O
*
21stOctober 1898
My darling Odette,
I am so relieved to hear from you. I must confess, the delay in receiving a letter from you put me ill at ease. I cannot bear to think of you without a dear friend in such a difficult time. You must know that I am thinking of you always, and when you are awake late at night, I am awake also, reading our dear Idylls, though I find it means less without you here.
I am not sure I know what to do with myself without you.
What a silly thing to say! You don’t need to hear my nonsense now.
Yesterday, I went to Blackwell’s and bought a very fine volume of Keats, and I enclose it here. I have underlined passages where I felt particularly moved, and if we cannot be together, I can still share this with you. No, no, go not to Lethe, my dear Odette.
I do not know what else to write. It seems banal to tell you about my days. The work is difficult, and I find little pleasure in it. My rooms are always cold, and I have chilblains on my hands, which Mother would surely comment on most cruelly.
This university business is not what I thought it would be. I feel very stupid for being so naive about it. Mother and Leo did try to warn me, but I thought I was better than their idea of me. I fear I am not.
Would it be mad for us to run away?
I have been thinking of it. I have seen advertisements for typing courses, which we could both take, and then we could work as secretaries or clerks, and we could be together, which would surely be so much better than this horrible separation. What do you think? Am I being too wild?
Write to me soon.
Your Cecilia
*
31stOctober 1898
[There is no addressee, and the paper seems to have been scrunched up as though to be thrown away, then smoothed out again before being sent.]
Remember, remember. Do you ever think about all those Catholics burning up, being chopped into pieces?
Are they right? Do we all suffer after death?
Or is it just Hell and the Devil torturing us while we live?
The children push Guys down the street, bellowing for pennies with their frightful burdens, a human figure all twisted and cruel and unnatural. I am sick with the horror of it.
O
*
1stNovember 1898
My darling Odette,
I am worried about you. Are you still attending lectures? Leo says you have not written to anyone in Hampstead since you arrived, which is your right, I suppose, only it does make me worry more. Our minds can become traitors when we do not sleep, and all manner of things can seem – real.
Is there someone in your college to whom you can speak? The vice-principal or some other mistress?
Please tell me when I may visit; only give me the word, and I will pack my things and take a train at once. I am always at your disposal. I think of you hourly. I cannot believe I have left you when you must need me so.
Oh, Odette, please tell me and I will be there at once.
Your loving,
