Love,
Bess
June 10, 1948
Quebec, Canada
Dear Eleanor and Walter,
It is a joy to hear French spoken without having to cross the Atlantic. I wonder how many other cities as fascinating as Quebec await my discovery—and how many more I will never see. You must not spend too many more summers at home. Even though you are saving money, you are spending time, and what a waste to let a summer go by without a new experience to show for it.
I hope you are making use of my television set in my absence, even though you were opposed to its purchase. I cannot argue with your reasoning that television equipment is still in an early stage of development, but at my age I cannot afford to wait for technical refinements. You are undoubtedly right in your belief that the price of a set will be reduced considerably as production increases, but I will not deny my grandchildren the miracle of visual transmission for the sake of economy. Besides, I consider the privilege of owning one of the first sets in the city to have a value commensurate with the price I paid. The television set is only one of many occasions in my life when I have paid more than other people thought I should for something I wanted, but it is my considered opinion that I have never been cheated.
When you bring the children over in the afternoon to watch television, do not hesitate to use the window air conditioner I had installed this spring. I know you consider this another of my extravagances, but once you have enjoyed the oasis of a cool room on a hot Texas afternoon, I am sure you will deem the money well spent. And if you insist on staying in Texas all summer, the least you can do is take occasional refuge in a cool room that offers a window on the world.
From here we travel to Tanglewood and then on to Chautauqua.
Love,
Bess
August 29, 1949
La Jolla, California
Dear Eleanor and Walter,
California is indeed the Promised Land. In climate and scenery it surpasses anywhere I have ever been. If it were not for my grandchildren in Texas, I would be tempted to spend the rest of my life here.
We felt like pioneers, driving across the desert from Texas, traveling by night to escape the sun, sleeping fitfully by day. An automobile is a decided improvement over a covered wagon but the trip was not without hardship all the same. However, Grace and Frank Townsend proved to be gallant traveling companions and their good cheer got us through one long night when our engine locked and we were stranded for several hours with only coyotes and cactus for company.
Totsie Fineman has a charming house here and she is happier than I have seen her since Arthur died. Her son and his wife and two children moved to Los Angeles last year. They drive down several times a year to see her, but she is surprisingly content living alone.
Dwight opened a branch of his interior decorating business in San Francisco some years ago and it is so successful he now spends half his time there. Totsie met him quite by accident when she was in San Francisco last winter. It was the first time she had seen him since their son’s wedding eight years ago, and what happened between them apparently took them both by surprise. Totsie said it was like meeting a stranger and suddenly discovering how much you have in common.
Their son has no idea they are seeing each other and they have decided not to tell him—at least for now. They seem to enjoy the clandestine aspect of their relationship and prefer to visit their son and his family separately rather than appear together in the conventional role of grandparents.
We are driving to Los Angeles tomorrow. Craig has graciously invited all of us to lunch at the studio and promised to introduce us to at least one movie star before we leave. I am sorry we will not be in Dallas to celebrate Betsy’s birthday but we will drink a toast to her that night at the Cocoanut Grove.
I wish you were here with us. Next year we must all travel together. It is time for the children to realize Texas is not the only state in the union.
Love,
Bess
July 10, 1950
Ocean City, New Jersey
Dear Lydia and Manning,
The whole family has gathered here for two weeks at my expense and I am relishing the role of matriarch. All three families traveled by different routes from Texas, reliving moments from the past and finally arriving at a place new to all of us.
Eleanor and Walter drove by way of Maryland where his sister and her husband were waiting to meet the wife and children they had never seen. Andrew and Nell flew with their two children to Virginia and visited relatives still living in the county named after her maternal ancestors. They saw the college so dear to Nell in the Blue Ridge Mountains, then flew to Boston to visit Andrew’s prep school roommate. Sam and I stopped first in Philadelphia where we were shocked to learn that Sam’s first wife had died of a heart attack five years ago. It is so strange to have a large part of one’s past obliterated without a trace.
I planned this summer in the hope that my grandchildren would begin to see how deeply their lives are rooted in people and places unknown to them until now. I am convinced that the more they know of the past, the more they will derive from the present.
Eleanor and Andrew were at first opposed to this trip on the grounds that it would be too expensive but I would rather have my grandchildren remember me for the experiences we shared than for the money I leave them to spend alone. I hope they will one day look back on this summer with the happiness I feel at this moment.
Children squander the present because they think it will never end. It is up to the adults who love them to impose the form and meaning that will make each day worth reliving in memory. But parents are faced with so many daily responsibilities for the care of their children, they have little time to consider their future and even less time to remind them of their past. It falls to us grandparents to enrich their present experience with stories from the past and dreams for the future.
The children are calling me to come play in the ocean. Their parents have gone back to their rooms and Sam is taking a nap, but I promised to stay out with them until the sun sets.
Love,
Bess
July 9, 1952
aboard the S.S. Caronia
at the Arctic Circle
Dear Totsie,
I do not know exactly when I began to plan this trip. I think it was soon after my sixtieth birthday that I was seized with a longing to see the land of the midnight sun.
It is now 11:55 P.M. and the sun is still several feet above the horizon. This is the lowest point it will reach in the sky and soon it will start its upward climb toward noon. Everyone around me is taking pictures by the light of the midnight sun but there is no way for a camera to capture the sensation of a day that never ends. The memory will illuminate all the nights left to me.
It is just as well Sam did not come with me. He would go mad to see the universe mock the pattern of day and night by which he has ordered his life.
I suppose I should go below now and try to sleep, but I have never been one to close my eyes while the sun is shining.
Give my love to Dwight the next time you see him.
Je t’embrasse,
Bess
March 24, 1953
aboard the S.S. Lurline
en route to Hawaii
Dear Mavis,
I felt like Magellan when we left Los Angeles harbor, sailing west to a whole new world. My only regret is that our final destination is Hawaii and not the Orient, but Sam would simply not hear of extending our itinerary beyond the authority of the United States.
The night before we left Dallas, Eleanor and Walter gave a gala bon voyage party for us, complete with leis and ukelele music. Then after all the guests had gone, my daughter surprised me with the announcement that I was going to have another grandchild. I am still in a state of shock.
Eleanor will be forty years old when the baby is born. How can she take such a risk—not to mention what she is doing to me? I have not had her complete attention since 19
36, and I feel I am entitled to it in my old age. Of course her answer is that my old age is nowhere in sight, and I do have to agree. But another baby in the family may well bring it on at any moment.
I thought Walter was content with three daughters, but there must be some primitive part of his psyche that still yearns for a child formed in his own image. That is the only explanation I can find for an act so rash and irresponsible. No matter how civilized their façade, men are savages at heart. Looking back, I marvel that I escaped the manacles of motherhood when I remarried. I sometimes forget how good Sam has been to me.
We are enjoying each other’s company on this cruise, and yet not limited to it as we would be on a conventional trip. Among the many advantages a cruise offers to long-married couples is the constant presence of other people. You would be quite at home here with us. In many ways a ship is a little town that floats. There is only one movie but many card games. The only real difference between the lives you and I are leading at this moment is that I have a destination and it is different from anywhere I have ever been.
Much love,
Bess
June 10, 1954
aboard Pan Am Flight 81
New York to Lisbon
Mr. and Mrs. Dwight Davis
Monte Verde at 6th
Carmel-by-the-Sea
California
Dearest Dwight and Totsie,
Welcome home from the Orient. How wonderful it feels to be writing one letter to the two of you. Just addressing the envelope, I relive your wedding last fall. I was very proud to be witness at a ceremony reconfirming a union as inevitable as it is unique.
Sam and I spent a week in New York before leaving for Europe. We thought of you and your adventures in the Orient as we watched Teahouse of the August Moon. I long to hear more about your nine-month honeymoon. I am wild with envy to think of all the places you have been that I will never see: Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, Tokyo, Pago Pago. Three score and ten years is barely time to scan the table of contents of this world. I have not even begun to read the book.
Our departure from Dallas was saddened by the sudden death of Lydia’s husband, Manning, the week before. She is being very brave and insists on remaining alone in Denton in the house they shared for so long.
It is thrilling to travel to Europe by air after so many trips by sea. I trust the increased ease of travel will encourage people to move about more freely. Sometimes I think the primary division in the world is not between male and female but between people who travel and people who stay home.
It is my great regret that I have shared so little of what I have seen with either of my husbands. Sam and I have been married almost thirty-two years and this is the first time he has consented to accompany me abroad. And only on the condition that we confine our travels to Switzerland—the only country in the world outside our own that seems safe to him.
He has given his reluctant consent to spend a few days in Lisbon since we have to land there, but then we fly directly to Geneva. I tried to interest him in a quick tour of North Africa, but he would not hear of it so I fear that for me it will forever remain the dark continent.
However, I am content just to be in motion again, traversing the night with morning waiting to meet us and below us an ocean whose size seems suddenly comprehensible now that it can be crossed in a day. I must climb into my berth now so I will be rested for my first look at Lisbon.
Je vous embrasse,
Bess
August 5, 1954
Montreux Palace Hotel
Montreux, Switzerland
Dear Grace and Frank,
Sam and I speak often of the pleasant trip we shared to California and wish each night we would find you waiting in the dining room here to join us for dinner.
I am seated on the balcony outside our hotel room, looking down at the lake and at the geranium-framed tennis courts where Sam is already engaged in a game. We have both gotten in the habit of sleeping late, then having our “petit déjeuner” brought to us on the balcony. I cannot tell you how much better a croissant tastes in Switzerland, served with fresh butter and jams made from mountain-grown berries.
I usually remain in my robe all morning, reading and writing letters on the balcony and watching Sam defeat a series of younger opponents at tennis. No one would believe he celebrated his seventieth birthday this summer. He is the picture of robust health and quite the most handsome tourist staying at this hotel. His only complaint is his eyesight. Occasional attacks of double vision cause him to lose a game to an unworthy opponent and when that happens he is not fit company for the rest of the day. His mind is as unaccepting of old age as his body and sometimes I am frightened of the years ahead.
I admire the two of you so much for voluntarily retiring from the active pursuit of your chosen professions and devoting yourself to interests too-long neglected and to each other. Old age should be regarded as a reward for a lifetime of hard work, but it can only be a punishment if one insists on doing the same things one has always done, measuring present achievements by past ones and inevitably falling short. If only Sam would retire now and devote himself to the music that has always been a Sunday pastime. He could play the flute with his eyes closed and never think about growing old.
I see that he has just defeated the young Englishman who has been his nemesis on the courts ever since we arrived, so we shall have a pleasant afternoon. When he is in a good mood, I suggest a picnic. The hotel provides us with an ample basket and we set out on our rented bicycles around the lake and into the woods.
After lunch I read aloud from a book of poems. (I prefer Byron but always bring along Walt Whitman for Sam.) The poetry usually puts us both to sleep and after a pleasant nap “al fresco” we awaken greatly refreshed and bicycle back to the hotel, where we bathe and dress for dinner downstairs. Coffee and liqueurs are served after dinner in the lounge to the accompaniment of chamber music. This is the most restful trip I have ever taken and sometimes I forget I am in Europe. Where I think I am I do not know, but at least I am not in Dallas.
Sam just came in from the courts and asks to be remembered.
Love from us both,
Bess
August 31, 1954
Villa d’Este
Cernobbio, Italy
Dear Eleanor and Walter,
After three weeks of tennis and chamber music at the Montreux Palace, I thought I would lose my mind if I had to remain there one more day. I finally convinced Sam to hire a chauffeur and car for our last week in Europe and see at least a little of the surrounding countryside.
Though he was extremely dubious about crossing the border into Italy, I could not leave Europe without one last look at the place which holds more happy memories for me than any other in the world. I have a strong premonition that this is my last trip abroad and it seemed appropriate to spend the last night of it here.
It was naive of me to expect nothing to have changed in the quarter century since my last visit and yet I could not help hoping I would find some physical connection with the past. The concierge was too young to have been more than a child on my last visit, but his face looked decidedly familiar. We began to talk and I learned that he inherited the position from his father.
I inquired if Signor Prince still stayed here regularly and the concierge said sadly he had not been back since the tragic occasion ten years ago when he came from America to claim his son’s body. I know you will be as shocked as I was to learn that Henry Prince drowned in Lake Como. Suicide was suspected but nothing ever proved. The concierge says that as far as he knows, Richard Prince has not left Georgia since.
I miss all of my family very much. Sam and I have bought excellent watches for everyone, even the baby. Time has become very important to me and I cannot bear to lose track of a single second. We will be arriving at Love Field at five in the afternoon on Sunday, September 2. I will expect all of you there to meet us and then to be my guests for dinner at the airport restaurant. The food is alw
ays excellent and I have so much to tell you. I cannot bear to be met and then abandoned. After dinner we will reassemble at my house for the distribution of souvenirs, so please make no plans for Sunday evening.
Tell Betsy we will be drinking a toast to her tonight on her sixteenth birthday. The present would be unendurable if I did not have a family to keep my vision firmly fixed on the future. I cannot wait to hug each of you.
All my love,
Bess
May 21, 1955
Lima, Peru
Dear Sam,
Your letter was waiting on arrival here last week, but this is the first chance I have had to answer it.
I was shocked to learn of Hal Perkins’s death. I suppose the word “shocked” seems strange to describe the death of a man eighty years old, but he seemed so vigorous the last time I saw him.
It was one morning this past March—very early, before even you were awake. I had had a restless night, and, too proud and stubborn to court sleep when it clearly had no intention of coming near me, I got dressed and went down to weed the rose garden. To my surprise our neighbor, fully dressed, was returning home from his morning constitutional. To my even greater surprise he stopped and talked to me, displaying a demeanor more open and expansive than I had ever encountered from him at a later hour.
His manner toward me was always completely correct, of course, yet extremely reserved, as if he wanted to make clear that the proximity of our two houses in no way implied a desire for intimacy between our two persons. I always had the utmost respect for him in his professional role of newspaper editor, underscored by a feeling of regret for the personal relationship that continued to elude me.
But on this particular morning he questioned me extensively about the Caribbean cruise from which I had just returned. I was quite flattered by his interest and we talked at great length about that troubled part of the world. He confided to me his regret that he had done so little traveling in his life. He did not blame his wife but did admit she was never comfortable away from home. I was always aware of her disapproval when I took a trip without you, and I am sure she would have been astonished to hear her husband say he wished she could share some of my enthusiasm for other ways of life. Perhaps he was already worried about what her life would be like without him. What a burden for a man to fear that his death will deprive his wife of her life as well.
A Woman of Independent Means Page 25