November 1915
Dear Adelaide,
It feels like I left you some months ago, and yet I've only been gone a week. Time has stretched, wrapped itself around me, pulled me further from you and I can't tell you how much I miss you.
The ship is fine. It's big and full of people. I hear them walking the decks, talking, laughing, all of them going places with people they love, going places to people they love. Right now I feel as though I am going nowhere. I feel like I am being taken. I'm passive. As if this wasn't my choice. I can hear you sigh impatiently. You turn to me with that look in your eye – the look of sense – and you say:
"You told me that you had to do this. You said it was a chance in a lifetime, a chance to really find something."
You sigh and tell me that you agreed and that you said you would wait and wait you will because you are that kind of woman. The kind that does what she says she will. The kind that encourages others to do what they have to.
Oh, how I wish you had agreed to come with me! I wish you had forgotten about everyone else that needs you. I need you more!
No. I know. I'm being selfish. But I long to talk to you. To see you smile and tell you all about the land I am heading towards and the research that awaits me there. I want to tell you about my work and hear what you think of it. What you have to say about it. And what of you? What have you been doing with your time? How is your mother? What is your garden like, how is your painting coming along? Is Edith still stuck on that Captain? Who are you talking to? How are you feeling? Do you keep your thoughts to yourself or are you sharing them with someone else? Who? Who are you speaking to? Who are you smiling at? Who do you look at with that sense in your eye?
Oh, I am being a bore. I know. You said you'd wait. But as the ocean stretches out between us I can't help but be beset by fears about our future. I fear losing you. I think things will be better when I reach land and begin my work. And I cannot lie – I am looking forward to what I might find. I am excited by the prospect of discovery. You know this already. I am writing a letter full of nothings, things you knew long ago, but the need to communicate with you is great.
The day is growing dark. I think there is a storm coming. This ship is so enormous that it doesn't matter how big the waves grow, they always appear inconsequential from my cabin porthole. I might go out and stretch my legs before the rain comes down. Feel the hum of the engines travel up through the decks and through my legs and up into my heart. Feel the ocean spray on my cheeks. I might go out...
Oh, Adelaide! I miss you terribly. I will write again. I hope this letter finds you well.
I send this with all my love,
Your Robert.
January 1916
Dear Robert,
I was thrilled to get your letter. It arrived in December but I have been far too busy to find time to write. Before you get jealous let me remind you that we have just had Christmas. There has been a lot to arrange within the family, many social duties I have had to fulfil and Mother insists that both Edith and I do our part in the Church and for various charities. I can't tell you how much it bores me.
On top of all these dull affairs the Captain has proposed to Edith and she has said yes, much to the chagrin of both Mother and my uncle. But we were raised to believe we could marry for love. I reminded Mother of this and she begrudgingly withdrew her complaints. Now all we must do is make sure she is never left alone with the Captain, for I worry she may try to murder him. And you know her. She can be very single-minded; if she decided to, she would make very short work of him.
So life rolls on, ignoring our separation. Ignoring our hearts and our heads, passing us by as if nothing has happened. And so I go, from one event to the next, from one room to the next, my hands kept busy, my thoughts kept engaged and life does not permit me time to feel sorry. Nor does it allow me to draw or paint or do anything that I love. I sometimes think life let's me do very little of my own choosing. But I shan't feel sorry for myself. Feeling sorry is your area of expertise, you great lump. STOP thinking about me! Look forwards! Smell that sea air and let it fill you with its strength. You have so much to enjoy, so much wonder to see. Don't cover up the beauty of the world with a veil of darkness you have made yourself. If you do that I will never forgive you.
Your hand-writing is beautiful Robert. It reminds me of the careful drawings you used to present me with; do you remember? Drawings of insects at first: butterflies and beetles. You started small and then worked your way through the animal kingdom. You've always drawn horses best. How I love your portrait of Tourmaline.
Oh you horrible man! You didn't even ask me about Tour! Well, since you ask now, I shall tell you: Tourmaline is marvellous. He hasn't been out as much as he would have liked this winter and so he is very fresh. I took him to the common yesterday and we had such a gallop... I can't describe it to you. It felt as though we were flying. We weren't earth bound. Ironic that Tour is named so, when really I think he is a creature of fire and air.
You asked who am I speaking to? I speak to Tourmaline. He receives my smiles, my sense, my secrets. My sadness. But you don't deserve to know such things, I think. You have no right to ask that of me. Oh, I'm getting into a temper. I better sign off.
Keep well, dear one.
Adelaide
March 1916
Dear Adelaide,
Christmas! I had forgotten it existed., I’ve been so ensconced in my work that I quite missed it. I know other families must have celebrated here, and no doubt there was even a church service, but I do not socialise much and I never go to church. I do not miss Sundays in England. What a waste of time!
But don't pay me any heed! I realise now that I must sound like I am calling your Sundays wasteful. But why am I apologising to you? According to you I am a "great lump", a "horrible man", sad and imposing. I had forgotten how disagreeable you can be. I'm in half a mind to stay here and not return to you.
I lie of course. I long for you. But you do not want to hear such things do you? No, you would rather I talked of Tourmaline and South America, of happiness and industry. You would rather not hear about any of my feelings. You have no care for them.
I am unfair to you. Why did your letter make me so cross and yet so full of desire at the same time? You breathe through your words. That's what it is. When I read your letter it felt almost as though you had come with your words – I could hear you sigh, I could smell your skin, and there on the edge of my perception was the feel of your breath at my ear, as though you were looking over my shoulder and mouthing along to your letter as I read it.
You want to hear about South America. It is hot here – damn near unbearable. I work late into the night and I rise early and work before dawn. I sleep through the hottest part of the day. The heat is thick and heavy and it carries the perfume of the forest and the dust and the sea with it. I feel as though the air is pressing nature onto me with heavy hands, unaware of its own strength.
The town is barely more than a village. A few stone houses have been built, but really everything has the air of the temporary. It seems almost a frontier town, waiting to see what the nature of the place is truly like before it commits to imposing civilisation onto it. I feel as though I am in the wild. It is like some of those barren places in Scotland I told you of; do you remember? In the Hebrides. It has the same air of age and untameability. That is where the comparison stops however. Here there is no cold and the air is thick with life. The insects hum with a volume that you can feel in your lungs. The butterflies grow to such monstrous sizes. You would be enchanted! And the plants are extraordinary.
Of course I spend my days cataloguing everything. I have drawn a great many new species of insect and plant and I am including some copies with this letter, so that you may get a sense of what I am seeing. All of the varieties I have seen so far, have been close at hand. I work tirelessly but it is taking an incredible amount of time. I hope that in a month I shall finally have got beyond the reaches of the town and made my way into the forest. That is where I believe I will be able to make the most astonishing discoveries.
Please tell me what you think of the drawings. And if possible, send me a sketch with your next letter. A self-portrait perhaps?
Oh I forgot to ask you to give my congratulations to Edith. Wish the Captain luck from me! And give your mother my regards. And of course, give Tour a kiss from me.
I love you, dear Adelaide.
Robert
June 1916
Dear Robert,
Where is the time going? I waited a very long time for your letter. I am replying immediately. I loved your drawings. The plants and insects... you are in a wild place I will never be able to understand or imagine. Not truly. After seeing them our separation seemed more real to me. I suddenly realised that you were not here and you would not be here for quite some time (if ever). You will ask me: "How did it make you feel? What are you thinking?" And truthfully, I cannot answer that question.
I never could answer questions like that. You were always so unfair to ask. What have you made me promise you? What am I bound to? Actually, no. I am not interested in that. What are you bound to? You always demand answers of me but you do not tell me your own thoughts on the matter. Yes, you tell me you miss me, you long for me, you feel me with you, but those are empty words, Robert. And you ask for a self-portrait? What, pray tell, happened to the last one I gave you, just before you shipped yourself away?
Tourmaline received his kiss from you with indifference. The Captain said thank you with a bemused expression on his face (hardly surprising since he does not know you). Mother accepted your regards with a chilly smile. Edith smiled at your congratulations and said:
"Oh Robert! I had forgotten all about him. Where has he gone again?"
I am sorry. I went off in a temper after I wrote the above, and now I am re-reading it and thinking what a frightful person I am. I just feel... oh never mind. I can't afford to have feelings. Too much to do. I took Tourmaline for a ride. We flew again, we always fly. I wish I could live upon his back and become a part of him so we could fly forever. I would bind myself to him. I am sorry Robert but Tour has all of my heart. If you have a complaint you shall just have to take it up with him when you return.
I have another bit of news. I have a job. I got the idea from you actually. You were talking about my writing, how I breathe through the words, and I thought to myself (at first) he is exaggerating (you are prone to being romantic). But then I got to thinking about it and I thought, why not? I could write. And I am not likely to get married, am I? I need to make my own way in the world. Painting doesn't pay but writing could. So I went to the Telegraph and asked them for a job. I took a sample article I had written and they liked it. They think I could do well. And so I am writing. Isn't it rather amazing?
When I went into the offices I felt like I was in a jungle. I think I am going into the wild much as you have. We will learn different things, to be sure, but I think we will both grow. Shall we recognise each other if we see each other again? I mean when. Sorry. I am not quite myself at the moment. Mother isn't well and I have had to do a lot around the house. Edith is no use to me. She never was, but now that she is married it feels as though I have no sister at all. I don't mind so much, I like to be alone, it just means I don't have a lot of time. But I made time to write to you.
You might not believe me but I loved your letter. And the butterfly you named 'Adelaide' is sublime. I would like to see the world you are now a part of. I would like to know things.
Take care of yourself, dear one. Don't work too hard, you must rest sometimes.
Adelaide
September 1916
Dear Robert,
It is September. Summer has passed us by. It was surprisingly hot, but we did not mind. The newspaper let me have some time off and I went with Mother, Edith and the Captain to visit my uncle in Somerset. We took a trip to the coast and I went swimming. It was divine. The next best thing after riding. I love to feel part of the elements. I did some paintings while we were away. Landscapes mostly, but a few portraits – mostly of my uncle. He has such a wonderfully expressive face, it is hard to capture. You probably don't remember what he looks like.
It is September and the autumn is coming in. I feel it sneaking under the door. I feel it stealing through my world. It is September and I have received no letter from you. I choose to think this is because you are busy and not because some disaster has befallen you.
Remember – everyone must rest. I hope you are taking time to enjoy yourself outside of your work.
Take care of yourself, dear one.
Adelaide
January 1917
Dear Adelaide,
You are right, not to worry. I have been busy. It was a pleasure to read your letters.
You will not believe the wealth of life here! It is quite remarkable – I never imagined such splendour. I am alive with it all! I have moved my exploration from the town and its outskirts and I am finally venturing into the surrounding forest. It is tremendously exciting!
I have discovered so much, I am constantly at work; capturing, studying, categorising, naming, drawing – I have so much to do Adelaide! I can barely spare a moment. You understand of course. No one ever understood me like you.
I save my most exciting piece of news for last. You will like this very much, I think. I discovered hoof prints in the forest. Ordinary, you might think, but these were not quite like normal hooves. They were more oval shaped, more delicate, and yet the imprint in the earth indicated a creature of substantial size. I have yet to glimpse the creature that made these marks but I will write to you as soon as I do. You will be so impressed, I truly believe it! I can scarcely believe my good fortune!
Love,
Robert
March 1917
Dear Robert,
Thank you for your letter. I am glad to see you are well and happy. You seem to have a lot of work to do and it is all very exciting. I am pleased and I was very impressed by the drawings you sent with your last letter. It is kind of you to go to the effort of making copies for me when you have so much to do with your time. I hope it was no trouble for you?
The weather is cold here. I take Tourmaline out in the mornings. He is fresh with the nip of winter at his heels and the breeze of spring in his face. We gallop together. He is turning into quite a prize. You would scarcely recognise him, the way he has grown up.
I hope you continue to look after yourself, Robert. Dear one.
Adelaide
March 1917
I cannot wait to tell you my news Adelaide. I imagine you are probably writing to me now, or have written to me already, perhaps your letter is en route, but nothing you can write will be as astonishing as what I will tell you!
I caught a glimpse of them! The hoofed creatures! That is to say, I caught a glimpse of one of them. It was in the shadows and hard to see but I will swear on God, on Science even, that the creature was watching me. I felt eyes upon me. And when it realised I had detected it, it flew. It ran so fast I hadn't a chance to see it properly. But, and now you will think me utterly mad, but in truth I care not, I am sure the creature was unlike anything else recorded on this Earth. I am sure... my hand is shaking as I write this, it is too wondrous that I hardly dare put the words to paper! Oh be patient, Adelaide! I will tell you in my own time!
I am sure that the creature was a Kentaur (I favour the Grecian spelling) but I will need to observe it further to know for certain. Oh Adelaide! Such wonders I see. I am in a place of dreams. I am where I belong.
I must go. I have so much to do. I write in haste.
Robert
March 1917
I can barely believe the events that have come to pass. I pinch myself to check I am still in reality, but I distrust the pain in my arm. I have spent the week in the forest. I go quietly, I make no sudden movements, I touch nothing. I have acted with great care because I know they follow me. I feel their eyes. I have been patient. I have never tried to surprise them or catch them at their study of me. I haven't tried to tempt them to me. With what would I tempt them? I know nothing of their kind. I know not what they would like. No I haven't tried to tempt them. It seems that being myself has been enough. Because she came to me today.
Adelaide. It was the strangest thing. When I saw her I was reminded of you. The Kentaurides (that is the term used for females) is incredibly elegant.
Oh let me tell it properly. I was in the forest again. I had been there all morning and I was tired. I took a rest on a rock and leaned against a tree and watched the life flit past me. I was content. I think I even drifted off as I have found the Kentaurs come closer when I am paying less attention to the world. In fact, I must have drifted off because when I finally focused my eyes she was standing between the trees directly ahead of me.
She stood like a statue. Really, it was as though she were carven from rock for her coat is dappled grey; exactly the same shade as Tourmaline's. Perhaps that is what reminded me of you? She did not move, I could not even tell if she was breathing. She watched me and did not blink and I was transfixed. How to truly describe her? To give her dimensions, to make her live for you? I think she must measure, from withers to hoof, about fifteen hands. From her shoulder – her human shoulder – perhaps she is six feet? Perhaps. Her conformation –
the conformation of her equine body, I mean to say – is perfect. She is superbly turned out. And her human form... it is exquisite. Her torso, shoulders, arms, hands, neck, face, all of her is covered in the same beautiful dappled coat and it shines and glistens with health. Her face is human though her eyes are larger than any ordinary man or woman, and they are wholly brown, just as a horse's are, and fringed with long lashes. Her nose is roman, perhaps a little large for her face but it looks as though it is the perfect proportion.
Her hair is long, a wild mane, black, with flecks of white in it. And did I say that on her forehead she has a diamond? I wonder if the other Kentaurs also carry common horse markings?
Have I brought her to life for you? No matter if not, I will send a picture with this letter. But let me tell you what happened next!
It felt like we were staring at each other for hours without moving. I lost all sensation of time. So when she did move I was startled into a sudden awareness of everything outside of her. I jumped a little and she shied away from me. I called out, cursing my unsteady nerves, and I thought I had lost her. But no! She did not go far. She had retreated a little way from me but then stopped. And then she returned. She walked towards me, right up to me, and stood in front of me, inches in front of me, and she reach out a delicate hand and she placed a finger on my cheek. I could scarcely breathe! She traced her finger down my cheek and then she spoke. She spoke! They have language! But of course they do! I have no idea why it surprised me, but it did. She spoke to me, and I couldn't understand a word of it, but I will learn. I will learn everything. And I don't think this will be a zoological study, but an anthropological one.
I have no words for how magical my time with the Kentaurides was. I long to learn her name, her age, to learn her life. I must start with language.
I realise now why I thought of you. You will have seen the connection quicker than I.
Robert
June 1917
Dear Robert,
Your letters, quite rightly, astonish me. All the drawings you have sent me – they are so beautiful it makes me sad. Your style has changed. You draw with stronger, more confident lines now. It is more impressionistic, less scientific. I like it. It is very artistic.
Perhaps you can tell me more about the Kentaurs. Do you pronounce that with a hard 'k'?
I am getting a promotion at the newspaper. Mother is starting to rather like my job. She is at risk of becoming proud of me.
Anyway. I best go. Tourmaline will be chomping at the bit. I am riding out with Mr Delancey. Do you remember him? He has an excellent stable yard.
Take care. Robert.
Adelaide
October 1917
Adelaide. Their language is beautiful. They are beautiful. A people that exists totally at one with nature. They have a balance I never knew could exist. I was always such a tidal wave of emotion but... I cannot write her name. It is impossible to put their language to paper. I can roughly translate it. Wait. Let me think.
The sound of the wind as it brushes the leaves on a journey to the sea.
I think that is as close as it gets. But no. It is not her name. She teaches me about balance. I must go. I have much to do.
Thanks for your last letter.
Robert
December 1917
Dear Robert,
I am sorry to send you this letter. I am not sure how to word it. It is a hard time for all of us. I suppose I best just get it over with.
Adelaide died in July. She was out riding Tour. He was startled by a pheasant and he spooked. From what we can tell, he lost his footing and fell. He landed on Adelaide, snapping her spine. I am told she died quickly afterwards. Tour broke his leg. Mr Delancey wanted to save him but I didn't believe Adelaide would wish him to go through the agony of recovery. We had him shot. Adelaide is buried with him. She loved him more than any other creature. She loved him more than you. He loved her better too.
Why did you make her promise to wait for you?
Regards,
Edith
June 1918
Dear Adelaide,
I am sorry but I have hard news for you. I don't think I shall be returning to England after all. I have so much to do here. I really belong. I am sorry it took me so long to realise, so long to tell you. But you were always a sensible girl. I imagine you saw how it was ages ago! I imagine you have already moved on. Am I right? Don't feel bad if you have, you've done the right thing. You always did do the right thing. You're that kind of girl. The kind that does what she says she'll do and encourages other people do what they must do and does the right thing. I wish you much joy in the life you will lead.
Best wishes, dear one.
Robert