Inside the office—a hustling, optimistic young business man. For the rest of the time—a dethroned prince. Such was Carl Ericson in November, 1912, when a letter from Gertrude Cowles, which had pursued him all over America and Europe, finally caught him:
—— West 157th St.
New York.
Carl dear,—Oh such excitement, we have come to New York to live! Ray has such a good position with a big NY real estate co. & Mama & I are going to make a home for him even if it's only just a flat (but it's quite a big one & looks out on the duckiest old house that must have been adorning Harlem for heaven knows how long,) & our house has all modern conveniences, elevator & all.
Think, Carl, I'm going to study dancing at Madame Vashkowska's school—she was with the Russian ballet & really is almost as wonderful a dancer as Isadora Duncan or Pavlova. Perhaps I'll teach all these ducky new dances to children some day. I'm just terribly excited to be here, like the silliest gushiest little girl in the world. And I do hope so much you will be able to come to NY & honor us with your presence at dinner, famous aviator—our Carl & we are so proud of you—if you will still remember simple people like us do come any time. Wonder where you will be when this reaches you.
I read in the papers that your accident isn't serious but I am worried, oh Carl you must take care of yourself.
Yours as ever,
Gertie.
P.S. Mama sends her best regards, so does Ray, he has a black mustache now, we tease him about it dreadfully.
G.