April 19, 1929 -- Letter To Jonathan Cromwell

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Mailed from Lisbon Portugal during Theo Weiss' farewell tour

April 19, 1929

My Dearest James,

Phillipe(*) is waiting for this I know, waiting for me to call him at his hotel so that he may bear this letter with him to you. Yet, I can not hurry. There is so much to say, too much to think of and to hold close to me in your letter and your gift. I do not want to relinquish or set aside this magical time when I almost feel you within the air around me. To hurry would be to lose it, and that I can not do. So . . . Phillipe must wait, and perhaps be delayed in putting this into your hands -- all for the sake of my whims.

The music(**) and your letter makes me weep. From bitter happiness I fear. How is it that we grow to know one another better and closer while we are apart, rather than when we are together? Is it the potency of the words, or only the potency of the memory?

I miss you James.

If frightens me how powerful those words are. Perhaps even more powerful than "I love you", or "I need you". For the longing unlocks chains of thoughts and desires that are best left without their freedom. They bring back to me, in quiet hours, a voice, a touch, or a thousand other things I must not feel now for the peace of my soul.

Yet . . . I can not deny them, nor thrust them away. They are my solace when my time is empty. They are my secret passion hidden deep within my heart where no one else may see. You keep me whole in so many ways, directing my being into some forbidden place where we may touch again.

James . . . James . . . you must find something, someone to help fill even a little of the empty wound that I have opened up inside of you. You will protest you cannot, I know already -- despite it all -- that I would not be replacedin your heart. As much as I love you James, I know that love cannot be selfish - and I would not deny you the things your spirit needs. Touch who you will beloved. Bring whatever is needed to yourself to help you bear up through the waiting. For as I have harmed you enough through this separation - so would I be no barrier to happiness where ever you would find it.(***)

I think of Lyon(****) as a haven, as a paradise of things that hold the future. It is so terribly far away both in place and in time it seems. You are there, within the secretive shadows that clothe my feelings for you. Am I shamed in your eyes by this thing?(*****) We are both people of honor, and have always placed honor above all else. Save in this I fear. My rationality deserts me when I think of you. Passion and a wild unfulfilled yearning fills my only thoughts -- until it is only by sheerest will power that I remain where I am.

Do I sound unhappy? I am not. But he(#) is not you James, nor are you him. I can find no balance, no single place where I can be equal between you both. My life is a tightrope it seems -- stretched between two points that are central to my existence. Were things reversed, this letter might have gone to him, and not to you.

Regrets? Yes . . . thousands upon thousands of them. So much gone by and now can only be said through this medium of ink and paper. I would fill up pages with it, yet you have heard it, read it a thousand times before. Can such simple words mean as much to you as they mean to me? They seem devoid of meaning set down like this, without a voice to give them substance, with only eyes to hear their meaning. It seem incomplete in some way that I cannot recognize.

I keep returning to your letter.