Rev. Brooks98 has asked me to come up and see him some evening before I go. He doesn’t know me however and can’t give me what you wish he would in the soul-gouging way. Today I and Bower (the Soph in College) walked down to the Bay and out onto the long pier. I wish I had known of that pier before.
Will you try and arrange it so that Amos will be at the Summer Camp too? or has he tennis engagements?99 Will you be there? I wish he’d be at Oberlin, Wilder Major (Theodore) used always to become very impatient in his amiable way of impracticable me, and would allow me to even ask him the date or such parasitic questions.
I will remember the Santa Fé as Your and My Route. With lots of love to you at the other end I remain your expectant
Thornton W.
24. TO AMOS P. WILDER. ALS 4 pp. (Stationery embossed The Bisonte / Hutchinson, Kansas) Yale
Dummerston Station
c/o Myron Dutton100
Wed—13?<14> July <1915>
Dear Papa,
I’m almost too tired to write, but I’ll try some. I have a little gallery of blisters on the “cushions” beneath my fingers. Today there were three separate thunderstorms and between them ordinary summer weather. We had to work like fits yesterday aft. and this morning to get some hay in from the rain; since cut hay thats been wetted turns black “and the caows doant eat it with the relish they deoa other hay.” During thunderstorms farmers fold their hands so it wasn’t a too strenuous afternoon, but this morning I almost walked into my grave. First I cleaned the horses stalls, and washed the milk pails, then I helped wash the breakfast dishes since the eldest daughter was brought up sharp with appendicitis last night;
then I swept and mopped the floor of the “inner room<”>—separated etc.; then I fed chickens and emptied swill pails; picked currants for a pie; raked hay and tossed it onto a wagon under a swiftly approaching storm; then it was about eleven o’clock; after the storm more haying until dinner; dried the dinner dishes and then, thank goodness was taken for a ride, until the short routine of the evening. Forgot to say that I hoed beans for a while
The change from pen to pencil meant that at about half-past nine last evening Amos’s pen went dry and I had to put off the letter til the afternoon of the next day; this morning I had to be entirely domestic, and in addition to servant-maid work, I pared potatoes for two meals for seven; ! I can’t say anything and neither can you if it gets worse. Mrs. Dutton is approaching 0 thru worry over the appendicitis daughter and I have to help the one remaining. After dinner tho’ I did some more haying and I go back in a minute. At present while their putting hay in the barn there’s literally no room. Three big men are at it.
I tried my hardest to milk the first night but they haven’t thought wise to call on the little stream I draw again
Lovingly
Thornton W
I like it all right.
Amos gets sick-spells and semi-faintings; I felt sick the first few days myself. What to do about him?
25. TO AMOS P. WILDER. ALS 4 pp. Yale
221 N. Prof. St. Oberlin
Dear Papa,
I have spoken to my class English teacher, Mr. Beattie and to Prof. Wager,101 head of the department of English, about my choosing Psychology as a major: They see very much why I don’t want to take their English major highroad. It’s not made for me. Its made for people who have to be talked to for two whole years before they know what to look for in Elizabethan poetry or Ruskin etc. Even majoring in Psych. I would probably take all the “disciplinary” courses in composition etc that I could get in.
Prof. Wells says that of course there are hardly any opening for teaching Psych. in secondary schools, but that its very good in small colleges.
As for Psych. being suited to me of course I don’t know. I know that I’m interested as I can be in all the points of it that come my way, and that I’m speculating on sides of it in my own mind all the time. The laboratory courses in experimental Psych. would be most interesting of all. The dudgery part of it would be the physiology of the brain, which they lay great stress on here. Zoology is required for such a major.
All I know is: that I can not major in English as its taught in Oberlin College, and that I believe myself suited to the study of Psych.
Besides, Mr. Wilder, my friends here don’t consider it very problematic whether or not I’ll be able to earn a living. When the Prof’s advise me not to give my work into the College magazine because I ought to be able to sell it someday, it must be an advanced case.
Here’s my money bill as near as I can make it. In the meantime my account has sunk to $4:40.
Board 9.70
Room 15.00
Train (16.00) (I called up the station and asked fare Oberlin to New York and they said $13.95. In the meantime I’ve forgotten what the N.Y. New Haven Hartford costs, and what a berth or so forth costs. So you add this item in yourself.)
Extra 10.00
Unpaid (50.70)
I seem to be writing you a letter every day. I’m not good-humored in this letter, tho’,
I ran the 220 in 32 seconds. I was about fifth from worst in a class of 35+.
They consider Psych. so impt here that they require every Junior student to take the year course.
Lovingly
Thornton
26. TO AMOS P. WILDER. ALS 4 pp. Yale
Dec 20—<1915>
Dearest Papa—
You say you especially like letters to yourself PRIVET so I’ll pretend this is one. ¶ I really think that the older I get the more homesickness threatens and it doesn’t really work at me in the right way—that is, of course, I ought to be feeling especially for you and Mama, but the person upper most in my mind is little Isabel. I’d love to walk her around here and show her to my friends and have her at table & Funny!—I’ve got a real lot to say so I’ll enclose a general letter, too. I find there is room-subject for a PRIVET after all.
What are you going to do about my Xmas vacation after all. I dread every mail that blows. I didn’t realize at first what it would be to have my Xmas three days after I enter an absolutely strange and unpleasing family. Amos used to give me “dramatic readings” of that household the only impersonation I can remember tho’ is the father & his accent. Oh, let me stay where I am. I’ll take my walks just as regularly as in term time! and longer. Quite a few other boys are staying here for me to get to know; and Mrs. Duncan has offered to me to earn my room-rent if I attend to the furnace. I hate to say to questioners that I’m going on a strange farm to do a little work during the Xmas vacation. And how can I go and do a little work? It was a little work that I was going to do at San Luis Obispo—(how did I ever get up at 4:15?), it was a little that I was given permission to do in Vermont, and it was a lot whatever Amos may say. I don’t want to go away; I’ll be good; I’ll be good. But I’m afraid this letter’s too late.102
Lovingly
Thornton.
27. TO CHARLOTTE E. WILDER. ALS 6 pp. Yale
221 N. Professor St
Oberlin Ohio
Dear Old Girl
Its been some weeks since I wrote you so I’ll take up my pen now. I didn’t see much of you during the Xmas vacation so I’ll take the opportunity now to write to you now and thank you for the pocket diary. I’ll tell you about how it works.
Into it I only put memorandums of original work I do. And occasionally if I hear some especially beautiful piece of music, or read something very fine, I put that in too; but chiefly what I write. I’ll copy out a little just to show you.
Jan 5 Wrote sketch for Act II of “Graves Family”. Copied out Act I mostly.
Jan 6 Took four mile walk and thought out scenes of Act II—wrote them out in the evening
Jan 8 First Rehearsal of “The Last Word about Burglars.” Completed “A Fable for Those Who Plague.”
Jan 11 Wro
te Finale Act I Graves Family.
Jan 12 Wrote Dorcas-Ella scene in Act I
Jan 28 Wrote opening of Act II with song.
Feb 12 Wrote sketch for Act II of “Ventures Joyous”
Feb 18 Sat up till 1:00 AM on Shakespeare Essay
Feb 20 Handed in “Sealing-Wax” to Magazine
Feb 21 Wrote “Brother Fire” <“>Three Minute Playlets for Three
Persons” No 6, and projected “Archangel’s Fires.”103
Feb 26 The New Belinda (Ventures Joyous) growing in mind.
Feb 27 Informed of winning of Shakespeare Essay Prize, $10.
March 8 Verse Libre: 1. Gaby Deslys104
2. Mirandolina105
Sometimes whole weeks go by when I don’t do a thing, then two or three days running! I think that Feb 21 is the most important day there. Did you foresee this?
Now don’t you wish you were here. Oh, I know lots of girls you could room mate with, and not irritate each other, either way. They say you’ve almost improved to perfection now. Think of that!
Uncle Harry Peabody106 spent the whole day here yesterday. I remembered him when I saw him. He preached in my church and I sat behind him in the choir. Then I took him to dinner at Dascomb.
Miss Marion Knight107 said she saw you on the train going or coming from Holyoke.
Do you see anything of boys up there? You must get them to call on you, too, remember. I can’t have a sister who scares the boys away. I’d be pleased to death if I heard you’d become engaged—even if it was only a butcher-boy. Of course, I wouldn’t allow the match to procede; but still, I’d be feeling that you weren’t quite dead. I don’t want to come and hear your organist play a sentimental concert in the half dusk with a lot of sickening schoolgirls saying “Isn’t this just too lovely!” And I don’t want to sit up in the gallery and watch a pedal couplers—I’ll go to an organ recital where an organist attempts a huge Bach fugue, and tears your scalp off amid screams from the sensitive. No silver collection tip toe affair, but a carry-out-the-corpses, women-and-children-first function.
I’d like to give your Dr. Wooly108 a try, but I wouldnt be impressed by the fact that she the colored hoods down her back would turn my fren’ Gaby Deslys pea-green with envy. Gee, but I’d hate to be the president of the girls’ college and be aware of that waves of foolish admiration and unstemmed enthusiasms that rock of the “sea of upturned faces.”—Wouldnt it be fierce!–
I’m very seriously worried. My dear Charlotte if I sent you a picture of myself would you promise not to tell that it was your brother. I’d sign it Yours Herbert or Would you? It would give you a “new dignity” and “added prestige” and, Lord, it <’s> what you need. You could put it all over your room mate. Get Amos to send his in tennis flannels, with the inscription
Don’t Forget
Percy
You send me yours: But none of your I’m-content-to-just-be-good-and-let-who-will-be-pretty. If you cant put any smartness into the picture any other way, stick out your tongue.
I’d be ashamed to write such a silly letter to anybody else, but in writing it to you I show my remarkable instinct of adapting my letter to the letteree—even father ought to write you silly letters
So long
Thornybush.
P.S. Its great to be able to draw!
28. TO AMOS P. WILDER. ALS 8 pp. Yale
221 N. Prof St, Oberlin Ohio
April 4 <1916>
Make this as PRIVET as you think best.
Dearest Papa
Still vacation. I’m feeling very fine this morning after a bath and a hair-cut—I need it I tell you:
Our weather is very changeable; we haven’t had snow for some time but we have days snow-cold and then sunny ones.
I tell you I like vacations. I get up at 7:00 o’clock tho, and go to bed at 9:30, spend a few hours in the library; hang around and talk to people after meals; take my walks and come home and write down what I thought out during the walk. The difference between Vacation and term-time in that respect is that during term-time I only write when I’ve got a red-hot idea, while now I have to make use of my time and sit down and write anyway. You won’t be mad if I tell you about it. The worst thing about Oberlin here is that I have no one to talk it over with. Just out of a kind of necessity I read the thing aloud to Mrs. Orpha Grey, the “elecutionist” down the Hall and to Mrs. Gammon109 and Theodore Wilder and even Hotchkiss110; but all they do is to laugh at the broadly humorous parts and say “it’s very good,” and make encourageing prophecies! But partly because it’s not a professional printed book, and partly because I’m a freshman they wont take it as more than something I amuse myself with. Ugh.
Miss Grace George a prominent and distinguished New York actress-manager says she’s “looking high and low for an American play” and has offered a large prize for the best play by an undergraduate in an American College. Now I’m such an undergraduate and I write plays as I eat so I feel that without much audacity I ought to be allowed to enter that contrast. The things against me are that I’m not Harvard, and that I’m not an upperclassmen. I don’t really see why I ought to expect myself to be able to picture “American life” with any big eye, but I’m swimming through the second act, and I want to read it to somebody who can tell me whether its ridiculously immature or not. I’m not worrying about the special details of its construction, I’m probably over-confident that the dialogue’s a paragon of natural vivacity and vividness, and the characters real, and so forth
I often wish that I could plant you impersonally at the foot of my bed and read the thing to you.
I read as much as I had finished a week and a half ago to Prof. Wager, head of the English Department. He thought very highly of it, and confessed to a weakness of being interested in the story and wanted to know how things were going to turn out, wanted me to read it to him as it grew. But: he was sorry that he didn’t see many modern plays—familiar as he was by teaching with the Greek and Elizabethan—and couldn’t quite judge as to the modern atmosphere. I was glad to hear that a “classicist” could enjoy it at all, but wanted someone who knew New York and the Middle West very closely to sit in judgement on the very atmosphere.
The story briefly concerns a young lady of a quiet, old wealthy family in Chicago who suddenly disturbs her family with a violent attack of ideals she has had:
Anabel (in exalted strain, impressively) I’m beautiful; I’m brilliant; I’m rich; what can’t I do?—I will surround myself with famous men and women; I’ll form a new school of literature; a new circle of Art and Music.
Why do I have to stay in a little ugly dark house in Chicago?
I will live in a temple in New York. (challengingly) Now, Phil. (her brother, deeply moved and disturbed, getting up and pacing the floor.) You may be able to do a little along that line, but you mustn’t hope to go very far.
Anabel (to the World!) Why not?
Phil You may not have the personality—the magnetism. I don’t like the idea of your voting yourself into the place.
Anabel But it’s small to be afraid to be conceited. Let me call out again:—I’m beautiful, clever, rich—the new Madame Récamier;
Lady Wortley Montague;111 with something of Cleopatra, Sappho—
Mother (shocked) Cleopatra!
Anabel How little I’ve been until this came! I’ll wear striking gowns in a marvellous house. I’ll be all graciousness, all distinction, all charm. My very ambition will give me dignity I will appear in the public eye; I will learn to speak in public—
Phil (almost trembling) Stop, Anabel—maybe you can’t do any of these things; and there will be nothing left, but the collossal foolishness—a sentimental schoolgirl—you’ve begun too high.
Anabel I won’t plan any lower
Phil(burning) If you could! I you can!
Anabel You’ll be along with me. You will write it down—the new Boswell—but not my glory—but what my own id
ealism lends me!
Mother Well, the hairdresser’s waiting for you upstairs.
End of Act I
In a way its a big idea for a kind of High Comedy. And in Acts II and III we see her in new N.Y. Home “Room of Honor” and her brother—a young fellow who until this came was a Chicago society man, and amateur patron of the arts; we see her, (now named Helena!) receiving her first call from a famous novelist, and trying pathetically to be brilliant and a super-woman, and doing very well. There is an equally important sub-plot woven in, showing her abounding good intentions equally miss-directed.
In the end way of “The Joyous Ventures” fail, where she seems to be most successful, and she retires to a small farmhouse in Illonois. The public misunderstood her principally; she had acted in a tuberculosis-propaganda moving-picture play for them, and the benefit of the Red Cross Society (!), and she had made sincere and good little speeches to working girl leagues and to school-children in Central Park; she had discovered some new philanthropic veins; she had found some artists and poets in Indiana etc, but the dear public thinks she is trying to be notorious instead of lofty, and she becomes a kind of public “hit,” a preacher holds her up as a warning to American girlhood, as the personification of American crudity—and her strength gives out.
But the play is not cynical in holding up the folly of youthful idealism and enthusiasm. The whole answer to the play is in the spirit (not the words) of the conversation on which the final curtain falls. This is between the girl and her brother, in which he coaxes her out