Letty Fox (54 page)

I am happy to think of the good-natured way you receive my exaggerated confidences—I only say that in apology, for me they are not exaggeration, they are the truth. The truth! Believe me, I love you, Letty, and all you do; you're a friend of mine, better than any other. During the years just past we had to disagree; our natures are different. I want you to be happy, and I understand that you have suffered very much and that upsets me.

I have an idiot here, who takes charge of me, is infatuated with me: she is called McGogue (it doesn't seem possible) and she has an absolutely flat chest. I look carefully even in her swimsuit—nothing, not a shred. The poor creature is all gray, dried up and Anglo-Saxon; what they mean by that word, you know; and I boast of my Welsh blood. Can you lose your figure once you've had it, just by staying an old maid? There's another one here, with a nice figure, pretty, not bad at all—but after all, women, women! Three days ago I became a slave, the slave of Tolstoy,
War and Peace
. There is, in a nutshell (wrong word), exactly the life I want to lead —I can't put it down; and this is the tenth time I have read it. Oh, what splendid, passionate, brilliant life, mad with follies, wickedness, etc.; but, at least, life. It's the passionate sincerity of the book which intoxicates me— one feels the author never writes anything he hasn't felt. That is my idea of art, too; and then what a conclusion does one draw! One must experience everything? Can a woman stand so much? This is a man with a soul as deep as the sea, and then look how strong he was, rich, owning property, loving women, and think of the age he lived to. But he tyrannized over everyone. He took other people's lives too. Do you think that is necessary, to be really great? You must read it, Letty. You must understand Natasha, who is the most feminine woman in the world. You must hear young people as they talk in Tolstoy's book; you'll stop at every phrase with tears in your eyes—“it is true, profound, it is our life.” He is dead, he knew us; they are living, they see us every day and they don't know us. And then, written with a powerful rhythm of thought! And all accompanied with a beat in the language that is absolutely magic. I see it all unrolling itself before my eyes—well, I'm boring you.

In spite of the work I have to do for school, I am devouring everything, and it seems to me now that I have never worked with my head at all—can I think? I am reading the biographies of men like Keats and his letters to get to know,
How did he feel, who was he?
(And also, Am I like that?) and I am reading the books of the first great saints of the church, to know the same thing,
What did they mean, what kind of men were they, how did they lift themselves up in those ages of confusion?
What is anything? Don't you feel you haven't learned anything? And afterwards—I think I see a light, and then I go to sleep with my ideas more mixed up than ever … It's extraordinary that Mother is so unhappy. She ought to leave town and travel a bit. We could get along all right and there are, God knows, a thousand relatives to take care of us; and you're to be trusted, practically a married woman; and as for me, I'm Miss Puss-in-the-Clouds. Give Mother all my love if she comes to see you; she won't come this far to see me. If you don't care for this kind of confession, I know you, you'll be kind enough to tell me so and we'll shake hands over it, exactly as many years ago. Imagine, an idea came back to me from those days—or was it Tolstoy? Or, more frankly, it was an idea I've had for some time. What if I should write a book? I tried. Fortunately, I had the sense to see it was all wet, but I kept some passages which were better than the others, and I'm keeping them to show you, my
only confidante
. When I reread them, I am surprised; they seem very good. But can they be? Impossible.

It's late. Excuse the heart-throbs. Write me a letter and I'll be very pleased. It's frightful here. Have a good time.

J
ACKY
F.

Tear up this scrawl! I am not writing for posterity right at this minute.

I
had too much to do to write to Jacky; none of my affairs could be written to anyone. I arrived in town at the end of August, knowing what the first feelings of motherhood were. There was no doubt about it. My friend Amos took it very calmly; and on my asking for it, gave me money to come to town and make certain arrangements; but he said he was too poor, that he was obliged to pay for his wife's divorce and a previous alimony and that I must return the money. He knew, of course, that I had my grandmother's money. (I told everyone!) My poor mother would certainly have lectured me bitterly about my wasted life and many follies, and her weak and tender nature would have suffered intensely from this misadventure. There was the fact, too, that I deceived her about Clays and then about Amos. I therefore came to Solander, who put me with a friend of his, and in every respect was cordial, cheerful.

I found letters from Madrid awaiting me, and at the very same time I had in my body the child of another man, the only man I had really loved, to speak the truth, up till then; I did not want to lose the child, but I did not want to marry its father. I was not afraid of my future. My parents were kind, and I had money of my own. I had determined to have done with school, and if I had been very strong about it, I could have had this baby. I am too slothful by nature and never can buck public opinion; or rather, never can do anything eccentric. It was odd to feel myself not really
myself
, for I had at once changed completely in nature and felt superb, wonderful. When anyone spoke to me, I swung like a big bronze gong, it seemed to me, and rang triumphantly as if the person had struck my rim and an immense joyful sound like a shout of laughter came inside; and it wasn't that I, only, heard it.

I met my old pal, Bobby Thompson, in Topps', Fourteenth Street, while I was trying to make up my mind about my and the baby's future; and he said, “Well, Letty, you've changed completely, you're just kibitzing me, you're razzing me, I've never seen you like this, I'd like to see you like this all the time, you're absolutely tops this way.” He went on to say it must be my summer; and I fancied, then, he must have heard something. However, I knew it was not the summer, but Amos's child. It was the triumph of life. I didn't merely live; I rang and rang; and I had almost no feeling for the man who was the cause of it. Naturally, no one wanted me to have this child. At bottom, I knew it would be a folly; and I had plenty on my score.

The day I was operated upon, I received a letter from Amos, as follows:

D
EAR
K
ID
,

Your Ma-ma! Ma-ma! has me worried! She sent this enclosed letter which I opened, and I sent her a telegram taking your name in vane. I hope she will let it rest there. In any case, you had better ship a letter out here for me to send to her from camp. I will not be able to hold the fort endifinitely. Life here is as usual, except for your sad absence, for which they try to console me but cannot. Sleeping (alone) (!) disagrees with me. I was ill yesterday. Tell me about what has happened to you. Have you had enough of this dump? There is nothing to write about from here. Charley and Bob say send you their love. (Platonic, of course.)

A
FFTELY
, A
MOS
.

A day later. Nels Belles, I forgot to mail this. Just got your letter. Will write later.

A little later, I was in a different mood; and so weak as to cry when I saw little children on the streets. It was too bad; and I even regretted “my child.” I was anxious about Amos, of whom I thought persistently. I thought of him as lonely, sick; and fancied he was worried about me. After a week or two he wrote me another letter.

D
EAR
K
ID
,

I'm glad everything's O.K. by you. Here, not so good. I am very lonely and have been ill again. I was in bed three days with temp. 104 and missed your cooling hand. I thought you were coming back here. What happened? Same old routine here; and I don't like being Kissless Amos; am not used to it. This is not a threat but the flesh is weak. About you I have fleshly pangs of course; and spiritual ones. I don't like to get people into trouble; it ways on me. I have some very bad moments which I know you know about me. I wish we could get together now—tonight (!). My experience with women has not been happy and you understood me very well for the kid you are. You sent me a sweet letter—considering—considering what (!)? Better not say, eh? You will always be a dear comrade to me, even if you decide not to come back. Make up your own mind. Don't feel badly. You had me, that is something. If I have enriched your life, let me know and I will not feel so bad; I think this was some sort of a real expearience for you. I am still not well and these things way on me. I have not a cent; and it has been only half a summer, you know why. You went away. I don't want to mention such a thing, but I am badly in need of d-o-u-g-h, and if you did not use all that, please send me the remainder, and when you can of course—but I'll try to make out till you can get all. Did you let your Papa and Ma-ma! into the secret in a young girl's life? Now it's all over, can tell? Tell Papa you had to borrow that money from someone. I seem to harp on it, you know it isn't so. Write to me. I don't sleep well, thinking about things.

Y
OUR
C
OMRADE
, A
MOS
.

This letter upset me. I thought it reflected a genuine distress of spirit—which perhaps it did, in Amos's own way. I wrote a sympathetic answer saying I would get the money as soon as I could; but I thought it a bit injudicious to ask Papa for it right away as he would naturally think Amos ought to be concerned. I said, “Why don't you come back to New York early so we can talk things over?”

Amos at once wrote an even longer and more pathetic letter about his troubles and his poverty; and as I have, of course, alas, a remarkably kind and undignified soul, which knows few such notions as “pride, dignity, woman's rights, resentment, righteous indignation,” I squashed whatever faint hints of such feelings I might have felt and was all for flying back, with whatever money I could scrape up, to console the inconsolable one. What prompted me, above all, to do this was the odd behavior of some boys and girls who were starting at the university that year with me, and whom I had already met in the streets. A lot of them had not been away at all. Their attitude to me had changed. The girls glittered toward me and had that sorority air; the boys were inexpressibly amiable and made improper advances. It did not occur to me that the grapevine telegraph might have been at work, or that Amos had betrayed me in a casual way; I had yet to learn that men always broadcast their conquests, and I walked in the oldest feminine illusion in the world, that men love, as naive women do, those whom they have met in the flesh.

My most persistent admirer now was Bobby Thompson, who had reached his full height, about five feet ten, and was dark, pale, arrogant, nursing a small mustache, and was well-dressed, with fine, pathetic, yet ironic eyes. We talked about the value of college to people of our experience; should I keep on at college? Should he? But his father and uncles were doctors and he would be helped by them. Later on, when the young physician has so much difficulty, in the matter of setting up an office and in the getting of modern instruments, and pleasant, well-trained, pretty young nurses, his family could help him. Yes, college was dull but it was the way out: Bobby and I had known each other since play-school days; we had known each other's riot, since Grandmother Morgan's famous New Year's party. We lived in the same circle, talked the same music, art, books—we ran in the same pack; within a few weeks, he had come with me to my father's and my mother's houses, and it was the old boy-meets-girl, as far as most of my friends and relatives were concerned. However, at college, where he was quite the cafeteriaking, the girls only laughed unpleasantly when we went by, talking eagerly, and all these sidelong sneers and snide sotto voces which came my way so needled me that I made a serious attempt to make Bobby mine. He was pleased at first, for he thought I would fall to him easily, after the summer-school episode. I had suffered great pain when getting rid of my baby and intended not to risk that again; so I was more careful than I ever had been; and Bobby, putting it down, naturally, to coquetry or to the failure of his charm, made more vigorous attempts to get me to bed than he had supposed was necessary. Even when he left me alone for a few days, I did not get into a fever as I might have done, because I had other things to worry me. Amos was now back at college, but was short of cash. His previous wives and the present one were manhandling him for their allowances, lawyers were writing him letters, and the poor fellow was greatly in need of the money I owed him. I did write saying that he must wait some time for the full amount, and my natural weakness betrayed me to this extent, that I said in one letter: “You see I cannot tell anyone it is you I owe this money, Amos, since there are so many old-fashioned people who would think it so shabby—” but I am glad to think that this was all I said to Amos about the money. Amos wrote back quite a desperate, a whining letter, in which he said he had a chance to spend the week end in New York and that if I did not get the money, he must ask my mother if it could not be paid back. He wrote:

I am so despirited and despirate that I cannot see my way clear to letting you have that money, Letty; I know we were good friends, but your people have the money and it keeps me awake at night thinking they have it and I need it. You know, I can put it to them this way, which will protect both of us, I can say, I do not know what that money was for; I lent it to you because we were such good friends, but now I am simply despirate and must have it back. I have three women on my neck. I am sorry I ever got myself into this mess; women talk about love and they do not mean it, they only wish to harress you. I will lose my position if they start to come to the Chairman of my Department which is what one of them threttens to do. You were always so understanding, so sweet for a kid and it was because you were such a kid I felt a kind of responsibility and I lent you the dough; but if you could see me now, the way I am, you would try to get that money. I am coming to New York the week end after this, can you have it by then. What about that dough your grandmother left you? If I had not known about that I would have known I could not get that dough back. I am in an awful jam. I will telephone you, at your mother's place. Think of a good place to meet. Or will I pick you up at Columbia?