Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated), page 1096
He said he had finished with his attempts at knowing women. I was amazed at the way he fiercely denounced them. I had never before heard anything like it. I laughed, yet I could tell he had tried very hard, and had cared. We talked about Œdipus and understanding leaped through our words.
After leaving, that night, he walked all the way to his home. It was a walk of at least five hours. Soon afterwards he wrote to me: 'You are the most wonderful woman in all England.'
I wrote back: 'You don't know many women in England, how do you know?' He told me, the second time we met: 'You are quite unaware of your husband, you take no notice of him.' I disliked the directness of this criticism.
He came on Easter Sunday. It was a bright, sunny day. The children were in the garden hunting for Easter eggs.
The maids were out, and I wanted to make some tea. I tried to turn on the gas but I didn't know how. Lawrence became cross at such ignorance. Such a direct critic! It was something my High and Mightiness was very little accustomed to.
Yet Lawrence really understood me. From the first he saw through me like glass, saw how hard I was trying to keep up a cheerful front. I thought it was so despicable and unproud and unclean to be miserable, but he saw through my hard bright shell.
What I cannot understand is how he could have loved me and wanted me at that time. I certainly did have what he called 'sex in the head'; a theory of loving men. My real self was frightened and shrank from contact like a wild thing.
So our relationship developed.
One day we met at a station in Derbyshire. My two small girls were with us. We went for a long walk through the early spring woods and fields. The children were running here and there as young creatures will.
We came to a small brook, a little stone bridge crossed it. Lawrence made the children some paper boats and put matches in them and let them float downstream under the bridge. Then he put daisies in the brook, and they floated down with their upturned faces. Crouched by the brook, playing there with the children, Lawrence forgot about me completely.
Suddenly I knew I loved him. He had touched a new tenderness in me. After that, things happened quickly.
He came to see me one Sunday. My husband was away and I said: 'Stay the night with me.’
‘No, I will not stay in your husband's house while he is away, but you must tell him the truth and we will go away together, because I love you.'
I was frightened. I knew how terrible such a thing would be for my husband, he had always trusted me. But a force stronger than myself made me deal him the blow. I left the next day. I left my son with his father, my two little girls I took to their grandparents in London. I said goodbye to them on Hampstead Heath, blind and blank with pain, dimly feeling I should never again live with them as I had done.
Lawrence met me at Charing. Cross Station, to go away with him, never to leave him again.
He seemed to have lifted me body and soul out of all my past life. This young man of twenty-six had taken all my fate, all my destiny, into his hands. And we had known each other barely for six weeks. There had been nothing else for me to do but submit.
Going Away Together
We met at Charing Cross and crossed the grey Channel sitting on some ropes, full of hope and agony. There was nothing but the grey sea, and the dark sky, and the throbbing of the ship, and ourselves.
We arrived at Metz where my father was having his fifty-years-of-service jubilee. Pre-war Germany: the house was full of grandchildren and relatives, and I stayed in a hotel where Lawrence also stayed. It was a hectic time. Bands were playing in honour of my father, telegrams came flying from England. Lawrence was pulling me on one side, my children on the other. My mother wanted me to stay with her. My father, who loved me, said to me in great distress: 'My child, what are you doing? I always thought you had so much sense. I know the world.' I answered: 'Yes, that may be, but you never knew the best.' I meant to know the best.
There was a fair going on at Metz at the moment. I was walking with my sister Johanna through the booths of Turkish Delight, the serpentmen, the ladies in tights, all the pots and pans.
Johanna, or 'Nusch,' as we called her, was at the height of her beauty and elegance, and was the last word in 'chic.' Suddenly Lawrence appeared round a corner, looking odd, in a cap and raincoat. What will she think of him? I thought.
He spoke just a few words to us and went away. To my surprise, Johanna said: 'You can go with him. You can trust him.'
At first nobody knew of Lawrence's presence except my sisters. One afternoon Lawrence and I were walking in the fortifications of Metz when a sentinel touched Lawrence on the shoulder suspecting him of being an English officer. I had to get my father's help to pull us out of the difficulty. Lo, the cat was out of the bag, and I took Lawrence home to tea.
He met my father only once, at our house. They looked at each other fiercely - my father, the pure aristocrat, Lawrence, the miner's son. My father, hostile, offered a cigarette to Lawrence. That night I dreamt that they had a fight, and that Lawrence defeated my father.
The strain of Metz proved too great for Lawrence and he left for the Rhineland. I stayed behind in Metz.
Here are some of Lawrence's letters, which show his side of our story up to that time.
Eastwood - Tuesday I feel so horrid and helpless. I know it all sickens you, and you are almost at the end of the tether. And what was decent yesterday will perhaps be frightfully indecent today. But it's like being ill: there's nothing to do but shut one's teeth and look at the wall and wait.
You say you're going to G... tomorrow. But even that is uncertain. And I must know about the trains. What time are you going to Germany, what day, what hour, which railway, which class? Do tell me as soon as you can, or else what I can do? I will come any time you tell me - but let me know.
You must be in an insane whirl in your mind. I feel helpless and rudderless, a stupid scattered fool. For goodness' sake tell me something and something definite. I would do anything on earth for you, and I can do nothing. Yesterday I knew would be decent, but I don't like my feeling today - presentiment. I am afraid of something low, like an eel which bites out of the mud, and hangs on with its teeth. I feel as if I can't breathe while we're in England. I wish I could come and see you, or else you me.
D. H. Lawrence
Queens Square, Eastwood, Notts 2 May 1912
I shall get in King's Cross tomorrow at 1.25. Will that do? You see I couldn't come today because I was waiting for the laundry and for some stuff from the tailor's. I had prepared for Friday, but Thursday was impossible. I am sorry if it makes things tiresome.
Will you meet me, or let somebody meet me, at King's Cross? Or else wire me very early, what to do. It is harassing to be as we are.
I have worried endlessly over you. Is that an insult? But I shan't get an easy breath till I see you. This time tomorrow, exactly, I shall be in London.
I hope you've got some money for yourself. I can muster only eleven pounds. A chap owes me twenty-five quid, but is in such a fix himself, I daren't bother him. At any rate, eleven pounds will take us to Metz, then I must rack my poor brains.
Oh Lord, I must say 'making history, ' as Garnett puts it, isn't the most comfortable thing on earth. If I know how things stood with you, I wouldn't care a damn. As it is, I eat my blessed heart out.
Till tomorrow, till tomorrow, till tomorrow (I nearly put à demain).
D. H. Lawrence P.S. I haven't told anything to anybody. Lord, but I wonder how you are.
DHL.
Metz Damn the rain! I suppose you won't go out while it continues heavily. I'll venture forth in a minute - 9.15 already. I don't know where you live exactly -so if I can't find you I shall put this in number 4. That's the nearest I can get; is it right?
If I don't meet you, I suppose I shan't see you today, since this is the festive day. I don't mind. At least, I do, but I understand it can't be helped.
I shall go into the country if it'll keep a bit fine - shall be home here about 2.30, I suppose. I can work as soon as I like.
Let us go away from Metz. Tell Else I'm not cross. How should I be? You are the soul of good intention - how can one be cross with you? But I wish I had the management of our affairs.
Don't love me for things I'm not - but also don't tell me I'm mean. I wondered what had become of you this morning. Were you being wise and good and saving my health? You needn't. I'm not keen on coming to your place to lunch tomorrow - but I am in your hands - 'into thine hand, 0 Lord, I commend, ' etc. I want you to do as you like, over little things such as my coming to your father's house. In oddments, your will is my will.
I love you - but I always have to bite my tongue before I can say it. It's only my Englishness.
Commend me to your sister. I lodge an appeal with her. I shall say to her - it's no good saying it to you - 'Ayez pitié de moi. '
No, I'm only teasing. It doesn't matter at all what happens - or what doesn't happen, that's more to the point - these few days. But if you put up your fingers, and count your days in Germany, and compare them with the days to follow in Nottingham, then you will see, you - (I don't mean it) - are selling sovereigns at a penny each. No, you are not doing it - but it's being done.
Don't be hurt, or I shall - let me see - go into a monastery - this hotel is precious much like one already.
This is the last day I let you off - so make the most of it and be jolly.
Tuesday -
Now I can't stand it any longer, I can 't. For two hours I haven't moved a muscle -just sat and thought. I have written a letter to E... You needn't, of course, send it. But you must say to him all I have said. No more dishonour, no more lies. Let them do their - silliest - but no more subterfuge, lying, dirt, fear. I feel as if it would strangle me. What is it all but procrastination? No, I can't bear it, because it's bad. I love you. Let us face anything, do anything, put up with anything. But this crawling under the mud I cannot bear.
I'm afraid I've got a jit of heroics. I've tried so hard to work - but I can't. This situation is round my chest like a cord. It mustn't continue. I will go right away, if you like. I will stop in Metz till you get E...'s answer to the truth. But no, I won't utter or act or willingly let you utter or act, another single lie in the business.
I'm not going to joke, I'm not going to laugh, I'm not going to make light of things for you. The situation tortures me too much. It's the situation, the situation I can't stand - no, and I won't. I love you too much.
Don't show this letter to either of your sisters - no. Let us be good. You are clean, but you dirty your feet. I'll sign myself as you call me - Mr Lawrence.
Don't be miserable - if I didn't love you I wouldn't mind when you lied.
But I love you, and Lord, I pay for it.
Hotel Rheinischer Hof, Trier 8 May 1912
I am here -I have dined - it seems rather nice. The hotel is little - the man is proprietor, waiter, bureau, and everything else, apparently - speaks English and French and German quite sweetly - has evidently been in swell restaurants abroad - has an instinct for doing things decently, with just a touch of swank - is cheap - his wife (they're a youngish couple) draws the beer-it's awfully nice. The bedroom is two marks fifty per day, including breakfast - per person. That's no more than my room at the Deutscher Hof, and this is much nicer. It's on the second floor-two beds - rather decent. Now, you ought to be here, you ought to be here. Remember, you are to be my wife - see that they don't send you any letters, or only tinder cover to me. But you aren't here yet. I shall love Trier - it isn't a ghastly medley like Metz - new town, old town, barracks, barracks, cathedral, Montigny. This is nice, old, with trees down the town. I wish you were here. The valley all along coming is full of apple trees in blossom, pink puffs like the smoke of an explosion, and then bristling vine sticks, so that the hills are angry hedgehogs.
I love you so much. No doubt there'll be another dish of tragedy in the morning, and we've only enough money to run us a fortnight, and we don't know where the next will come from, but still I'm happy, I am happy. But I wish you were here. But you'll come, and it isn't Metz.Curse Metz.
They are all men in this hotel - business men. They are the connoisseurs of comfort and moderate price. Be sure men will get the best for the money. I think it'll be nice for you. You don't mind a masculine atmosphere, I know.
I begin to feel quite a man of the world. I ought, I suppose, with this wickedness of waiting for another man's wife in my heart. Never mind, in heaven there is no marriage nor giving in marriage.
I must hurry to post - it's getting late. Come early on Saturday morning. Ask the Black Hussy at Deutscher Hof if there are any letters for me. I love you - and Else - I do more than thank her. Love.
D. H. Lawrence
Hotel Rheinischer Hof Trier - Thursday Another day nearly gone - it is just sunset. Trier is a nice town. This is a nice hotel. The man is a cocky little fellow, but good. He's lived in every country and swanks about his languages. He really speaks English nicely. He's about thirty-five, I should think. When I came in just now - it is sunset - he said, 'You are a bit tired?' It goes without saying I laughed. 'A little bit, ' he added quite gently. That amuses me. He would do what my men friends always want to do, look after me a bit in the trifling, physical matters.
I have written a newspaper article that nobody on earth will print, because it's too plain and straight. However, I don't care. And I've been a ripping walk -up a great steep hill nearly like a cliff, beyond the river. I will take you on Saturday - so nice: apple blossom everywhere, and the cuckoo, and brilliant beech trees. Beech leaves seem to rush out in spring, with éclat. You can have coffee at a nice place, and look at the town, like a handful of cinders and rubbish thrown beside the river down below. Then there are the birds always. And I went past a Madonna stuck with flowers, beyond the hilltop, among all the folds and jumble of hills: pretty as heaven. And I smoked a pensive cigarette, and philosophized about love and life and battle, and you and me. And I thought of a theme for my next novel. And I forgot the German for matches, so I had to beg a light from a young priest, in French, and he held me the red end of his cigar. There are not so many soldiers here. I should never hate Trier. There are more priests than soldiers. Of the sort I've seen - not a bit Jesuitical - I prefer them. The cathedral is crazy: a grotto, not a cathedral, inside - baroque, baroque. The town is always pleasant, and the people.
One more day, and you'll be here. Suddenly I see your chin. I love your chin. At this moment, I seem to love you, because you've got such a nice chin. Doesn't it seem ridiculous?
I must go down to supper. I am tired. It was a long walk. And then the strain of these days. I dreamed E... was frantically furiously wild with me-I won't tell you the details - and then he calmed down, and I had to comfort him. I am a devil at dreaming. It's because I get up so late. One always dreams after seven a.m.
The day is gone. I'll talk a bit to my waiter fellow, and post this. You will come on Saturday? By Jove, if you don't! We shall always have to battle with life, so we'll never fight with each other, always help.
Bis Samstag - ich liebe dich schwer.
D. H. Lawrence
Postcard with picture of Trier, Porta Nigra Here is your Porta Nigra, that you have missed three times. I think I am quite clever. It is a weird and circuitous journey to Waldbrol - seven hours. Now I am at Niederlahnstein - Rechtrheinisch - having just come over from Coblentz! I go on to Troisdorf - ever heard of such places! - then to Hennef - and at last Waldbrol - four changes - umsteigen - seven hours' journey. But isn't the Mosel valley pretty? The Rhein is most awfully German. It makes me laugh. It looks fearfully fit for the theatre. Address me care of Frau Karl Krenkow, Waldbrol Rheinprovinz. Anything new and nasty happened? This is my sentimental journey.
Love D. H. Lawrence
Postcard with picture of Trier, Basilica Now, I am in Hennef - my last changing place. It is 8.30 - and still an hour to wait. So I am sitting like a sad swain beside a nice, twittering little river, waiting for the twilight to drop, and my last train to come. I shan 't get to Waldbrol till after 11.00- nine hours on the way - and that is the quickest it can be done. But it's a nice place, Hennef, nearly like England. It's getting dark. Now for the first time during today, my detachment leaves me, and I know I only love you. The rest is nothing at all. And the promise of life with you is all richness. Now I know.
D. H. Lawrence
Adr. Frau Karl Krenkow Waldbrol - Rheinprovinz It's really very nice here - Hannah is very bright and so decent with me. Her husband is 'a very good man ' - uninteresting. She never loved him - married him because she was thirty and time going by. Already she's quite fond of me - but do not mind, she is perfectly honourable - the last word of respectability. Then there is 'Opar O'pa'- how do you spell it? - Stiilchen. He is seventy-three - a lovely old man - really a sweet disposition, and no fool. Now he is really lovable. It was Kermesse at one of the villages yesterday - Sunday - and we went to look. It was jolly. Onkel Stùlchen bought us a Herz - a great heart of cake, covered with sugar, and sugar grapes, and sugar roses, and a bird, a dove - and three pieces of poetry. It's rather quaint. Strange, how deep symbolism is in your soil. Herr Stulchen brought up Hannah, since she was five years old. Her father was killed - or died a while after the Franco-Prussian War. Now I am fond of him.
Here, I am so respectable, and so good - it is quite a rest. We are not dull. Hannah is really intelligent. We amuse ourselves a good deal with my German. In three months here I should know quite a lot.
It's a quiet, dead little village - miles from everywhere - rather pretty in a tame sort of way - a bit Englishy. Once they let me begin, I shall knock off quite a lot of work. There is that novel on my conscience.
I write in the morning, when one is wonderfully sane. Waldbrol is good for my health - it is cooler, more invigorating. Trier was like a perpetual Turkish bath. I like this air.
