The Friendship of Mortals

by Audrey Driscoll

  ***

  After this, he did not write for several months. But Alma did.

  Boulogne, France

  January 15, 1917

  Dear Charles,

  Happy New Year to you too, except I’m not sure we can really call it ‘happy’ any more. It goes on and on, war without end. I have been here so long that it seems like home. My work has become routine, even though it is horrible. Am I callous, or is it human nature to adapt – even to this?

  I’ve started doing some writing – besides letters, I mean. Nothing much, just opinion pieces and anecdotes about things that strike my fancy. There are so many people here trying to do their best, so many incidents that are strange, funny, poignant. I’ve been sending some of my pieces to magazines and newspapers in London and back home too (New York and Boston). If I could do this for a living, I would be happy. Especially if you were here too. No, I don’t mean that, of course – not while the war drags on. What I wish is that it was over and you were here. We could run away to Paris and live in sin. I would write and you could be a cataloguer at the Bibliotheque Nationale. Wouldn’t that be fun?

  You asked about Herbert West. I haven’t seen him myself, but I’ve heard things about him. It seems he is getting to be famous – or maybe notorious is a better word – for insubordination, irregularities, automobile racing, target-shooting and so on. And he spends a lot of time going for long walks alone. Some people probably think that’s worse than the other stuff. But he’s also a brilliant surgeon, gets through the cases faster than anyone and has an astonishing success rate, even with the hopeless ones. He must be a headache for his superiors, which means he hasn’t changed much since he left Arkham, or only in degree, not in kind.

  The Quarrington stuff sounds fiendishly interesting. But better you than I.

  Toujours,

  Alma.