17 November

17 November 1920

Villa Isola Bella, Menton, France

Thank you for the flower. Yes, it did touch me.
No, darling, If I let this other letter go I shall repent it. For it is not all. Its true I am hurt as Ive never been. Perhaps it is your carelessness. But then carelessness in love is so dreadful. And yet what else can it be? Even after getting my present which I tried to make perfect for you in a case which I chose awfully carefully and you never even gave one word to. You didn't mention this other photograph. And to talk about too much fragility and so on - I hang my head. I feel timid and faint. I am not an ox. I am weak: I feel my hold on life is fainting-weak. But that is ME, the real real me. I cant help it. Didn't you know? And then when you toss off my letter about "passports, kisses, OBE" - oh, I am so ashamed. What anguish to have written as I did about kisses. Was that what I wrote about? Let me creep away and fold my wings. They quiver - you hurt me.
I must tell you; no one else will. I am not like other women. I am not this great girl. Whether you did tell Sadler it was precious or not I don't know. I scarcely hear you saying that to him.
But I must tell you something else. I have been ill for nearly four years - and Im changed changed - not the same. You gave twice to your work (which I couldn't see) what you gave my story. I dont want dismissing as a masterpiece. Who is going to mention "the first snow"? I haven't anything like as long to live as you have. Ive scarcely any time I feel. Arthur will draw posters 100 years. Praise him when Im dead. Talk to ME. Im lonely. I havent ONE single soul . . . [To J. M. Murry in Collected Letters]