My landlady does her own washing, 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 bump 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 Saturday, 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.
The Black Hills,
September 20.
Dearest Lorna: