When, five years ago, I used to write long letters to Margery, for
some reason or other she never wrote back. To save her face I had to
answer the letters myself--a tedious business. Still, I must admit
that the warmth and geniality of the replies gave me a certain
standing with my friends, who had not looked for me to be so
popular. After some months, however, pride stepped in. One cannot
pour out letter after letter to a lady without any acknowledgment
save from oneself. And when even my own acknowledgments began to
lose their first warmth--when, for instance, I answered four pages
about my new pianola with the curt reminder that I was learning to
walk and couldn't be bothered with music, why, then at last I saw
that a correspondence so one-sided would have to come to an end. I
wrote a farewell letter and replied to it with tears....
But, bless you, that was nearly five years ago. Each morning now,
among the usual pile of notes on my plate from duchesses,
publishers, money-lenders, actor-managers and what-not, I find,
likely enough, an envelope in Margery's own handwriting. Not only is
my address printed upon it legibly, but there are also such extra
directions to the postman as "England" and "Important," for its more
speedy arrival. And inside--well, I give you the last but seven.
"MY DEAR UNCLE I thot you wher coming to see me to night but you
didn't why didn't you baby has p t o hurt her knee isnt that a pity
I have some new toys isnt that jolly we didn't have our five minutes
so will you krite to me and tell me all about p t o your work from
your loving little MARGIE."
I always think that footnotes to a letter are a mistake, but there
are one or two things I should like to explain.
(A) Just as some journalists feel that without the word "economic" a
leading article lacks tone, so Margery feels, and I agree with her,
that a certain cachet is lent to a letter by a p.t.o. at the bottom
of each page.
(B) There are lots of grown-up people who think that "write" is
spelt "rite." Margery knows that this is not so. She knows that
there is a silent letter in front of the "r," which doesn't do
anything but likes to be there. Obviously, if nobody is going to
take any notice of this extra letter, it doesn't much matter what it
is. Margery happened to want to make a "k" just then; at a pinch it
could be as silent as a "w." You will please, therefore, regard the
"k" in "krite" as absolutely noiseless.
(C) Both Margery and Bernard Shaw prefer to leave out the apostrophe
in writing such words as "isn't" and "don't."
(D) Years ago I claimed the privilege to monopolise, on the
occasional evenings when I was there, Margery's last ten minutes
before she goes back to some heaven of her own each night. This
privilege was granted; it being felt, no doubt, that she owed me
some compensation for my early secretarial work on her behalf. We
used to spend the ten minutes in listening to my telling a fairy
story, always the same one. One day the authorities stepped in and
announced that in future the ten minutes would be reduced to five.
The procedure seemed to me absolutely illegal (and I should like to
bring a test action against somebody), but it certainly did put the
lid on my fairy story, of which I was getting more than a little
tired.
"Tell me about Beauty and the Beast," said Margery as usual that
evening.
"There's not time," I said. "We've only five minutes to-night."
"Oh! Then tell me all the work you've done to-day."
(A little unkind, you'll agree, but you know what relations are.)
And so now I have to cram the record of my day's work into five
breathless minutes. You will understand what bare justice I can do
to it in the time.
I am sorry that these footnotes have grown so big; let us leave them
and return to the letter. There are many ways of answering such a
letter. One might say, "MY DEAR MARGERY,--It was jolly to get a real
letter from you at last--" but the "at last" would seem rather
tactless considering what had passed years before. Or one might say,
"MY DEAR MARGERY,--Thank you for your jolly letter. I am so sorry
about baby's knee and so glad about your toys. Perhaps if you gave
one of the toys to baby, then her knee--" But I feel sure that
Margery would expect me to do better than that.