Comments
Roma is planning to go home to Albion for a visit and clearly has not told her mother about Fred, at least in any detail, and she cautions him not to write to her there, seeming to think her mother might read his letters. (A letter she wrote from Albion that she makes reference to may not be in my collection.) Fred writes that his week has included highs and lows, again without being specific. He indicates that things Roma wrote are among the darkest parts of the week.
Roma paints a picture of her mother as a depressed woman with a grim outlook that sounds to be difficult to be around. She notes that the fact that Fred doesn’t smoke will be a positive for her mother, though she has clearly not told her mother much about Fred at all, or their love for each other. Roma is pleased that Fred loves and accepts her as she is, including her free spirit. Roma includes a treatise on marriage. Roma wonders if the travails of life might make her as negative and depressed as her mother is.
Fred gives permission for Roma to “stuff the ballot box.” The letters were saved in a ballot box, and that is how they were stored until they came into my hands, until I removed them from my parents’ home fearing they might get lost or tossed out. When I started transcribing them, my mother, Roma’s daughter, showed no interest when I gave her several.
Fred again makes veiled references to his ill health but no specifics. Invitations to speak at local clubs and functions show that Fred is seen as broad knowledge about history and events of the day, e.g., women’s suffrage, the “European War,” etc.
Their friendship with Mr. B continues to be a puzzling one that is not elucidated in the letters: “Your ‘dead secret’ has been revealed to me by Mr. B. The idea meets with my approval. It looks like a case where tact and diplomacy must be exercised to avoid embarrassment, confusion and perplexity. I’ll do my damdest to play my part fair.”
[Fostoria, Ohio, 1 PM, September 30, 1915.]
My dearie:
I have just a few minutes before I must go to school, so will write a line. I received your two cards this morning, one telling me of the peaches, the other of dear [?] “Portsmouth.” I showed it to the girls, and it “looks good” to them. The peaches have not come yet, but I am sure we will be out this afternoon. Thank you dear, but you must stop being so nice to me. You will spoil me and think what a calamity that would be.
Dear, so as to be able to make the trip one week from Friday I am going home tomorrow afternoon at one-fifteen. Will get home somewhere around six o’clock. Won’t that be nice? I wish I could stay longer. I have some material that I need very much and had planned to go a week from Friday but will shove it up a week so I can do both. Dear I am anxious to know what you have to say about our proposed trip to Portsmouth. I am so afraid I won’t get your letter before I go home. Dear I wish you would write me a special to Albion. But above all things, don’t say anything in it about the “trip, dancing, or shows.” Can you follow that?
We were at the Y.M.C.A. opening last night and had a real nice time. Everything is going nicely, and I’m ready to see you most any time.
Lovingly your, Roma
1110 Michigan Ave., Albion, Mich.
[Albion, Michigan, 7 AM October 3, 1915. Picture postcard of residential street lined with trees and houses set back.]
“Here’s the way we look”
My precious girl;
Dear, your letter from Albion was duly received. It contained both the bitter and the sweet. This is not a reply to it but just an acknowledgement. Sweetheart dear, you will hear from me when you return to Fostoria. I wish I could spend this coming Sunday with you. Dear, you cannot know how much I love you. You make every link in an endless chain of my thots.
Love, this week has been made up of many lights and shadows—the latter seem to prevail. It grieves me to say that you sent some of the darkest.
Peaches and cream may be sweet but the sweetness I have found in you exceeds beyond measure any that may be found in the vegetable kingdom.
My love for you was born in perfection and purity and therefore cannot die. I even pray that Heaven may guard and keep you as the sweetest and most precious influence that has touched my life.
With consuming love, Fred.
October ?, 1915
[Toledo, Ohio, 12:30 PM, October 4, 1915. Letter and three newspaper clippings.]
My dearest Fred:
Otto says, he is never surprised at any thing I do, and “guesses” it is all right. By this time you must not be “surprised,” and take the crazy things I do as a matter of course.
It is after ten-thirty P.M. and I am in the dirty (Toledo) waiting room writing this letter, incidentally waiting for my car which leaves at eleven-thirty. Miss Alexander will join me, so I will not be alone.
Your telegram reached me this morning about nine thirty, and made me happy all day. I was so glad to get some kind of word from you while home, because of mama. I think you stand a “fair” chance because you do not smoke.
Dear, I was glad to get home and had a nice time, but I was there long enough. I feel so sorry for mama. Why she should lose such confidence in mankind is more than I can understand. All I heard was other people’s faults, mostly my friends, and absolutely no good in any one. I always exert my self beyond the limit to make things pleasant, but something is always wrong. I was so happy to go to bed last night and think of you. Your splendid broad mind, your high ideals, and your splendid body, suggesting perfect manhood. Then too dear I believe you understand me. I don’t see why that should be so hard. It is such a comfort. I like so much the sentiment you expressed some time ago in defining “a friend.” I like to tell you all the unpleasant things that happen as well as the joys. Not to make you unhappy, but that shows confidence and love. I feel so happy and proud when you allow me to share your joys and sorrows.
Our lawn has been fixed this summer and oh it looks just beautiful. I mowed the grass and really enjoyed it. I think we have a very pretty place and would give anything if you could see it before the frost comes.
I will get home about one o’clock, but not too late to enjoy my letter.
Yours, Roma
[Newspaper clippings:]
PHILOSOPHY OF HER CHORUS SONG CAUSES ACTRESS’ DEATH
New York, Sept. 30.—
If you want a man to love
Bear in mind this plan—
If you want a man to love you
Fool him all you can!
Never let him know you like him,
Never answer “Yes!”
Till you have him broken hearted,
Make him guess, guess, guess.
————
This is the chorus of one of the songs Pearl Palmer, pretty opera singer, was to have sung when she made her first Broadway appearance as one of the principals of the opera Princess Pat.
Now she is dead because she carried this philosophy into her own life, her friends say. Herbert Haeckler, who killed the young singer and himself Sunday night, had been kept “guessing,” they said, until his mind had given way.
Eva Fallon sang the song Miss Palmer was to have sung when the opera opened last night.
It was postponed because of the tragedy.
THUS FAR MARRIAGE IS THE ONLY TIE THAT WILL HOLD A PAIR OF HUMAN BEINGS AND A HOME TOGETHER. By Helen Rowland
Copyright, 1915, by the Press Publishing Co.
“I suppose, sighed the Widow, as with flattering thoughtfulness (after two months’ absence) she dropped the usual two lumps in the Bachelor’s tea, “that everything will be different in heaven.”
“Not EVERYTHING, I hope,” protested the Bachelor, with a properly appreciative glance at her piquant profile beneath the distracting brown curls.
“Anyway,” she insisted, shrugging her tulle shoulder, “we won’t have to live in hotels.”
“Nor in lonely bachelor flats.”
“Nor in gloomy boarding houses, nor in stuffy kitchenette apartments, nor in deadly suburban bungalows,” finished the Widow. “And that’s the only choice we have in this world. Of course,” she continued, musingly, stirring her tea, “there is no practical reason in this Golden age of feminine Opportunity why a girl SHOULD marry, and yet”—
“Not more than once or twice, anyhow,” put in the Bachelor hastily. “I wonder why they always do? Surely it can’t be that we—that men are so irresistible?”
“No, it can’t.” agreed the Widow promptly. “In fact, it isn’t. It may be the emotions that bloom in the spring that drive a man to matrimony, but it’s the problems that loom in the fall that drive a girl to it. It’s simply the problem of living.”
“Without working?” murmured the Bachelor tentatively.
Who Lives Alone Does Not Really Live.
“Nonsense!” scoffed the Widow. “Working for a living has long ago been conceded to be a simple thing beside working a man for a living. I mean the problem of HOW to live, Mr. Weatherby, which rises like a Phoenix to haunt and torture you and drive you to desperation or a husband every autumn. I’ve tried every conceivable way, and there is no such thing as really LIVING—alone. Anybody can exist, but everybody wants to live.”
“Then why don’t you stop trying,” suggested the Bachelor hopefully, “and take m”—
“Now, Mr. Weatherby.”
“And take my advice?” finished the Bachelor hastily. “There’s a cozy little house out in”—
“Living alone, to a girl or a man either,” continued the Widow, ignoring the deflection, “is nothing but a choice of being entombed in a big hotel, where you are suffered to eat three meals a day in a gilded sarcophagus, surrounded by a legion of Greek ‘spies’“—
“And guarded by a French head waiter, who looks as though he would like to see you and the German emperor boiled together in oil,” groaned the Bachelor.
“Or of buying yourself alive in a gloomy boarding house, where they stuff the gas-jets, as though they knew you would feel like suiciding every evening after dinner,” continued the Widow. “And where the soup is always cold before you can get hold of the salt and the roast is always cold before they bring the gravy”—
“And the radiator and the ice water exchange functions.”
It’s The Human Touch That Makes A House A Home.
“Or of pretending to keep house,” finished the Widow, “and doing the ‘Lucuillus’ at three meals a day with nobody to argue with at breakfast, nor to wait for at dinner, nor to bring in the newspaper and litter up the den and fill the curtains with nice, horrid cigar smoke and splash up the bathroom and drop ashes on the carpets and do all the irrepressible, reprehensible little human things that turn a house into a ‘home’ and mere existence into real life. That’s what inspires most girls to exchange the attentions of a lot of men for the inattention of one—just the inborn—aching desire to have something HUMAN around the house. But men don’t seem to feel that way”—
“Don’t you believe it,” broke in the Bachelor fervently. “What on earth do you suppose WE marry for? Why do you imagine any man is willing to forego the flatteries of a lot of women in order to give one woman the privilege of telling him the truth about himself? I’ll tell you why. It’s just the instinctive masculine yearning to have somebody around to spill violet water on the dressing table and scatter scented talcum powder around the bathroom and litter up the library with sewing baskets and flower pots and teacups, somebody to growl at at breakfast and to have to hurry home to at dinner time, somebody to TIE you to her apron strings or her shoe strings”—
Being Married Is Being “Roped And Tied.”
“That’s it!” cried the Widow, clapping her hands triumphantly. “We’re all alike. We’ve got to be TIED to somebody or else be battered and tossed about like bits of driftwood at sea. Besides, nothing but being roped and tied would make two people put up with one another’s foibles for more than a month, and thus far marriage is the only tie that will hold a pair of human beings and a home together.”
Yes,” signed the Bachelor, “it may be hard to swallow, but it seems to be Old Doc Nature’s only cure for loneliness. Why don’t you try it—just once?”
“Mr. Weatherby,” said the Widow, reproachfully, “haven’t I said that I wouldn’t marry the best man in the world?”
“Well,” rejoined the Bachelor, “nobody asked you to marry the best man in the world.”
My dearest Roma;
I have just finished reading for the “steenth” time your thoughtful message sent from Toledo. I was really anxious to know about your receiving the night letter wire special. As explained in a former letter, there was not sufficient time to reach you with a special sent via mail. Who is “Otto” that you refer to in your letter? I see you are getting my habit, viz., sending clippings. Well, I’ll only say that I like them and you may “stuff the ballot box” just as much as you can and please. As I have not as yet “digested” them I’ll make no further comment now. I am enclosing a clipping taken from one of last week’s Cincinnati papers. I think it’s quite good. I like “the way we look” as depicted on the Albion card. Say pet, did you say I do not smoke—why do you know I smoked a whole cigar last week—now isn’t that just “perfectly awful”. That means my “chance” is gone.
I cannot understand the extremely pessimistic attitude that your mother has toward the world in general. To lose confidence in mankind is conducive to unhappiness and misery. Can it be that you,—you of the same flesh and bone, have inherited that unfortunate tendency?—perhaps not manifest now, (because you are young and your outlook upon the world is different) but only awaiting the touch and sting of sorrow, disappointment and adversity to produce a similar effect in your life. I may say that my mother has had sadness, sorrow and disappointment plus but the effect and result is a sweeter and more sympathetic soul. You have always seemed the very antithesis of all that was gloomy and dark. The sentiment expressed in the definition of a friend, (a friend is a feller who knows all about you and likes you just the same is sweet and precious).
Oh say, before I forget it, in what condition did the crate of peaches or better the crated peach reach you? I think it could have appropriately been labeled “a peach to the peach.” Several who saw it thought it was a clever little stunt.
Dear Roma, many are the times that I think of you both by day and by night—always “a sweet morsel of feminine sweetness”. I have not been feeling well for several days past. For months past my sleep has not been good. I’ll not, however, worry you with my troubles, while surface indications may indicate that I have none, believe me I have had a “world” of them, during the past year or two. Miss Heaton, secretary of the Y.W.C.A. called on me yesterday and asked me to take charge of the “Current Events” class, that will meet once each week in the “Y.” parlors. The subjects to be discussed are the European War, the Mexican situation, the Eight hour day, woman suffrage and other topics that may come up. I thanked her for the compliment implied in the request but told her that I would be unable to take on any work of that kind at this time.
By today you should have word from Mr. B. concerning the trip. I hope a satisfactory working schedule will be planned. I am ready for the “fray.”
Sweetheart, I close now my message to you with the fond hope that an early mail will bring me a message dear, from you—a message I always welcome.
Fondly, Fred.
October 6?, 1915
[postmarked October 5, 1915, Portsmouth, sent to Fostoria]
My precious sweetheart:
An unexpected leisure hour presents itself and I’ll improve it by replying to your unusually good letter received at noon today.
I note the effect the Salt Lake paper had on you and of course observe that Portsmouth papers fail entirely to influence you in any such way. This is certainly sad. O, say, before I forget it—I met Sue on the street yesterday and of course spoke of your progress and she said to send her regards.
Yet, pet, I did enjoy that special more than a little, come again, come often. Sweetheart, I am grateful for the many kind things you say about me and sincerely hope that they are based on merit alone. When you say one is a good man, you say much indeed. There is nothing grander in this world than a good man, unless it’s a good woman; but my! how far short do I fall of those ideals I most cherish. I dare not examine myself lest I be buried in a cloud of humility. If I want to feel real miserable, all I need to do is to think about myself. I must hurry and change the subject and when I want to feel real happy I think of you.
Dear Roma, you spoke of my last letter being a “masterpiece”—say, do know that I have not been able to write you a satisfying letter for a long time or at least for some time past? Somehow, I am not pleased with them after they are written and feel that I should destroy them and try again. I, perhaps, should not make this confession but, sweetheart, it is just the way I feel about them. It is not for lack of inspiration, for you, dear Roma, are inspiration and joy plus to me. In its last analysis, it is, perhaps, my lack of ability to use what little talent I may have to give adequate and appropriate expression in the written word. I was about to ask you to return to me any letter than I may have sent you which you consider what you call a “masterpiece.” If I have been guilty of sending you such a one “I builded [sic] more wisely than I knew.” I’ll use it for a “model” for my future letters. You spoke of my appreciative audience of last Sunday—well dear, I’d much rather talk to an audience of one, if that one be you. In again referring to May 16th let me say that when greeting the new minister, he incidentally remarked that he gave his trial sermon May 16th last. I remembered you and I heard part of the morning and all of the evening sermons. At the night service you wore that “old rose” and you looked just too sweet for anything. My object in again mentioning this particular date is that you not give me undue credit for being so exact or remembering so well, for without the minister’s comment I could not have told the real time. However, don’t be worried about the love at first sight—it started at first sight and immediately after the second it grew by leaps and bounds and hasn’t stopped yet.
Extend to Mrs. Near my kind regards and to the girls my—what shall I say love or regards?—you better make it regards. I am willing to put up with your “bum” P.O. if you will only write oftener.
The book that I shall send you is one that I saw advertised. I do not know what merit it may have. It is inexpensive. The ad appealed to me. It is ordered and should arrive soon.
I have a splendid cure for those lonely nights if I were only close enough to apply the remedy. It is very efficacious. An urgent call has just come and must leave. Will continue this later.
Dear Roma, all that precedes was written Thursday evening and not until now could I resume this pleasant task. Without going into details let me simply say that things have crowded in on me so thick and fast that I could have used more hours than the days and nights contained in order to do what I had planned. Since beginning this letter I received your surprise letter Friday telling me of your proposed trip to your home in Albion. Yesterday evening (Saturday) I started to write you a letter, however, while writing, I figured that a special would not reach you in time; I calculated that you would be leaving Albion before the letter could reach you, supposing, of course, that you must be in Fostoria for your work early Monday morning. So I sent, as a substitute, a night letter via Western Union, which you doubtless received this morning early.
Your “dead secret” has been revealed to me by Mr. B. The idea meets with my approval. It looks like a case where tact and diplomacy must be exercised to avoid embarrassment, confusion and perplexity. I’ll do my damdest to play my part fair. I know we can get the two other males at this end of the line. Sweetheart, as this is a proposition put by you to Mr. B. (and you said he was game) in fairness to him I cannot or rather must not unduly assert myself, however, I sent you an invitation to the K.K. two weeks ago and renewed the invite in my night letter. Mr. B. told me he was trying to figure out the schedule of retiring trains, in order that you may be at your work at the usual time Monday.
I shall request Dr. Horst, the new minister, also Miss Marting, to use the (Bucyrus) hymn “Jerusalem, my happy home” next Sunday morning and we will sing it from the same book. Won’t that be nice? you ask me which one of the girls I want—my answer is Roma Belle. Now be careful!
I hope you received the crate of peach before you left. I am glad you liked the “Sweets to the sweet.” Say do you know that the candy man saw me write that on the package and he told me he was getting up a new drink and wanted an appropriate name—so he said he would use that “Sweet to the sweet.” See what an influence you are exerting. Dear, you said if you had a “toast” to give you would make me write it; well I would not do it. When you are asked they would expect beauty and sweetness—and that’s you—but coming from me it would be masculine and perhaps heavy and you know that would not be consistent and would be unharmonious.
I am enclosing the carnation that I wore at the Fellowship Banquet—I acted as toastmaster—we all had a good time. At the next banquet our wives and sweethearts will be expected.
Now, if you and the three “other little devils” come to our K.K. I’ll appoint myself on the reception committee to meet, greet, welcome, and kiss every little devil that comes. All I need is the chance. Do you get me? Can you follow that? “Me for the lark”—now go to it. I’ll say no more about this until you and Mr. B. have worked out a definite and workable schedule. Remember this I have a date for Saturday the 9th and also the 10th, being the dates fixed in your letter—but the date is with—. Heed all admonition herein given. Have you observed that I have been using Roma(n) numerals to number my pages? This is deep stuff—but I am sure you can follow it.
Aunt Mary gave us a nice Sunday dinner today—veal loaf, white and sweet potatoes, corn, lima beans, salad, sliced peaches, bread and butter, cheese, cake and coffee.
As usual, dearest, the hour is late and I find this letter is getting bulky so I’ll draw to a close, for should I continue it might cause Mrs. Near to again pay out for postage—a sort of a fine against the innocent, don’t you know.
Dear Roma, I hope this message will reach you in due time and find you both well and happy. I regret to say that I have not felt well all day and feel that I shall have a disturbed and restless night.
Lovingly, Fred.
QBA 