27
A HOPELESS MUDDLE
“It’s my punishment that I can never have one pure emotion that is not qualified by several others.”
—MARGARET MEAD
July 1926
On the Left Bank the Hôtel d’Angleterre at 44 rue Jacob near St. Germaine des Prés was a small, semi-elegant establishment. As soon as she walked into the lobby, Margaret approved. Glancing over at Luther she saw that he was cheerfully conversing in French with Madame, the middle-aged concierge. Ever since she had let him know that she’d chosen him over Reo, the terrible tension between them had drained away. Even Louise, who had yet to hear a mention of Reo, was in better spirits.
While they were waiting for their luggage to be loaded into the lift, Madame suddenly reappeared, saying to Luther, she’d almost forgot, she had a letter for his wife.
Margaret recognized the handwriting as Reo’s. Apparently so did Luther. He handed it to Margaret and she put it in her pocketbook. They rode the elevator in silence.
Later, when Margaret had some privacy, she took out Reo’s letter and read it:
I am in trouble everywhere. My relatives have decided that my taste in the theater is impossible. Ibsen is being played and Chekov. They go to Gilbert and Sullivan. I am so discouraged with them that I have not gone.
He ended by informing her that in a few weeks he would be coming to Paris to see her. He didn’t name a specific date.
The next morning, while they were dressing, Margaret considered how to break the news to Luther, who, at that moment, was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his socks. She couldn’t see his eyes. Hesitating for a moment, she turned and opened the door of the wardrobe. Looking at her blouses, hanging in a neat row, she fingered the material of one, then another. She turned and said, “I think I’ll go to the Galeries Lafayette, and take Louise along.”
“That’s a good idea.” Luther looked up and smiled.
Margaret had been commissioned to buy a wedding dress for her friend Fa’amotu, from Vaitogi. Fa’amotu had just gotten engaged and wanted Margaret to find her a Parisian gown that would make her look like “the bride on a wedding cake.”
It had almost been a week since Carcassonne, when Margaret had put an end to the tug-of-war in her mind, choosing Luther over Reo.
She’d written to Reo of her decision. In an indirect way, she’d even informed Ruth, telling her that the war was over. This statement, made out of context, would be impossible for Ruth to understand; nevertheless, just saying it served to reinforce the position in her own mind.
But Reo’s letters tested her. Things were said like, “Margaret I am lonely for you, more than everything I am alone…” and “Oh, Margaret, love. Little else would matter if you were by me.”
But Reo’s description of his new life in Cambridge was what really undermined her resolve:
These last days have passed in a whirl of teapots, saucers, tutors and strange meetings; and in becoming accustomed to the curious mores of the place, relicts of medieval monastic education—the long Latin grace before meals, the wearing of cap and gown in visiting a tutor, in using the university library, after dark compulsory so that the Proctor and his bulldogs can detect any possible lapse.
Reo might think that these time-honored customs of an upper-class British university were antiquated and meaningless, but she, Margaret, did not. That Reo, a raw country boy, had won admission into this brotherhood of aristocrats still amazed her, not to mention that he was irreverent toward all of it.
It was this attitude of irreverence that made Reo so attractive. She could easily imagine him, walking along a moss-lined path with one of his peers, engaged in vigorous intellectual combat. In comparison, Luther’s future seemed unexciting. Margaret found it almost unbearable that she was married to a man who was satisfied to teach sociology at a city college. She didn’t want that dullness to rub off on her.
That day, shopping in the Galeries Lafayette, walking past the cosmetic counters so Louise could pick out a lipstick, Margaret told her about meeting Reo on the ship and his intention to visit her in Paris. Knowing that Louise considered Luther “their guardian angel,” she did not reveal how she was really feeling, that she fantasized about Reo constantly, that she was tormented by the desire to make love to him.
That evening over dinner Margaret managed to tell Luther about Reo’s impending visit. “He’s written that he wants to see me.”
Luther looked up from his plate. He leveled his steady gaze at her. “I thought we had an understanding and you ended it.”
“We do,” Margaret said, “and I did.”
“Well,” said Luther, looking at his fork, “I will have to handle it as best I can, won’t I?”
* * *
Love and intimacy, when all is right, seem to flow between two committed individuals without effort. Under such peaceful circumstances, ordinary disappointments go unnoticed, work proceeds apace, and a general sense of well-being pervades the body and mind. But when doubt unsettles a marriage, it rises up as a monster, toppling one’s construct of the future and devouring one’s peace of mind.
Margaret now found herself confronting that monster.
Here in Paris she had to admit that the question of whether or not to remain with Luther was still not resolved. She was just as divided as she’d been when she arrived in Marseilles. Everything she was doing and saying during her waking hours had little to do with what was bubbling up from inside. Somehow she had to peel back the layers of social convention so she could hear what her unconscious mind was telling her.
The person Margaret really wanted to talk to was Ruth.
For the last few years, Ruth had been there to guide her through every crisis, big or small. Ruth understood what was in Margaret’s heart better than she did herself. At present she knew Ruth was with Stanley, touring somewhere in the British Isles.
Surely Ruth could find a way—if only briefly—to come to Paris. On July 13, Margaret wrote:
It seems just the final straw that I should have hurt you and so entirely without intent. I wasn’t holding you at arm’s length; I was just desolated that you were so far off—that instead of seeing you in a week at most it was to be six weeks. And I felt absolutely hopeless of trying to make all the confusion in my head clear to you. I didn’t mean to erect walls or anything. And I thought I’d weathered almost the course. I’d thought about it and dreamt about it. And part of my despair over my tiredness was a fear that I wouldn’t make it a success for you.…
I know I should be properly punished for dumping a load of ambiguity on your head and I have been too, for when I begin hurting you it seems the peak of failure and demonstrates more clearly than anything else what a hopeless muddle I’ve made of my life.
And holding you at arm’s length is the last thing I’d ever do. It was I who was far off and you read into my desolation. I’m just writing the same thing over and over and whatever I say is probably wrong anyway. I’ll try to pull my wits sufficiently together to write it all out—everything that’s happened—only I hate to. I’ll probably make another muddle of it all. But that my letters should “bruise” you! O Ruth … it just breaks my heart that I should have hurt you for a minute.
Ruth would see that her relationship with Luther was “falling to bits,” that “she was failing all around.” She’d see that she, Margaret, had made a “hopeless muddle of her life.” Ruth would be able to tell her what she should do.
Margaret calculated that it would take five days for the letter to reach Ruth.
* * *
On a cloudless afternoon in late July, Ruth and Margaret sat on an iron bench in the small park on the Seine, directly across the river from the Cathedral of Notre Dame. From Ruth’s vantage point she could see the side of the cathedral where its famous flying buttresses reached up their bony fingers to the roofline.
“There I was with Luther,” Margaret said. “I’d had his letters, which were filled with an unclouded joy over my ret
urn. And at the same time a general depression because he hadn’t a job and the church had gone quite by the boards.”
Aware that Margaret’s words were coming too fast, Ruth listened.
“He was far more unhappy than I knew. All that we had ever had seemed to be falling to bits and I had no explanation to offer except that I was a complete failure.”
The two women sat for a moment, both ostensibly thinking about Luther and his uncertain future.
Margaret went on. “All the various accusations which Edward made were still fermenting in my mind.” Her voice rose. “And from those, a tremendous distrust of myself. In trying to be all things to several people, wasn’t I simply failing all round?” She paused. “And you had suddenly gone very far away.”
Ruth shook her head. “I never went away.”
“Then I’d planned to work and found I couldn’t. Any attempt to work meant a violent headache. I woke with a major attack of conjunctivitis so that I couldn’t read and I had to lie for hours with compresses on my eyes.”
“Isn’t it unbearable,” said Ruth, looking then at the high and lofty outer walls of the cathedral bright in the sunlight, “that all of this is about nothing?”
Margaret stared at Ruth, as if to take her in for the first time.
Reflexively, Ruth ran her hand through her newly cropped hair. It had turned nearly white since the last time they’d seen each other.
“It’s nice,” said Margaret. “It suits you.”
Ruth grimaced.
“If you got my letters from Australia,” said Margaret, “you know in what a state of depression I started the voyage.” She sighed. “Nothing seemed real to me.”
“Dear girl,” said Ruth, “I understood the mood. As much as I wanted, I couldn’t do anything to save you from it.”
Margaret looked away. “I wonder if I’m telling you all this to disarm you.”
“Disarm me?” Ruth turned, her eyes widening, looking directly at Margaret now.
“I don’t quite know any other way to say it, but to say it. I’ve fallen in love with someone new, the New Zealand boy I wrote you about.”
Ruth stared. She had been blindsided.
“His name is Reo. Reo Fortune,” Margaret said, pronouncing Reo the way he did it—as Ray.
And now Margaret was rushing headlong into the story. “He is a very clean-cut, essentially simple person—far less temperamentally complex than anyone I have ever known. I feel as though I’m a different person, I’m entirely skeptical of it lasting, but there it is.”
“I see,” said Ruth, a lump rising in her throat. How was it possible she didn’t see this coming? “So I shouldn’t be worried about you anymore?”
“I guess not,” said Margaret. “In some ways he has the effect of a culinary knife on all my involved outer explanations.”
“Well,” said Ruth, rearranging herself on the bench. “I needed to be relieved. That’s all.”
Ruth looked down at the ground. Pigeons were walking back and forth in front of the benches. “Now that I know I imagine I should have understood from the London letters. You’ve no idea how many false scents I discovered in those letters.”
When she looked up she saw that Margaret was crying.
Ruth rummaged in her pocketbook and pulled out a handkerchief. Handing it to Margaret she said, “And you are very happy.”
Margaret blew her nose.
“Everything was just the surface misery of an essential happiness. Now, everything falls into place,” said Ruth.
As to the practical consequences of all this, Margaret explained, there were very few for the present. Reo was studying at Emmanuel College at Cambridge for a doctor’s degree in psychology. He had a two-year fellowship. During that time he would be working on his thesis, which he hoped would be published as a book. He planned to call it The Mind in Sleep. He intended to use some of Margaret’s own dreams as examples that would underscore his hypothesis.
He’d written to Margaret to say that he wanted to come see her in Paris.
“In Paris? But Luther,” said Ruth, “what about Luther?”
“Once he reaches New York he’ll find us an apartment,” said Margaret.
Ruth was silent.
Margaret stood up.
“It’s my punishment that I can never have one pure emotion that is not qualified by several others.”
“Punishment?” said Ruth. “I don’t look at it that way.”
She stood and, taking Margaret’s arm, they started off across the park walking along the river.
“I’ve such a sense of having no right to this happiness that I fight it off with both hands—and yet at times on the boat I surrendered to it,” Margaret continued, “as I shall for these few days this summer.”
As Ruth watched Margaret enter her hotel, she felt ashamed of herself. She still yearned for her.
Later, when she’d had time to process the news she wrote the following to Margaret: “That was a vile adieu yesterday. It’s rotten luck, but I hated seeing the last of you … and I’m bad at gentle tears.” She ended by saying, “Yes, I love you my dear. I’d rather not write about it. Take it on faith.”
* * *
Luther had been told to expect Reo’s visit on a specific date. He found it annoying that Margaret had arranged a time and place for this rendezvous without bothering to consult him. When he confronted her she had apologized, saying there was no way to reach Reo to reschedule, even if she wanted to.
Near the appointed time, Luther said that he was going out for a few hours so Margaret and Reo would have time to conclude their conversation before he returned.
On his way out of the hotel, Luther stopped at the front desk to tell Madame that Miss Mead was expecting a gentleman caller.
Just at that moment a “tall good-looking young lad” stepped up beside him and, without apology, interrupted his conversation with the concierge.
“Tell Miss Mead that Mr. Fortune is here.”
Turning to him Luther said, “I am Luther Cressman, Reo, and glad to see you. Margaret is expecting you.”
Reo was speechless.
Madame looked from one young man to the other.
Seeing this, Luther spoke in French, telling her that Mr. Fortune was his wife’s friend from the voyage from Australia and it was quite all right. Turning back to Reo, he said, “Go on up, Margaret is expecting you in room 12.”
Saying to Madame, “Merci bien,” Luther headed for the street.
With hands in his trouser pockets, Luther walked along the Seine, taking satisfaction in the fact that it had been Reo, and not himself, who had been thrown off-balance. Crossing the bridge to the other side, Luther walked into the Tuileries Garden and wandered down a sandy path shaded under plane trees. From time to time he checked his wristwatch.
When enough time had passed, Luther turned around and walked back along the same path.
Coming up the rue des Saints Pères, he turned at the rue Jacob. There, at the curving drive at the entrance of the hotel, he saw his wife in a close embrace with Reo. He quickly reversed course “without making waves,” and took another turn around the block.
When he came back all was clear, and he bounded up the stairs.
* * *
Entering the room, Luther’s eye quickly took in the neat, undisturbed bed and then Margaret, her back toward him, standing at the window, apparently looking out at the street.
“I suppose you want to know what happened?”
“Only if you want to tell me.”
He had decided to say nothing about the embrace he’d witnessed out on the street.
“Nothing happened,” she said, turning around. “Nothing at all.”
“I see,” said Luther, taking off his beret and tossing it on the bed. “If he’s alone, why don’t you invite him to the dinner?”
The dinner Luther was referring to was a small party he was throwing for Margaret and some of their New York friends who had all converged on the Left Bank.<
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When Margaret didn’t say anything, he said, “Louise can look after him.”
* * *
By the following week, Luther had put a plan into place. On the pretext of needing to prepare for his new teaching job at City College, he would return to New York as soon as possible.
On a morning in late July he was at the Paris office of the United States Lines, arranging his passage home. He reserved a second-class cabin on the SS George Washington. Half an hour later he was out on the street, slipping the ticket into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Luther had decided that the only way their marriage would survive was if Margaret was left free to make her own choice. Besides, the endless discussions about Reo had started to grind him down.
She had confided that during Reo’s visit to Paris, they had not made love. The way she talked, it was unclear whether they ever would.
Luther found their relationship curious. Certainly Margaret was willing. “Why,” he wondered, “hadn’t Reo slept with her?”
Margaret told him, after he sailed for home, she planned to meet Reo in London. Then, if somehow circumstances changed, she would be in need of a contraceptive device. Knowing that Luther had made a study of women’s health clinics, she asked if he could give her an address for a responsible source of birth control in London.
“You’ve always been careful with me, but Reo’s not thinking that way,” she said, “and I need your help.”
Taking out a small notebook, Luther wrote out the address of a Dr. Stopes.
A look of anguish on her face, Margaret said, “What should I do?”
“You’ll have to decide that for yourself,” said Luther. He knew that Margaret, as much as she might protest otherwise, would not really welcome any advice on how she should behave.
Not satisfied with this answer, Margaret told him that if he wanted, she would run away from all of this with him.
Coming of Age Page 29