Letters of a Dakota Divorcee Part 4

Yesterday, while opening a crate for me, he cut his finger very badly, and as I bound it up he said, "Forgive me," and concealing his hurt, he sought pardon for the pain he had caused me.

His feelings are intuitively charming, and though he hasn't a university education, he has a universal one, which counts for far more in this world where a stab is given in return for a pin p.r.i.c.k.

Good-night, precious girl-woman, whose friends.h.i.+p has never failed me, whose love has been the most uplifting emotion that I have ever known.

MARIANNE.

March 3.

Lorna Mine:

My six months were up on March first, but as the judge hates undue haste about serving papers, I waited one whole hour before I shot mine off to New York. I am no longer doing time, but am a full-fledged citizen of South Dakota. Isn't it nice that my case won't have a jury--it always gets hung and it sounds unpleasant even if it really isn't.

Oh! these dazzlingly cool, fresh, spring days. If there is anything more beautiful in the West than their gaudy Indian summer, it is the half scared spring. The wind is a bit bl.u.s.tery and pretentious, but otherwise Nature seems doubtful as to whether she will paint her landscape or not.

Each night a grand sunset crowns the close of a cloudless day.

Weeks ago Carlton's decree was granted him, but he stays to hold me in his arms while I wait for mine. You ask if we are engaged? Yes--awfully engaged all the time.

I have never before been able to understand why people put such vast sums in churches. Now I know. It isn't on account of the wors.h.i.+p, nor of the interior, but for the steps. When you take into consideration what a.s.sistance they have rendered lovers, it only seems just that they should be taxed. We wors.h.i.+p at Christian Science Church, because it's darker, every night except Wednesday; but they have some sort of a s.h.i.+n-dig then, so we switch to the Episcopal and take communion with each other. Nice clean, comfy, red granite steps that so many pious, divorce-hating feet have pa.s.sed over. My sympathies go out to all women, even if they are fallen and so did Christ's; but the good Sioux Fallians are above it. They pull all the hay to their side of the manger and forget that we, having never used such food, don't miss it now. It is a pity that we can't infuse more of the "G.o.d-honor-and-the-ladies" spirit into this depth of silliness out here.

The West is so big and glorious and free, it seems strange that the corn crop should be so superior to the people. I suppose it is because each perfect stalk of corn turns its face to G.o.d and Heaven, and the people are so busy gossiping they haven't the time to wors.h.i.+p. When we pa.s.s them on the street we feel like saying: "Our reputations are in your hands. In G.o.d's name be merciful!"

I am keeping house now in my room--light housekeeping, you know. It's positively airy sometimes. My landlady--bless her ignorant soul!--allows my little ice-box to remain in her butler's pantry, which I have christened "c.o.c.kroach alley." They--the c.o.c.kroaches--are so large and educated that I have named them, and each one comes when it's called and feeds from the hand.

She wears the most artistic skirts--always ball-room back and ballet front. Her grandchild was sitting on the floor yesterday, reading the Bible, when suddenly she looked up and said: "Grandma, there's a grammatical error in this Bible," and my landlady said: "Well, kill it, child, kill it!" She spends whole hours each day talking to her birds, which, she claims, save the expense of a piano. I told the grandchild to go out into the suns.h.i.+ne this morning and it would do her cold good. She said, very saucily: "I won't go into the suns.h.i.+ne, my grandma told me to go into the air." My grandma didn't tell me to go there, Lorna, but someone must have ordered it, for in the "air" I am, and so high that I no longer feel the earth beneath my feet.

Thank you so much for Mr. Fitch's article. So you think that Sioux Falls is like his description of it. He came in one night and left the next morning, then wrote an article which is a gross exaggeration in every particular. In the first place there was never but one French maid here and she was Irish. It is true that some scandalous people come here, but there are also scandalous residents; however, there are many more divorcees, quiet, charming and unseen, who do not fret away their six months, but spend them profitably, writing, sewing, taking care of their beloved children, _et cetera_.

The very idea of mentioning anything as incongruous as Sioux Falls and luxury in the same breath--it's a slam on luxury! Big and luxurious hotels--Mr. Fitch ought to be mobbed. Wonder if he got a whiff of the lobby of the only thing that can be called an hotel here, or if he had a cold during his prolonged stay of twelve hours, nine of which he slept through. At the hotel yesterday I mentioned to the elevator boy that many children were stopping there. He answered: "Yes, there is more children than there is guests."

That grill room that he speaks of is a dim memory; I think it lasted two months; and as it depended on divorce custom entirely, and as the main part of the colony sups in its own home, the thing fell through. And the theatres, dear, we have had two good shows since I came, otherwise "ten, twenty and thirty."

The women and preachers may be against the quick lunch method of divorce, but you can gamble on it that the business men heartily approve; and these same women and preachers will find their larders and contribution boxes but scantily filled if the odorous money of the dissolute "Divorsay" is barred.

I am all excited over the article as there is neither truth nor ruth in it, and Carlton is intensely amused, so I suppose I will not try to fight the battles of the colony so long as I am lazy and comfortable in the arms of my love.

Had a long letter from Gretchen yesterday in which she says she enjoyed her bridal tour thoroughly, particularly at the Falls. I wrote back and asked: "Which?--Niagara or Sioux?"

Good-night, dearest, I close my eyes and sleep in a moment, as there are no longer any thorns to stuff my pillow.

MARIANNE.

May 2nd.

Lorna Dear:

It wasn't a bit hard to live through. The papers all came back by return mail, and all day Sunday I was in my attorney's office practising. It wasn't any more difficult than a Sunday-school lesson, and Monday morning at eight o'clock I was waiting at Liberty Hall for the hoped-for arrival of "The Greatest Common Divisor." At last he came, but with a sour expression, and not knowing what trouble he might have had before he left home, I tried to be patient.

We were ushered through the big court room into the judge's sanctum--asked how long I'd been here, and so forth and so fifth--then the comical question: "Do you expect to make Sioux Falls your home?"

and the threadbare reply: "I have made no plans for the future," when all the time I had my I. C. tickets for the 3.30 train in my pocket. Do you know that was the first time I ever really perjured myself--like a lady--before, and somehow I wished awfully that I had let Carlton hold the tickets until after the trial. I couldn't even get my kerchief out of my pocketbook for fear the blooming time tables and tickets would show. Oh! the judge was terribly saccharine after he warmed up, and I adore him. Wish I had to get another divorce tomorrow--he's just like a dear old Universal Dad, and everyone loves him.

Well! dear, just to think of it. I've lost my hobbies! Isn't it great, and yet isn't it really sad! It means a failure in the greatest undertaking of a woman's life, and it also means that I issue forth--branded. I refuse to hold post mortems and am practising loss of memory. Now for the possibilities of the future. Possibility is the biggest word in the dictionary. Isn't it strange that a woman may live apart from her husband and do atrocious things, without wearing the tell-tale letter on her bosom, yet let a virtuous woman take the step for freedom, and, alas! she carries the scar as long as she breathes.

But its worth it, dear. I have thought it all over and I repeat it a thousand times, its worth it. "I have written it upon the doorposts of my house and upon my gates, and I wear it as frontlets between mine eyes"--it's worth it!

I have worn crepe for my departed virtues for six years, but I throw it aside now and feel a new being whose glad unrestraint may carry her farther than she intended, just as prudery often lends a woman greater cruelty than she feels.

How clever of Don Willard to buy in Northern Pacific during the slump.

He gets on with his sense of smell--he's a jackal who scents a carca.s.s and gets there in time for a good bone.

While unpacking my trunk today I came across my wedding veil and it was all gray and dingy like the end of my honeymoon. How many sweet and tremulous illusions I folded into it on that first night and how soon afterwards did three-fourths of the world look like ashes to me. Dreams are harder to give up than realities, because they come back and gibe us even after they are dead and buried, while tangible realities stay fairly well hidden when we screw down the lid. I suppose you think that I talk like Old Man Solomon, but you know that the only serious thoughts I have are mushrooms of one minute's gestation.

My landlady does her own was.h.i.+ng, so I asked her if she would do mine for ample pay. She suffers so from modesty that she was hardly able to answer me, but finally said: "I would be willing to, but my husband don't improve on it." Poor creature, she has lived here all her days and is still unable to direct me to a single place--her b.u.mp of location is surely a dent.

Mrs. Judge knows the name of each member of the colony; when they came and how often they have gone away, and the Lord help you if your residence isn't right! That's the one thing that the Judge is squeamish about, and as Mrs. Judge keeps tab for him, there is no use trying to fudge. If you don't come up before the Judge in six months and one week, she inquires of your landlady the reason for your delay. And of course the landlady knows the reason, even if you don't yourself. Every Monday afternoon Mrs. Judge drives by the I. C. station at exactly 3.25 to see which one of the widows, whose case was tried that morning, is leaving the same day. Of course they all leave unless they are prostrated with excitement. We always pack all baggage on Sat.u.r.day, the dress-suit cases on Sunday, and engage the drayman on the way down to the trial Monday morning. There has never been any hitch in the arrangements, so I suppose they will remain the same until the end of time.

You don't know what a comfort my phonograph has been to me--I would never attempt another divorce without one. The long, lonely evenings--the endless days, when time never moves off the spot, my dogs and I have sat on the floor fascinated with the greatest music in the world. I like my machine because it may be depended upon, never is nervous, and always willing to perform. Talent is so spasmodic and dependent upon moods, while the little hard rubber discs tirelessly and graciously amuse you.

You say that you will write more anon. I have looked in Webster and the Brittanica, as I was a bit anxious to find out just what length of time anon signifies, but I have been unsuccessful. In other words, if after breakfast someone said to me, "You shall have more food anon," I should probably starve to death if I sat down and waited for it. Now don't be mean to me because I am in love and have neglected you. I send you thousands of messages and ask you thousands of questions each day, and simply because I don't waste time and paper in setting them down is no sign that you aren't constantly in my thoughts. Love knows no distance, and I go to you every evening for a good-night kiss just as I close my eyes to sleep, and always do I feel that you know it. There is no barrier of antagonism around you so my spirit enters where you are whenever it so desires.

You are melancholy again--how can you live in stays set with nails and maintain the grace of a dancer? It must be because of your child. I could not do it, I'm sure--not even for my child if I had one. You are wiser than most of us fools who have choked our lives in the mud of New York. To men, dear, you are a cold Alp. Snow bound and near to heaven, impenetrable and frowning with flanks of granite, and yet beneficent.

How do you accomplish it when your heart is wrung from year's end to year's end?

It must be Machiavellian foresight, precious--foresight that you alone, out of the whole set, possess. The world never forgives a failure and never forgives you for telling it the truth, and my standard is truth, as near as possible, and yours is sacrifice complete. Which is right? We shall go on begging the question until the end of time. In human transactions the law of optics seems to be reversed--we always see indistinctly the things that are nearest to us. You have never judged, so judge me not.

MARIANNE.

The Black Hills, September 20.

Dearest Lorna:

A thousand years ago--or maybe it wasn't so long, I can't clearly remember things any more, time isn't of any consequence, but it was the day I received my decree, and I returned my railroad tickets to the I.

C. office--Carlton and I packed up some rugs, pillows and luncheon, and floated down the river to breathe confidences. Far away on the horizon was a misty hedge of cypress trees darkly traced on a canvas of lavenders and blues, overhung by extravagant yards of cloudy chiffon.

Nearby the tall alders were all bent to the southward, from the bitter winds, and looked like huge giants on the march with heavy burdens on their shoulders. They swayed at times and seemed likely to fall with their loads. On and on we floated, and on and on they marched.

The country was as tremulous as a bride, and to us nothing seemed impossible. In such magic moments when enjoyment sheds its reflection on the future the soul foresees nothing but happiness.

Toward sunset we moored our boat to a tree in a little backwater where the current was barely felt and mutely watched the changes in the great turquoise satin tent above us that seemed held aloft by the hills to shelter the landscape of barley and corn and wheat that swished and swished like feminine music of taffeta petticoats.

We felt reasons all around us why we should be happy--the trees were greens and browns--no one like the other, blended in the harmonious colorings of an old French tapestry stolen from a deserted chateau.