“We like to know if any have a special inclination towards the science,” said Boas.
“Well, there is a situation I’d like to speak to you about, if I may.”
“Yes?”
“It’s the Mead girl.”
“Margaret Mead?” said Boas, putting his glasses back on.
“Yes, Margaret Mead. I am worried about her. Distinctly so.”
“In what regard?” said Boas, his brows knitting.
“She’s going to Samoa, right? What for?”
Boas froze, as if finally aware that the conversation might turn unpleasant.
“Do you really believe she’s up to it?”
“Well,” said Boas, “her health is frail, that’s true.”
“It’s more than that,” said Edward.
Boas waited, dabbing at his palsied lip with his handkerchief.
“It’s the latent neurotic situation. I know for a fact she has had suicidal daydreams. When we spoke she told me she might not ever return.”
The old man’s face darkened.
“Don’t you think you should do something to stop this whole infernal business, before it’s too late?”
* * *
Leaving Schermerhorn Hall, Edward headed for Amsterdam Avenue. Pedestrians filled the sidewalk, moving with the slow rhythm of a late summer afternoon. Edward was annoyed. As usual, his discussion with Boas had left him feeling dissatisfied. The old man, although concerned, seemed unwilling to take action.
Upon returning to his room Edward wrote to Ruth, sounding another alarm:
I communicated my uneasiness to Boas today but he thought it would be a distinct mistake to interfere. He is still a little nervous about her going but seems inclined to minimize the danger. Apparently he considers the main thing to fear is her frail health, but I fear the latent neurotic situation which I feel to be rather grave. Please don’t let anyone know I spoke to Boas. I have thought of writing to Mrs. Mead but probably it would not be wise. And I have tried to dissuade Margaret again by letter. I hope I’m unnecessarily jumpy. Tell me what to do, Ruth.
* * *
Ruth contemplated the two letters that lay on her desk.
Edward’s scrawled missive was on a sheet of what looked to be scrap paper, a hurried and frantic outpouring of genuine anxiety. It told of Margaret’s “suicidal day-dreams,” and the threat that after Samoa Margaret might not return to New York.
Dr. Boas’s typewritten letter was on Columbia letterhead, its neat precision marking the occasion of his writing as official business.
As she read the Boas letter, she could see the old man’s face, alarmed yet self-possessed:
Sapir had a long talk with me about Margaret Mead. You know that I myself am not very much pleased with this idea of her going to the tropics for a long stay. It seems to my mind, however, and it has seemed to my mind ever since I prevented her from going to Tuamotu, that it would be much worse to put obstacles in her way that prevented her from doing a piece of work on which she had set her heart, than to let her run a certain amount of risk. In my opinion Sapir has read too many books on psychiatry … to trust his judgment; he does not really know the subject and therefore sees abnormal things in the most disastrous forms. Of course I know that Margaret is high strung and emotional, but I also believe that nothing would depress her more than inability on account of her physical makeup and her mental characteristics to do the work she wants to do.
Ruth rose from her chair and paced the room. If only she were back in New York and could deal with this face-to-face. Sadly she wasn’t. She walked out to the front porch and read to the end of Boas’s letter:
In my opinion an attempt to compel her to give up the trip—and that is all Sapir has in mind—would be disastrous. Besides it is entirely against my point of view to interfere in such a radical way with the future of a person for his or her own sake,—unless there is actual disease that needs control. Of course, Sapir takes that point of view, but if he were right, then who should not be restrained? I should like to hear from you, if possible, at once.
It was clear that Boas was after something from her, but what? He seemed to already have made up his mind to let Margaret go to Samoa. Obviously he wanted something else.
Ruth knew that Boas trusted her judgment, that her opinion carried weight. Reading between the lines, she felt—in the event something went wrong—that Boas didn’t want to take full responsibility for Margaret. He seemed to be asking Ruth to assume some of the burden.
If this were the case it meant that Boas feared there was some truth to Edward’s analysis of Margaret’s state of mind.
And if Ruth were to be honest, she did, too.
Margaret’s physical ailments–particularly the complaints about the “shrieking pain” in her arms—came too often. Perhaps Margaret’s complaints were emblematic of a deep-seated psychic pathology.
In fact, just five days earlier, Ruth had arrived at this very same concern all on her own. Adopting a playful tone, she’d written to Margaret:
I shall kidnap you some day and subject you to full TB regimen. I’d give a lot to see what seven months of it would do for you. May I be jailer? Sweetheart, do be good and rest best you can.
The fact was that Ruth really could no longer afford to take Margaret’s complaints lightly. Edward might just be right. Boas knew it and so did she. Margaret was “high strung and emotional,” maybe even unstable.
Ruth returned to her desk and fed some paper into the carriage of her typewriter. Best to answer an official letter with an official-looking response. To Boas she wrote:
All these things that have alarmed Sapir I have known for a long time and tried to take into account. Last spring I sent her to two doctors of the highest standing, one a neurologist, and they could find nothing organically wrong. The diagnosis is nervous fatigue and they prescribe rest. It seems to me that it is perfectly possible that the natural relaxation of a tropical climate, and the necessarily rather haphazard character of the work she will be doing, far away from the strenuous setting she is used to, may be the best possible change for her.
Having evaluated Margaret’s “mental condition” as workable, Ruth moved on to another situation—Margaret’s employment at the museum the following fall.
Of all the alarms Edward had sounded, the one that bothered Ruth the most was the possibility that Margaret might not return to New York City. Having had her deepest feelings stirred, Ruth didn’t know how she could bear life without Margaret. Boas was in a position to ensure Margaret’s appointment. If he did, Margaret’s future would be tied to New York:
She has written me about the offer of the museum for next year, and I think that, coming at just this time, nothing better could happen to allay the attitude Sapir is worried about. She is most enthusiastic.
Ruth then concluded her letter with an argument she knew would carry much weight with Papa Franz:
I credit her with a great deal of common sense and I know she can carry out any precautions she agrees to, as far as humanly possible.
* * *
The next morning, her mind full of Margaret, Ruth stood over the bed methodically folding Stanley’s shirts, stacking them in a neat pile so they would be ready to place in his suitcase.
Upon her return to New York she would finally see Edward. In his last letter he’d joked about her upcoming transcontinental train ride saying, “I’m sorry you’re going with Goddard. He’s more greasy and lasciviously smiling than ever. Why don’t they chloroform him?” And then he’d signed off with, “Precisely what dates are you in town?”
The truth was Ruth was worn out by Edward’s histrionics. Worse, she sensed he was still holding back information. In all that he’d written, and there had been a lot, there had been no hint of what had really happened on the farm. Nevertheless, something in his description had elicited in her a feeling of disquiet:
Of course Elizabeth is wonderful. A regular Saint of the Primitives. But Margaret is still more wonderfu
l. She is ever so much bigger than I had imagined her. I had misjudged her. In that beautiful rustic atmosphere she comes into her own.
Whatever did he mean, by saying “in that beautiful rustic atmosphere she comes into her own”?
Ruth looked down and saw that her hands were trembling. Then she saw she’d made a mess of Stanley’s dress shirt. Grabbing it, she shook it out, then set about to fold it again.
She was relieved that soon she’d be seeing Edward. Obviously he was looking forward to seeing her, too. He’d ended his last letter by saying, “I am reserving Tuesday, the 28th, for you. You have a standing invitation to come to all my classes, university regulations not withstanding.”
Placing Stanley’s shirts on top of the other clothes in the valise, she dropped the lid and secured the latch.
18
HOTEL PENNSYLVANIA
Margaret, we must have a little child together someday. In or out of wedlock. I just feel the mystical necessity.
—EDWARD SAPIR
July 1925
While they were at dinner they discussed the offer she’d received to work as an assistant curator at the museum.
“Goddard says it’s mine,” said Margaret. “It would start in the fall, after I get back from Samoa.”
“Somehow,” said Edward, “I feel it in my bones that you should refuse that offer.”
“You would be opposed to anything Goddard had to say. For my part, I can’t see how I could do much better for the next two or three years.”
Edward shook his head. “I say it on perfectly compelling, intuitive grounds.” Reaching out, he took her hand. “But I can see you have no intention of refusing it.”
They traveled up in the elevator, standing apart, as though they did not know each other.
When they’d entered the room and closed the door, she fell into his arms.
She didn’t know she could feel like this with a man.
* * *
The next morning he was in the bathroom shaving, a towel wrapped around his waist. Sunlight came in through the blinds. On the bedside table was a little box that held the ring he had given her the night before. The ring had been Florence’s wedding ring. Lying on her side, watching him, with the sheet pulled up over her chest, she started to laugh. “I think you left your razor strap at my parents’ house.”
“That’s where it is!”
“My mother told me ‘Dr. Sapir’ left something here.”
“Dr. Sapir?” He laughed. “You think it’s funny, don’t you?” Walking back to the bed, letting the towel drop, he pulled back the sheet and climbed in next to her. “You thought it was funny when she found us in the barn.”
“That’s not true.”
She rolled toward him, grabbing his arms and pinning him down. He tried to push back but she wouldn’t let him. They wrestled for a minute but he still couldn’t break free.
“You’re so strong,” he said. “Where does that come from?”
“I love you,” she said, still not letting him break free. “I love you.”
Afterward, while they were lying side by side, he said to her, “Margaret, we must have a little child together someday.”
She didn’t answer.
“In or out of wedlock. I just feel the mystical necessity.”
She looked up at the ceiling, studying a crack that ran across the white plaster.
“Do you agree?” he asked.
“Yes.”
They were in each other’s arms, her head on his chest. “My beloved,” she said.
When she was dressing he came up behind her and stood looking at their reflection in the mirror. “Are you happy? Is the nervous tension lessened?”
“Yes,” she said laughing.
“What are we going to do about Luther?”
“Luther?” She turned to look at him. “Why do we have to do anything about Luther?”
* * *
Ruth sat at the back of the small auditorium, listening to Edward’s lecture on patterns in language. He certainly had no trouble commanding the room. Many of his students were enthralled, especially the young women. No doubt they’d heard that his wife had passed away.
When Ruth walked up to him at the end of class he reached out to clasp her hand. “Just the person I most want to see,” he said, leading her outside.
For old times’ sake they went to the Stockton Tearoom.
As soon as they were seated, Edward brought up Margaret.
“You may think I’m exaggerating the danger,” he said, “but what could be worse than not airing my fears now?”
“The work will help carry her through,” said Ruth.
“Work has a way of doing that,” said Edward. “Listen. I’m very glad Margaret has obtained her desire. Chances are she will enjoy the year in the South Seas hugely and will profit greatly by it.” He paused. “She lives intensely in the outer world and it will all mean a great deal to her.”
“What a dear girl,” said Ruth. “She has such determination.”
The waitress appeared with a pot of tea and a chocolate cream soda.
“You never told me about your visit to the farm,” said Ruth.
“Margaret’s younger sister Elizabeth is wonderful.”
“She’s been ill, you know,” said Ruth. “I gather there’s been a tuberculosis scare.” She took a sip of her tea. “Whatever did you mean, Margaret seemed ‘so much bigger’ there?”
“A feeling,” he said, smiling. “She overpowered me.”
“My goodness,” said Ruth.
“I wonder,” he said, “what exactly is Margaret’s attitude toward Luther?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Edward, “does she love him?”
“He was her childhood sweetheart. Of course she loves him.”
“I’m afraid I’m confused,” said Edward.
Ruth sat waiting, her face immobile.
“Margaret and I are lovers,” he said. “No doubt she will tell you. She tells you everything.”
“Lovers?”
“She gave herself completely. She was completely happy.”
Ruth stared at him.
“I even called her ‘little wife,’ once or twice. She rejoiced when I said it.”
When Ruth still didn’t say anything, Edward said, “I don’t understand, though. Just what is her relationship with Luther?”
“Luther?” Ruth paused. “She loves Luther.”
“With you I can be utterly frank,” Edward said. “I do not believe in the love of Luther and Margaret, nor do I think that most observers who know them sincerely believe in it.”
“Dear boy,” said Ruth, “I don’t know what to say.”
“She’s on my mind and in my heart night and day,” Edward continued. “I’m afraid my bewilderment, fear for her, and aching desire for her presence make me of little use for anything just now.”
Ruth drew her napkin up to her lips and patted them dry.
Edward reached out across the table and, taking Ruth’s hand, covered it with his own. “Tell me what to do, Ruth.”
* * *
“The worst day of my life,” cried Ruth as she marched down the sidewalk, not caring who heard her, “the very worst day of my life.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Edward’s talk of making love to Margaret was unbearable. Where had it happened, surely not within earshot of Margaret’s parents?
Not that long ago she—Ruth—had loved Edward, wanted him for herself. Margaret knew that. But that’s not what hurt. What hurt was that Edward had experienced the erotic side of Margaret that she, Ruth, had only fantasized about, and lately, at night, those fantasies had come unbidden.
Before, when Ruth had been in love with Edward, she had never thought about being intimate with him. That side of their relationship was so unimportant she hadn’t even realized it was absent.
Now she did visualize Edward in the act of sex, not with her, but with Margaret. And the images of Margaret together
with Edward stimulated her erotic imagination. She yearned to experience with Margaret a physical love and its climax.
Ruth reached into her pocketbook. Her hand closed over the railway pass, a crisp voucher for a sleeping compartment on the B&O, traveling from Manhattan to Williams, Arizona, on July 27, 1925. Ruth looked at it. The ticket represented three days and nights alone with Margaret. She reinserted it into its envelope and placed it carefully back into her handbag.
Now that trip was ruined.
She thought about Edward at the Tearoom, sitting next to her, drinking a soda, letting her know that he had been intimate with Margaret. Now he wanted to stop Margaret from going to Samoa. He wanted to take Margaret away from Luther. He even wanted to persuade Margaret to leave New York City.
He’d said that Margaret had called him “my beloved.”
Somehow she had to make Margaret realize that Edward’s plans for her were wrong, all wrong.
* * *
On July 25, Ruth wrote to Margaret, “I thought of you Thursday. How did the job come out?… I’m hoping you can take it if it’s something actually to count on. You’d enjoy it and the job would be in reserve afterwards.”
She ended her letter on a practical note. “Believe me I shall be well-informed about the exact moment when I can hope to be hitched up to the train you are on.”
She stood at the Western Union window, setting into motion their scheme to trick Goddard. Margaret had arranged with a friend in Cincinnati to send him a telegram in Ruth’s name, as though it was Ruth sending it from Cincinnati:
HAVE CANCELLED SANTA FE RESERVATIONS MUST REMOVE COUSIN FROM HOME (!!) WILL FOLLOW SOON AS POSSIBLE DESOLATED RUTH
That should take care of the Goddard problem.
As she walked home she thought about Margaret and their future.
Ruth remembered what Margaret had said—that the love in one’s heart need not be restricted to one person. Love was as full and limitless as the air one breathes. Why couldn’t it extend to two?
In this regard, Luther as a loving support system was indispensable. Not every man would be willing to play this part.
Edward, for instance, would reject that idea. He would demand exclusivity.
Coming of Age Page 19