Your loving Mother
Margaret could not help reading this with growing alarm, even though it was dated years previously, and all these events were over and done with, and somehow they had resulted in their current, her current, situation with Andrew. She felt her heart quicken with suspense and anxiety while reading, and decided not to go on to the last one. She looked around the bedroom, then bundled the letters together and pushed them under the pillow. All that evening, she watched Andrew, but he seemed entirely himself—when Hubert Lear turned up, out on the front porch, smoking a cigarette, Andrew invited him in, and offered him a slice of apple pie. They talked about school, and Andrew showed him how to calculate compound interest.
The next morning, when Margaret opened the fourth letter, it was only because she made up her mind that it was irrelevant to her situation—she was happy, Andrew seemed in good spirits. The letter ran:
January 2, 1903
Darlington
Dearest Andrew,
I must admit that it was with considerable dread that I saw the thick envelope addressed to me, in your handwriting, in this morning’s mail, and as I feared, the envelope contained a lengthy self-justification. As much as I love you, son, I cannot agree that you have done “the very thing that honor demanded” of you. “Honor” has never demanded a thing of you in this sequence of events at the University of Chicago, but pride has goaded you at every turn since the day you arrived on the campus, knowing Mr. C—— was already there. As I said to you when you were considering whether or not to accept the position Mr. D—— was offering you, it was not that they were beseeching you to come, it was that they were extending an opportunity to you, and they knew it. You should have known it, too.
I believe you when you say that Mr. C—— is insufferable—to YOU. But he is not insufferable to Mr. D—— and to Mr. Rockefeller and to others who are powers in the University. He fits in with them, and they are comfortable with him. In addition to that (and I am disappointed that you are so unworldly that you do not understand this simple fact of life), his father donated the observatory and the telescope, and so he has a proprietary feeling about it. Is this so obscure an example of human nature that you cannot understand it? The disparities of wealth in Darlington are minor—the difference between sleeping in the front parlor and keeping the front parlor just for company. But the differences in wealth in Chicago or New York or San Francisco are considerable and ostentatious, and it is the job of every aspirant to simply ignore them, however grating they may be.
I understand from your letter that Mr. D—— is ready to accede to your demands in some degree, and to raise your position. My advice is to accept this with a strong expression of gratitude and withdraw the rest of your complaints (for that is what they are). If your work is important to you, then proceed with it.
But her advice made no difference, because a brief letter dated a month later said: “Of course you may come to Darlington and restore your health and equilibrium, and you may stay as long as you wish. I won’t hide my disappointment in the outcome of this contretemps right now, but perhaps by the time you arrive things will look more just, or at least more inevitable. I remain, always, your loving Mother.”
The letter was dated early February 1903, that period when Andrew was visiting his mother during the cold snap—when Mrs. Early was so kind to Margaret and Lavinia, and they were so grateful for and impressed by the warmth and beauty of her house. It did give her a chill, to read about the real torments Andrew and Mrs. Early had felt, which had swirled behind their courtesies. She blushed to think of herself and Lavinia, looking around that bedroom, so blindly impressed.
She put the packet away where she had found it, and decided to resist pursuing further investigations, and then a letter from Andrew’s mother arrived—she wrote about once a month, always something addressed to the both of them, light and gossipy and never intrusive (Lavinia had begun asking in every letter when she might expect a grandson, and Margaret had only just mailed off the letter that described their recent disappointment). When Andrew handed the letter to her, she read it with a new appreciation of Mrs. Early’s style and manner. It read:
Dear Andrew—
Here in Darlington, it is cold and gloomy and the windows are covered wth ice. As a result, Mrs. Hitchens and I are scheming about taking a great journey west, and, of course, your establishment, and you, yourself, and dear Margaret are first in our thoughts. I cannot imagine how it is that I have overlooked California in my travels! To think that I have visited Thomas in Texas, where the scorpions and the tarantulas hold sway, and yet I have not sojourned in the paradise of San Francisco! So—you and Margaret must prepare yourselves, Mrs. Hitchens and I are embarking for Vallejo in one week—on April 3, and we should be with you shortly thereafter, though I do anticipate that we will stop from time to time to gawk at the vista and stare at the natives (be they white or Indian—I understand that the two groups are equally intriguing). I will send to you by telegraph as we get closer. I don’t expect to impose upon you and Margaret for more than a day or two, but to travel on in state to San Francisco, and there partake of every luxury!
Your loving and self-indulgent Mother
When she looked up after reading this, Margaret saw that Andrew was staring at her, and then at their little house, so jam-packed with papers, books, and assorted paraphernalia. She said, “Oh, I know Mrs. Lear will be happy to put them up—she has eight bedrooms, and she’s always wishing her own relations would visit.” And, of course, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime for her neighbor to divine something more about Andrew than what Margaret was able to come up with solely on her own—Mrs. Lear and Andrew’s mother would surely get along famously.
The two ladies arrived late in the evening. Andrew and Margaret met the train and took them by wagon and ferry directly to Mrs. Lear’s house, where the boys had put up a banner and, as they approached, set off a few homemade firecrackers for a welcome. Mrs. Lear had laid out a small but elegant buffet of lemon tarts, tea, and avocado-and-prawn sandwiches. By morning, after breakfast at the latest, Margaret knew, Mrs. Early would hear about her failed pregnancy, and probably about every other little observation Mrs. Lear had made of her life with Andrew. Margaret found this reassuring.
Andrew’s mother and Mrs. Hitchens were far from fatigued by their journey. They had taken a private room on the sleeper and had been pleased by the provisions in the dining car—“as elegant as anything in Europe, and there is so much more time to enjoy everything. In Europe, as soon as you have settled in, well, now you are in Münster already, and must disembark! But here! Well, the train journey is a vacation in itself. I understood from the porter that there are some families that simply ride about, living on the railroads. The scenery passes and, rough as some of it is, it’s quite all right with me to look at it and not to have to go out into it, or, God forbid, trek through it, don’t you agree, Mrs. Hitchens?” Mrs. Hitchens nodded enthusiastically.
They had lovely weather. They tramped about the island while the ladies gave her news of home, which was welcome in several ways, one of which was that it did not cause her to miss their town, or anyone in it, other than her mother and Beatrice. Mrs. Early gave her a long letter from her mother, which Margaret read page by page but not all at once. This letter, mostly about the grandchildren, she found surprisingly painful, even taken in small doses. Of course Beatrice was pregnant again, and due in September (“very uncomfortable, I must say, and partly because she never denies herself a single indulgence and has had to have all of her dresses remade and pieced out”), and little Lucy May showed an amazing musical gift. (“Much superior to Beatrice’s—perhaps the Hart side is musical, too? They say that Jewish families often are. At any rate, the darling child climbs up onto the piano bench and plays ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ with two hands, and seems to understand harmony, though she is only three.”) She had news of Dora: “Can you believe, Margaret, that Dora has gone to New York City, where she went to a l
ecture by Mrs. Tarbell? After the lecture, she walked right up to her and told her where she was from and then handed her a sheaf of articles she wrote, and Mrs. Tarbell took her out to tea, and the short version of the tale is that Dora might get a position at McClure’s—‘or something even better.’ Mrs. Bell pretends to be frantic that Dora will certainly never marry now, but she seems happy enough, though Mr. Bell considers Ida Tarbell the ‘Devil’s own second cousin.’ Robert, however, is quite proud of his sister.” She could see that her mother wrote about the grandchildren and Dora partly to avoid writing about herself—her handwriting was not exactly shaky, but more spidery than it had been, and she who had, since the death of her husband, leapt out of bed at dawn and gone straight to work planting or pruning or harvesting or canning, now reported that she lay in bed until eight each morning (“although I hate for half the day to pass before I can get anything done”).
On the second morning of her visit, Mrs. Early sat her down on their sofa and put her hand on Margaret’s knee. She said, “My dear Margaret, I’m afraid you must think about what it might be like to do without your dear mother at some point. Though she is younger than I am by two years or more, I do think her health is fading.”
“She says in her letter that she’s easily tired.”
“Twice I’ve dropped by to take her out for a little drive, and she’s said she’s just too tired to go.” She sighed. “I sent my girl over to help her with the spring cleaning.”
“She should go live with Beatrice.”
“But she says that the boys are too wild, and give her a headache. And now with this baby …” She shook her head.
“Elizabeth is easier to get along with.”
“I asked your mother three weeks ago whether she wanted to go with me to St. Louis, and make a visit to the spa at Meramec Highlands. This time of year, it’s very restorative, and not terribly far from Elizabeth and the girls, but she told me she never liked St. Louis.”
Margaret thanked her. Mrs. Early smiled at her in a kindly way and put her hand to her hair, which was grayer now, but still very thick. She replaced a comb and smoothed the front of her skirt, which was a rich piece of cut velvet, purple with a black shading. She had gotten more stout, but, as tall as she was, she could carry the weight. She went on: “Did I show you the books I brought you, Margaret, dear? I remembered that you liked the Sherlock Holmes, so I brought you another book by Mr. Doyle, set during the Hundred Years’ War. And Mrs. Hitchens thought you might like her book of ghost stories that she read in the train. I must say, I heard her gasp once or twice in the upper sleeper!” She smiled again, and all of a sudden, surprising even herself, Margaret leaned forward and put her arms around Mrs. Early, and Mrs. Early held her to her breast and, for a moment or two, stroked her hair, and Margaret couldn’t help weeping. But then they stood up, and Andrew came in from his daily task of dropping the time ball.
The next day, the two ladies took a train to Napa to look about up there. Mrs. Lear filled them a picnic basket. It was a pleasure to cook for the two of them, of course, and Mrs. Early was very tactful about showing her some recipes she knew—pancakes in the French manner (“though the Germans love them, too, they are so thin and light, with a little confectioners’ sugar and some rough-cut marmalade, and, you know, Margaret, it doesn’t hurt a bit to warm up the marmalade and stir in a quarter-cup of rum. It’s very bracing first thing in the morning, and there’s absolutely no harm in it”).
From Napa, she and Mrs. Hitchens brought two tennis rackets and some balls for the Lear boys, and by the time Margaret was up the next morning, the ladies had strung a rope between two trees in the backyard, and induced someone to cut the grass very close. She had Theodore and Martin out, laughing and hitting one of the balls back and forth over the rope, while Hubert and Dorsett awaited their turns by swinging in the trees. Mrs. Hitchens was sitting in a chair, fanning herself with the morning paper, but Andrew’s mother was trotting back and forth, showing the boys how to grip their rackets and aim for the ball as it went by them. Martin seemed an apt pupil, already hitting the ball more than missing it; Hubert and Dorsett swung past her once or twice; then she saw Hubert perch himself up on the railing of the second-floor balcony and sit there, watching and rolling a cigarette, which he then smoked with a meditative air before swinging back to the tree. The whole scene was so lively and good-natured that Margaret thought of trying to persuade the two ladies to stay into the following week, just for her own enjoyment. Four days was hardly enough of them! And then, that afternoon, Mrs. Early enlisted both her and Mrs. Hitchens in teaching the boys “a nice game of Missouri poker, just a bit of five-card stud—which stands for ‘studious,’ boys, which is what you should be every day of school.” They used the boys’ stash of matches for chips, and she ensured that while they were learning they lost, but once they knew the principles of the game, they each won a bit, which she paid them out of her own bag, a half-dollar apiece.
When Margaret suggested that evening that the two ladies stay longer, Mrs. Early exclaimed, “Oh, goodness! You will have quite another dose of us after we have had our fill of the great city of San Francisco, and the famous Palace Hotel. Mr. Enrico Caruso is performing Carmen, which I have never seen, so we can’t miss that. I assure you that, by the time we head east, you will be glad to see us go.” Margaret laughed, but she couldn’t imagine being glad to see them go.
With his mother, Andrew was much as he had been in Missouri, polite and even jovial, but taciturn by comparison with his customary manner. He told about the gunshots into the mud, which made his mother laugh, and she said, “My goodness, Andrew, that is clever! And you made drawings of the craters? What if you made photographic plates of them, wouldn’t that be extraordinary? I wonder how you would do that.” Andrew had not made photographic plates of the mud craters, but he instantly sat up and declared that he would do so, and that afternoon they tramped around Vallejo, looking for a photography studio and a photographer whom they might induce to make plates of the whole operation—Andrew and Hubert shooting from the tops of trees, and then the craters themselves. Even for Andrew, his mother was an invigorating presence. Then she said, “And that astronomy journal will certainly take it, it’s so brilliant. Just put together an irresistible package, Andrew. You’ve done that before.” Then she went over to the Lears’ house and got Hubert to show her the gun they had used, and tell her all about his other exploits, which also made her laugh.
The following day, Mrs. Early and Mrs. Hitchens took the three o’clock ferry, the General Frisbie, which was a fast boat and Andrew’s favorite (two hours to the city), quite luxurious and well appointed inside. You could buy any number of things on the boat, including drinks in the saloon. They waited on the dock, and they talked about how the ladies would arrive in San Francisco at five, and no doubt be in their hotel eating oysters by seven at the latest. They were dressed in their most stylish outfits—Mrs. Early in green, trimmed with white and edged with navy blue, and Mrs. Hitchens in dark gray with a high white collar and sleeves edged in a deep red. Her hat carried a tight bouquet of silk rosebuds just the same color as the edging on her dress, and Mrs. Early’s hat sported two curled egret feathers and a bunch of cherries. They embraced and kissed goodbye; then Margaret watched them board the ferry, looking about all the time, with the eager curiosity that both of them always seemed to display. As she and Andrew walked back from the ferry building, Margaret thought she understood more about him—she saw he had his mother’s curiosity and energy. She found this reassuring, which was surprising—she had not realized she was in need of reassurance. She said, “They looked very elegant.” Andrew laughed cheerfully and gave her a squeeze around the waist. They heard the General Frisbie blow her whistle just then.
They never saw Andrew’s mother or Mrs. Hitchens again.
MARGARET had been in an earthquake before, back in Missouri, in 1895. They were sitting at the supper table when the water in their glasses began to slosh, and then some dish
es on a railing over the fireplace rolled back and forth and one crashed to the floor. Lavinia jumped up from the table to look out the front window. Because it was dark, she could see very little, but it was a nice night—no wind or rain, only some of the fruit trees in their yard swaying. She said, “An earthquake! God preserve us!” and she told them about another famous earthquake that her own grandfather had heard of, down where Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee, and Kentucky came together. The Mississippi ran backward and changed its bed; forests broke in two and toppled over; a noise such as no one ever heard before or after terrified the people and sent the cows and horses racing into the woods, some never to be found. That night, in bed, Margaret, Elizabeth, and Beatrice declared that they didn’t see how they could ever stand to have such a thing happen to them. And then they forgot about it.