Nor could Will Honeycutt or anyone else guess at the other secretive activities that nonetheless laid upon her shoulders not-insignificant demands. On some matters she knew that she had no choice but to act, to do as the journal directed. But at all times, she depended on Will Honeycutt, her partner in logistics and business. And now he was gone.
She held Will Honeycutt’s sketchbook in her hands for a long time, reexamining each exquisite page, letting the significance of each sink in, trying to absorb the pathways into the unconscious the entries represented, trying to explore the world of dreams, allowing the pages to remind her of her own vivid dreams that had visited her since the awful moment of discovering the Titanic tragedy. Then she put down Will Honeycutt’s sketchbook, replacing it in its drawer, and picked up the black-covered notebook of her own that had been sitting on her desk, unused, for months. She opened it to the first blank page, picked up a pen, and began to write, recalling not a recent dream but one that had recurred from her childhood and had stayed vivid ever since.
26
THE LADY IN WHITE
Will Honeycutt’s departure had thrown Eleanor into a darker depression than one would have expected had she been able to share it with anyone. She went about her daily routine with outward poise and calm, but inside she was filled with anxiety and doubt. At times like these, her friend Jung would say, be especially mindful of dreams.
The black college notebook found among Eleanor’s papers contains a mixture of impressions of dreams and the beginnings of dialogues, all written in pen, in her careful handwriting, notations added in pencil. A number of the descriptions are of a recurring dream of her childhood, one she was especially eager to encounter now. In her writing she introduces the detail that a woman in a long white dress, a character identified as Eleanor’s late mother, sitting on a blanket in a large expansive meadow, a picnic basket beside her, invites young Weezie to come sit beside her. The first dialogue of real substance with this figure from her dreams is dated the day after Will Honeycutt’s departure, and obviously inspired by Will’s elaborate renderings of his own dreams. From her notes and stage directions added in pencil, it is possible to reconstruct the scene with a good deal of completeness.
“I don’t know what to say,” the grown Eleanor says, approaching the figure in white. “I am pleased and surprised that you have appeared in my dreams. Now, I hope that we may talk.”
“Of course, you may talk to me,” the lady in white says. “That is how things work. That is what I am here for.”
“I am new at this, and I don’t know where to begin. Are you real, or are you part of my imaginings?”
“I am both. I am both new information and what you already know, but are not aware that you know.”
“Do we begin with Vienna?” Eleanor says.
“That is a good place to start.”
“There is much I wish to say about Vienna. There is the journal.”
“But for now, mustn’t we concern ourselves with your present state of mind? I can see from your appearance that you have gone without sleep, and you have been distracted by the departure of your friend Mr. Honeycutt.”
“His leaving has upended my world. I have grown to depend on him to make the assigned tasks less onerous. And facing his departure leaves me alone again.”
“Reminding you of other losses.”
“That is so,” Eleanor says, amazed at how naturally the woman speaks of great loss.
“Do you know why he left?”
“Yes, he said I was too attentive to Arnauld Esterhazy. But I do not believe that I was. Mr. Honeycutt is a bit impulsive. He has projected much onto me, and that makes him vulnerable, beyond his own understanding. He was perhaps more in need of my attention than I knew. And when I could not meet his unrealistic demands, he overreacted and left.”
“My, that is a predicament,” the woman says.
“There is little I can do except be aware of his deficiencies.”
“But still his hasty departure leaves you in a state of seeming desperation.”
“You say ‘seeming,’” Eleanor says. “To me it appears as real desperation.”
“You are strong, my dear, like your mother and your father.”
“I have learned about my father,” Eleanor says, as if it is a revelation.
The woman smiles knowingly, without being ruffled. “You are strong like him. That is the gift. You now know, and you will always know, you are strong like him.”
“That is what you have come to tell me?”
“You have always had great power within, even when you were a little girl and suffered the greatest loss. You will manage now, and you will find help as needed.”
“But what of the journal?” Eleanor asks. “What of the need to have Will Honeycutt as my colleague years from now? That is what is foretold.”
“You need to have faith. I know that you believe that your actions are necessary, and they are, but meanwhile things will evolve as they should. That is my main message to you.”
“I do not always have that faith.”
“That, my dear, is completely natural,” the woman in white says. “You have not failed yet, have you? All has worked out, has it not? You face a dilemma that you can manage.” She laughs gently. “It is as if you are at bicycle pedals, and someone has attached an electrical generator.”
Now Eleanor laughs. “That sounds like something Will would devise. As I pedal, the energy is supplied for what needs to happen.”
“That is correct, my dear. You see, you are very wise in the ways of the world.”
“And I must keep pedaling or nothing will happen, even if it seems hopeless, as it does right now?”
“That is correct. You must keep going, and if you keep going, everything will happen as it should. It is a combination.”
“Free will and destiny.”
The woman looks for a long moment. “Oh my, you sound like your father.”
“You are here to tell me that, aren’t you?”
“Oh, my dear, I am here to show you what you already know. You are the one who will do the work. You are the strong one. I am only the helper.”
“And that is for always?”
“Always, of course. It is purely the nature of things.” She smiles. “Now, go home to Frank and your girls. They love you and need you. Go home and, for goodness’ sake, get some sleep.”
“And keep pedaling,” Eleanor says.
“And keep pedaling.” The woman in white stops for a moment to admire her daughter, and smiles again at what she sees. “You do it so well.”
And that is the end of the dialogue.
27
A HIGHER CALLING
She sat at her desk and tried not to notice Will Honeycutt’s empty desk on the other side of the room. But soon even her best intentions did no good, and she turned and stared at the empty space where his stack of books used to sit.
Suddenly, she was back running the old questions through her head. What had caused the precipitous eruption to a situation—not without its problems, granted—that seemed to have weathered all the storms and remained stable for so long? Was it something she had said or done? Could it have been avoided or was it inevitable? Did he really mean to give up his position to his cousin in Chicago? Was the other Honeycutt, the serious and businesslike T. Williams, really the one for the job in the first place and the gods or fates or whoever was controlling this whole thing simply making it possible to insert the right man? Was it all in fact just pure jealousy of the special place Arnauld Esterhazy held in all of her dealings? Was that it?
She began to wonder how she would ever get in touch with the second Will Honeycutt, and she was just about ready to find a Chicago telephone directory, when she heard the key in the lock and the door swung open.
Standing before her was someone who looked vaguely like her young, energetic colleague Will Honeycutt, only this apparition had deep shadows under his reddened eyes, and he had not shaved for a day or two. He
did not see her at first.
“Oh,” he said, looking up with surprise. “I didn’t think you would be here so early.”
The distraught look on his face warded off any rush of relief she might have felt by seeing him. “I have been away,” she said. “I had to come early.”
“I forgot something,” he said. “I returned for it.”
“Your sketchbook,” she said. “It is in the drawer where you left it.”
“You saw it?” he said with apprehension.
“I did,” she said without apology, as if anything left behind was fair game. “I know it is private, but I did see it, and I am very touched and impressed by it.”
“It is my dreams,” he said apologetically now. “My dialogues.”
“I know. They are beautiful and complex and profound. I had no idea that you were such an artist.”
“You do not think it the work of a madman?”
“I do not. I think it is the work of a man who has had very profound encounters with his unconscious mind.”
Will Honeycutt looked down and said nothing. “I came back for the sketchbook, but there is more.”
“What, Will?” she said in little more than a whisper.
“I look awful,” he said. “It happens when I don’t sleep or eat or even go home for two days.”
She wanted to go to him, to hold him in her embrace for a long time, but she stayed in her chair without moving, holding her ground. She read the look of total resignation on his face and barely needed to say, “What is it?”
“There is a change,” he said quietly.
For a moment she continued trying to read the face of this young man she had come to know, she thought, so well. “Does this mean by chance that you are not going to New York with Jesse Livermore?” she said, cutting through the layers.
“No New York,” he said, now fighting for breath. “I have had a terrible time, wrestling with demons, I guess you would say. I know why I reacted as I did, and I am not proud of it. In fact, I fear I have been very dreadfully immature. I am ashamed—”
She cut him off. “Did you consult your Democritus about this?”
The question, intended lightly perhaps, caught Will Honeycutt by surprise. He did not look at her, trying to hide what looked from the outside like embarrassment. Eleanor was stepping over a line in asking the question. “No,” he said suddenly, looking into her eyes and finding no sign of anything but respect. “William James.”
“Oh my, Will, I think you had better sit down.” She gestured toward the chair at his former desk and smiled in a concerned way that erased all doubt.
Reading the smile, Will Honeycutt walked to the desk chair and sat, issuing a huge sigh of relief. Then he looked back to her. “He appeared in my dream last night, and I entered a dialogue—” He stopped, seeing the stunned look on her face. “I mean I began writing, and he spoke to me. It was a great relief.”
“And…,” she said hesitantly. “And what did Dr. James say?” There was now a hush in the room.
“He said that I most definitely needed to stay with you,” he began, feeling his way cautiously, “that you needed me, that you were answering to a higher calling, one I could not understand. And that I had a role to play.”
Eleanor looked at him with a reverence in her eyes. “And what is that higher calling?”
“I do not know. He would not say. He just said that it was beyond my knowing, and that I needed to return to your cause and to serve without question. He said that you had spent enormous effort bringing about the work we do here and getting Arnauld to come to Boston, and now it was of ultimate importance that he wish to stay, and that I could be of service in that cause. He said it needed to be for me a holy mission and that I should put aside any petty concerns of my own.”
“Oh my,” Eleanor said, and then was silent for a moment.
“And he said more,” Will Honeycutt continued, still cautious.
“Yes?” she said again, in little more than a whisper.
“He said that I would have an important part to play in the story later, and that I needed to be patient and not expect to understand, to stop being so demanding.”
She remained silent for a long time, looking away, but feeling his eyes on her. “Oh my,” she repeated, shaking her head slowly. “That is very much to consider, isn’t it?” Slowly, she looked up, collecting herself, and a gentle smile came to her lips. “Does this mean that you will be moving your things back into the desk?”
“If I am allowed.”
“I would be greatly honored,” she said.
“Then it will be so. I have informed Jesse Livermore.”
“Honored and relieved,” she added. “More than words can express, actually.”
Will Honeycutt looked down at his feet. “I am too,” he said. “Actually.”
She said nothing for a long moment. “I should have been more attentive—” she began softly.
“None of that is important now,” he said abruptly, cutting her off. “I know my role now.” Then upon thought, he added, “I am certain of it.”
“Can you live with what is?”
“I can,” he said, his eyes downcast.
She looked at him until his eyes met hers. “Do you have any idea how important you are to me?”
Will Honeycutt said nothing. “Perhaps,” came out finally. He was looking down, giving the matter thought. “Yes,” he said, gaining conviction. “Yes, I think I do.” Then he added, “William James has told me.”
She paused and stared again. “Good,” she said with her famous well that settles that certitude, and then rose and moved back toward the office cupboard. “Here,” she said, opening the cupboard door and removing a cardboard box. “There is something I wish to show you.”
The box was sealed with paper tape, and she opened it with a pair of scissors from her own desk. He watched, without moving, as she withdrew from the packing material a pair of crystal glasses. “I requisitioned these, I believe they say in the military.”
“From the New York hotel,” he said with a smile, “ten years ago.”
Eleanor nodded. “I packed them away in this special box.” She placed the two glasses on the table and then dug further into the packing. She withdrew a bottle of red wine. The label was familiar to both of them, the now-twenty-year-old bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild. “Will you sit down?” she said.
There was a plan for contingencies on Acorn Street, one rarely employed, but put in place if Eleanor needed to stay overly long at a meeting, and Rose knew exactly what to do. For once the needs of her family were not foremost in Eleanor’s mind in this late afternoon; in fact, they were far from foremost in her mind. “Do you recognize the wine?” she said calmly to the disheveled man in front of her.
“How could I not?” he replied.
“I have been saving these for the right occasion,” she said. Her smile was warm and gentle. “I believe we have arrived at that occasion.”
The disheveled Will Honeycutt looked back at her with epic relief on his face. And then she dug down into the packing and found the last items, which she began to withdraw. “There is something more.”
Will Honeycutt saw what she withdrew, and a huge smile broke out on his face and the shadows seemed to disappear from under his eyes. The items were a pair of familiar, thin Cuban cigars, which she laid carefully beside the two glasses, then held up and examined. “This time I think we shall forgo these,” she said.
Will Honeycutt looked enormously relieved. “I take it that this means that I have not ruined everything,” he said.
“I’d say that you most definitely have not,” she said, taking on a feigned seriousness, allowing for a dramatic pause. “You did come close, I will admit.” And she began opening the bottle. “But you have not.”
Neither spoke then as Eleanor opened the bottle with a corkscrew she had pulled from the box, and then after she poured two glasses, she rose and brought him one of them, then held up hers to his. �
�I do hope that our expensive claret has not turned to vinegar.” Then they said nothing, but her eyes held his for a long moment, allowing him to read in hers whatever intimacy he needed in that moment of communion.
“Now,” she said, returning to her desk chair. “I would like you to show me the sketchbook.”
“I did not mean to leave it behind. It is very private.”
“It is extremely moving, Will. I know it is very private, but I am glad that I had a chance to see it, and now I look forward to reading through it with you.”
He moved toward her, overcoming any hesitation. “I would be honored,” he said with a smile.
“And then I need to tell you about Arnauld,” Eleanor said.
PART
THREE
28
SOMETHING UNPREDICTABLE
There is no record of how much of the story Eleanor told Will Honeycutt that day, but it is certain from what follows that she withheld parts at that time. The whole of Arnauld Esterhazy’s story can be pieced together, with some interpreting, from the letters and journals, and it is as follows.
Life for him changed forever one spring morning in 1897 in his native Vienna, at age eighteen, when he saw an attractive young American woman—a “compellingly attractive bright-eyed goddess,” he would write later—standing beside his childhood friend Alma Schindler in a public park near the Hofburg, where he was meeting a group of friends to take in an afternoon in the Wienerwald. “Arnauld, there is someone I would so like you to meet!” Alma, ever the perverse matchmaker, exclaimed loudly so that he had no choice but to look directly into her beautiful face and hold out his hand. “This is Miss Putnam,” Alma continued. “She is visiting us from Boston.”
And so, in that one fateful moment, the young American woman from Boston extended her hand in what was for her a most natural act and for him a total disruption of equilibrium. “I am happy to meet you,” she said cheerfully, as if the meeting were nothing more special than a dozen others she had made with the same outgoing smile—“outgoing and totally captivating” was how the later description went—since her arrival in Vienna on a secret mission to write something of significance about music and cultural life for the New York Times, to be published under a pseudonym.
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