Pièce 133 - Letter from Venetia Stanley to Edwin Montagu

[The British Hospital, Wimereux.]—(13th.) She nearly wrote him a horrible letter three hours ago, when she was feeling depressed by her sore knee. Has received his letter. Anthony told her he had been to see Montagu and liked him.—(14th.) Has spent the morning in bed, waiting to see the doctor.

TRANSCRIPT:

Sunday June 13th 1915

9. P.M.

My darling I nearly wrote you a perfectly horrible letter about 3 hours ago telling you that I was bored to death by everything, & that I thought on the whole I was too dreary a woman to marry, that I probably wasnt in the least in love, that I didnt care what happened to anyone including myself, and generally that it wasnt worth while bothering about me. What would you have said darling if I’d written this. Would you have taken it as a whimsey of mine and paid no attention. It would all have been traceable (tho’ of course you couldnt have been expected to realise that) to being laid low with a raw place the size of a half crown on my knee. I thought if I walked about enough it wouldnt get stiff, and that was very good for the bruised part, but where it was skinned it wasnt a success, so here I am for 2 days able to do nothing but write you odious letters. Do you begin to realise at all what I’m like? I think up to now I’ve always been rather above my form with you, you’ve stimulated me, and do still, besides you’ve not encouraged me to give way to all these moods.

I got your letter of the 11th this morning, you complain about your own letters but I think them perfect, I wouldnt change them in anything. Anthony told me he had been to see you. Isnt he an angel. I do adore him, he’ll never wash me whatever I do like . . . . . . . He likes you fearfully, everyone does tho’. Even in my most crusty moods I have to admit that nearly everyone thinks I am doing pretty well by myself. So I am. I think so too. I’ll leave this for tonight & add a little tomorrow if I can.

Monday

I’m having a long morning in bed, there is nothing to get up for & I’m waiting to see the Doctor. He’s a dear little fellow, a first cousin of Lady Normans, and comes and talks here for hours on how fearfully boring it is being here, to which I thoroughly agree.

I cant write.

Much love
Venetia

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Written at the British Hospital, Wimereux.