Comment
They seem to have put the money-borrowing issue behind them, but the pain it inflicted still exerts its power, and Roma prefers closure after discussing it fully in person. Roma continues to express her fondness for Mr. B., although Fred seems to be preferred for the long run.
Toward the end of one letter, Roma describes a dream that she thinks was brought on by eating too many peanuts before bed: “I wonder if that was the cause of my snake dream. Oh but he was a big fellow, but we killed him, it was either you or Mr. B. and I think it was Mr. B.” (Peanuts=penis may be too far-fetched, but who knows.)
A poem Roma sends Fred may have a hidden meaning: good little girls become bad and night and in the morning return to goodness;
“Morning to you “Fredie” dear,
Where’s that bad little girl was here,
Bad little girl’s gone clean away,
Good little girl’s come here to stay.”
[Cleveland, Ohio, 9:30 AM, July 8, 1915. Postcard.]
Thurs. 9 A.M.
Here is another “frigid” one, but I am busy. That’s my middle name. Your letter received this morning. Will write this evening after I talk with Mr. Ferris. Am looking for your letter about Huntington. What has become of Mr. B.? I haven’t heard a word.
[July 7, 1915, 6 P.M.]
My dearest Roma Belle,
Your “frigid” card lay on the desk as I reached home this evening. I have been in Huntington a number of times. It is a dry town, the entire state being dry. It has splendid hotels, fine business houses, several big banks, a large number of jobbing houses, three railroads and is located on the Ohio River, fifty miles east of Portsmouth. Splendid wide streets and many beautiful homes. A number of handsome churches. It is in every way a modern up to date city with local and interurban traction service. It is the seat of Marshall College, of which Speaker Champ Clark was formerly president. Population is near 40,000. It is the county seat of Cabell Co.
Time does not permit adding any “news” to this. I have sent you two other pieces of mail to-day c/o Gen. Del. This goes special to 1901 E 69th St. I trust the above “dope” may be useful.
Lovingly yours, F.B.W.
[July 8, 1915]
To my happy and affectionate little girl;
“After clouds sunshine” with this motto I greet you with the rising of the sun this morning. Since sending you the “first section” of my “serial” letter, I have received two from you one “freighted” with clouds, the other radiant with the rainbow of hope. I assure you at this “juncture” that I have no disposition to dwell at length upon the (what shall I call it?) unfortunate occurrence, further than to say in answer to your remark, that my “defense was very poor.” I might have couched my thoughts in words peculiar to the trained barrister and might have adorned, beautified and embellished my sentences with rhetoric of exceptional merit and in a general way indulged in a lot of idle verbosity, devoid of logic, carrying no conviction. (You notice I said I might.) However, I chose to write in a simple and familiar way, because that was the best way and I was sincere. “Out of the fullness of his heart man speaketh”—I was “full” alright, believe me.
Your second epistle accomplished its purpose. You intended that it should hurt. You deliberately, though I am sure not with malice, attempted to wound and give pain to a friend—“a faithful friend is the true image of Deity”, a wise man once said and I believe it is true. Well, my darling girl you have succeeded in your effort, yes I may say more than that, you have made a brilliant success of it. If you are as successful in your commercial career or in other ventures out in the world at large, as you have been in bruising the heart of a friend, then indeed, does there lie ahead of you a bright future and your name will be entitled to preferred position in “Who’s Who in America.” And now my dear girl, some one has said long before you and I appeared on the stage of human activities “that the way of true love never did run smooth.” I guess it’s so. As I read and re-read your last “bombardment” (to make sure that I get your meaning,) a tear trickled down over my fevered cheek and as I meditated (for I was alone) I saw you in that tear. It glistened like a diamond—yes, even like the dew drop; its warmth was that of sweet and pure love. Let us write finis to this chapter and may our mutual love be the key for its gracious interpretation. Oh, yes, of course I feel better now, I feel relieved. Your sweet letter with its familiar salutation, came as a benediction. It was blessed. It was timely. Your sweet and forgiving spirit so manifest in that letter acted as a balm and real elixir. For your “bushels of love” I send tons, full weight and no deductions. I am sure you have had “plenty of the bitter” else how could you be so sweet. My dear, some of it is needed to sweeten and purify the soul and often proves a blessing in disguise.
Your P.S. asking me to see Miss Heath about “The Art of Story Telling” came too late for me to attend that session, however, I met Miss Heath, who by the way is a vivacious girl with raven hair and sparkling eyes. She hails from a small town in Iowa and attended the Columbia School of Expression. I am to meet her to-night and will get what information I can.
I do not know when I shall meet Mr. Rawson, I have not seen him since the Marion trip. It is likely that I shall see him Saturday. I sent you a special delivery letter to 1901 E. 69th St. It should have reached you this morning, but I am informed a wreck has delayed trains going north. In my letter concerning Huntington I failed to mention its industries, in that respect, it is not the equal of Portsmouth, to I am told on reliable authority.
I “enjooy” the flattery you so profusely express respecting my letters. If they are “beautiful” and “flowery” and “interesting” but, little credit is due me, but to you dear heart, is much due, for you are at once the source and inspiration of them all and I am only too conscious of my crude manner of expressing my appreciation of you. In your friendship I find a sheltering tree in whose shade I find sweet rest.
With this message from me to you I send out across the distance of many miles my purest, deepest and sweetest thoughts of love.
Lovingly, F.B.W.
Portsmouth, Ohio, July eighth, Nineteen fifteen.
P.S. Mr. B. has the letter addressed to the firm. He got it last evening, the first time I have seen him since his return. W.
[July 9, 1915]
My dearest girl;
Your sweet note of yesterday came in on the afternoon mail and I hasten to make answer that you may hear from me before Sunday. I was so sorry to hear of your indisposition but am glad to learn that you are rapidly and let us hope permanently, becoming [written above the line] your dear little self again. I wonder how “love sickness” acts on a mere man. I have a suspicion. Say, I don’t get the point, i.e. I don’t get it clearly, in your call down about that firm letter. A little “elucidation” might help. I think Mr. B’s return was delayed, which fact, of course, you did not know. I think he did not know your address after you left Fostoria. I have reasons to feel that Mr. B. is very fond of you—yes, I think I could consistently use more emphatic language. The loyalty and consideration you show is most admirable. I consider Mr. B. an exceptionally fine young man. My opinion of him, I have expressed to you personally. I stamp him O.K. You know I like him.
My dear, it was sweet of you to say you were “hungry” to see me—do you know how “hungry” I am to see you?—well you can’t know that. I know some one that would like to “love and pet” you right now—it’s just 11 o’clock P.M. a good time; don’t you think so? My anxiety to see you is indeed strong.
Without referring to them specifically, one or two thoughts expressed in your letter impress me with much force. I am asking myself the question—am I worthy?—do I deserve it? I do appreciate the other kind and complimentary references to me.
If I had you on the phone now I would ask you if you were just as sweet as you were when I saw you last and if you were just as many carets [sic] fine; and then I’d want your answer to be “come and see.”
The hour is late and I must close. I trust this message will reach you in due time and find you well—the same daintily pretty, sweet, pure and lovable girl, Roma Belle, that I know and love so much.
Lovingly, F.B.W.
July 9 – 1915
[Cleveland, Ohio, 2 PM, July 10, 1915]
My precious dearest Fred:
You old sweet thing, I wish I had you here to love you. Your letter awaited my home coming about six o’clock. I laughed until my sides ached, excuse me, I suppose I should have cried, and I did feel like it too, but really the sarcasm struck me funny. However, lets “write finis” to that chapter until we see each other, and then, I will prove to you where your defense was weak, and make you feel like _________, well I’ll let you decide.
My dearest dear, I am now convinced that I did really hurt you, but heaven knows, I thot I was justified, and that it would not fase [sic] you. I guess I had better keep still or I will be hurting some more. My greatest wish is that I may not be guilty of wounding a friend, for they are too few and far between.
My dear, you say you think I must have had plenty of the “bitter with the sweet.” Dear, one of my most sincere prayers is, that no one will ever be called upon to suffer the anguish of soul and spirit that I have. If bitterness is what it takes, to bring out sweetness and character, then indeed I should be sweet and strong, but I am afraid I am neither. You have heard of black sheep haven’t you? Well, that is what I have been made to feel like all my life. I have never known what it was to have home love and sympathy. Dear, I have loads to tell you, I want to see you so much, I want to feel your kisses, and hot breath, and your loving arms around me, but I don’t know how long before that can be. I want you to love me, I want you to admire me, and I want you to trust me, and never be disappointed. There is that eternity, word again, but I mean it this time.
By the way, where do you get all of those beautiful verses and quotations? [He often enclosed clippings from the newspaper, including poems.] They are too sweet for anything, and I always enjoy them so much. I think you are the purest, sweetest, and dearest man I know, and that’s admitting a lot.
You have made me hungry with your menus—now take this. Scalloped fish with rice balls, steak, (grand_ June peas, new potatoes fired [sic] in butter, salad, pickles, rolls, butter, oh yes, “peach delight” and tea. Our dinner was so good last evening. I wish you knew how I loved that dear old lady who is ninety-two. She is so tiny and sweet. Erect, walks all over, and her hair is scarcely streaked. Yesterday I came down in my red silk kimona [sic], and she came to meet me, and put both her hands in such a sweet sincere way, and said “oh, you are so pretty, and lovely.” I just picked her up in my arms and loved, and kissed her, and she said, “thank you.” She isn’t the least bit childish. We had such a good time at the table. The Dakes are highly educated people and entertaining. Judge Dake helped his mother to the table in such a pretty way. He is a prince of a man, and I just admired him so much, and that how proud they must be of him, and what do you suppose he said about me? “What a charming girl, and how entertaining.” Now dear, don’t take this for concern. I appreciate it so much coming from a man like Mr. Dake, for as I sat there enjoying the company and dinner, I wondered if I would be out of place, if I were hostess to friends of their kind? Then I thot of you, how well you always appear, and how at ease you are on any occasion, and how flattered and proud. I always was to be with you.
It is still early, but I feel so weak and tired, I must close. I feel so much that I can’t express, but, “All’s Well That Ends Well.” I leave about Monday or Tuesday for “somewhere.” Be sure and watch the papers to see “Who’s Who in America.” I am sure it will be in the Post, the next edition after my first week’s work.
I have received all the letters you have sent I believe, you don’t know how I enjoy them.
Now dearest friend of mine, if I have seemed unkind or ungrateful to you, please forgive me, but I don’t believe your wound was as deep as mine, and if you suffered as much, you need sympathy. But you have healed mine, with your pure tender love and thots, and let me assure you any hurt I have given has hurt me more to inflict the wound than to have received it. While it was being sent, was the thot of losing, one whose admiration, esteem, and friendship I valued above all others, yet, if it were not mutual, it was best to lose it now.
As you have healed mine, may my most kind and tender love rest upon you, and make you thrice happy.
With sincere love, Your sleepy sleepy girl
Friday night.
“Morning to you “Fredie” dear,
Where’s that bad little girl was here,
Bad little girl’s gone clean away,
Good little girl’s come here to stay.”
This is Saturday morning, and I am so sick I don’t know what to do. You see, when people deliberately do things they know they should not, they have to suffer. Last night before retiring I ate a lot of roasted peanuts. I was not well anyway and then to burden my poor stomach with those indigestible things, I should suffer. I wonder if that was the cause of my snake dream. Oh but he was a big fellow, but we killed him, it was either you or Mr. B. and I think it was Mr. B. That means I have overcome my enemy, but who is it pray? I have had the most terrible dreams since I’ve been in Cleveland, I will be glad to get away.
I have some work to do and have to be down town by eleven o’clock so will close, but am sending this special, so you will get it Sun. but don’t tell Mr. B.
Lovingly, Roma
[Written in the side margin:] I have just read this over and the cheerfulness? of it impressed me. I want to add it sounds “sour”, I am really happy, if I am sick. [?]
QBA 