all my love,
cat
• • •
[To Stanley Edgar Hyman, handwritten]
THE SENECHAL HOTEL, PHILIP, SOUTH DAKOTA
Tues. 4th day [July 25, 1939]
Darling—
Let’s have a honeymoon and come to South Dakota on it—it consists solely of a million miles of nothing stretching a little vaguely in all directions—country which “used to be the farming country, only the farmers couldn’t live, so the president (a fine man!) and his government took away the land and the farmers are being fed now—and if the government can put sidewalks in this city it can sure afford to feed a few farmers!” The quotes are from a little gas-station man whom Barry and I met tonight.
And all of Dakota—we’re just outside the badlands now—looks like T.H. Benton’s*40 paintings. Shadows and everything. We’ve spent all day in country inhabited solely by grasshoppers—they’re a foot and a half long (like several things I can think of), with incredibly nasty dispositions (the comparison continues) and bright yellow in color. (the comparison ceases.) They get in the radiator and squash. They also get in the car and mother and I scream—and if you ever had a foot-long grasshopper caught in your hair, you’d scream too, my darling!
We can tell we’re getting farther west because the people smile when they talk to you. I’d forgotten what it was like to sit in a gas-station for an hour and talk to other people driving through. Will be in Yellowstone by Thursday and in S.F. by either Monday or Tuesday, when you will get a respectable letter, typewritten. Is getting a letter from me worth enough to wade through this writing? Or do you just read one page?
I’ve seen lots of things I like, and am enjoying myself. If I can’t be with you, I might as well be happy where I am. But I think of you oh, so much, and love you so terribly and so enormously. I miss you and need you and want you and love you—oh, darling, how I love you!
Please write.
I love you—
Cat
• • •
[To Stanley Edgar Hyman, handwritten]
STATE GAME LODGE, CUSTER STATE PARK, HERMOSA, S.D.
Wednesday, 5th day [July 26, 1939]
My dear—
You must forgive my writing (just this once!) on both sides of the paper—I have been religious about not doing it before—but tonight they gave me so little paper and there is so much to say.
First, I am happy. Very happy. I am sitting on a cool porch and, although there are a million moths which sit on the paper—and on me—it is very peaceful. Barry sits next to me, writing to Babe. He is very scornful because I jump when moths hit me in the face. He is turning out well, my brother. He has suddenly taken complete charge of mother and me, and handles hotel managers like a true man.
We didn’t come very far today—I take back everything I said about South Dakota—it stinks—we started through the badlands at ten in the morning. It was so hot we couldn’t get out of the car and we were halfway through and the car went mad—completely. The badlands are hideous. For about the first two hours they are interesting—those lovely rocks making castles and shadows and funny color—but after that they are dry and dusty and very very hot—I have never seen such desolation. perhaps it is because the heat got me down today for the first time in my life and I nearly died. I never knew what heat was before. Can you imagine hundreds of miles of prairie land where there are no trees and no growing things but cacti, and only that incredible heat? We drove through it for seven hours and saw no towns, only gas stations and here and there one of those ugly little red farms. I hate such things Stanley! And then, of course, the car broke down, and hell broke loose—things got a little strained, too, when Barry took the wrong road and we went forty miles out of our way. After today, I never want to come to the middle west again—it’s hideous.
We finally reached a city—(around here, anything with more than two inhabitants is a town, and anything with a garage is a city) and got the car fixed and got into the Black Hills—we’re in the hills now. We saw Mount Rushmore and the faces in the rock (I thought of Easter Island, and archeologists a million years from now, and the Easter Islanders driving up and saying “O, there’s Mr. Lincoln—isn’t it a good likeness though!”) and we saw the places where there were supposed to be buffalo only there weren’t any buffalo, and then we got into the mountains. Do you love mountains like I do, darling? They’re so quiet and have pine trees and they are so quiet, with only the sounds of pine trees growing, and the mountains sit and think about how fine it is to be quiet. I love mountains so much that, as you know, I have been acutely homesick for them in the east, and now that I am in them again I just want to sit and look at them—I used to plan to have a little house with no walls at all, on top of a mountain, and live there all by myself and just sit and look—now, of course, my wants are somewhat expanded, but someday (and I promised myself this tonight, and it is a sacred promise) I shall have a little house with no sides on top of a mountain. It must be a mountain with pine trees, and little streams and deer and even bees—I don’t think I mind bees so much on a mountain. (a bee flew in the car today, and even Barry commended me on my behavior—mother will witness for you that I sat very still, turned very white, and never opened my mouth.) Oh but mountains! We stopped on top of one today, and I went far off by myself and sat and looked, and I didn’t even think about you, my darling. I just remembered all the times at home—even with you—that I’ve wanted something and couldn’t tell what it was. I think it’s the absolute peace, and consciousness of age, and the silence which is in all trees, that I love so much—and after a long while, if you’re very quiet, the trees begin to grow around you.
I have come inside now, because a moth flew in my eye—
I imagine that I have not managed in any way to convey that great comfortable feeling I have tonight. It is entirely apart from my homesickness for you and your arms, because that homesickness has not gone away at all, and I miss you dreadfully. But this is different. Way deep inside me all the restlessness has gone away, and I could stay here from now on, even without you. I wouldn’t want to, but it wouldn’t drive me crazy, or into that desolate, no-insides feeling I’d have anywhere else. I think that my restlessness and nervousness at home is an insane seeking for some overwhelming stability which I find here in this vast quiet. I know I don’t love you any the less because I can take a deep breath at last.
You understand? Yes—surely. You always have.
So—goodnight, dearest, and love me and love me and write to me and miss me some.
Because I love you so.
your,
Cat
• • •
[To Stanley Edgar Hyman]
[August 2, 1939]
dear,
i’d forgotten, hadn’t i? i mean, about fog and hills and oceans and things? because it’s wonderful. i went to sleep last night with a foghorn going just outside the window, and the fog was coming in through the cracks. and we live on a hill. and the ocean’s not far.
we got in about five yesterday…i nearly disgraced myself by crying when i saw the city across the bridge. barry drove through town…up and down sixty degree hills, and we found my grandmother, who had found an apartment for us. my grandmother is very practical, and was sure to get an apartment with a garage and a radio and a piano and lots of ashtrays, but she completely forgot about beds. she has been concentrating for two weeks on making mary baker eddy*41 and god think of a place for barry to sleep. last night he slept on the couch. there are only two beds, you see, and four of us. that had never occurred to my grandmother, who says in a sort of dazed fashion: “but she was such a lovely woman, and such a nice location and did you see that garage?” of course we’re half way up a hill and we can’t get the car into the garage…but we have a radio. the wiring has barry and
pop hysterical. there is one plug in the house and it serves four rooms. it is in the kitchen and the wires go right around the apartment to the living room and my room. in order to use the toaster we have to disconnect the livingroom lamps…thus. we are in san francisco, we have a place to live (but no wastebaskets) and people are getting barry and me dates for saturday night.
thank god for your letters. it was so good to get them, even if they were little and inadequate for what i wanted. (uh-huh)
a collection of assorted uncles just arrived and barry and i must go shopping with them. we’re to learn our way around the city, and unc’ cliff is going to teach me to drive before i leave. that’s a promise. i shall then do a very small bit of the driving back and take my license in rochester when i get home. i’ll write you again tonight; i can mail this now if i stop. like yours, it isn’t worth mailing, but i want to tell you i love you.
darling, darling, darling!
cat
• • •
[To Stanley Edgar Hyman]
thurs. [August 3, 1939]
darling auntie,
so now we are keeping house. mother is washing, happily and with suds in her hair; i have washed the dishes, made the bed, and cleaned the house. that last a bit inadequately, but i washed all the ashtrays. i am feeling a little more like myself today; being in san francisco is not quite so new as it was yesterday. i miss you dreadfully, as you know, and i WISH you could see me keep house with mother. mother is so happy now that she can cook and wash again. we got a bed for barry and put it in the dining room, which is silly. and remind me never to renew old acquaintances again, won’t you. because i called up dot, my ancient friend (on a dial telephone with a party line, which confused me) confident that she would be the same person she used to be. and instead she said “oh, shirley JACKSON! how are you? i can see you on friday but i can only give you until one because i have an engagement EVERY day, really!” so i probably won’t see dot on friday. and i have nothing to do but go exploring and see relatives. barry is happily getting himself dates and having a wonderful time getting new clothes from my father’s tailor, and mother’s time is filled up from now on, and i have discovered that these strange people who own this apartment have, hidden way back in the bookcase behind seventeen zane grey books, something called thebeginner’sbookofchess, and i have been reading all about castling.
yesterday unc’ cliff took barry and me out shopping and riding. we went to fisherman’s wharf and he took us around the city and up and down hills, and he took us to chinatown. cliff, who has done a lot of business down there, knows the cheapest places and the ones not for tourists, and i told him i wanted a skull, so we went into a little shop and a perfectly charming chinese gentleman listened carefully to me and said well, only small ones, and he dug away in a corner and produced a skull the size of the ones on my charm bracelet but instead of being just an approximation of a skull it was hand carved, and the most delicate and intricate little thing you have ever seen, and it was detailed enough to show all the little cavities and holes of the skull, and i screamed once and the chinese gentleman and i went into a discussion of skulls and where i could get a big one (he didn’t know) and finally he grinned at clifford and barry, who were looking at lil statues, and said weren’t the gentlemen going to buy the skull for me? and they bought it. for a quarter. i was madly in love with the chinese gentleman by that time, and he gave me his card and a map showing how to find his store, and then, just as i was leaving, he thought of something that might interest me. he wouldn’t tell me what it was, but went digging away in the back and finally returned with…a set of ivory chessmen. i just sat and looked at them, and my chinese friend sat and looked at them and barry went away groaning. they were beautiful…he told me afterwards that they weren’t ivory, but bone, chinese-carved, and they were about three inches high, and very delicate. and an inlaid board went with them. i nearly cried. clifford and barry came over and said why did the chinese play chess and i said didn’t the game originate in asia and the chinese gentleman was proud of me. so he said i could have the set and the board for eight dollars. which isn’t too cheap, considering that they are whalebone and not ivory. but neither barry nor clifford made a move to buy them. so i told the chinese gentleman that i would come back for the chess set and he said yes he supposed i would and said goodbye to me very fondly and i tore home as fast as i could go to cry on mother’s shoulder. and she said no and i said but…and she said well, i was going to get you a new watch for your birthday and i said watch-smatch and she said well we’ll go down and look at them and i said i wouldn’t ask for a penny all the time i was in san francisco and wouldn’t even send presents to my friends and she said well, we’ll go down tomorrow and see. so we may go down today and i think the chessmen are mine…or, rather, yours. it means that i won’t be able to send jupie or frannie or june or y or anyone anything from san francisco, but the hell with them i have a lovely chess set which i am going to save for stanley. i won’t open the box. not until we can play with it.
oh, yes, and something else happened in chinatown. we were walking down the street and we came to one of these candy machines where you get little charms with the candy and barry put a penny in and clifford put a penny in, and a little chinese boy came up wanting to shine their shoes, and they said no, but he stayed, and then barry held out his hand full of the candy, because he didn’t want the candy, he had only wanted the charms, and he said to the little chinese boy “take this instead.” and the little boy (he was only about seven) hit barry’s hand and knocked the candy all over the street and said “it’s japanese” and turned around and ran away.*42
there are a few japanese stores among the chinese ones in chinatown and clifford wouldn’t let us go in there. he knew which were which but all the chinese merchants display signs in the windows saying WE ARE CHINESE. and we went into a chinese bar where they had incense and a dragon for a bar, and chinese cocktails (buddha’s kiss, pagoda, etc.) and there was a nickel machine with elranchogrande on it. elranchogrande has been following me all across the country.
and pop met alec templeton*43 in the bohemian grove, because alec is also a member of the bohemian club, and pop heard alec and four other guys do a jam session in b-flat, which pop said was the most wonderful thing he had ever heard. and alec one night gave a private little concert and played his impressions of the grove and some of his comic things and pop is still raving. and, too, pop picked up the interesting little story that alec’s family wanted him to be not afraid of his blindness, so they never told him he was blind, and alec didn’t know until he was ten years old that he was not normal; he thought everyone was the same way he was. which is material for a story.
i am very anxious to get the next two chapters of your book. you don’t tell me enough about how it’s coming on. and you don’t write long letters. and you don’t write often enough. and i love you.
cat
• • •
[To Stanley Edgar Hyman]
tues. [August 8, 1939]
my darling,
so this is what it’s like to be lonesome! i haven’t written for so long, and i’ve wanted to write and couldn’t. i haven’t heard from you either. i have the typewriter balanced on my knees and it’s not too successful…there is no place in this house to type unless i use the kitchen table and mother is using that.
we’re very comfortable and getting along very well. mother has engagements every day from now on, and barry and i (already heartily tired of this goddamn city and nothing to do) go to movies or just sit and read. and it’s a shame, because i really love san francisco so much, except that being all alone in a city with nothing to do and no one to talk to is hard on one. of course it’s cold, and the sun hasn’t been out since we got here—it’s always like that, with fog all day and occasionally rain, and never any warmth, always that damp awareness of the ocean so near,
and we can see the fog coming in over the houses in the morning. our apartment overlooks the bay and the golden gate bridge…every morning barry and i race to the mailbox and there’s nothing. barry hasn’t heard from babe since we left, and he’s getting irritable. we haven’t seen the fair*44 yet, and we haven’t gotten my chess set…i’m getting despairing. our grandmothers pursue us…mimi*45 is overfond of me and keeps trying to take me out to dinner, and i won’t go. we went to see my english grandmother*46 and she is very ill. i adore that woman; she is so little and so frail and so amused, and she sits there and says wicked little things in that delicate english voice of hers and everyone pretends that no one heard her…uncles tomorrow, and my mad great aunt…i’m looking forward to THAT!
why don’t you write to me? i haven’t the energy to do anything but wait for your letters. i am so goddamn lonesome. mother is having such a good time that we can’t do anything to spoil it for her. the son of a friend of pop’s…he goes to cornell and we’ve known him for years…arranged a party for barry and me last saturday night; he got barry a swell date, and for me he managed to secure my swedish friend, rune, who i thought was in sweden. he wasn’t. we went a hundred miles down the coast to a country club near del monte, and i drank myself into a stupor. for good reasons. everyone got drunk, including rune, who had to drive home. he did, through the fog, and nearly killed us all. we got home at five and barry discovered that the evening (we were supposed to be guests!) had cost him eight bucks. just the price of my chess set.
The Letters of Shirley Jackson Page 9
