CLXVIII
Verena Raby To Nicholas Devose
Dear Nico,—No, please, do not come. After all the years that have passed, and the eight months and more that I have been thinking doubly—having so little else to do and believing that life was over—you must not re-enter my heart. It is sealed against you—at least so long as you keep away. How I should feel if I saw you, I cannot say; but I daren’t experiment, nor must you ask. You were to have given me so much; you took so much; you even, I confess, still hold so much—how dare I then see you, and even more, how dare I let you see me? You could never bear the thought of age, of life’s inevitable decline. So many artists cannot: it is part of the price they pay for their gifts—and no small price too, for it makes them a little inhuman and to be inhuman in this strange wonderful world is terrible. No, dear, do not come or again suggest it. My Nicholas Devose must be as dead as your Serena. The two who would now meet are strangers and they will be wise to remain so. But my Nicholas—I have him here and shall never forget him, and over him I often cry a little.—Your friend,
Serena