A Woman of Independent Means (47 page)

Eleanor will be forty years old when the baby is born. How can she take such a risk—not to mention what she is doing to me? I have not had her complete attention since 1936, and I feel I am entitled to it in my old age. Of course her answer is that my old age is nowhere in sight, and I do have to agree. But another baby in the family may well bring it on at any moment.

I thought Walter was content with three daughters, but there must be some primitive part of his psyche that still yearns for a child formed in his own image. That is the only explanation I can find for an act so rash and irresponsible. No matter how civilized their façade, men are savages at heart. Looking back, I marvel that I escaped the manacles of motherhood when I remarried. I sometimes forget how good Sam has been to me.

We are enjoying each other's company on this cruise, and yet not limited to it as we would be on a conventional trip. Among the many advantages a cruise offers to long-married couples is the constant presence of other people. You would be quite at home here with us. In many ways a ship is a little town that floats. There is only one movie but many card games. The only real difference between the lives you and I are leading at this moment is that I have a destination and it is different from anywhere I have ever been.

Much love,
Bess

June 10, 1954
aboard Pan Am Flight 81
New York to Lisbon

Mr. and Mrs. Dwight Davis
Monte Verde at 6th
Carmel-by-the-Sea
California

 

Dearest Dwight and Totsie,

Welcome home from the Orient. How wonderful it feels to be writing one letter to the two of you. Just addressing the envelope, I relive your wedding last fall. I was very proud to be witness at a ceremony reconfirming a union as inevitable as it is unique.

Sam and I spent a week in New York before leaving for Europe. We thought of you and your adventures in the Orient as we watched
Teahouse of the August Moon
. I long to hear more about your nine-month honeymoon. I am wild with envy to think of all the places you have been that I will never see: Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, Tokyo, Pago Pago. Three score and ten years is barely time to scan the table of contents of this world. I have not even begun to read the book.

Our departure from Dallas was saddened by the sudden death of Lydia's husband, Manning, the week before. She is being very brave and insists on remaining alone in Denton in the house they shared for so long.

It is thrilling to travel to Europe by air after so many trips by sea. I trust the increased ease of travel will encourage people to move about more freely. Sometimes I think the primary division in the world is not between male and female but between people who travel and people who stay home.

It is my great regret that I have shared so little of what I have seen with either of my husbands. Sam and I have been married almost thirty-two years and this is the first time he has consented to accompany me abroad. And only on the condition that we confine our travels to Switzerland—the only country in the world outside our own that seems safe to him.

He has given his reluctant consent to spend a few days in Lisbon since we have to land there, but then we fly directly to Geneva. I tried to interest him in a quick tour of North Africa, but he would not hear of it so I fear that for me it will forever remain the dark continent.

However, I am content just to be in motion again, traversing the night with morning waiting to meet us and below us an ocean whose size seems suddenly comprehensible now that it can be crossed in a day. I must climb into my berth now so I will be rested for my first look at Lisbon.

Je
vous
embrasse,
Bess

August 5, 1954
Montreux Palace Hotel
Montreux, Switzerland

Dear Grace and Frank,

Sam and I speak often of the pleasant trip we shared to California and wish each night we would find you waiting in the dining room here to join us for dinner.

I am seated on the balcony outside our hotel room, looking down at the lake and at the geranium-framed tennis courts where Sam is already engaged in a game. We have both gotten in the habit of sleeping late, then having our “petit déjeuner” brought to us on the balcony. I cannot tell you how much better a croissant tastes in Switzerland, served with fresh butter and jams made from mountain-grown berries.

I usually remain in my robe all morning, reading and writing letters on the balcony and watching Sam defeat a series of younger opponents at tennis. No one would believe he celebrated his seventieth birthday this summer. He is the picture of robust health and quite the most handsome tourist staying at this hotel. His only complaint is his eyesight. Occasional attacks of double vision cause him to lose a game to an unworthy opponent and when that happens he is not fit company for the rest of the day. His mind is as unaccepting of old age as his body and sometimes I am frightened of the years ahead.

I admire the two of you so much for voluntarily retiring from the active pursuit of your chosen professions and devoting yourself to interests too-long neglected and to each other. Old age should be regarded as a reward for a lifetime of hard work, but it can only be a punishment if one insists on doing the same things one has always done, measuring present achievements by past ones and inevitably falling short. If only Sam would retire now and devote himself to the music that has always been a Sunday pastime. He could play the flute with his eyes closed and never think about growing old.

I see that he has just defeated the young Englishman who has been his nemesis on the courts ever since we arrived, so we shall have a pleasant afternoon. When he is in a good mood, I suggest a picnic. The hotel provides us with an ample basket and we set out on our rented bicycles around the lake and into the woods.

After lunch I read aloud from a book of poems. (I prefer Byron but always bring along Walt Whitman for Sam.) The poetry usually puts us both to sleep and after a pleasant nap “al fresco” we awaken greatly refreshed and bicycle back to the hotel, where we bathe and dress for dinner downstairs. Coffee and liqueurs are served after dinner in the lounge to the accompaniment of chamber music. This is the most restful trip I have ever taken and sometimes I forget I am in Europe. Where I think I am I do not know, but at least I am not in Dallas.

Sam just came in from the courts and asks to be remembered.

Love from us both,
Bess

August 31, 1954
Villa d'Este
Cernobbio, Italy

Dear Eleanor and Walter,

After three weeks of tennis and chamber music at the Montreux Palace, I thought I would lose my mind if I had to remain there one more day. I finally convinced Sam to hire a chauffeur and car for our last week in Europe and see at least a little of the surrounding countryside.

Though he was extremely dubious about crossing the border into Italy, I could not leave Europe without one last look at the place which holds more happy memories for me than any other in the world. I have a strong premonition that this is my last trip abroad and it seemed appropriate to spend the last night of it here.

It was naive of me to expect nothing to have changed in the quarter century since my last visit and yet I could not help hoping I would find some physical connection with the past. The concierge was too young to have been more than a child on my last visit, but his face looked decidedly familiar. We began to talk and I learned that he inherited the position from his father.

I inquired if Signor Prince still stayed here regularly and the concierge said sadly he had not been back since the tragic occasion ten years ago when he came from America to claim his son's body. I know you will be as shocked as I was to learn that Henry Prince drowned in Lake Como. Suicide was suspected but nothing ever proved. The concierge says that as far as he knows, Richard Prince has not left Georgia since.

I miss all of my family very much. Sam and I have bought excellent watches for everyone, even the baby. Time has become very important to me and I cannot bear to lose track of a single second. We will be arriving at Love Field at five in the afternoon on Sunday, September 2. I will expect all of you there to meet us and then to be my guests for dinner at the airport restaurant. The food is always excellent and I have so much to tell you. I cannot bear to be met and then abandoned. After dinner we will reassemble at my house for the distribution of souvenirs, so please make no plans for Sunday evening.

Tell Betsy we will be drinking a toast to her tonight on her sixteenth birthday. The present would be unendurable if I did not have a family to keep my vision firmly fixed on the future. I cannot wait to hug each of you.

All my love,
Bess

May 21, 1955
Lima, Peru

Dear Sam,

Your letter was waiting on arrival here last week, but this is the first chance I have had to answer it.

I was shocked to learn of Hal Perkins's death. I suppose the word “shocked” seems strange to describe the death of a man eighty years old, but he seemed so vigorous the last time I saw him.

It was one morning this past March—very early, before even you were awake. I had had a restless night, and, too proud and stubborn to court sleep when it clearly had no intention of coming near me, I got dressed and went down to weed the rose garden. To my surprise our neighbor, fully dressed, was returning home from his morning constitutional. To my even greater surprise he stopped and talked to me, displaying a demeanor more open and expansive than I had ever encountered from him at a later hour.

His manner toward me was always completely correct, of course, yet extremely reserved, as if he wanted to make clear that the proximity of our two houses in no way implied a desire for intimacy between our two persons. I always had the utmost respect for him in his professional role of newspaper editor, underscored by a feeling of regret for the personal relationship that continued to elude me.