“I’ll leave with you now,” she insisted.
Still in love with her, and tempted to take her away, Luther thought, “No, I’m not going to do that.” He knew that she should have a choice of actions, decide between them, and accept the responsibility for her decision. She would never be satisfied until she discovered whether her dream was reality or fantasy.
Parting would be difficult and yet he felt a sense of relief at the thought of going. It was up to her to make a decision. For his part, he was grateful that he had a teaching job to return to.
On the day of his departure, he expected histrionics.
Contemplating the scene that might unfold, he decided it would be best if Louise accompanied them to the train station. Early on the morning of July 29, 1926, the three friends left by taxi for the Gare St. Lazare, where Luther would be catching a train to Cherbourg.
The cavernous train station was drafty. Particles of gray soot floated in the air.
A tearful Margaret leaned on Luther’s arm. “Tell me what to do,” she said.
“No,” he said, “I can’t tell you what to do.”
He turned. With reddened nose and swollen eyes, she looked like a small child. He squeezed her arm. “You must make your own decision.”
“My life is a hopeless muddle,” she said.
The boarding whistle blew. Luther turned and, linking his arm through Margaret’s, walked with her toward the train. For one last time, they embraced. Then, pulling back and holding her at arm’s length, he looked into her eyes.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, her eyes searching his.
A moment passed and then he kissed her deeply.
He swung himself up onto the train. The train lurched forward, its wheels starting to crank and groan.
He looked down. By now Margaret was pressed into Louise, her face the picture of misery. It would be the way he would think of her as he made his way by train, then by ship, back to New York.
“Take care of her, Louise. Take care of her!” Luther shouted.
The train pulled away.
Leaning out of the train, Luther watched. The women were standing still, their forms receding. Then, he saw them turn, Margaret still holding on to Louise’s arm, and move back into the dark dome of the station.
EPILOGUE
Margaret Mead returned to New York City in the fall of 1926 and started work as an assistant curator at the American Museum of Natural History. At the age of twenty-five, and back on her home turf, she was still finding life confusing. Although married to Luther Cressman, she was writing love letters to Reo Fortune.
Under pressure to fulfill her obligation to the National Research Council, Margaret began her report on the experience of adolescent girls growing up in Samoa. At some point during her writing she hit upon an innovative idea. Why not gear her work for a general readership rather than a scholarly audience? Drawing upon the style she had used when composing her bulletins, a style that had so entranced family and friends, she took the gamble.
Ruth Benedict, who remained a staunch ally, said of Margaret’s efforts, “She isn’t planning to be the best anthropologist, but she is planning to be the most famous.” In less than two years this prediction would prove true.
During the summer of 1928, Margaret traveled to Hermosillo, Mexico, where she filed for divorce from Luther Cressman. A few months later she was on her way to Papua, New Guinea, to begin fieldwork with her new husband, Reo Fortune.
That same year, William Morrow and Company published her report on adolescent behavior as a book, calling it Coming of Age in Samoa. From the very first page, its style was evocative:
As the dawn begins to fall among the soft brown roofs and slender palm trees stand out against a colorless, gleaming sea, lovers slip home from trysts beneath the palm trees or in the shadow of beached canoes.…
As an example of anthropological method, Margaret’s work failed to win the approval of several luminaries in her field, including A. C. Haddon, the don of British anthropology, and Edward Sapir. Sapir may have had an ulterior motive in finding fault with the research, but Haddon’s criticisms could not be so easily dismissed. He accused Margaret of being a “lady novelist.”
In spite of its academic detractors, Coming of Age in Samoa found favor with the general public. While Margaret was adjusting to life in the jungle, on the island of Manus, her book was turning into an unexpected bestseller. Not only did her description of child rearing and sexual attitudes in Samoa strike a nerve, but so, too, did her persona. Margaret Mead, the young lady who had been adventurous enough to live among the natives, became fixed in the public’s imagination as the “Flapper of the South Seas.”
Over the next five decades, Margaret proved that she had the ability to apply the methods and data she had used to study tribal cultures to speak about the problems and issues that Americans themselves faced. Thanks to her uncanny gift as a communicator, she managed to encourage millions of others to question societal conventions. By so doing, she ascended to the role of public intellectual and social commentator. The ideas she expressed over the radio, on television, and in the more than thirty books she authored, shaped the thinking of several generations.
Margaret’s marriage to Reo Fortune lasted until 1935. A year later she married the anthropologist Gregory Bateson. The couple had one child, Mary Catherine Bateson, and were divorced in 1950. For the final twenty-five years of her life, Margaret lived with her partner, Rhoda Métraux. Margaret Mead died of pancreatic cancer in 1978.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The person who launched this project, unwittingly, was Margaret Mead herself. My chance encounter with Mead occurred in 1972. She was in her early seventies, world-famous as an anthropologist, a social commentator, and an agent of change. I was a twenty-two-year-old college graduate, mostly unemployed, aimless, and desperate to find work that would engage me.
I was, at the time, working as a receptionist at a small publishing company in Cambridge, Massachusetts, xeroxing papers and answering phones. The work was tedious, the men who ran the company were all Harvard professors, aloof and condescending. Late one afternoon, while I was sitting at the switchboard and counting the minutes until closing time, I heard a noise in the foyer. Looking down the corridor, I saw an old woman struggling to get out of a heavy overcoat. Her hair was mousy gray, her shape squat and dumpy. Surprisingly, her mere presence was causing a commotion. The professors whom I knew to be cold and superior were swarming around her like a pack of fawning sycophants. I asked a coworker to tell me who she was. She said, “That’s Margaret Mead.”
Of course I’d heard of the famous Margaret Mead. Her name was synonymous with sexual liberation and the women’s movement. She’d recently put out a memoir about her early life called Blackberry Winter. Soon after, I bought a copy to see what she was about and was struck by the way she talked about her own coming of age. Without my realizing it, a seed had been planted.
Ten years later I read Jane Howard’s superlative biography Margaret Mead: A Life and found I was still fascinated by those pivotal years when Mead was in her early twenties. What was it, I wondered, that had catapulted this seemingly ordinary, albeit determined, young lady onto a path that had led to adventure, self-realization, and world fame? During the next two decades my interest led me to other biographies about Mead and her colleague and close friend, Ruth Benedict. Books by Judith Modell, Margaret Caffrey, Lois Banner, and Hillary Lapsley were all comprehensive, and each brought a unique interpretation to my understanding of the lives of these two complicated women. As a writer I was discouraged from trying to add anything to this body of work as the ground had been so well covered. And yet I kept coming back to that narrow time frame—the handful of years before Mead left for Samoa. What had triggered her audacious trip into the unknown?
I don’t believe I would have been able to undertake the kind of intensive research required to tell the story of her coming of age if it were not for the confluence of two unre
lated events: In 2009, Margaret Mead’s letters entered the public domain and, around the same time, archival libraries began the process of digitizing their collections.
The project was waiting for one more catalyst to bring it into being. That catalyst was Harvey Klinger, my agent of long-standing. Not only did he believe that Margaret Mead’s coming of age was a worthy story, but he also had the patience to stand behind the project through several incarnations. Then, after he sold my proposal, he played the crucial role of smoothing my way at several challenging junctures.
Once I started serious research I realized that while the Margaret Mead letter collection was voluminous, it was also incomplete. Not only were there lapses in coverage, but the letters themselves were maddeningly circumspect. As a letter-writer she was a chameleon, at one turn deeply revealing, at another a cunning dissembler. Only when I started to read the letters that others had written to her, or about her, did a picture start to take shape. I decided that the best way to tell her story was from multiple points of view, specifically those of Luther Cressman, Ruth Benedict, Edward Sapir, and that of Margaret Mead herself.
Most of the correspondence that revolves around Margaret Mead is held within the Library of Congress, and I could never have penetrated the depths of this vast repository without the expertise of Candace Clifford, an indefatigable researcher and an able historian. Candace knows the Library of Congress the way others of us know our own bookshelves. Armed with a digital camera, she went in and took high-resolution images of thousands of letters—the documents that would form the backbone of this book. Among those were ones penned by Ruth Benedict and Edward Sapir, small masterpieces that proved again and again that letter writing could be elevated to a high art.
I also owe thanks to several other institutions that safeguard the journals, oral histories, and other letters pertinent to this book. These include Vassar College (with a special thanks to Dean Rogers for his help with the Ruth Benedict collection), Columbia University, the American Philosophical Library, Marquette University (with a special thanks to Travis Williams for his help with Paul Radin’s letters), and the Museum of History in Ottawa (with a special thanks to Benoit Theriault for his help with the Marius Barbeau collection).
Once my research had begun in earnest, there were several authors who gave me important insights into Mead’s world. In particular, the late Luther Cressman who, in his memoir A Golden Journey, reconstructed incidents that occurred during his years with Mead; Regna Darnell, who brought Edward Sapir to life in her thoroughly engrossing biography Edward Sapir: Linguist, Anthropologist, Humanist; and the late Derek Freeman, whose provocative book The Hoaxing of Margaret Mead broadened my thinking about Mead’s first foray into the field.
I wish to thank Julie Johnson-McGrath, Julien Vaubourgeix and Dr. Sanford Weinstein for helping me gain an understanding of how the chronically ill coped with lung infections during the early twentieth century.
I am especially indebted to my two editors at Thomas Dunne Books at St. Martins Press. Thomas Dunne bought my proposal, saying he could “see” the story, and Emily Angell guided me through several rewrites with a firm hand but gentle manner. Remarkably, like myself, both Tom and Emily are dachshund people.
I count myself extremely fortunate to have several like-minded friends who have been generous with their time and energy. Tony Ganz and Anne Stein read the manuscript at early stages and shared their insights. During the homestretch Mary Ann Abramowitz offered sound and invaluable counsel.
On the home front, my three sons, Tommy Herd, Andre Herd, and Theron Herd, all provided flashes of inspiration when I least expected them. And Dale Herd, my partner in all endeavors, put up with my constant interruptions, and proved again and again that he knows the central point to be reached, and that he has an unerring ear for the correct rhythm of words on the page.
NOTES
AUTHOR’S NOTE
“This last night of waiting for mail is dreadful”: MM to RB, Sept. 19, 1925, Library of Congress (herinafter LC), S-3.
While in Samoa, Margaret set fire to the letters she had received from Edward Sapir: Darnell, 187 and Howard, 87.
EPIGRAPH
“Sometimes sleep will not descend upon the village”: Mead, Coming of Age in Samoa, 15.
1. SHOOTING STAR
“She was hitching her wagon to a star”: Cressman, 131.
Margaret was known to be extravagantly talkative: Howard, 56.
For a description of Margaret’s appearance: Banner, 6–7.
Margaret was starting a journey that would span nine thousand miles: Howard, 76.
Margaret expressed that she had “no feeling” and was “numb”: MM to RB, Sept. 4, 1925, LC, S-3.
“Dear Grandma … Ruth left me last night at Williams and in three hours I shall be in Los Angeles”: MM to MRM, Aug. 3, 1925, LC, A-17.
Margaret did not want to study the American Indian; she wanted to do her fieldwork in Polynesia: Lapsley, 101.
“We saw many Indians baling alfalfa into square blocks”: MM to MRM, Aug. 3, 1925, LC, A-17.
Margaret was going to Samoa to study the behavior of adolescent girls in a primitive culture: Howard, 77.
“Ruth and I got different things out of the Grand Canyon”: MM to MRM, Aug. 3, 1925, LC, A-17.
2. ONE FOR MY LADY LOVE
“Darling mine…, You are made up of … pretty eyes”: LC to MM, Jan. 2, 1922, LC, A-2.
Luther rushed to Brentano’s: LC to MM, Jan. 11, 1922, LC, A-2.
Luther’s favorite bookstore: LC to MM, Sept. 22, 1921, LC, A-2.
Luther often quoted Aquinas: LC to MM, Dec. 24, 1921, LC, A-2.
“I am going to write a paper for Jenks that will make his hair crack”: Ibid.
He purchased Romain Rolland and “one for his lady love”: LC to MM, Jan. 4, 1921; Sept. 22, 1922, LC, A-2.
Memories of growing up: Cressman, 3.
“I remember when in high school we had a terrible blizzard”: LC to MM, Jan. 11, 1922, LC A-2.
“Miss Mead has scarlet fever”: Helen Page Abbott to EM, Jan. 8, 1922, LC, Q-2.
On the Scarlet Six: Ibid.
Hoping to keep a lid on the hysteria: Ibid.
“Dear family cannot contaminate the telephone am doing swimmingly”: MM telegram to Mead Family, Dec. 25, 1921, LC, Q-2.
“My arms ache”: LC to MM, Oct. 23, 1922, LC, A-2.
Margaret convinced Luther to switch to the Episcopal Church: Howard, 36.
“You should see how far Luther has swerved towards the left wing”: MM to EM, March 7, 1921, LC, Q-2.
“They have me down for a Bolshevik Red”: LC to MM, Dec. 22, 1921, A-2.
400,000 British soldiers killed: Cressman, 52.
For the influence of Classic Greek legends on Luther: Ibid., 50.
He enrolled in the Citizens Military Training Camp: Ibid., 51.
Luther was commissioned to first lieutenant: Ibid., 53.
The Cressman family home burned to the ground: Ibid.
Luther met Margaret at dinner at the Mead’s house: Ibid., 54.
Invited the “bright young student” Margaret to Christmas lunch: Ibid., 55.
“the rather intellectual Margaret”: Ibid., 56.
For a description of Crack the Whip: Ibid., 19.
Luther told the story of Antigone: Ibid., 56.
“We had said little”: Ibid.
A kiss sealed a secret engagement: Ibid.
They both knew Luther would be going off to war: Ibid.
“We found ourselves part”: Ibid., 61–62.
“The haunting question of”: Ibid., 58.
He would devote himself to eliminating war: Ibid., 63.
“thinks I am mostly a bother”: LC to MM, Oct. 23, 1922, LC, A-2.
“I hope I didn’t shock you”: LC to MM, Jan. 2, 1922, LC, A-2.
“If you want to talk about devils”: LC to MM, Jan. 2, 1922, LC, A-2.
“Dearest little girl”: LC to MM, Jan. 7, 1922, LC, A-2.
&n
bsp; The light made her hair look like a golden mist: Ibid.
“Now, that is the hair and face”: Ibid.
“all hot and cold and weak”: Ibid.
“Didn’t you see me wave”: Ibid.
“I dreamed about you last night”: LC to MM, Jan. 3, 1922, LC, A-2.
CHAPTER 3: GIRLS, UNMARRIED AS YET
“I wish that you wouldn’t tell me all the bribes”: MM to EM, Dec. 9, 1919, LC, A-7.
“If I were a man I would probably be one of those bantam fighters”: Margaret quoted in Banner, 189.
“I don’t see how I ever could have gone anywhere else”: MM to EM, Sept. 30, 1920, LC, Q-2.
Margaret was known among friends for asserting herself: Howard, 58.
“Girlie,” “Little Girl” or “Dear Little Mar”: Cited from accumulated letters to Margaret.
Dadda nicknamed Margaret “Punk”: Mead in Blackberry Winter, 25.
“You girls sit up all night readin’ poetry”: Howard, 43.
“He made all the nonsense about dates”: Mead in Blackberry Winter, 100.
“among the rejected and un-chosen”: Ibid.
Margaret’s vision of the future described: Howard, 40.
A description of the flapper and the cultural significance of the bob: Ibid., 42; Lapsley, 29.
“I haven’t bobbed my hair”: MM to EM, Jan. 10, 1921, LC, Q-2.
Dadda said he couldn’t afford the tuition: Mead, Blackberry Winter, 34–37.
Emily Mead appealed to Dadda’s vanity: Howard, 37.
“The invitations to the sorority”: MM to EM, Sept. 19, 1919, LC, A-2.
Description of the dress that was designed to “represent a field of wheat with poppies”: Mead in Blackberry Winter, 87; Howard, 37.
Margaret’s social gaffe described: Howard, 37.
Ostracized by the popular girls: Mead, Blackberry Winter, 90, 94, 95.
“Don’t let this fraternity thing”: SM to MM, Oct. 6, 1919, LC, A-4.
“Mar … Really, Really, I can’t make you out”: SM to MM, Oct. 13, 1919, LC, A-4.
“Please let me come home”: MM to EM, Nov. 19, 1919, LC, A-7.
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