of the new order。 。 。 。
〃But； dear； if I can help youeven nowin any wayhelp both of
you； I mean。 。 。 。 It tears me when I think of you poor and
discredited。 You will let me help you if I canit will be the last
wrong not to let me do that。 。 。 。
〃You had better not get ill。 If you do； and I hear of itI shall
come after you with a troupe of doctor's and nurses。 If I am a
failure as a wife； no one has ever said I was anything but a success
as a district visitor。 。 。 。〃
There are other sheets； but I cannot tell whether they were written
before or after the ones from which I have quoted。 And most of them
have little things too intimate to set down。 But this oddly
penetrating analysis of our differences must； I think； be given。
〃There are all sorts of things I can't express about this and want
to。 There's this difference that has always been between us； that
you like nakedness and wildness； and I； clothing and restraint。 It
goes through everything。 You are always TALKING of order and
system； and the splendid dream of the order that might replace the
muddled system you hate； but by a sort of instinct you seem to want
to break the law。 I've watched you so closely。 Now I want to obey
laws； to make sacrifices； to follow rules。 I don't want to make；
but I do want to keep。 You are at once makers and rebels； you and
Isabel too。 You're bad peoplecriminal people； I feel； and yet
full of something the world must have。 You're so much better than
me； and so much viler。 It may be there is no making without
destruction； but it seems to me sometimes that it is nothing but an
instinct for lawlessness that drives you。 You remind medo you
remember？of that time we went from Naples to Vesuvius； and walked
over the hot new lava there。 Do you remember how tired I was？ I
know it disappointed you that I was tired。 One walked there in
spite of the heat because there was a crust； like custom； like law。
But directly a crust forms on things； you are restless to break down
to the fire again。 You talk of beauty； both of you； as something
terrible； mysterious； imperative。 YOUR beauty is something
altogether different from anything I know or feel。 It has pain in
it。 Yet you always speak as though it was something I ought to feel
and am dishonest not to feel。 MY beauty is a quiet thing。 You have
always laughed at my feeling for old…fashioned chintz and blue china
and Sheraton。 But I like all these familiar USED things。 My beauty
is STILL beauty； and yours； is excitement。 I know nothing of the
fascination of the fire； or why one should go deliberately out of
all the decent fine things of life to run dangers and be singed and
tormented and destroyed。 I don't understand。 。 。 。〃
6
I remember very freshly the mood of our departure from London； the
platform of Charing Cross with the big illuminated clock overhead；
the bustle of porters and passengers with luggage； the shouting of
newsboys and boys with flowers and sweets； and the groups of friends
seeing travellers off by the boat train。 Isabel sat very quiet and
still in the compartment； and I stood upon the platform with the
door open； with a curious reluctance to take the last step that
should sever me from London's ground。 I showed our tickets； and
bought a h