I
June 9, 1900.
Dearest Judy-pudy: Dr. Joe came out last Thursday to see Father and,
as Neal says, to sit and worship at Grandfather’s feet. Neal himself
worships Grandfather, you know. That is why it makes him angry for
anyone else to do so. I made an epigram about it: “Gods are not
jealous. It is people who are jealous of them.” Grandfather says it is
creditable for a twelve-year-old.
I love Dr. Joe. I think if he couldn’t dispense any medicine he would
still be a splendid doctor. When he steps in, and smiles, everything
always seems to improve. He told Uncle Phineas there was no
possibility that, with his blood pressure, he could survive the
hardships of Nome. So that worry is off our minds. Chris has decided
to finish his play. He has it well in hand, and the cast of characters
all written.
On Saturday, Uncle Phineas started off on a prospecting trip by
himself. It was a blow to us, because we had hoped that Uncle Phineas
had given over prospecting with that last unfortunate trip of his in
1897. But he was so offended about his blood pressure that he drew
thirty dollars from the bank and went down into Malheur County. (Irene
thinks it odd that the checking account at the bank is a joint one for
all the elders. She said so.)
Irene has stopped living, loving, laughing, and doing things worth
while. She broke a Spode cup on Friday. Aunt Gracia cried. Irene said
such a fuss over a cup, when Haviland was prettier, and one of the
Portland department stores had advertised a sale of Haviland china
cups and saucers for eight cents each only last week. She said for
Aunt Gracia to dry her tears and she would send ninety-six cents and
get a dozen. Doesn’t it seem strange that anyone, even Irene, should
not comprehend real Spode? It must mean that her backgrounds are
murky.
Something of the sort would need to be the matter with a person who
could do what Irene did yesterday. She asked Olympe to give her and
Christopher the room that is Uncle Phineas’s and Olympe’s. Olympe was
so amazed that she forgot to be deaf. Besides being amazed she was
angry, and scornful, and amused, and several other feelings. She,
herself, did not seem to have her emotions well sorted.
Aunt Gracia asked Olympe what answer she had given to Irene.
Olympe replied that she had told Irene it seemed to her that
Grandfather’s room was, perhaps, even more attractive; and that, since
Grandfather had had his longer, he was, doubtless, more tired of it
than she and Pan were of their room. She suggested that Irene offer to
exchange rooms with Grandfather.
Aunt Gracia put down the chopping bowl and went running right out of
the kitchen. When she came back she, too, was angry and laughing. She
said she had caught Irene on her way to Grandfather’s room.
Olympe shrugged, in that sophisticated foreign manner of hers, which
Neal so derides, and asked why Aunt Gracia had stopped her. It was
time, Olympe declared, that Grandfather was beginning to see that
young person in her true colours.
It is odd about words, isn’t it, dear? Now “young,” by itself, is a
pleasant word; and “person,” though lacking in charm, is surely
respectable and blameless. But by putting the two words together as
Olympe does, they make an insult. Neal says so it is with people. He
says, take a pleasant girl and a respectable and blameless man, and
marry them and, likely as not, the result will be a joke, or an
insult, or even a curse or a crime. But, as I have told you, Neal is
developing into a regular Timon.
Olympe asked how Aunt Gracia had managed to halt Irene. Aunt Gracia
answered cryptically (this is the exact word because I have just
looked it up in the dictionary), “Blackmail.”
Olympe laughed one of those ruffling lacy laughs of hers and went
away, because the kitchen was steamy and unpleasant. I do not know
whether she understood what Aunt Gracia meant by blackmail. I
understood. Aunt Gracia did not know that I understood.
Irene, you, see, had told me all about it. Her first husband, whose
name is Archie Biggil (isn’t that too bad?) was still madly,
devotedly, ardently, tenderly in love with her. He is an importer, and
had been in Brazil when she had married Chris. Now he has returned to
New York. He has found out about Irene’s second marriage, and where
she is living. He is writing her passionate letters. There is much
more to it than that; but nothing, I think, that you would care to
hear. Irene was worried for fear Chris would find out about her
receiving the passionate letters. She told me because she had to tell
someone. I don’t know why she told Aunt Gracia. I trust that Chris
will not find out about the letters. I feel certain they would annoy
him. He acts, lately, as if he were as much annoyed as a man could be
and remain in health. I think he was disappointed about Nome and the
gold mine.
I love you and Greg very dearly.—Lucy.
II
June 25, 1900.
Dearest, dear Judy: I thought it very sweet of you to be sorry for
Irene, and to have her remind you of Ruth, sick for home, standing in
tears among the alien corn. Neal does not agree with me. He says
misplaced sympathy is the trademark of the sentimentalist, and that
anyone who could be sorry for Irene here, on Q 2 Ranch, would be sorry
for the Black Hole of Calcutta because it had to have all those people
packed into it. I am giving you Neal’s opinion, not because I think it
is very smart, but because I fear it is true.
I believe, if you really feel like being sorry for anyone in
particular now, it would be wise to be sorry for Christopher because
he is the only one here who deeply loves Irene. Not loving, and not
being loved, does give one such a satisfactory removed feeling. You
know, we were so miserable when we thought Whatof was killing the
chickens; but when we found that it was a coyote and not Whatof,
nearly all of the heavy, hurting feeling went away. I suppose, though,
if we were to think that through, as Grandfather always advises, we
should discover that it made no difference to the chickens, the real
sufferers in the event, whether they were killed by a dog or a coyote.
To carry out the analogy, we on the Q 2 Ranch, now, are in the
positions of the chickens. Losing Q 2 would be a little worse than
dying, don’t you think?
Christopher has had an offer from one of the big land companies for
the ranch. They buy the big ranches and divide them and sell them as
small farms to the settlers who are coming in from Nebraska and
Missouri and Utah. At first Christopher was indignant about the offer.
It was an insultingly small sum, he declared. But, in a day or two, he
was saying that suppose he did sell a part of Q 2, leaving the direct
home place and forty or fifty acres surrounding it——Darling Father
said that if Christopher would show him how to make a living for
eleven people from forty acres of land, particularly the forty
surrounding the house, he would not have another word to say.
Christopher said if he and Irene left the place they would never take
another penny from it, but would go on their own from that time on.
Neal, who was present, asked, “Own what, Chris?”
Irene answered, “Not our own property.”
Aunt Gracia said, the other evening, “Christopher, do you ever stop to
think that right up to now you have never wanted anything, education,
travel, leisure, that Q 2 hasn’t given you?”
Christopher said: “I’m not forgetting, don’t worry, Gracia. Though
that is over, now. I’ll never take another dollar from the place that
I don’t earn right here.” (He is working hard on his new play. He has
it well in hand, and the cast of characters all written. The principal
part is to be for Mr. Sothern.) “What is troubling me now is Irene’s
health.”
“Not Dick’s health?” Aunt Gracia asked.
“Dick’s health, too, and of course,” Christopher said. “But I am not
responsible for Dick. I can’t do anything about his health.”
“Can’t you?” Aunt Gracia inquired.
“Meaning, my dear?” Chris answered.
“That Dick is ill. That he is doing the work of six men. That you
could stop worrying him, and insist that your wife stop it.” Aunt
Gracia, talking like that, gives you an idea of the conditions here.
Irene mopes around all the time and says she does not feel well. She
doesn’t look well, either. But she eats—well, at least heartily and
often—and she will never go outside the house, not even in this new
June weather. Dr. Joe says that he is damned if he knows what is the
matter with her. Christopher said, “Sir, do you mean to suggest that
my wife is malingering?”
“No,” Dr. Joe said. “Do you?”
I must run now and help Aunt Gracia. I love you both, Greg and you,
dear, very dearly.—Lucy.