  From Mrs. Edwin Green to Miss Nance Oldham. My dearest Nance: Oh, Nance, I'm so happy! I wonder if any two people were ever so happy as Edwin and I. Am I not glib with my "Edwin"? I found it rather hard at first to keep from calling him Professor Green, but it seemed to mean so much to him that I have at last broken myself of the habit. I longed for you on the day of the wedding. It did not seem right for me to take such a step without my darling Nance to help me. I was married in a traveling suit. I really believe I could not have been married in a white dress and veil unless you had been there to put on my veil. We are having a wonderful trip, and (please don't laugh at me), but do you know it is a real privilege to travel with a man like Edwin? He knows so many things without being the least bit teachy. Mother says you are never conscious of the pedagogue in Edwin. That is really so, which I think is remarkable, considering the many persons he has to teach. First we went to Scotland. Nothing in France thrilled me as did the lakes of Scotland. How thankful I am that, as a child, I did not have access to very many books, only the classics, and I had to read the Waverley Novels or nothing. Scotland meant a great deal more to me because of my having read Scott. Edwin says he finds about one out of ten of the young persons of the day know their Dickens and their Scott. Edinburgh is so interesting that already Edwin and I are planning to revisit it in his next Sabbatical year. That is a long way off but we are so happy those seven years will pass quickly, I know. I almost fell over the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle trying to see the exact spot where Robert Louis Stevenson's hero, St. Ives, went down on the rope to the rocks below. As I craned my neck, Edwin whispered hoarsely in my ear: "Past yin o'cloak, and a dark, haary moarnin." Edwin says I take fiction much more seriously than I do history. He does, too, unless the history happens to be Mary Queen of Scots or something that by rights should have been fiction. Greyfriars Bobby, for instance, is a true tale but affects us both as though it were fiction. We gave a whole afternoon to that dear little doggy, following in his footsteps as nearly as we could through the streets of Edinburgh, and out into the country by the road he took to the farm, and then back to Greyfriars Churchyard where the old shepherd, his master, was buried. Of course we did the Burns country thoroughly. Edwin seemed as at home there as I am in the beech woods at Chatsworth. Burns has never been one of my poets, but he is now. I have adopted him for life since I realize what he means to Edwin. We are in London now and could spend a year here and not see all we want to see. We play a splendid game which maybe you will think is silly, but you don't know how much fun it is. We pretend for a whole day to be some characters in fiction, Dickens, Thackeray, Barrie, anyone we happen to think of, and then we do the things those persons might have done. For instance, when we were slumming, I was the Marchioness and Edwin was Dick Swiveller. That was perhaps the best day of all. When we went down to the Thames embankment, Edwin suddenly turned into Rogue Riderhood and I was Lizzie Hexam. Edwin did not think much of me as Becky Sharp when we went to the Opera nor did I think his Rawdon Crawley very convincing. His Peter Pan was splendid the afternoon we spent in Kensington Gardens, and he thought my Wendy was so perfect he tried to make me give him a "thimble" right there before all the nurse maids. We are going home in a few days now. We are to meet Mother at Liverpool and sail from there. I do wish Mother could have done the things we have done. She would have enjoyed it so much. She laughed until she cried when I proposed her going with us. She said she loved Edwin too much and felt that he loved her too much to put his affection to such a test. One of the very best things about being Mrs. Edwin Green is that Mother so highly approves of Edwin. In a few weeks now we will be settled in our little Orchard Home. I hate to leave London but I long for the little home. I am a born homemaker and I am eager to get to housekeeping in the bungalow. Edwin expects to be very busy working on a text-book on American Literature that he feels there is a need of. He does not have to go back to Wellington until January and that will give us time for lots of things in Kentucky. When we get to Wellington, you are the first person we want to have visit us, and I want to engage you right now. What you tell me of Andy McLean's success at Harvard does not astonish me. I was sure he would do well. I shall not be astonished either when you tell me some other news about Andy. Come on now, Nance, and 'fess up. Good-bye.—Edwin sends his kindest regards to you and says he, too, is counting on that visit from you in January. Yours always, Molly. Mrs. Sarah Carmichael Clay to Mrs. Mildred Carmichael Brown. Dear Milly: For a woman who is noted through the whole County as being the least practical person in the world, the most gullible and credulous, you certainly seem to come out at the big end of the horn. You have managed to marry off your daughters very young, though in my opinion they are none of them beauties. Your sons seem to be able to support themselves. You have contrived to sell your birthright to an oil trust and to lift the mortgage on Chatsworth. Your servants stay with you until they die on your hands; and your friends vie with each other in rendering service to you. I can't understand it. You must be deeper than shows on the surface. Anyhow, I take off my hat to you as being much more of a personage than I ever gave you credit for. I am going to give Molly, for a wedding present, the portrait of our grandmother by Jouett. It is a valuable painting, so I am told, but I have had it in the attic for years as I could not bear the sight of it. You will remember it was the image of that impertinent Sally Bolling, who seemed to have the faculty of making me appear ridiculous. I never could abide her and hardly wanted to have her picture in my drawing room. I always lost sight of the fact that it was really our grandmother. I am afraid Molly is going to look like it, too. It is high time you were coming home. Now that you have managed to marry Molly off, I should think you would have some feeling for me. My health is very poor, and certainly your duty is to look after me some and not give all of your time to your children. What with the lawsuit that I have been forced into and the constant changing of house-servants, I am in a very nervous condition. Affectionately your sister, Sarah Carmichael Clay. From Professor Edwin Green to Dr. McLean at Wellington. My dear Doctor: I have come to the conclusion that you can take a place by the side of Dr. Weir Mitchell as one of the greatest nerve specialists of this age or any age. I am taking your prescription in large doses: deep full breaths of happiness and great brimming bowls of it. I am feeling fine and my wife says I am getting fat. We have had a splendid trip. I have been over the same ground before, but it all seems new and wonderful to me. My wife's knowledge of your beloved Scotland put me to shame. She declares she got it all from Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson and never studied a history of the country in her life. My wife joins me in love to you and Mrs. McLean. She says that one of her chief pleasures is looking forward to having Mrs. McLean for a neighbor the rest of her life. We will be back in Wellington after Christmas. We are now going to my wife's native state, Kentucky, where I expect to finish the text-book on American Literature that I have been pretending to work on for some time. My wife's presence will serve as inspiration to me and I hope to get ahead with it now. Very sincerely, Edwin Green. P. S.—My wife, using a wife's prerogative, has read this over my shoulder and declares that I may be a teacher of English, but as a writer of it I am a failure. She says she can count about a dozen "wives" in this little letter, which is very bad writing. But can you blame me? E. G. From Caroline Jackson to Mrs. Brown. Dear Miss Milly: I takes my pen in hand tow enform you that most of us is enjawen pore health and hopes it finds you the same. This letter is writ for Aunt Mary Morton although the paper and awnvelop is mine, the same what Miss Molly sent me for Christmus come two yers next time. Aunt Mary wisht me tow say that she is rejicing that her Molly Baby done catch sech a fine man as her teacher pears tow be and she is praying that she will be spared tow greet them both on this side of the ribber. We have done cleaned up Chatswuth tel you kin see yore face in mos any place you is enclined tow look. Lewis has white washed evything tel it minds me of icecreamcandyandpopcorn. Lewis has also done put in and tended the garden same as ifn you wus here. The bungleboo in the awchard is all finished and vines and flowrs growin on it same as ef it done been there fer yers. Aunt Mary's grand darter Kizzie lows she is goin tow cook fer Miss Molly. All I kin say is Gawd hep litle Miss Molly, cause that there Kizzie is sho slow tow move and proudified (this las from me and not Aunt Mary). Miss Sarah Clay is done had twelve cooks sence Christmus and I cyarnt count as high as the house girls run up tow. Miss Sarah is lookin right peaked and not near so buxo as formally. All of us ladies and gentlemen of African scent is rejicing that you will soon go down into the deep waters and return again once more to Kaintucky. No more at present. Plese excuse blots and a bad pen. Lewis wushes me tow add that he done furnished the stamp fer this here pistle. Aunt Mary lows she aint long fer this here world but I knows she is still got the strenth tow make other colord folks work. With umblest respecks, Caroline Jackson. From Miss Julia Kean to Mrs. Edwin Green. Molly Darling: All day I sing: "What's this dark world to me? Molly's not here." When the wedding breakfast was over and you and your Edwin were really gone, we all of us collapsed like busted balloons. Polly Perkins was cheerful beside the rest of us. He says he always cries at weddings. I believe he is thinking of Josephine Williams and weeps because he knows she never will marry him. I don't blame Jo, but I do feel sorry for Polly. Your Mother and I are plunged into getting the Bents' studio in order for them. We are determined that they shall find it as shining as they left it. What a place it has been for us and how we have enjoyed it! The d'OchtÈs will soon go back to Normandy. They have asked Kent and me to visit them during the summer. Won't that be grand? I have seen Frances Andrews several times. I never did see any one improve as she has. I think it is your influence but I know you will say it is the angle at which I am looking at her. I believe Philippe d'OchtÈ is really becoming very much interested in her. I wonder what Cousin Sally will think. I fancy she will think poor Frances a far cry from her choice for her son, namely: our own Molly. I still think it is a pity we can't keep La Roche Craie in the family, but I see no way to do it. Pierce Kinsella is painting like mad on a portrait of your mother. He says he has been crazy to paint her from the moment he laid eyes on her on the steamer. She says she rather likes posing because it means she can sit still and think. We have been in such a whirl that it might be some comfort to sit still, but I fancy I'd get enough of it in a half hour sitting. Pierce demands only one thing of Mrs. Brown and that is that she thinks about you. He declares her expression is different. Speaking of parents, my own are leaving Turkey to-day. Why I should keep it to the end of my letter, I don't know. I am wild with delight. It seems years since I saw them and I can hardly wait. I wish they could have got here for the wedding. Bobby always whoops things up so. Give my best love to that most fortunate man alive; and tell him that matrimony does not mean eternal monopilization. Write to me soon at the American Girls' Club. They say it is fine and homelike there, but it will surely be some comedown after Rue Brea. Your ever devoted, Judy. Jimmy Lufton to Molly. Press Club, New York. My dear Mrs. Green: Ah me! I have swallowed the bitter pill and now I am gasping for breath. I mean I have actually called you Mrs. Green. I did not know I was man enough to do it. One never can tell what he can do until put to the test. Anyhow, I want to congratulate both you and the Professor with all my heart. If I have to call you Mrs. Anything I believe I'd rather it would be Mrs. Green. Did you ever hear this saying? "Change the name and not the letter, Change for worse and not for better. Change the name and colour, too, Change for good and never rue." I am sure you will "never rue" and will be as happy as you deserve, which is saying a great deal. With kindest regards to your husband (I feel myself to be a giant among men now, actually to have spoken of the Prof. as your husband!) and hoping I shall be allowed the pleasure of seeing you when you pass through New York on the way to your home in Kentucky, I am very sincerely your friend, Jimmy Lufton. From Miss Josephine Williams to Mrs. Edwin Green. Rue Brea, Paris. My dear Molly Brown Green: The Bents are good friends of mine, but I must say I'll be sorry to see them back in their studio, for it will mean the departure of your wonderful mother. I truly think she has done real social settlement work in this quarter of Paris. Her influence is felt wherever she goes. For instance, I cite myself as an example. I wear trousers still, but only when I am actually at work, and I find skirts not so bad after all. As for Polly Perkins, he has actually acquired backbone enough to propose to me. I am sure your mother was at the bottom of it. The winter bids fair to be a hard one for American artists in Paris, so I have decided that it would be wise to economize in rent. Therefore, I have consented to share a studio with Polly. Your mother is at the bottom of this move, too. Of course we have got to live, and two can live together more cheaply than they can separately. Economy of rent and fuel and light is to be considered, to say nothing of the fact that it is an impossibility to make one cup of tea or coffee. I always have a lot left in the pot and Polly might just as well have it as not. All these reasons to explain why I have said "Yes"! Mrs. Pace bought her own portrait and has been the means of another order for poor Polly. She has also arranged to have him give some talks at her pension on the new movement in Art. Polly is quite spunked up and has actually had his hair cut. The portrait of Mrs. Pace is on the whole rather interesting. I have to confess that the Cubist way of looking at her was the only way to do her justice. I think Polly was rather remarkable to see the possibilities in her. We miss you more than I can tell you. Rue Brea seemed very lonesome at first and it took us several days to get back in our ruts. I see a lot of your splendid young brother. I think he has been a good influence for Polly, too. He seemed to take Polly seriously and that always does a fellow good. Pierce Kinsella is doing a wonderful portrait of your mother. It will be a sure Salon success and I bet anything will get a Mention. It has some of the qualities of Whistler's Mother. I think Pierce is one of the coming giants. As you know by experience how difficult it is for foreigners to be married in Paris, I need not tell you of the trouble we are having to get all of my certificates from California. Polly and I can't begin our economies for several weeks yet. I should not be astonished if by that time my hair will be long enough to tuck up. Another one of your mother's touches—I'm letting it grow. Regards to the man, most blessed on earth. Your friend, Jo Bill. |
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