by Rona Altrows
Your Lauro was a modern hero of sorts. I have learned about his work with the Alleanza Nazionale, his labours as a translator and of course, his poetry. Naturally I read about his fateful flight over Rome in October of ’31, delivering anti-fascist pamphlets—the flight from which he never returned. I read in the newspaper and cried with all the world a few days later over the testament he had left, “The Story of My Death.” Is it true you translated it from the Italian? That must have been so difficult for you emotionally. And you have done so much to keep his memory alive. I have read your translation of his greatest work, the long poem Icaro. But Lauro was an extraordinary man, Miss Draper, as you are an extraordinary woman. I am ordinary; Damien, in the eyes of all but me, perhaps, was ordinary.
Yet, perhaps his stories did set Damien apart from the mass of men. Oh, they are good. I feel immersed in the scene as I read them.
We knew his condition could be fatal and in his will, along with a generous lump sum, he bequeathed all his notebooks to me. I knew that gift was coming; we had discussed it. He had told me he did not expect me to do anything with the notebooks; he simply did not have the heart to have them thrown out. There are many notebooks, filled with stories written over a twelve-year period. It makes me sad to think that perhaps nobody else will ever read Damien’s literary pearls. Perhaps I could put together a small collection of some kind and show it to a publisher. I have no idea how one goes about doing something like that. Can you advise me?
Or perhaps I am being foolish. Thinking about the notebook stories may just be another way to dwell on the past. It may be best for me to store away the notebooks and get on with life. Damien would not want me to be melancholy.
Whatever your advice, brava for your artistry. And thank you for taking the time to listen to a woman who, like you, has lost the love of her life.
Yours in admiration,
Amy Piperdale
TO RABINDRANATH TAGORE FROM ANAPURNA TURKHUD
January 19, 1879
Bombay, India
Dear Rabi,
Are you enjoying your first English winter? I hope you have secured a stout woolen topcoat as I suggested.
My family is also about to embark on a trip, but from west to east rather than the reverse—we leave shortly for Calcutta. It is not sure yet whether both my sisters will take the journey. Manik has a strong sense of adventure and wants to come, but Durga has asked my father if she can stay behind. “Baba,” she told him, “I want to concentrate on my studies.” Baba does not like to deny any of his daughters a reasonable request, so I think it likely only he and Manik and I will travel on this occasion.
Baba has arranged that while we are in the region, he will meet with your father at Jorasanko, and raise the subject of you and me—our possible future. Will your father be receptive to my father’s proposition? Baba tries to prepare me for disappointment; he feels the Maharshi Debendranath Tagore may not be amenable. But I am more optimistic.
Away from you, my solace is that you are now where I spent several years of my own schooling, so I can see you, in my mind’s eye, exploring central London or walking along the pebbled beach of Brighton. At the same time, Poet, I yearn for your return to India. Mentally I create, over and over, an ideal day with you here in Bombay. It is so like a typical day during the time your stay with us last year.
May I make a revelation to you? For the entire three months you were here, I wrote in a tablet every night before sleep. My words sometimes leaned toward the philosophical but often they were personal. Of course I wrote of you. Today, when my father was away, I put the tablet on his desk in his study, in the hope he will read at least some of my entries. My wish is to strengthen his resolve when he talks to the Maharshi Tagore.
My father’s fear that his mission will fail stems mainly from the fact our family does not belong to Brahmo Samaj. Particularly because your father has been a leader in the revival of the Samaj, my father is afraid the barrier may be insurmountable. I, however, must continue to aspire to a life with you; else I will become despondent.
I have always considered myself a fortunate girl. How rare it is in our country for a father to insist upon the education of all his daughters, to send them all to England to broaden their cultural horizons, to encourage the development of their intellectual lives. Manik wishes to become a doctor; I wish to become a writer; Durga continues to search for the path of her choice. At every turn, Baba encourages us to pursue our studies and our dreams.
This year, I have been feeling particularly lucky, since Baba and your older brother Satyendranath are such good friends. I will always be grateful to Satyendranath for suggesting you come and stay with our family for a little while, as a stepping-stone to your travels abroad. I hope you feel you learned a little about how the English live, from the stories we told you. Certainly by the time you left your conversational English had improved greatly. You learn so quickly.
Why cannot our country be such that people may marry whom they wish, without considerations of sub-caste, family standing, religious inclination? My father has assured me he will tell your father he is sympathetic to many of Brahmo ideals, rooted as the Brahmo Sanjab is in the belief in only one god and, indeed, in the acceptance of religious pluralism. “But since that is so, Baba, won’t the Maharshi be well-disposed to your request, and let the poet and me have our happiness?” I asked. “Not necessarily,” he told me. “Tradition pulls hard.”
Regardless of what the future holds, I am certain of one thing. When I have written essays good enough to publish, I will go by the author name Nalini—the name you have given me and have woven into your songs.
Farewell until the next time, Poet.
Your devoted Nalini
p.s. In a nightmare, I married a dour Scot and moved to Edinburgh, where my life was porridge grey.
KIN
They assuage your pain, tear you up, keep you whole.
You want the best for them, you say. You know what that means, you think.
They’ve got you.
AJ
TO HER SISTER HENDRIKA FROM HELENA JANS
Deventer
United Provinces of the Free Netherlands
Thursday, August 9, 1635
Dear Drika,
It is official. You are now an aunt. Luck was with me and the birth was not too difficult. Rener and I had the little one baptized on Tuesday. Her name is Francine. Francine Descartes, a fine name. What luck you and I have to live in the United Provinces, where the laws make sense. If Francine had been born in France, where Rener comes from, she would not be legitimate, merely because her parents are not married. Also, Rener says in his native country a mother does not give her newborn the breast. Instead the family hires a wetnurse. What a cold custom. Those French don’t seem to understand too much. So why do they think they are smarter than us Dutch? But Rener is not like that. Every day he thanks me for my work. (I am still employed as a servant in the lodgings where he boards.) He talks to me about his writings, for he says I have a natural intelligence. We are so lucky, you and I, that our father taught us to read and write.
Rener says he and I will have equal say about Francine’s future. But already he speaks of having her educated in Paris. In France she will learn more, he says. I am not so certain. What do you think? As you are my older, wiser sister, I would much value your opinion.
All my love
Helena
TO RENÉ DESCARTES FROM HELENA JANS
Santpoort
United Provinces
Saturday, September 1, 1640
Dearest Rener,
Please, you must return home at once. Our Francine has taken ill. At first she was only tired and I thought it was not serious. Then her throat got sore. Spots came up on her chest and neck. Now the rash reaches everywhere, even into her armpits. Her whole small body is an angry red, save around her mouth, where her skin has
turned ghostly white. What worries me most is the fierce fever that refuses to leave her. I have brought in a physician and like me, he is mainly concerned about the fever. I had heard that bloodletting from the vein above the thumb can be good against fevers but the doctor has counselled me against all bloodletting from any part of her body. He says it may actually increase the fever. She is not to eat any animal food nor take cordials. He will not purge Francine, although he says when she has fewer symptoms he may treat her with a mild laxative. He says these are modern ideas of the English doctor Sydenham and he follows Sydenham’s teachings in his own practice with some success. It is a way to achieve natural healing, he says. But I am not sure. How she suffers.
I waited a day to send word to you. Maybe this was a mistake, but I knew your meeting with your publisher in Leiden was important. In any case, I can wait no more. Come now.
I fear for our child. How can a little five-year-old defeat so big a sickness? Today, I began to feel unwell too. How will I care for our daughter if the disease strikes me?
Praying for your speedy return,
Helena
TO MARIA THERESIA HAGENAUER FROM ANNA MARIA MOZART
Munich
October 12, 1777
Dearest Maria Theresia,
I send you fondest greetings from Munich where Wolfgang and I are on the first leg of our trip. Our purpose is to make as many introductions as possible and find for him—at last—secure employment. Why it has eluded him I do not know. Because he is Leopold Mozart’s son, perhaps? Leopold dare not leave Salzburg now or he is sure to lose his assistant concertmaster position in Archbishop Colleredo’s orchestra for good, and this so soon after his reinstatement. He had already lost the job once before, through missteps. Like father, like son? I hope not, at least in that respect, but considering Wolfgang’s impetuous nature, who can say? What a terrible time I had giving birth to him and how that boy sometimes tests me still.
My apologies for not calling upon you prior to our departure on the 23rd of September. It does vex me that I failed to visit you, my friend of thirty years. How Leopold and I loved that tiny apartment we rented from you and Johann on Tanzmeisterhaus, where all our children were born—Nannerl, the five we lost, and finally our complicated little gift, Wolfgang. However brilliantly he plays and composes, Wolfgang worries me constantly, and not only because he is impossibly impulsive. He is also exceedingly innocent. Have we sheltered him too much, that he is so naïve about the ways of the world? I have seen much more of that side of him lately in our visits with Josef Myslevecek.
You may remember our speaking of Josef Myslevecek, the Bohemian-born composer Wolfgang and Leopold met in Bologna seven years ago, when they stayed at the same inn. He has been such a champion of Wolfgang, talking about him everywhere, and trying to secure engagements for him, and Wolfgang says he has learned much about writing opera and string quintets from his older friend. Now Myslevecek is in hospital here in Munich receiving treatment for an unnamed illness. Leopold had heard that Myslevecek was disfigured, and suspecting a vile sickness, advised Wolfgang not to visit, but Wolfgang did anyway, and was much upset by his friend’s unfortunate condition. Yesterday, planning a second visit to his ill friend, Wolfgang asked if I would come along, and I was happy to do so.
What a pleasant man and how we talked, Myslevecek and I, as though we had known each other forever. I could see, despite the hideous deformation of his nose, upon which surgery had been performed, that he had been, in better times, a handsome man. Apart from their musical affinity I can understand why he and Wolfgang get along so well, for even in his weakened state he is animated and delightful to speak to. He told me how he missed his identical twin brother, Jachym, who had taken up the family business of milling (something Josef himself had also learned to do, reaching the status of master miller) and was still living near Prague. The brothers had always been close; they had even attended Charles-Ferdinand University and studied philosophy together. But in the end, Josef’s passion for music won out. He simply had to go off to compose. That is what prompted his move to Italy, where he has been living for the past eleven years or so. Still, he told me, he thinks of his brother every day. I told him how much I could feel his longing, as I was so close to my sister Maria Rosina, who was just a year older than I. We lived in the quiet village of St. Gilgen, and played together constantly. We endured the death of our father together, when she was five and I four, and she and my mother and I were obliged to move to Salzburg, such a confusingly large place compared to our small place of origin. We did not have much to spare, with my mother having only a tiny pension to support us, and Maria Rosina and I stuck together through everything, as closely as identical twins. When I was eight, I lost my beautiful sister, and now at fifty-seven, I still miss her. All this I told Myslevecek.
He said, “Ah, how well you understand,” and he took my hand, and he and Wolfgang and I sat in silence for a few moments. Later Wolfgang told me he had been thinking of Nannerl in those moments, missing his sister fiercely.
Myslevecek said he had taken a fall from a carriage and fallen on his nose, hence requiring the surgery. I believe he was sparing innocent Wolfgang’s feelings; I recognized it was syphilis and thought no worse of Myslevecek for it. He made no secret of his freedom-loving life. He has always worked on commissions, never for an employer. And it is no secret that he has lived a free life in love as well, for which now, regrettably, he suffers.
From here we plan to travel briefly to Augsburg, and then it will be on to Mannheim, where Wolfgang hopes to convince the Elector to hire him as a musician in his court. Otherwise, we will go on to Paris, where we have many contacts, and seek opportunities for Wolfgang there.
It is quite the life, travelling around like this with Wolfgang—so different from the quiet of Salzburg. I love the excitement. Yet, I wish our family would travel all together now as we did when Nannerl and Wolfgang were children and we toured Europe showing them both off. It still bothers me that as they got older, Nannerl and I were left at home while Leopold took Wolfgang all over creation. Three trips to Italy and Nannerl and I did not get to go even once! Oh, how she pleaded with her father but you know how stubborn Leopold can be…there was no swaying him.
Farewell, for now. I embrace you as a sister and remain your devoted friend,
Anna Maria Mozart
TO HIS MOTHER FROM GENERAL JAMES WOLFE
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
—Thomas Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”
Banks of the St. Lawrence, 31 August, 1759
Dear Madam,—
Mr. Pitt chose the right man for this mission. Although he dislikes me and has said he suspects me to be a madman, he knows that once set upon a purpose, I do not relent. We will have Quebec.
Regrettably, for me personally, it is almost over. If the French and Canadian vermin do not kill me, I shall soon succumb to one of my ailments. Sad attack of dysentery in July, and you know about my fight with scurvy, which left me victorious but weakened. Rheumatism continues to torment me. But what will most likely take me down is the gravel, which has worsened. When it attacks, I pass a stone and the pain makes me cry out for instant death. If not the gravel, then the consumption or intermittent fever may end my life. In a way I shall be glad of the release. No strike by an enemy can create greater suffering than the body’s assault upon itself.
I have asked the surgeons to patch me up well enough to see this campaign to its conclusion. So long as they do their duty, I shall do mine.
Our plans have been laid, in a general sense. I have acquiesced to the new strategy proposed by my three brigadiers, although two of them are villains and the third, an idiot. We shall devise a way to force the Marquis and his men away from their position and into the open, where we shall destroy them. They are greater in number but possess neither the training nor the experience of our battalions. The only fair
weather month in this wasteland is October. It was heavy rain that thwarted our last attack in July. This time we shall not fail.
The proximate reason for this letter, however, is to guard against malicious conversation about me after I die and to request that you carry out certain of my wishes. As you well know, I have long predicted an early death for myself and have speculated that I would be required to give my life for my country. At thirty-two, I have already been granted double the time poor Ned had. To think that my brother died in Flanders—and had enlisted only to be close to me—causes me more anguish than any physical ailment can inflict.
Since you are my staunchest defender, I rely on you to ensure that society does not, in the coming days and years, labour under certain misapprehensions about me.
As regards the battle of Culloden thirteen years ago, a rumour has taken hold. It is said that the Duke of Cumberland asked me to finish off a wounded Scot who was ridiculing us, and that I refused, telling his lordship that he could remove my commission if he wished, but that I would not act as an executioner. The entire incident is a fabrication. Cumberland would never conduct himself in so dishonourable a manner or put me in such a position.
Moreover, it has been said that I remarked, on a recent occasion, that I would rather have written Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Courtyard” than win Quebec. That is a lie. I am a soldier by profession, not a poet, much as I admire well-crafted verse. People hear that I have visited the court of Louis XV, and have studied Latin and mathematics, and perhaps they speculate that I would rather have had a more sedentary career. Never. We Wolfes are soldiers—my father, grandfather, uncle, brother, and I. It is true that were I to survive and return home, I would, of necessity, seek occupation more suited to an ailing person. Regrettably, however, I shall never again set foot in England. When I have gone to meet God, let no idle speculation interfere with the accurate public perception that I was, throughout my life, a military man by choice.