December 27, 1923
My Dearest Clarisse,
Oh, how I’ve missed you, my Glittering Star. Who’d have thought the woman I fall for would be one bound for such greatness. Since you’ve been gone, I’ve rewatched your movies more times than I’d like to admit. I miss you a little more with each passing hour, and the constant look of your warm red lips on that screen only makes me yearn for your touch even more.
How’s your time in America been? I’ve heard you can meet all sorts of big names over there at parties and such, things only the wealthy get to attend. What a fine time to be alive, my dear. Not to mention the weather; I’ve heard it’s just divine this time of year, maybe even warm enough to visit the bay. If you do, I want to hear of every bit of your trip. I wish you could tell me in person, but alas, we are continents away. Maybe I’ll visit the bay as well, but I’m sure the weather here in England won’t be so forgiving. Remind me to take you there when you finally get home, maybe in a month or two when the sun finally reveals itself.
It’s been lonely here without you, my Star. I consistently find myself visiting your favorite places and expecting you to walk through the door, but I know that you never will; at least not for a little while. I miss the sound of your voice as you tirelessly rehearse your lines, or hum a little tune as you put on the makeup I bought you for our anniversary all those years ago. Gosh, you looked so divine that day; almost measuring up to the woman you’ve curated with your words and all the sweetest things you’d tell me.
Speaking of, our anniversary lies one month from now. Hopefully you’ll be back by then, but if not, I’m willing to wait. I still remember the day I proposed as if it were a painting hung on the walls of my mind. You were nothing more than an assistant for the type of woman you are now. You wanted so badly to be on stage; it hurt just watching you fail so many times over. I’ve always seen the greatness within you, even if you couldn’t quite see it yourself. I can’t put into words the joy I feel knowing your talent is finally serving you the joy you deserve.
Oh I appologize for rambling on about the past, my Star. It’s just hard not to linger on the happier moments, back when I had you in my arms. I’ve missed your gentle embrace, and I hope you’re as ready as I am to find each other once more.
Live with light, my love. I’ll be waiting.
– Love,
Willhelm.
January 19, 1923
My Dearest Clarisse,
I’m overjoyed to hear of your adventures in America. It’s good to see you connecting with so many people who enjoy the same things you do. I know how deeply you’ve yearned for things like this in the past. I even saw you shaking hands with that old TV star in the papers; I almost feel prideful just to call myself yours.
I do hope the attention isn’t overbearing, however. I’ve seen the crazed look in some folks eyes when coming face to face with their favorite Screen Idols. It’s scary how connected one can feel to a woman he’s never met. I don’t mean to sound jealous, just scared I suppose.
On a happier note, it’s gotten a few degrees warmer here in England. Not enough to melt the snow, but enough to calm the mist leaping from one’s mouth when speaking. I’d kill to visit you down there, but I understand why I can’t. No need for extra expenses and all that. Oh, I wish so earnestly to call you, to hear your voice. It’s like a constant battle to keep myself away from the telephone handle. The sound of your voice is like an oasis in a desert, a light in the shadow. If only you weren’t so far away.
I heard you’re flying to California soon to shoot a few scenes for your next film, and I must admit, I am a tad jealous. The place is gorgeous this time of year, so be sure to tell me all about it. Just remember it can get expensive over there, especially in hotspots for things like gambling and parties. I trust you more than I do myself, but it’s easy to get caught up in such luxuries.
On the topic of luxuries, I’ve recently come into some money of my own! I know we share assets, but I simply feel horrible knowing I contribute close to nothing compared to you. I know you love telling me not to worry about it, but it’s just who I am to worry. It was hard to find work before with the harsh standards of big companies and such, but it’s much easier being known as “Clarisse’s Husband”. I hate knowing that they want me simply for the credit I’d provide in the buisness-world now that you and I are like a package deal of fame, but it’s refreshing to at least contribute something other than my time.
If you don’t swiftly get back to me, don’t worry over the delay. I understand how busy you must be with your next film and many social events, so I can wait if it’s to your convenience.
Live with light, my love. I’ll keep waiting.
– Love,
Willhelm.
January 27, 1923
Dearest Clarisse,
Hello again, my dear. I’m sure you’ve grown tired of my letters by now. I’ve received less notes on your end recently, but I understand how busy you’ve been lately working nights and meeting idols at cassinoes. Especially with Christmas lying just around the corner, I’m sure you’ll be more booked now than I’ve ever been. But don’t blame yourself, my Star; not even I could.
It pains me to say, but today lies our anniversary, and you’re still thousands of miles away from my touch. I know you love it over there; I can tell from the bright smile I see in every publisher’s shot in the papers. I sometimes wonder if you’d be happier if I was there with you, but to ask would be useless. I’ve written so many letters and asked so many questions, but each one I receive back seems more hollow than the last. I hope you’ve been well, my Star. Don’t tire yourself out just yet; at least not until you’re close enough for me to catch you.
I saw you with that actor leaving a party in the papers again, your hand resting in his as you made your way to a shared car. Does he tell you how divine you are just as I do? Does he call you his doll like all the other men who think they’ve got domain over your heart? I don’t want to seem desperate; I’m just sad, I suppose. I miss you more than the warmth of summer, more than the doves that used to fly past the window as we sat together by the fireplace. Do you miss it like I do?
If you’re happy, I’m happy, but it’s hard to be happy when my joy is so far from home.
Live with light, my love. I’ll always be waiting.
– Love,
Willhelm.
February 14, 1923
Dear Clarisse,
For the longest time, I’ve pictured our love as something dangerously abstract; it didn’t have to be seen to be there, and I always thought you saw it too. It was always there, lurking in the background like a stalker I didn’t want to confront. It was far too soon that it up and left on its own.
I saw the photo, darling. I saw it last night and wondered what it is that I did wrong. What had I done to make you leave me for someone like him? What had I done other than love you knowing I’d get back less than what I gave? Was I too reckless, too clingy for your taste? Was I too bold? Was I too prideful? Was I too jealous a person to make you stay?
It feels as though I’ve lived an illusion since the day I left you in the dawn of your fame. When I look back, all I remember is the sadness and regret I felt the night you left. I looked you in the eye that night and put on a smile. I told you I was happy for you, happy that you’d finally get to live your dream. But I should’ve fought harder to make you stay. I don’t even recall asking once fearing you would never forgive me.
I realize now that it’s much too late to beg or plead; life among the stars isn’t something one can beat out. I only wish I’d seen this sooner. Our connection was contemporary, and its time has finally expired like you always knew it would.
It may be February, my dear, but it’s never felt colder here in England. The frost has crept up the windows and threatens to crack the pane you held shut with your warmth. It’s too cold to even step into the streets, and you’re not here to relight that pile of ash waiting in the fireplace. Not even the feel of basking in your golden memory is enough to ignite my heart once more.
It may seem redundant, but I have only one thing to ask of you. Make time for it or don’t, just let me linger in your mind like you do in mine. Let me stay in that special slot you leave for those you can’t forget, even if the only thing you remember is how quickly you forgot about me. Just let me stay a little bit longer until I figure out how to escape the cold of bronze turned gold.
Live with light, Clarisse. I can’t wait any longer, my Star; so neither will you.
– Love,
Willhelm.