(Probably 1918)
Thursday
Thursday
It amuses me to continue my indiscreet correspondence with you! Tho’ to be accurate, it is not so much discreet as speculative and analytical. Still, I don’t see why it should be a one-sided affair- in other words, why you should not answer the letters I write to you, when I should be writing others most imperatively concerning my personal welfare? But then, as you know, I have few scruples, and (thank god) no responsibilities!
In the generous empire of your affections, you must- and surely have!- allotted me one tiny province- say, not larger than the republic of San Marino (over which I have sovereign and undisputed sway, untrammeled by any browbeating constitution- where I can have my tiny say in the affairs of your empire, and a tiny voice in the thunder of your parliament?
You play a very strange and important role in my life. You have grown up with me; we have been children together: consequently you are always there, you have always been “there”- you are as immutable as the mountains, as reliable as the seasons! (until this morning!)
Sometimes I fell with you as a wild and wanton child, but nonetheless with an eradicable reverence for your superior wisdom: a fond and foolish child, rifling the world for new and wondrous toys to lay at your feet. A boastful, reckless child, forever on its mettle, because it is being “dared” to accomplish the impossible, to climb the notchless trees, to jump the 7-food hurdle. I come to you and I say: “see what I’ve done! So and so, who has the reputation of being the most fascinating man in England, has fallen in love with me!” Or, “To prove you what I am capable of, I have surpassed all the students of the Slade!”- or a dozen other things equally fond and foolish!
I wonder if our mutual biographers will know how much of my career to attribute to your unconscious influence?
The only real beauty is to be found in the simplest things- nothing elaborate can ever be beautiful. God forgive that real beauty should ever pass me by unrecognized. I was thinking yesterday at the Slade that here was real beauty: dozens of minds all intent on the pursuit of art, all striving to the utmost of their ability to ensnare beauty, and the pursuit of art, however unsuccessful is always beautiful.
Then I saw people in their true perspective and they all seemed vulgar and uninspired and the meanest drawing there was worth more than all their thoughts and endeavours.
The only two things that matter are love and beauty- beauty of character as well. There are some exceedingly unbeautiful things in my character: lies and deceit which are as morally ugly as a squint and a hunchback- just as unsymmetrical and disfiguring. So is gossip and snobbishness and bigotry. They are equivalent to a crooked nose, a harelip, and a receding chin! No, the beautiful, free, godlike things are passion and enterprise, courage and impatience, generosity and forgiveness!
Heaven preserve us from all the sleek and dowdy virtues, such as punctuality, conscientiousness, fidelity and smugness! What great man was ever constant? What great queen was ever faithful?1 Novelty is the very essence of genius and always will be. If I were to die tomorrow, think how I should have lived!
With this last Swinburnian transport, I must end this letter. Don’t you think it is entitled to an
answer? If not, this will be the last of the series!!!
.V
1. با این گفته ویولت موافق نیستم. ویولت این را وقتی نوشته که 24 سال داشته، اما عملا تا 77 سالگی یعنی تا پایان عمرش به ویتا وفادار ماند. او یک زن بزرگ بود و عشق و تعهدش از او جلوه ای با شکوه تر ساخت. (ویتا عثمانی)
