A month flew by, his yearning for Charlotte increasing rather than fading. Back at Oxford after Michaelmas, he sat with his books at his elbow on the desk, unable to concentrate on his courses. His longing may have increased, but he feared she might not feel the same.
Despite her mandate of no correspondence, it was worth trying. He grabbed paper and pen. At least through the post, the letter would not be returned. Whether or not she would read it was another matter.
My dearest Mistress,
I have arrived back at Oxford. I have thought of you every day. I beg your forgiveness for my poor choice in ice shops, indeed for the arrogance of my impertinence. My fervent hope is that you realize it stemmed from a desire to spend more time with you. My greatest wish is that I could beg in person, which might prove more successful.
I hate that a shop worker had the power to hurt you. I confess I also had not anticipated that you were vulnerable to that. I see your strength, but I should have recognized that everyone’s armor has a weak point which can be pierced.
Please accept the enclosed memento as a small part of my apology.
Your copy ofThe Odysseywas translated by Alexander Pope. Whilst that is the most widely available, I thought you might be interested in learning that George Chapman’s earlier translation was so transformational that Keats wrote a sonnet about it.
The short poem was published two years back in the paper. I found a copy and have transcribed it here for you. I was also able to locate a copy of Chapman’s translation in a bookstore here at Oxford that I am sending with this missive.
Your silence is the worst punishment you’ve ever devised. I’d beg you to write to me, but I feel it necessary to do more to earn your response after being irresponsible. However, you have my solemn promise that I will do so only after my studies are complete each week-end.
He reread the note, his pen hovering as he considered whether to expand on the idea of punishment. Deciding against it, he hesitated over his closing salutation. “Your loving servant” was too strong and would tip his hand. He knew his mistress. And for that matter, his mother. Until his majority, he needed to step carefully. Neither would react well to a declaration of his love before then. “Your caring servant” sounded wishy-washy. In the end, he opted for “faithful” and signed it with a flourish.
Your faithful servant,
William
The following weekend, caught up on his reading, he again addressed the desolation that had swirled in his stomach since their outing.
If he could entice her to read his letters through the fall and spring, his schedule would become more flexible after graduation. He could manage estate matters from London more of the year than not. He cast about in his memory for works in Latin that might lure her into a response. Recalling the book of poetry by Catullus, he debated whether skipping from deference to naughty boldness would work. He shrugged. He had several months; he could attempt various sallies and see if any provoked a response. If nothing else, they would keep him forefront in her mind and perhaps even wondering which direction his next letter would take.
Mistress,
How is your Latin progressing? In a further attempt to edge back into your good graces, I thought to offer another poem from Catullus. I’ve included the reference here so you can identify words.
I miss your wit, your intellect, your humor, as well as your touch.
This carmen (#96 in your book) speaks to the depth of my sorrow…
If to the silent dead aught sweet or tender ariseth,
Calvus, of our dim grief's common humanity born;
When to a love long cold some pensive pity recals us,
When for a friend long lost wakes some unhappy regret;
Not so deeply, be sure, Quintilia's early departing
Grieves her, as in thy love dureth a plenary joy.
It was written by Catullus to a friend mourning the loss of a loved one. I would never equate my misery with yours upon the passing of your husband—indeed, no two griefs will ever feel the same, don’t you think? Mine, though, has the added torture of being my own fault.
I read this again and try to imagine how it would feel to lose you forever. I cannot. The pain is too much to bear. Please, you must forgive me. I beg you again.
Your suffering servant,
William
His next letter took one more step toward boldness, including two poems.
Mistress,
