Queen's Square, Eastwood, March 1912

To Frieda Weekley,

You are the most wonderful woman in all England.

D. H. Lawrence

Eastwood, April 30, 1912

To Frieda Weekley,

I feel so horrid and helpless. I know how it all sickens you, and you are almost at the end of the tether. And what was decent yesterday will perhaps be frightfully indecent today. But it's like being ill: there's nothing to do but shut one's teeth and look at the wall and wait.

You say you're going to Gladys tomorrow. But even that is uncertain. And I must know about the trains. What time are you going to Germany, what day, what hour, which railway, which class? Do tell me as soon as you can, or else what can I do? I will come any time you tell me—but let me know.

You must be in an insane whirl in your mind. I fell helpless and rudderless, a stupid scattered fool. For goodness sake tell me something and something definite. I would do anything on earth for you, and I can do nothing. Yesterday I knew would be decent, but I don't like my feeling today—presentiment. I am afraid of something low, like an eel which bites out of the mud, and hangs on with its teeth. I feel as if I can't breathe while we're in England. I wish I could come and see you, or else you me.

D. H. Lawrence

Hotel Deutscher Hof, Metz, May 7, 1912

To Frieda Weekley,

Now I can't stand it any longer, I can't. For two hours I haven't moved a muscle—just sat and thought. I have written a letter to Ernst. You needn't, of course, send it. But you must say to him all I have said. No more dishonour, no more lies. Let them do their - silliest - but no more subterfuge, lying, dirt, fear. I feel as if it would strangle me. What is it all but procrastination? No, I can't bear it, because it's bad. I love you. Let us face anything, do anything, put up with anything. But this crawling under the mud I cannot bear.

I'm afraid I've got a fit of heroics. I've tried so hard to work—but I can't. This situation is round my chest like a cord. It mustn't continue. I will go right away, if you like. I will stop in Metz till you get Ernst's answer to the truth. But no, I won't utter or act or willingly let you utter or act, another single lie in the business.

I'm not going to joke, I'm not going to laugh, I'm not going to make light of things for you. The situation tortures me too much. It's the situation, the situation I can't stand—no, and I won't. I love you too much.

Don't show this letter to either of your sisters—no. Let us be good. You are clean, but you dirty your feet. I'll sign myself as you call me

Mr Lawrence

Don't be miserable—if I didn't love you I wouldn't mind when you lied. But I love you, and Lord, I pay for it.

The Following is a letter to Frieda's husband, Ernest Weekley which was included in the October 1913 divorce proceedings

Hotel Deutscher Hof, Metz, May 1912

To Ernest Weekley,

You will know by now the extent of the trouble. Don't cure my impudence in writing to you. In this hour we are only simple men, and Mrs. Weekley will have told you everything, but you do not suffer alone. It is really torture to me in this position.

There are three of us, though I do not compare my sufferings with what yours must be, and I am here as a distant friend, and you can imagine the thousand baffling lies it all entails. Mrs. Weekley hates it, but it has had to be. I love your wife and she loves me. I am not frivolous or impertinent. Mrs. Weekley is afraid of being stunted and not allowed to grow, and so she must live her own life. All women in their natures are like giantesses. They will breath through everything and go on with their own lives.

The position is one of torture for us all. Do not think I am a student of your class—a young cripple. In this matter are we not simple men? However you think of me, the situation still remains. I almost burst my heart in trying to think what will be best. At any rate we ought to be fair to ourselves. Mrs. Weekley must live largely and abundantly. It is her nature. To me it means the future. I feel as if my effort of life was all for her.

Cannot we all forgive something? It is not too much to ask. Certainly if there is any real wrong being done I am doing it, but I think there is not.

D. H. Lawrence