IX
—— Hospital,
St. Louis.
Dear Wilfred:
I came here because it was a good way off, and I wanted to make a clean break with everything.
Besides, I was attracted by the reputation of Dr. Shales, whom they call the greatest surgeon in the world; the superhuman butcher. He’s the bright, particular star of this institution. It was rather a let-down to discover that dozens of other girls from all parts of the country had had the same idea. They flock here in droves. The majority are quickly sent home with fleas in their ears. But I was accepted. I suppose you’d say, you idealist, that there was something fine in this crusade of women to serve under the banner of pure intelligence and skill. But that’s not the half of it, dearie. There’s sex in it too. But not in my case. There’s sex in everything, isn’t there, like those horrid little bugs under damp wood. You’d understand what I mean if you could hear the nurses talking amongst themselves. Our God, the doctor, is the sole topic. But not much about his intelligence and skill. Not that you’d notice! Oh well, I suppose he’s only human. If you were to believe them, he’s a monster! Thank God! I’m no idealist! I’ve got no illusions to be shattered.
My family as you may guess, kicked up a horrid clamor at the idea of my entering for training here. The poor dears! I suppose it was a shock! As usual, I was called absolutely hard, unfeeling, etc. However, they did not say the final word to prevent my coming, suspecting perhaps, an alternative even more dreadful. I didn’t tell them until my bag was packed, and I was ready to walk out of the house. Thus the scene was confined to one tempestuous half hour. I hadn’t told a soul else. Of course I have been getting letters in sheaves since I arrived. Sickening, isn’t it, how people give themselves away when they take their pens in hand? One or two of my friends wrote praising me for the step I had taken. Those letters infuriated me. I mean, that anybody should have the cheek to impute pious motives to me. I wrote deliberately insulting replies. Yet I suppose you’d call them my best friends. You don’t need to tell me that I am acting a bad part. I know it. How can I help myself? I have heard nothing from you. Perhaps you didn’t know where I was, since it has been kept out of the papers.
As a probationer they have set me to work cleaning up the diet kitchens, dispensaries, etc. I have learned to scrub. Actually! Right down on my marrow bones with brush and pail. If the Avenue could see me now! We work from seven to seven. It’s a ghastly grind, because they deliberately overwork us at first in order to weed out the weak sisters. Well, I’m strong. I can stand it, but I’m getting as gaunt as an alley cat. On my afternoons off, I dress up in my most flaunting clothes, and rouge my cheeks, and sally forth.—And then I come back again! Never let anybody persuade you that there’s any dignity in filthy labor! Nor that it conduces to serenity of mind! I wouldn’t mind if there was any use in it. Oh, God! how I hate this place! I can’t imagine why I ever came here. I can’t give it up either, after all the fuss that everybody has kicked up. The girls of my lot here have made a sort of hero out of me. They’re poor creatures. This is bad for me, because it leads me into a swagger. I’ve been in hot water more than once. I can’t stomach these head nurses, etc. Take a barren, starved woman, and give her authority over a lot of blooming, sniggering girls, and the result is hellish.
Life seems to lead us into one trap after another. You notice I blame life. I’m so damn conceited. I suppose that’s what the matter with me. In my heart I still think there’s nobody in the world quite like me. Yet I hate myself too! You shook me a little, and I can’t thank you for it. Didn’t shake me hard enough, I guess. It hasn’t done any good; it’s only made life infinitely harder. I wish I’d never met you! Of course I don’t quite mean that. Once I was happy. Lord! what rosy illusions I had about life and love and playing the game. That was my slogan: To Play the Game! I never noticed that I was apt to make the rules to fit my own desires. Now I have flopped into a sort of sink where everything is smeary. . . . I grind my teeth and snarl. I have discovered that I am cowardly, too. That’s the bitterest pill of all. For if I could, I’d shut my eyes and eat lotuses. I would! I would! I’d crawl back into my fool’s paradise on any terms, only the crystal dome is busted. I know there is no escape that way, and I can’t face the other.
Burn this Old Top, and forget me.
Yours,
Elaine.
South Washington Square.
Dear Elaine:
When I read your letter my impulse was to jump on the first train. The pull was awful! A cry for help from you! Very likely you would deny now that it was a cry for help. You carefully avoided mentioning the things that were at the back of your mind. But I could read them. Don’t worry; I’m not going to drag them into the light. Call it just a cry of pain, then. I know what the pressure must have been that forced it from your lips.
But you see I have not come; and I am not coming. From the first my better sense warned me that it would only make things worse. If I saw you I would only lose my head, and babble weak, emotional stuff that would humiliate me, and disgust you. That’s the writer’s penalty. It is my business to express vicarious feelings. When my own heart froths up I am helpless. That arouses your contempt. What you do not consider is, that at the center of all this flutter there may be a firm core, worthy of your respect. I suffer horribly from the inability to express my feelings thoughtlessly. By staying away from you, perhaps I can remain a sort of fixed point in your confused horizon. The fact that you wrote to me at such a time shows that you regard me in some such light. I must take what satisfaction I can out of the assurance that you could not have let yourself go with anybody else like that. You know these things already. The ghastly part is, that knowing them doesn’t alter the situation. All we can do is to make private signals to each other across the gulf. So I am not coming. To see you now; to have you shrink from my touch, would about finish me. I am glad you let yourself go by letter, and not in speech. I could not have endured that! If I grovelled and stammered at your feet, your last illusion, which is me, would be gone.
I tried to write you last night, but I was too much confused. I was blind. I am not the one to help you. The only way I can help you is by being baldly honest. I had to force myself to think. Do not despise the man who is forced to stop and think when his feelings are rushing him away. It is the need of my nature. It is the one thing I have to hang on to in this whirling chaos. And the feelings are not necessarily any the less genuine. At least I am never finally deceived by the sound of my own roaring.
I walked all night. I don’t know that I’m any clearer in my mind this morning because of it, but I’m dog tired. I’m beyond the point of considering what I say. I tore up half a dozen letters last night. This one has just got to go, and God help us both. Whatever I say, or do not say, it will not mend the situation. One things stands out starkly: the touch of my hand revolts you. You made that fatally clear. Therefore, I’ve got to stay away from you. What did you write to me for? I can’t help you. I’m a man, the same as that other. I can’t be your confessor. You are contemptuous of my manhood. I’m not even going to try to give you any advice. Coming from me it would sound hollow. If you did what I told you to, you would just blame me for all the pain which followed. There’s got to be pain anyway. You’ve got to make up your mind what to do, and swallow the pain; just as I’ve got to swallow my pain. We haven’t had the best of luck, either of us. Well, I won’t die of it, and neither will you. I am in a deeper hell at this moment than you will ever know. You, at least, have kept yourself taut, while I have been wallowing. With no excuse; no excuse! Your letter coming at such a moment—Oh, well, I’ve said enough. I loathe myself.
Wilfred.
It was Wilfred’s newspaper that informed him of the romantic sudden marriage in St. Louis of Miss Elaine Sturges to Mr. Joseph Kaplan, both of New York. The popular society belle (so the account ran) tiring of the empty round of gaiety, and determined to do something useful in life, had gone to St. Louis without telling any of her friends of her intention, and had quietly entered the —— Hospital as a nurse. It was rumored that family opposition to the Boy Wonder of Wall Street may have had something to do with her sudden decision. The Sturgeses were one of the proudest families in New York, whereas young Mr. Kaplan was very much the self-made man, as everybody knew.
However that might be, Mr. Kaplan had finally learned of the whereabouts of his lost lady, and applying the same downright methods that had characterized his meteoric rise to fortune, had taken the first train to St. Louis. When he called at the Hospital, he had been refused permission to see Miss Sturges, since she was on duty. Nothing daunted, he refused to leave the place until she was produced, and the authorities were forced to yield. Miss Sturges was called out of the ward. A few rapid whispered words were sufficient. All in her nurse’s uniform as she was, Mr. Kaplan bundled her into a taxicab, and they were driven to the nearest preacher. . . . And so on, and so on, for a column or more. . . . All the world loves a lover! . . . The honeymoon was being spent in Southern Pines. Later the happy pair would sail for Italy. . . .
Wilfred felt no surprise upon reading this, nor any strong emotion. He had been through that. Just a bitter sickness of heart. “So that is what it comes to!” he said to himself. Well, I suppose I may consider myself cured.