#l2adf

I know like three Basils. This is a bad thing. They're multiplying

basil "innocent" horvat...

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I’ve told you many a time that my heart has been taken by another. Just as you said—Mister Pittsbury and I are bound together in a “contracted and sacramental way”, and you possess no power to smite the will of God Himself.

But alas, you adore me, or at the very least claim to, for all you see is the surface, and not what lies underneath. Basil, you know the blood in my veins is warm with your yearning, but it is Holden that allows that blood to flow.

I used to entertain your silly advances, but now I realize what they meant to you. To you, I am a subject, and you are the painter. You’ve seen me, heard me, and loved me; but most of all, you’ve drawn me. You wish to immortalize me in those wretched nude sketches of yours, in that almost degrading painting portraying me as Venus, in that incomplete sculpture of me in that modest evening gown. If I am to be your “love”, how is it that I feel none?

Call me an angel all you like, Basil, but I would prefer to be wed to a man that spares a shred of dignity for me than to one that makes me his muse. I feel your care, your love, your admiration, but what for? If you love me as you claim to, how? You have the audacity to compare my voice to the gospel, to measure my worth by my appearance, to act as if I am something that exists as an art form.

No—Basil, you do not love me. You merely adore me.

If I have taken you captive: please, escape while my back is turned, for I cannot face you any longer.

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Dear Holden,

To you, the lo

Holden Pittsbury,

I cannot properly express how much I loathe you. Your essence, your demeanor, your countenance. I hate it all. My hate knows no bounds. It crawls from the pits of Dis and up to the tendrils in my brain. I hate you so much that I love you with all of my heart want to retch every time I see you, for the very sight of your face puts such a rancid disgust in my stomach that I want to split myself open.

Whenever I see you, my heart aches I want to cry over you all over again to spit on your face. All I feel for you is pity. True, sheer pity. My pity is as deep as the ocean is. The depths of the pessimism I feel towards you is immeasurable. All I feel for you is pity and loathing, that’s it! It! It! It! That’s absolutely it!

You ruined my life. Being with you at Oxford ruined my life. While you were smoothing your hair in the mirror, I watched you from behind, silently cursing myself for getting involved with an upperclassman. You rich people are all the same—you put a value on priceless things and discard whatever, whenever. Even if I were adorned with the crown jewels themselves, you would look upon me as if I were a vessel of Satan.

I hate how you were in my art. I hate how much of you was in it. I hate how you were with me every step of the way. I hate every word you say to me. I hate how you used to console me and allowed me to lay in your arms like the world wasn’t against me. I hate how you made me feel like Psyche with your love. I hate your sweet words, your sweet kisses, your everything. Everything. Everything! I hate myself because of you.

I hope one day, I can forgive myself for loving you, and maybe vice versa, if you can ever love without shame. Never again will I be a fool for because of you. I will never let you love me ever again.

It’s been a week since I’ve last written a letter to you, and you haven’t responded. . . I know how busy you can be, with all of your commissions, but I can’t help but worry. My intention is not to be pushy. As your friend, it’s my job to care for your well-being. I believe my work is secondary to that.

I won’t reiterate anything I’ve said in my last letter, as I’m sure you’ve read it by now, but I will certainly worry and fret over you all the same. In your last letter, I want to say from around 3 weeks ago, you mentioned how you miss our Oxford days with Holden and the rest of them. But you can’t focus on the past too much, as the past has already happened—what matters now is what you do today.

My Bazyli—I know how you hate to admit it—but you take life much too seriously, and you end up burdening yourself with unnecessary stress in the process. I hate to see you so tense. And I also hate that scotch seems to be the only cure for your troubles.

Your vices are something I won’t condemn you for, as I am just as guilty as you are, but I want you to shift more focus on your health, too. I know you take some sort of medication—I beg of you to be careful with that as well. I can see you more agitated this time around, and it breaks my heart.

Why don’t you come over this week? The least I could do is invite you over to make up for all of the nagging I do at you. We’ll have a nice chat, I’ll brew some tea, and maybe we can catch up. Make sure to actually arrive this time, yeah?

Twój na zawsze, your friend,

It has been a long while since I’ve written to you. I deeply apologize—I’ve been far too busy managing things in the casino. I know you worry that my love of risk and chance will consume me, but I assure you, dear sister, it shan’t.

How now? The last time we spoke was when you sang that lovely Mozart piece—what was it? Le nozze di Figaro?—about a week ago from now. I recall you mentioning that you were acquainted with a man named “Horvat” (or that’s what you referred to him as, at least) and that he has made a most remarkable impression on you. I would like to hear more of this Horvat from you. It might be that deranged man, I fear.

Enough about that Horvat; Essie, I must also mention that Holden has informed the date of the wedding. I know Holden, even in all of his formality, can get his dates wrong, so correct me if the ides of July is inaccurate. I am glad that the families of Eden and Pittsbury are to be wed—ah! I’ll have you know that it wasn’t just this past year that Holden began to treasure the Eden family jewels.

My dear sister, I’ve never been able to properly orate how happy I am for you. I am glad you’ve decided to settle with a fine man and not some second-rate buffoon. Holden, I assure you, will treat you with utmost dignity. I, of all people, would surely know this… Oh, sister, only if you were to see us at Oxford before that Horvat came into his life. With you in Holden’s care, I trust that no ill will shall come to you.

I am sorry for the brevity of this letter, sister, compared to my usual letters, but that is all time allows me. Work beckons me. My job won’t do itself. I shall write to both you and mother soon once the burden placed on my chest that is the everyday life is no more.

Yours,