in
correspondence between distant relations of Brown's writ. ten in the 1840s, but she needed more evidence, different
He knew he'd never see Fanny a
ny again, Clarissa said. He
wrote to Brown and said that to see her name written would
be more than he could bear. But he never stopped thinking
about her. He was strong enough those days in December,
and he loved her so hard. It's easy to imagine him writing a
letter he never intended to send
I squeezed her hand and said nothing. I knew little about
Keats or his poetry, but I thought it possible that in his hope-
less situation he would not have wanted to write precisely
because he loved her so much. Lately I'd had the idea that
Clarissa's interest in these hypothetical letters had something
to do with our own situation, and with her conviction that love
that did not find its expression in a letter was not perfect. In the
months after we met, and before we bought the apartment,
she had written me some beauties, passionately abstract in
their exploration of the ways our love was different from
and superior to any that had ever existed. Perhaps that's
the essence of a love letter, to celebrate the unique. I had
tried to match hers, but all that sincerity would permit me
were the facts, and they seemed miraculous enough to me.
a beautiful woman loved and wanted to be loved by a large
clumsy, balding fellow who could hardly believe his luck.
We stopped to watch the buzzard as we were approachit
Maidensgrove. The balloon may have re-crossed our path
while we were in the woods that cover the valleys around
the nature reserve. By the early afternoon we were on the
Ridgeway Path, walking north along the line of the escarp
ment. Then we struck out along one of those broad fingers of
land that project westwards from the Chilterns into the rich
farmland below. Across the Vale of Oxford we could make out
the outlines of the Cotswold Hills and beyond them, perhaps,
the Brecon Beacons rising in a faint blue mass. Our plan had
