Letty Fox (32 page)

I'm just talking like this, but I feel terrible about Cecily, and so does everyone, and Uncle Percival Hogg has no explanation; he has a lot, but his chin is hung on his boots, and he tries to blame it on everyone, but not on himself. Aunt Angela says it's his terrible example. Example of what? Everyone talks baloney.

Please come back to the U.S. It's terrible here, because apart from the community life, and the sings and the newspapers, all that, there are these other things. We seem to live more than our parents. Or, I don't know, maybe that's how parents live.

I'm writing baloney. I just discovered Shelley's
Prometheus
. Is that a masterpiece of Marxist theory and dialectics?? and Poetry! If you do come back try and smuggle some books and new art in on your ticket—yours! From England, I mean.

I appreciated your analysis of the European scene for me, though I admit things look extremely bad for, not only the Spanish and French Popular Fronts, but also the pacifists. However, I do not think there is any danger of war for at least six months. If only the fascists could be crushed, what has been accomplished by the leftist gov. is or would be an advance toward a more radical cabinet. I was one of the few Y.C.L.'ers selected for duty on the honor guard at the C.P. Convention. We got in free, dressed all in white, and paraded around. Madison Sq. Garden was packed. The enthusiasm after the nomination of Browder and Ford was something to make you feel inspired and grand. After each nominating speech there was 1/2 hour parade ovation and we ran way up even to the uppermost balcony, and paraded around. The sight of 25,000 faces clapping as you clench your fist and themselves singing the Int'l is something hard to be missed.

At Camp besides Margot, my friend, who was in France, only not when I was, we have 3 Y.C.L'ers, 2 C.P. members and a few sympathizers, among whom is Dr. B. (He is a retired professor; his functions around the camp are pretty much the same as Grandfather Morgan's at Green Acres before he was taken ill, and the same is true of the husband of the Ranking Counselor, who is a retired musician. They sit around and grin knowingly when their wives do their acts.)

I suppose you heard of the death of “Argentina”? I wept for an hour at the news, and felt blue for a long time. Margot too.

Please write more often. Mother is well. She has not rented the apt. and is waiting for DEFINITE news from you to select another one for the Fall. Will we be allowed $25, 45, 75, 100, or 125 a month for rent? I am not trying to be funny. Please give me a sane address and a clear explanation of what you're up to. I don't mind living hand-to-mouth, but there are
four
of us and
Jacky must go away
.

I'll write again just before I leave camp and after when I find out if I've passed my exams. I'm studying American History and English by myself. Please send me the Cambridge entrance requirements, courses and lists in general of all needed for admission, living and study. That is, if you still wish me to go there. If you do, we'll have to count in my living separate from Mother, and you'll have to calculate what she and Jacky and Andrea will cost you here. That is if you still count on us living like this. I might like Radcliffe, but it has not B.Sc. Regents. If your monetary status is low, I suppose I shall pig it in Brooklyn College. Do you remember the $5,000 of Grandmother Fox? Why don't you give it to her to spend, so she can live where and how she likes and furnish a little place for herself comfortably? She speaks of wanting to live apart from you, with that English girl she knows, who works in Swan and Edgar's.

 

This is my own bright idea—honest, cross my heart—not “inspired,” as you sometimes think. This girl Edie that I saw, that I know of, comes from nice people, radicals; they are even related to some good family, I don't know which, and Grandma is ashamed not to have a good place to offer her, although she is poor. But the girl is 28, wants to get away from home. That I understand. I'm not for the united family. (Good thing, is so? Ha?)

Lots of love, L
ETTY
-M
ARMALADE
Always in a Jam.

P.S. Is the article on Spain in the
Sunday Times Review of the Week
by the same Blank of Harvard you inspired in London? Have you anything to do with it? Your doctrines, I recognize! You're a great deseminator, aren't you?

P.P.S. How is Mr. Montrose and everyone we know? Dora Dunn (Morgan) is talking of getting a divorce. She now despises and neglects Philip UTTERLY. But she says the thought of the children makes her stop. Then, going to Reno is expensive and New York State is a scandal it seems, and to marry you must get a court order, and it's all an imbroglio. But, of course, that would be Philip who would have to get the Court Order, because, believe it or not, Tall, Dark and Handsome is in love again, and goes to work to prove it. Oh, why do I know so much? (Because what you know here, makes what you know in those corrupt England and France a laugh!) Well, because I am your dotter, Pop; and you know so much. But, it didn't do you any harm. (Or did it? Answer me that one day.) And again (it's time),

Your dotter, L
ETTY
F
OX
.

P.S. Mother says it is “Frieze” not Freeze; well some of them act frozen.

The $5,000 mentioned was of great interest to us, as Grandmother had promised it to Jacky and me on her death.

M
y sister went out West with Grandmother Morgan not long after this. They visited Aunt Phyllis who was about to kiss the column in Reno, and after trying Albuquerque went up to Santa Fe. All this traveling about was not necessary, but Grandmother was curious about the entertainment given to visitors in the hotels there. She found some friends for Jacky to stay with in Santa Fe, left her there, and made her way to the Coast; the jaunty old belle not only hungered for new scenes, but thought she might drum up business, even establish a hotel, and might meet some presentable rich men of her own type. “I am sick of local men,” said Grandmother.

Santa Fe is, among other things, an art colony and a little palace of American culture; under its astronomical skies are sierras and sun-bitten plains, on which old nations spilled blood and died. My sister was intoxicated with happiness there; her particular genius visited her there. She did not write to me very often; she said the fine mountain air which was curing her was hard to breathe, but she was healing. Everywhere she was taken for older than she was. She had entered her teens. She now drew away from “street-kisses, those slight touches in the dark—to me now this is banal; I know it is not love; though I don't despise it—I don't despise anything.” About Christmas 1934 she wrote to me:

D
EAR
L
ETTY
,

I waited for you to write to me about the marriage of the Princess, to send my answer on that, but I can wait a long time it seems. I am getting slowly cured at Santa Fe; I cannot come to New York now. I'm under doctor's orders which are, still, that I must take a complete rest. A single visit wears me out, as well as the least change in my routine. Of course, it is partly the altitude, which is enormous. I have been feeling funny since last September and didn't manage to get fat and still had fever, thus I could not come home for vacations or birthdays and such. Poor me! Write to me quickly about everything that is happening in your part of the world—and even, is it always the same part? A stupid thing—some people die here. I read about burials with such interest! Do I think I am going to be buried? Probably; but it is with pleasure I read about them—and then I should like to be somebody, to be buried with ceremony. Hélène Boucher was the fastest woman in the world and beat the altitude and endurance records. The requiem mass took place in Napoleon's chapel which you and I have seen! You know what an immense honor that is! She is the first woman buried in the Invalides! All the aviators were there, Detroyat, the handsome, the others. The Invalides was full of
white flowers
for this woman, she was cited on the order of the day. I feel marvelously happy. She earned this and they recognized her; she is a heroine. A film star is nothing to compare with that! If I am not famous, too, why live, why die? How splendid life is when you have such possibilities. I see to the
full
all the possibilities of living. Today is a wonderful day—a dry winter's day—I long for the spring; you do not know Santa Fe, you look from the Cerro Gordo (Plump Hill!), it looks like Jerusalem, it lies in a bluish haze in which swim trees and white walls and mud cabins in a flesh-colored crease of hills, which suggests birth—somehow—and between a few streaks of cloud and these dark glittering clear trees, the sky is so blue; bloody light (the Blood of Christ) spreads down the mountain, in the fall. One wants to run about on the hills in a thin fluttering dress—but I can't run a step. I don't think anyone can. You are not supposed to gallop the horses. There is a lovely Mexican girl here with an Aztec face; she rides astride and looks fiercely ahead or aside as if she could see through the rocks. She never looks at me. Perhaps she is jealous; I am certainly good-looking too. I go out to see her ride by. But each step one takes is an extra burden on the shoulders, heart, and lungs; one feels like a pack mule and then how disgustingly I am writing, heart, lungs—I am ashamed to think of such things. What I said above, about the death of this woman, has made me think. Thinking about someone dead, one says, Why is he dead? You will say (materialist), “Because he doesn't breathe, because his heart has stopped.” But why doesn't he breathe, why did his heart stop? It went before. Perhaps, you'll say, it was worn out, along with the other organs, the veins, the lungs, the brain. But—what now? I know the mechanism of the body is perfected; and since it stopped, it must have at one time
been set in motion
! There is no perpetual motion in our physics! It couldn't have been an accident that made the first men breathe, that is, that all this immense stupefying mechanism started to move by chance. And then the whole thing—for example, not only how many roofs I see when I look at my little Jerusalem, but how many other eyes these two little pieces of me can see and with them communicate! I am staggered. I think it's marvelous and I can't stop myself thinking that God must exist; don't send me jokes about this Idiot imagined by the Ironic thinkers; that he might well exist and lead a vegetable life of his own, without any more influence on us than a tree in Thibet. I know how they think, the Ironic thinkers, like Voltaire; their preoccupation (with God) perhaps shows they are sure about him— probably they're only trying to cure us of our weak, babyish ideas about God; trying to make us think the way they think. I cannot believe such Great men do not believe; and for contempt of that Idiot God which they despise, I have it too; but the God of my eyes, I believe in. About Voltaire—if you haven't read anything, read
Candide
—read it, marvelous! I read everything in the bookshelf in the dining room. I don't think I told you that I met a prince here, Prince Wolkovski, and my first impression of him was that he is
irresistible
! He is staying with his family in a rented mud-palace at the end of Acequia Madre. Imagine a room covered with sabers and fencing-irons, etc., of all countries and times, old ones of the fifteenth century, above all, the saber of a Tsar, a samurai sword, a Chinese doubleedged beheading sword, daggers, a woman's stiletto to hide in the bosom; I was enthralled. How I long to possess a pair of foils; I begged him to tell me where I could learn fencing. He laughed aloud at my astonishment and was charming to me; he gave me two records,
La Tosca
, “the stars are shining,” a Russian song, “All Russia is under snow,” and a Russian foxtrot. He went to a university in the U.S.A. and told me all his impressions. He is a friend of several American and French writers, but only chic, correct, and rich ones. His description of radicals made me burst out laughing, for he does not know I
know
one: they are people who don't wash, don't pay their bills, and are impossible as friends because they quarrel. We talked about Russia and I asked him if the Tsar wasn't a coward. He smiled, saying I was awfully violent and that the profession of a Tsar is to be behind the lines and that it is for the generals, who are his aides and lieutenants, to be in front. A chief must save his life. This was a new idea for me; I do not know what to think. He lent me some books. His looks are very Russian as well as his accent. I drank some vodka with pepper in it and he was amused because I insisted on the pepper—according to him, “my throat is very Russian and I might even be a Russian young girl from my looks.” This pleased me enormously, it is only in this way that we get confidence in our charm—so I had a wonderful afternoon with a fascinating man and afterwards they told me I could brag about it (as I am now doing) because he is rarely so pleasant. His father was a high general in the Tsarina's army and it seems this is a very great honor; his mother, whose photograph I saw, was a marvelous beauty and he has personal photographs from the Tsar and the Tsarina. I drank wine with him yesterday marked 1908! In spite of all this, I am not becoming a White Russian. But I am delighted to know him. This is really the kind of friend I want to have, at least until I know the world better; then perhaps my taste will be
faultless
, but it is not now. Enough gabbling for today; au revoir. Write to me. I want you to. I am at Santa Fe until further notice.

Y
OUR
J
ACKY
.

P.S. And when I came out of the house, the Aztec princess was passing by on her big bay mare, her face as inscrutable as ever and white kid Wellingtons on, and her legs brown underneath. I have never been so happy as here.

P.P.S. I was going to tell you all kinds of things about the Princess, and about Carol of Rumania; I am in touch with people here who are close friends of both, of course, they are all related, by marriage. Well, about the Princess—all they say is
absolutely true
. And, in addition, before the marriage her relatives never paid their bills, but lived on afternoon teas and dinners and only bought evening clothes and afternoon suits and stayed in bed till midday; and they didn't pay for any of them; they had no jewels at all, not a single automobile and they did not give one wedding present at any time! And this is the second time; but the first time the Princess married a Prince who was overthrown within six months and had no chance to send any money to the family and they feared they would never get her sister off. Also the famous Prince of ——— whom I always loved so madly, or so I thought, was very friendly, in fact, intimate with the Princess who is now married to his own cousin, in fact two depraved society types together—so depravity inbreeds, does not spread; good! I am sharp because I admire him so much and so I blame him. I am not making any more collections of photographs, with two exceptions, Katharine Hepburn and Joan Crawford. Andrea will be happy—tell her to take all my dozens of Boyers, Garats, Gables, Coopers, etc. A surprise for her. At one of my friends' here, there is a Peter Paul Rubens guaranteed
authentic
! It is a long low mudmansion behind trees; you enter by a bridge over the ditch. You are invited to dinner and afterwards the hostess, who is very imposing, and in a white lace gown, draws back a black veil—there it is! I looked closely; I do not think it is a Rubens. I did not dare mention my suspicions to others, but I have heard whispers since— Then, there is a formidable, frowning building on the hill, it is terrifying, like that of a bloodthirsty Mexican king or chief; but a painter lives there. Oh, how delicious, noble it is to be wealthy, I get a wild exultation, some are vulgar, but there is no need to be. I look out at the slopes, the roads, the fall of the mountains, the view, and the treasures my hosts own—“the loot of centuries” you say—oh, to possess—the joy—the mad fervor—and yet I collect nothing but photographs and autographs. I am not an egotist. But, to possess beauty! I shall never have the money unless I marry a prince or an aristocrat or a wealthy artist for I could not be content with what is vulgar. I look at myself now in the looking glass and say, “I am beautiful, but am I beautiful enough for that?” I am also learning drawing from a gifted superb marvelous woman, full of raging pride, scornful, rough—you can see she has dreamed of fame and of conquering everyone. They say she was a great beauty. She is only here for the winter. I look at her and think, “I won't admire you, Mrs. Headlong, my darling, I won't hero-worship you, I won't kiss your long feet, for you are a Tartar, a demon, and I do not intend to bend the neck to anyone, not even my husband the Prince.” So I don't admire her. The woman I am drawing is naked, young, but not a girl and she is twisted with grief, horrible and yet lovely because she is a young voluptuous woman. They say I should practice more on the living model, before I can manage such things. Young people want to do tragic brutal active things, but they say, there is beauty in repose. I am impatient with repose. I am buying reproductions in color and am studying not only the modeling but the basic designs and am shocked to see the simplicity and almost vulgar force and plain meaning. I dare not point certain things out to people. I am dizzy. What is art?
Jacky
.