not until yesterday were we recompensed for all the anxiety and doubt
that I might have suffered. We read it together and I am not ashamed
that our eyes were moist with joy as we drove slowly away from the
little village and out into our free and glorious primevalism again. The
twilight fell like a silver dust on the crests of two double rows of
ancient elms in a long and lordly country road, and lighted up the sand
and the drying wild grass that had waved like so many spears of gold in
the sunset of a few moments before. On and on we flew--he with a
trembling hand on the wheel and I with my arm around him and my lips
pressing his cheek.
The rays of our acetylene lamps began to cast lurid lights before us as
the darkness thickened, just as my soul's fire is luminous now in an
atmosphere ordained to bring forth all its normal glory--and all the
while the back seats were empty; empty dear. Do you know the luxury of
it?
We were both dreaming and praying--dreaming of a thousand more such
perfect nights, praying in all our fervor and gratitude for more and yet
more of our boundless and mutual passion. And then we lost our way as
the machine rushed into a mystic cross-road that led due north, for the
Dipper was before us. I crawled closer and closer to him until I could
hear his heart pounding mercilessly as his breath came quicker and my
lips pressed closer. The lamps were brilliant then and the woods and
fields as silent and endless as eternity. A long snake stretched its
lazy length across our path and frogs held mute high carnival on all
the little hills and bumps on the high road.
We both felt the inspiration of the moment and neither profaned it with
words. As far as our lights fell three waving, nodding bands of seered
grass, beckoned us on and heedless of the danger we might be rushing
toward--our empassioned lips met. And like eternity the mystic course
lay hidden in darkness before us, but also like the things that look
most forbidding in the future, as we rushed by, the yellow hedge turned
golden by our lamps, the grassy plumage rose and fell in sallow waves of
approbation.
The good little people were with us (you know I believe in fairies) and
the faithful engine puffed and struggled and tried its best on the
incline that we were ascending, but we were too jealous of our
sensations to pay much heed to its unaided success. I would work in the
fields for ten days were I sure that the eleventh night would be such
another as this.
So lofty are the regions where I soar, that a fall would shiver me to
atoms, but just to breathe the same air with my love lifts me to the
vault of paradise. Whole hours each evening I lie on an Indian blanket
in front of the open grate and dream of the legacy of love that we shall
hand down to our children and our children's children until the end of
time.
Ecstatically yours,
MARIANNE.
December 25.
Dearest Friend:
We are snowed in and our two bronze boys are trying to make a path to
the road. We are all so abnormally well and with the nurse and Carlton's
friend Dr. Harmen, constitute a lively household though I liked the
sweetness of our oneness better. These are happy times and they watch
and guard me as though I were another Wilhelmina.
Was ever Christmas day so wonderful! Our tree is a real cedar of
Lebanon, uprooted by our beloved Indians and decorated with their
handiwork. Last eve we romped and sang and played tricks upon each other
until midnight, when we saucily hung up the biggest stockings and
sneaked off to bed to leave our Santa Claus with his labors. It must
have taken him hours for I slept for ages when I finally heard him
getting ready for bed. I slipped into my kimono and tried to crawl down
stairs and take a peep, but he heard me and would not countenance any
cheating so I snuggled up again and went to sleep, but like children, we
were all up at daybreak. For days and days Carlton has been going on
clandestine shopping tours to the meccas around us and has kept all
purchases locked and guarded. He can't bear the thought of grown-ups not
loving and believing in Santa.
Aside from all the valuable and exquisite things that each received, the
gift that proved Carlton's feeling toward me,--if I may insult that
feeling by even suggesting the necessity of a proof--was a tiny silk
stocking, hung quite at the end of the mantel shelf, all alone as though
it needed no protection, and filled with--you would never guess in a
thousand years, so I shan't keep you suspended in mid air--fifty
thousand dollars in U. S. bonds to start a bank account for the little
visitor that is to come. Every night before we sleep, we talk to our
baby, we pray to our baby, we worship our baby. Only beautiful thoughts
come to our minds; only beautiful things come to our hands,--surely God
sends babies for other reasons than to propagate the species--we are
grown entirely unselfish; we are filled with kindly sympathies and
affection, and our energies and aims reach to Heaven.
A beautiful pink satin baby basket came direct from Printemps, filled
with the most delicate little garments that a human hand could create.
Do you remember the day when we were at school in Paris, that we passed
Printemp's baby shop and planned our progenys' outfits--twenty years
ago? I am now fuller of the joy of living than I was then--but on the
threshold of womanly emotions.
From my window I can see far down the icy canon. The mountain stream is
a fluted ribbon of snow and ice, and where the spray tumbled before it
froze, there are thousands of filmy rosettes iridescent in the sun's
rays. The path is finished and Dr. Harmen is building a snow man. We are
civilized aborigines gone mad with youth out here in the frigid zone,
and anything as grown up as bridge has failed to interest us. From our
home on the summit of "Kewanas Crag," Silver Lake looks like a stray
turquoise below and the mysterious Black Hills around us catch glimpses
of gold in the sunset hour, then dye themselves purple, take a tint of
glowing rose-water, then turn dull and gray; a drama of color goes on
ceaselessly; a play of ever shifting hues like those on a pigeon's
breast.
Do you know of anyone who has ever died in childbirth? If you do, don't
tell me, as I am beginning to be frightened. Not afraid of the agony,
for I rather enjoy pondering over the sacrifice, but so fearful of
leaving all of this barely tasted sweet behind me. It seems as though my
impatience would consume me--I want so to know whether I may be spared
for more and more days of our endless joy.
Your Christmas box came one day too soon and, like the child that I am
transformed into, I resorted to tears in order to wheedle Carlton into
permitting me to open it. The little things are wonderful and the
discretion of your love is more so. Each little article is an expression
of your faultless friendship, for losing which, not even Carlton's love
could compensate me.
The new decorations in my bed room are all in bloom like our love, and I
lie awake during my specified hours of rest, gathering mental roses from
my wall garden. My revival is as natural as the effect of May on the
meadows; of a shower on a dry plant. I awaken with the breath of my
Spring, which is heavy with Oriental sweetness like a rose of
Frangistan. I should not in such moments as these, feel a death blow.
All of the old mental bruises caused by knocking myself against corners,
some that I myself created at times, and others that I saw but could
not escape, are healed and quite forgotten in this new world of mine.
I press a goodnight kiss on your dear understanding lips.
MARIANNE.
The Black Hills.
February 1.
Dearest of all Friends:
Today for the first time I am permitted to write one letter, while Dr.
Harmen and Carlton are trying to discover traces of rare genius on the
head of Carlton Church Somerville Junior, who resembles one of those
cherubs circling about the Eternal Father in an old Italian picture.
Dizzy with the wonder of it all, I lie for hours trying to convince
myself that the world is real. When my child awakens and craves his
nourishment, I cry for very ecstacy of giving him life. What woman on
earth who has nursed her child once, can refrain from doing so again?
His velvet lips kiss me; his precious hand, dimpled and immature,
fondles me in gratitude. How can any mother ever be unhappy while her
infant breathes upon her breast.
My wasted years squandered in society seem hideous fancies of a
perverted mind, while my one glorious year out here is a deep-breathing,
pure record of clean thoughts and a perfect life. No one save God
Almighty to wish us well on our wedding day; no purring women and
overfed men to throw rice and old shoes along with the "wedding
formula"--"Isn't she a perfect bride,"--"did ever couple seem so well
suited,"--"they are real affinities _et cetera_," all of which started
me out on my bridal trip sixteen years ago. I shall never witness
another wedding as long as I live--it is too insufferably sad a
contemplation.
It seems strange and pitiful that your sweet daughter is now old enough
to make her formal bow into an atmosphere of hatred and vice. If she
could but seek rapturous peace out here in my wilderness with some man
that she really loves--but no woman is born into mature society with a
knowledge of its utter worthlessness. And even were you able to convince
her of it now, it would be a sin to rob her sweet mentality of its
blushes. No, the precious child must first suffer and find out alone.
Almost childlessly greedy do I feel, to live so perfectly while you are
still sacrificing your years on the altar of motherhood. At least I am
thankful that Walter has decided to parade his affairs less, now that
Evelyn is coming out. You proud, queenly, beautiful woman, how can you
be so brave? In your place I should have died of hopelessness and grief
years ago. But you go on with your precious head high in the air,
smiling, though crushed by your agony. Day in and day out your nerves
are taut--you never rest. Why hasn't something snapped years ago?
Perhaps God gives an abundance of strength to those who are ordained to
suffer most.
You ask if I have any regrets. No--no--a million times no. I have torn
the word from my dictionary and have forgotten the meaning. I repeat a
thousand times a day my honest prayer:--
"Spare me O Lord the crowded way,
Life's busy mart where men contend,
For me the home the tranquil day,
A little sock to mend."
I try never to think of an end to my happiness, but somehow the crushing
thought comes and stifles me into abject fear. Then my husband brings
me my little child and the evil thoughts are kissed away.
Yesterday Carlton's eyes filled with tears of gratitude as I sat nursing
our baby before the open grate and running my hand through his thick
brown hair as he sat on the floor beside us. We remain long hours in
silence watching the pictures in the blazing back logs, then suddenly we
embrace to prove mutually that we still have each other.
The river is still a frozen jagged band all down the canon, and the
roads are knee deep with snow and ice. I scarcely breathe while Carlton
is away in his motor, for fear the wheels will skid and hurl him into
endless depths down the mountain side. It is impossible to procure food
without his going to the railroad, but each day I try to believe that I
don't need nourishment just to see if I can't prevent these precarious
errands. We live so naturally and so happily that we are staying on
indefinitely in our frozen love bower.
Dr. Harmen leaves tomorrow after weeks of rejuvenating pleasures out
here. The nurse will remain to render me such assistance as I need,
though I am so jealous of her care of my son that I shall claim my
mother rights as soon as I am strong enough. Junior has his father's
eyes with all the softness of the blue periwinkle flower in their
splendid depths, and I feel when I hold him in my arms and am held in
turn in Carlton's that I can never give either of them up--even to the
Almighty. I will never give them up. They are mine and I am theirs--for
all eternity.
Adieu sweet friend,
MARIANNE.
February 25.
It has come. The bright fire in the grate is a heap of smouldering ashes
and all the pictures and dreams are dead. I cannot breathe--I cannot
live--I am insane with grief. And the ignorant world teaches of an all
merciful God--an all seeing Father! The irony of it! I cannot live--I
must go too. It will be impossible to go on, and on, alone--forever and
for all eternity--alone--I cannot--I will not!
They are lying down there in their shrouds--my husband and his faithful
Monkaushka with their poor bodies crushed and mangled--O! I cannot tell
you more! The machine is an unsightly heap at the bottom of the ravine.
I cannot write--I cannot think and yet I must do both. What have I done
but love with all my womanhood and all my motherhood!
After all it was beautiful for him to die and go to heaven while flowers
filled his hands. A loud cry has gone up in my soul; an echo as it were
of the funereal _Consummatum est_, which is pronounced in church on Good
Friday at the hour when the _Saviour_ died. And all day I wring my hands
helplessly and can do nought but build dungeons and dungeons in the air.
I speak in an altered voice as though my instrument had lost several
strings and those that remained were loosened.
Dearest--can you tell me--am I responsible for his death? All during
last night I seemed to hear God's voice asking: "Cain, where is Abel?"
and I wail and beseech: "Am I my brother's keeper?" My soul is
guilty--guilty of loving him--guilty of his death, for had I not loved
him he would never have known the Black Hills. Oh! if I could but be
resigned--if I could but bind up my bleeding wounds and lose myself in
immeasurable lassitude!
I have pressed his lips for the last time, my precious son is at my
breast--his long lashes are pressed tightly against his cheeks as if to
secure his eyes from too strong a light, or to aid an effort of his
young soul to recollect and hold fast a bliss that had been perfect but
fleeting. His tiny pink and white ear framed by a stray lock of his hair
and outlined by a wrapping of lace from you, would make an artist, a
painter, even an old man wildly in love with his perfect little being,
and will, please God, restore me, a mad woman to her senses!
Come to my Black Hills, I am crushed, desolate, heart-broken--come to
MARIANNE.
The Black Hills.
July 2.
One week has passed Dear, since you left us--a strange week of
readjustment and thought. All of those precious months that you have
given me are but another expression of your divine friendship. The
poignant grief is gone with you and my gratitude to you can but be shown
by the degree of bravery that I now manifest.
Every day this week, my son and I have sat in the sunshine near the two
mounds, which my remaining bronze boy has decorated with crocuses from
the neighboring ravine. He spends long hours after dark, gathering wild
flowers in the moonlight. His devotion to me and my dead love, is the
saddest, most boundless tribute that an uncivilized mind could offer.
Silently he goes about his duties; silently he grieves, and more
silently he gathers flowers as a tangible evidence of his devotion.
Your letters have come each day and will come each day until I lie too,
beside my love on the desolate mountain side. Such is your unfailing
love and sympathy for me, all unworthy of your months of sacrifice and
isolation out here in my new home. My son, bless his precious heart,
tried to crawl today but the newly developed feat frightened his baby
mind and he cried. Closely almost roughly, I crush him to me a thousand
times a day, so fearful am I that he too may go to join infinitude.
You ask me to come back to New York. I must refuse your request. I
cannot--I cannot leave my home--the only place worthy of the name that
I have ever possessed! Some day, maybe, but not now--it is all too dear
and consoling to breathe the same air that sustained me in my perfect
happiness.
How can you say: "Don't regret." What do you mean? Regret the only joy
that my poor starved soul has ever known? No atom of regret enters my
grief--only a great unbounded gratitude to God, to the world, to Nature,
that one perfect year has been saved from out the wreck of time!
Gratefully,
MARIANNE.
The Black Hills,
September 20.
Two marvelous things have come to me today dear; my son took his first
trembling steps alone, and a letter came to me from the man who was my
husband. I am trembling with joy over the first and still dazed with
lack of understanding of the second. I enclose the letter as I have long
since given up trying to think clearly, and must depend upon you, to
decide for me any matters of grave import. I am plunged in perplexity;
advise me after reading the enclosed letter.
Lovingly,
MARIANNE.
New York,
Sept. 16.
Dear Marianne:
Six years ago, I found myself, though fond of you, glad when business
took me away. We spent that summer in different places, but about
October lived together again. I was still fond of you, but at that time
found Vera, whose company was very pleasing to me. You and I seemed to
be drawn away from each other and we decided to separate at the end of
December, when I started on my long cruise.
I felt very, very sorry to leave you, but something told me that it was
better to do so. I remember you seemed to feel the same, and we kissed
each other goodbye as though we were both sorry for something that had
to be.
Leaving the question of dual or multiple personality aside, and putting
the matter very simply, I believe that my soul made a right choice in
you my wife. I believe that alcohol was necessary for a while to put my
body, even at its expense, into a state of conductivity, so that my
soul, when I was somewhat alcoholized, could gain some expression; give
some glimpses of itself and suggest the trend of my powers. For this
reason I believe that some men are made to drink and drug--but that is
another subject which I hope to take up with you more fully at some
future time.
My soul self has always wanted my wife's soul self, and I believe that
if I could have you back, my conquered body self would never need to
wander from home. A little more pliability--all you ever lacked, and
which your trouble should have brought you, could make it so that we
could live together in very perfect harmony. Then I could release a lot
of good plays and good writings, much of which I know already has been
completed by my subliminal self. I get frequent glimpses of parts of
plays, plots and ideas.
You cannot but feel proud of the success of my last book, which ought to
show you that I'm getting a grip of myself. My mother and I were _en
rapport_ and under the dual personality theory, it is reasonable to
suppose that I have been guided by her since her death. I certainly have
been guided by God or by her, and it is reasonable to believe that she
is God's instrument of my guidance.
A young man makes whole ranges of mountains out of tiny mole hills
which, when he has learned sense, he will spread under his foot without
noticing them. Most of our differences were mere mole hills, dear, which
couldn't thwart us now. For we are too big now, to be so easily
thwarted. Can't we give each other the chance to prove this to each
other?
If you will permit me I will love your child as my own--as every real
man ought to love every child, dear little unfinished human beings.
Formerly I thought I knew a good deal; but God knew better and took me
away from you to teach me a few lessons. For they were lessons that I
alone needed and God did not want you to undergo them as well as me.
They were lessons calling for chastisement and you didn't need
chastising.
I've taken God's punishment dear, and thanked Him for it. And I believe
I'm fit company for you now.
I am coming next Monday to Custer, four miles from where you are, and on
Tuesday morning, starting at eight, I shall walk toward your bungalow by
way of the path by the river. I am familiar with every inch of the road,
as you know I wrote "Treasure-trove" at the Wilson ranch near your
canon.
Will you and your little son meet me if only a few yards from your home
so that you may judge for yourself if I am fit company for you now.
If you do not meet me--then the will of Allah be done, for I shall turn
back.
DONALD.
October 10.
Your message came too late, dear; already at eight o'clock Tokacon, with
my son in his arms, and I were far along on the river path that leads
out to the world. Our progress was slow with only the croonings and
gurglings of my beautiful child to interrupt the silences of nature, as
he clung affectionately to the neck of our red man protector, whose
solemnity, though he knew not my mission was superb.
Half way, where Tokacon has built an exquisite rustic bower, we stopped
and waited while the Indian returned to the bungalow.
What a strange hour I spent waiting with my baby, who had fallen asleep
in my arms. Thousands of rebellious thoughts burned themselves upon the
retina of my brain, as I sat planning and wondering. I want to be just
before I'm generous, or I'm afraid I'll never have the chance to be
generous. I sat staring like one at strife with a memory--and then he
came, slowly, resignedly. His hair is quite white and there are strange,
deep lines on his forehead, and marked parentheses round his mouth which
can be but the foot-prints of pain and thought. He could not see us in
our secluded shelter and I could not make my mouth utter his name--he
who had wrung my heart as a peasant twists an osier withe.
On he walked with his head hung low and a lost look in his eyes--then I
called "Don," as I used to do when I loved him, and he stopped suddenly
and listened with his hand to his ear. Again I called "Don." He turned
and saw us. Slowly and with the dignity that he cannot lose, he came
back to where we sat. He could not speak, but knelt beside us and kissed
the baby's lips; my infant opened his innocent eyes and put his arms
around Donald's neck, as much at ease as though he had known him all of
his dear little life. Awake and rested, he must needs be tumbled about
and played with, which our visitor seemed pleased to do. The strain
would have been more than terrible, had it not been for the sweet
influence of the child who occupied us both constantly on our long walk,
home.
Meeting one's husband again after so many years, is something akin to
the sensations of drowning--every ugly scene of our married life flashed
across my brain, also every kindness that he had done me became equally
prominent in my memory, that faculty one cannot cast away as one throws
down a _serviette_ at table.
Twilight found us still without words for each other, but when the back
logs were lighted (these October nights are cold in the Black Hills) our
thoughts came more freely. I find that I care for him as I would for
something long dead and half forgotten, but I am grateful for that, as I
was half afraid that I couldn't be even patient with him. However the
tolerance that we learn through suffering is the most beautiful
offspring of real grief.
It was very difficult for me to speak of Carlton and our wonderful life
that is buried out there on the mountain side, but he is indeed
sympathetic and never interrupted the long and frequent silences that my
inmost memory created. The logs burnt in halves and fell with myriad
sparks and display to the sides of the fireplace, but we touched them
not. He seemed to realize that Carlton and I were not married in the
eyes of the law. How he divined it I do not know, unless it is that he
has an uncanny way of reading one's thoughts. He said that he knew and
that he understood, and further, that I am a stronger and better woman
for all that I have suffered and done. He wants me to leave my West and
live again in New York, where he hopes to recreate in me the old feeling
for him which he so ruthlessly squandered, when it was his own.
He is earnest and sad and I wish that I might care again, for he needs
help and so do I, and at least, with our past experiences we might
escape some of the ways of wounding each other that married people seem
to possess in such unlimited quantities.
Toward midnight the last candles that Tokacon had placed in the sconces,
flickered and went out. The helpless embers flared up for the last time,
then sank down resigned. Donald knelt beside me sobbing bitterly, with
his head upon my knee. All seems to be grief here on this earth--nothing
but grief! For answer I raised his head and kissed his eyes, then
fetched a candle and lighted him to his room. I showed him my Indian,
sleeping outside my door,--which he never forsakes except to allow me to
pass.