“It occurs to me, I never wrote to you before. You may not like me on paper. I sprawl and ramble, Dearest. Don’t mind my doodling either—see the border I drew around your true name while I daydreamed and my pen was thinking for me? I’m only surprised it wasn’t a tangle of Cupids, an out-of-season Valentine, and maybe it will be yet. In my here-and-now mood I would draw them saucy, I think (most of them), strutting and romping and showing off their little male apostrophes—all, I suppose, with a sneaking resemblance to you. Because I love you.
“No, don’t say it’s reckless and foolish of me to write at all—I know it. I can’t care, not now. I tell you, Jimmy, what we have (is it possible it’s only ten days?) is something that could not happen with Ann. Or anywhere in her world. I tell myself, I am not she, she is not me, my love (you know it) is nothing like what could happen for you with anyone but me. And there’s my cure for jealousy—if I could apply it, if I could make my head rule me a little more, my crazy heart a little less. I want you, I’m empty and dull in your absence, tonight this is the only way I can talk to you. So let me talk, and think me foolish and reckless, and destroy this scrawled thing if you think best. It’s me, though. Remember when you throw it away, it’s me. And perhaps (because I love you) I wouldn’t like you to burn me.
“More than you have already.
“Yes, I will type the envelope and mark it PERSONAL, lest the chaste eyes of Miss Anderson be stricken unto confusion and dismay. Damn ’em, why hasn’t the Postoffice a Bureau of Hollow Oaks? Ooh—now I think of it, there is—not an oak, but a big maple with a hole in the trunk about seven feet above ground, on the path between your house and Mother’s, near the pond. I saw a squirrel in residence there last year, stuck his head out and told me with the usual fuss that it was his’n. No good, I guess, because he’s probably still there, and would think poorly of anyone dropping a letter into his living-room. He’d eat it or use it for nest-lining. That’s how Nature is, you know, not a bit cooperative with the frills of romance, only with the essentials—but there, how cooperative indeed! As if, so far as Nature cares, every atom, every motion of life were aimed at nothing but the mounting of female by male and the begetting of young. Well, it comes to me that you with your long legs could reach that hole in the maple, though I’d have to stand on something. It comes to me that a letter could be squirrel-proofed in a metal box. Let us reflect on this.”
Members of the jury, I might say in passing that because of this mention in the letter, the maple tree in question was examined. It does have a hole in it, nearer eight feet above ground than seven. Nothing was found there except an abandoned squirrel’s nest; no sign of any previous disturbance by a human agency. [Laughter by the defendant.] I see Miss Blake is amused, which is her privilege I suppose. [Disturbance at rear of room, a man (James Doherty) leaving his seat for the exit; Mr. Hunter waiting for quiet.] The letter resumes:
“I love you as a sleeping seed in the earth must love the rains of spring, blindly, thoughtlessly, responding because it must—the shell breaks underground from the inward pressure, the outer warmth and fertile moisture. Shall I one day become a flower for you and know the sun? I am still in the dark, and rather blind, and yet happy to be living. You my awakener, it seems to me you’re finding no such happiness. Am I too much for you, Jimmy? Too weird and different? Poor Jimmy, did you want only that May-day moment, and then discover the dryad had caught you fast and would not let go? There are thorns in my branches, I suppose. I never wanted them to wound. Oh, I must write no more like this, or I’ll be needing you too much to sleep.
“Don’t look distressed, as you did last night, and ask me, what are we to do? I don’t know yet, Jimmy. There’s an answer and we’ll find it somehow. Likely it will be you that finds it, and not myself. I don’t know. Maybe I’d never try to tell you what to do, even if I were inwardly certain what was best. May-day, it seemed ridiculous to me that anything about this could be a solemn Problem—no more a problem than the romping of animals. It is, of course—I merely had to shove that aside (without regrets) for the sake of May-day. It is, and I—(here comes a truth, my darling, that may be unwelcome or distressing; if it is, just set it down to my weirdness and forgive me for it)—I am, in many important ways, a much more civilized human creature than you. So civilized—so wide a gap between the cool life of the mind and the violence of that primitive part which never grows civilized in anyone—that I can never hope to explain myself, or be anything but a stranger to the easy routines of existence. My mind looks down on both of us, Jimmy, sees well enough that we are foolish lovers running into the jungle blind—(running, I will not say driven)—and inviting disaster in everything we do. But if now I only glimpsed you or heard your voice—why, away with all thought, the self you roused up on our May-day would be mad for you, throw away all sober knowledge, bite your throat, dance like a maynad and burn your flesh in a blaze of love.”
DEFENDANT: The word is “maenad,” if it matters.
MR. HUNTER: I stand corrected, I suppose. May it please the Court, my understanding was that any interruption of this reading would be made by counsel, in an orderly manner, not by the accused who is not at present under oath.
JUDGE MANN: It must be so ordered. I hope you understand the legal necessity, Miss Blake. If any other point comes up, please draw your counsel’s attention and let him deal with it. That is the method required of us here. Incidentally, if anything during this reading makes it desirable for you to confer at any length with Mr. Warner, a short recess can always be requested, and the Court stands ready to allow it. Go ahead, Mr. Hunter.
MR. HUNTER: Well, the first letter is nearly finished. It concludes with these words:
“Understand, Jimmy, that I fit no pattern. No one can own me, no one can make me over. I was born a heretic and so live. No one can catch me except if I will.
“I love you.
“Callista.”
The second letter, also from Callista Blake to James Doherty, bears no date except Thursday, but it is in an envelope marked PERSONAL, addressed in typing to Mr. Doherty at his office at Judd and Doherty, 12 Somerset Street, Winchester. The postmark on this envelope is June 18th. It reads as follows:
“Dear—
“More than a month ago I wrote you a letter, and I remember that although you didn’t say so, you weren’t exactly pleased at my doing it. So I am reckless, but look, love, the heavens didn’t fall, the grass is still green and soft (as we should know) and so here I go again, because I want to take advantage of an evening when I seem to be fairly clear-headed, or as near it as I ever am. Anyway, darling, you told me Miss Anderson is out with a cold, so this is sure to pass through no hands but yours, isn’t it?
“Jimmy, I can almost wish that Ann did know. Don’t blow your top—caution will prevail. I’m just wishing. The fact of secrecy I don’t particularly mind—what business of anyone else is it that I love you? I don’t care about parading you before the world in a proper woman’s look-what-I-caught manner—that’s nothing, to me there’s even a kind of indecency in public possessiveness. But I do mind the limitations and humiliations of secrecy, the haunting by social fears, enforced furtiveness—can’t go alone into a restaurant with you, where some friend of yours and Ann’s might notice you together with that screwball broad with the limp. That I hate. It’s a spoiling thing. I wonder more and more whether we are big enough to stand much more of it. And yet if you tire of me, or if the dreary social pressure forces you away from me—I swear the world’s turning into one big God-damned suburb—I don’t know what will happen to me. I don’t know if I’m big enough to take it. I suppose I am. I just don’t know.
“Please tell me: is your own religious feeling so strong that you do actually feel sinful when you’re with me? I hardly dared write that. Do you realize how badly you hedged when I asked you almost the same thing two nights ago? I wasn’t asking about Ann’s vie
ws, blast you—I know she’d condemn the whole thing without a moment’s pause for thought—I wanted to find out how it was with you, but all you could talk about was how Ann would feel. Well, I picked the wrong time of course. A real feminine trick, to cross-examine you with your head on my breast and only a few minutes after the little death. Bitchy of me, I suppose I was going by instinct, and when I do that, bitchy is my middle name. But see, dear, everything’s calm now, I’m not whispering in your ear, I’m only fumbling for words on paper. I suppose you do know, don’t you, that if you had to be free of me I would let you go? The dryad’s thorns would scratch some—that I couldn’t help, couldn’t help your bleeding a bit—but they couldn’t hold you, and would not. I don’t want you as a prisoner. You are already a prisoner, and I wish I might set you free.
MR. WARNER: I will call the jury’s attention to the fact that there is no actual break in the letter at the point where Mr. Hunter stopped reading. The thought there is incomplete, and Miss Blake went on to complete it in the same paragraph.
MR. HUNTER: I will call the jury’s attention to the fact that I have been reading a rather difficult handwriting for several minutes, and am slightly hoarse. I would also point out that it is the end of a page, and the indentation at the beginning of the next page looks to me very much like the beginning of a paragraph.
MR. WARNER: Mr. District Attorney, you must have noticed that Miss Blake’s writing does not make a very precise left-hand margin, but the paragraph indentations are characteristically quite deep.
MR. HUNTER: Very well—I don’t want to argue a point like this—it’s all one paragraph if you like. May I continue?
MR. WARNER: By all means, finish the paragraph.
MR. HUNTER (reading):
“…No, I don’t hate Ann, I was not thinking only of Ann when I wrote that.
“Another thing, by the way, that I hardly dared to write.
“Jimmy, I need to know: if Ann would allow a separation, and if we went somewhere—no matter where, so it’s a long way off—would you be mentally, emotionally able to live with me? Look into yourself. Tell me, if you can, what would happen inside you, supposing the situation was like that. Make it far away—Arizona, Tahiti, island of Capri, who cares?—and I am with you, in your bed at night and with you in all the long bright days. Would you see me still as a human woman who loves you and who would be happy to bear you children?—that could be, you know; a doctor assured me of it a couple of years ago, the little deformity is no obstacle. Or would I become the whore who ‘led you astray’ and ‘wrecked your life’?
“You know, Jimmy, it hasn’t seemed to me (but I could be so damned wrong!) that religion goes very deep with you. Isn’t it mostly a matter of being brought up in a certain way that automatically shuts out other views without seriously examining them? I’m trying to suggest that unlike Ann, you’re really not embedded in religion like a fly in amber. I’ve made no secret of my own agnosticism with you—wouldn’t have occurred to me to do so—and that hasn’t appeared to trouble you particularly. You do shy away, you don’t like the topic, I suppose you feel the way so many people do nowadays, that religion is all right but talking about it is not quite nice. But I can’t imagine that you condemn me in your heart (do you?) for relying on my own reason, being unafraid of doubt, interested in proof, critical of all self-appointed authority?
“So I’ll even dare ask you: just where is the mercy, the rationale, the loving-kindness, in an ethical-religious system that makes me a whore bound for hell because I love you and welcome intercourse with you and want to live with you?
“I want to see you tomorrow, Jimmy. You spoke of having to work late because of Miss Anderson’s being out sick—may I come there in the evening, just to see you for a few minutes? I’ll be well-behaved (I hope). There are one or two other things—things even I don’t care to scrawl on paper. If you call and say I mustn’t come, of course I won’t, but—please?
“For the first time in our experience I shall be listening for the phone and hoping you don’t call. ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways’—I can’t, I can’t.
“Callista.”
The third letter, members of the jury, is again from Callista Blake to James Doherty. It is dated June 25th, just a week later than the one I last read, and was addressed, like the other two, to Mr. Doherty at his office. It reads as follows:
“Jimmy—
“Didn’t you say you would call me Monday evening? What happened? I remember you said you would be tied up over the week end—if only my silly hungry arms had been the rope to tie you!—well, so I counted the hours to Monday evening, and glued myself to the phone, but no Jimmy. I know I mustn’t call your house—you needn’t have reminded me of that, last Friday! Tuesday, though, I did try to call you at the office—I’m sorry, Jimmy, I know you didn’t want me to, but I was miserable, I had to try to reach you somehow—but you were out, anyway Mr. Judd answered the phone and said you were, and he sounded so chilly—am I a black cat across his path or something?—I didn’t know he disliked me. What’s happening, Jimmy? Could be purely my nerved-up imagination. But all week, no Jimmy. Couldn’t you at least have got as far as a phone booth? Oh hell, I’m writing like a sniveling brat.
“Lately I’ve been having too many morbid thoughts. I know I behaved badly Friday evening—you didn’t want anything to get started, and I had to act like a whining bitch in heat. You should know there’s more to me than that—I guess you do, I guess you do. Well, since that evening I’ve now and then thought of us—I even dreamed something of the kind—as if we were no wiser than a pair of kids slipping out behind the barn to study the difference between a boy and a girl—with peevish grown-ups likely to come around the corner of the building any minute. I’ve lost some of the dream—I think we did get caught and stood there frozen waiting for the wrath. Only the boy in the dream wasn’t quite you. Be jealous, damn you.
“Are we so terribly far apart? I’m beginning to understand there’s plenty about me you don’t even like. It’s not strange. Didn’t I tell you at the start, or try to, that I’m not easy to get along with? I often have a bad enough time trying to get along with myself. But Jimmy, Dearest, all people are far apart in a lot of important ways. No exceptions. And all people have elements in common too, things they can share, use to bridge the gulf between self and self, if they only knew it. Don’t you think we have enough in common so that if we both tried hard and honestly and lovingly, we could live happily together?
“I know, I know—I wrote that as if I were assuming that Ann would set you free. Oh, I like you and don’t like you, for not wanting to talk about her with me. Like you for it because I know it’s loyalty, you’re trying to be fair to her, spare her pain, you still love her in many ways—and somehow I know about all of them, and respect every one of them whether you believe that or not. And dislike it, it hurts, because—well, because I happen to be the one under the gun, Jimmy, and I keep thinking if I knew more about her I might see my own way better. I love you in ways she never imagined, couldn’t imagine. She’s not a passionate woman, Jimmy—as I don’t suppose you need to be told. She’s sweet, possessive, domestic, good to you so far as she knows how to be, loves you in her fashion so long as you conform to what she wants you to be. Undoubtedly it troubles her that you haven’t happened to have children yet. Loves you in her fashion—oh, Jimmy, to my thinking, and I’m not a fool, loving an image of what you’d like another per son to be, that’s not love at all, just self-love and arrogance.
“Am I doing it too? Am I in love with what I wish you were? I mustn’t always shy away from that thought—I’ll have to look at it straight some time, can’t now somehow, not now, not now. I don’t think it’s true. Anyway I will assure you, pretty Ann never woke up at night whimpering your name and tasting blood on her lip.
“There’s no solution that won’t hurt somebody. I’
m selfish too—like you, like Ann if she knew and understood, I don’t want to be hurt any more than I have been. I don’t hate Ann, I don’t want to hate her. I don’t want anything except to get away somewhere with you—are we savages to be held in line by magic words mumbled in the mouth of a priest?—because I love you best and need you.
“Silence is the cruelest of a coward’s weapons. It’s not like you to use it against me. Please write, or call me. Please come to me.
“Callista.”
The fourth letter is typed, dated July 5th, 1959, and signed only with a typed capital J. You remember yesterday Mr. Lamson testified that James Doherty himself, as well as Miss Blake, acknowledged his authorship of this letter. It reads:
“Dear Callista:
“I meant to write to you sooner, but have been very busy, so am afraid the time has slipped by, besides I do not know just how to say what I ought to, except that we must relinquish the prospect we have discussed and that you mention in your letter, as it would not work out for the best but am afraid would have bad consequences to all concerned. I consider myself very much to blame having given you a wrong idea of the situation, although that certainly was not my intention. I think all we can do is try to forget about it, because that is what we must do, unless the situation changes some time. I am sorry to have to say it as you may feel disappointed and that I have let you down, as a matter of fact I feel that myself, am afraid I may have treated you rather badly letting you take things for granted when I ought not to have done so, although that was not my intention, and am very sorry if it is so. I feel you are not to blame in any way but I am, I know, and the only thing we can do is sort of forget the whole thing and hope you can forgive me for letting you down.
The Edgar Pangborn Megapack Page 54