Loving Frank

by Nancy Horan

  Mamah’s jaw throbbed. She lay her head down on the desk.

  After a time she got up to bathe, pulled on a dress, and went out to find food. Walking along the street, she tried to recapture the peaceful confidence that had filled her the day before. When she returned with bread and coffee, she took up a pen and started a letter to Edwin.

  “What time is it?” Frank mumbled from the bed.

  “Nine.”

  “Hmm.” He sat up and stretched his arms. “There’s a noon train for Milan. I can be ready in an hour if that really is coffee I smell.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Sweetheart?”

  She plunged in. “Frank, I’m not going to Italy with you.”

  “What do you mean?” He stood and wrapped himself in a robe.

  “I mean…I will come later. I need to go to Leipzig and study Swedish at the university.”

  “What is it?” His voice was hoarse.

  “Ellen says she has mastered my language and she wants me to master hers.”

  Frank was out of bed, looking down with a puzzled expression as he tied the belt of his robe. “How long?”

  “Two months. Maybe three.”

  “Three months?”

  “If I master Swedish, Ellen says—”

  Frank’s hands were suddenly waving. “Jesus Christ! Ellen says this. Ellen says that. How is it possible a woman you didn’t know three weeks ago has become more important than I am?”

  “She hasn’t, Frank. If you understood entirely what she stands for—”

  “Don’t do this to me, Mamah!” He was pacing furiously. “Why can’t you study Swedish in Italy?”

  “It will go much faster if I attend classes in Leipzig.”

  “What in hell is happening to us?” He yanked a shirt from the wardrobe. “Have you forgotten why you came here in the first place?”

  She pushed the hard nail of her thumb into the flesh of a finger. “Not for a minute.”

  “Then why are you even talking about this?”

  “I need to complete some business of my own.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Mamah. Don’t make it more complicated than it already is.”

  She stood up and walked to the window. Below, men were pulling down the sandbags that were stacked against a building. “Do you remember the words you used when you talked about coming over here?” she asked. “You said you wanted to square your life with yourself. Am I to take it that those words applied only to you?”

  “Don’t twist things.” Frank flung a hairbrush down on the dresser, causing Mamah to jump reflexively at the sharp crack. She turned to look at his face and found it splotchy with anger. Frank seemed a stranger—he’d never been so agitated with her.

  She took in a breath, lifted her chin. “This chance means so much, Frank. And right now I need work.”

  “Nonsense.” Frank’s voice dripped sarcasm. “You don’t need to work.”

  “Oh, I see,” she responded bitterly. “The truth comes out. All this time I’ve talked about taking possession of my own life, you were only pretending to agree. What you really want is a woman who devotes herself only to you.”

  He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door. For a minute or two, she heard him crashing around, dropping his razor, cursing.

  When he emerged, he was dressed and calmer. He sat on the bed next to her. “I don’t want to fight,” he said. “But I’ve felt at loose ends without you. You can’t imagine how depressed I’ve been here, despite appearances. And now you say you’re going away again. You seem to be running from the whole situation.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Seriously, Mamah. Do you think that if you’re not physically with me over here, then somehow your accusers can’t fault you? That if we’re living apart, then we’re not really lovers?”

  Mamah flinched. The thought had not occurred to her. Maybe there was some truth in it, but she could not think about that now. “Stop, Frank,” she pleaded softly. “Please listen. Here’s the offer Ellen made me. She has agreed to name me her official English translator on the condition that I study Swedish and become fluent in it. I can translate two more books of hers from German, but for the rest I have to master Swedish so there won’t be any more watering down of her texts. That seems like a fair proposition to me. It would mean that I would attend the University of Leipzig now, study Swedish, and maybe teach a little English. You can go get settled in Florence and start your portfolio work. In June I’ll come and meet you in Italy to spend the rest of the summer.” She took his face in her hands. “I love you so much. I love you enough that I want to stay separate from you. You’re an extraordinary man, Frank Wright. I could so easily lose myself in your world and never make a world of my own. And where would that leave us? We’d both be bored stupid.”

  Frank smiled faintly. He reached up and took her hands in his.

  “Am I asking too much? You tell me, Frank. Because it feels that my whole life, I have never asked enough of love or work or myself. Except for the last two weeks, during which I have actually used my brain.”

  He sighed. “What choice do I have?”

  “You can spend a couple of months with Lloyd and not have to worry about me being there. And I’ll be relatively close to Wasmuth. I can go into the city and act as your agent with him while you’re in Italy.”

  “Just beware of panaceas,” he said, as if he had not heard her last remark.

  “Meaning?”

  “Don’t fool yourself into believing Ellen Key can change the reviews we’ve been getting from the Chicago papers. Her books are never going to reach the little minds who read that crap and believe it.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never read her books.”

  “No, I haven’t. I only know what you’ve told me. But I can see how irresistible her thinking is to you. Look, it’s vindication. I like it, too. All I’m saying is, I don’t want to lose the lovely woman I’m mad for to some feminist ideology. Don’t forget who Mamah Borthwick is. That’s all.”

  Frank got up and shuffled around the room, picking up his things, brooding. Mamah moved over to an armchair and closed her eyes. Her right hand felt like a burning ball in her lap. For two weeks she had copied and recopied her translations until her fingers wouldn’t move properly. Her whole body, in fact, felt sore, for some reason, but her mind was still clear. She knew what she had to do. She would write to Edwin today, officially requesting a divorce. And she would write to Lizzie, asking her to help with the children a while longer.

  A note to Martha would be easy. But what to say to an eight-year-old boy?

  Mamah took out a piece of stationery from her suitcase and moved over to the writing desk. She stared at the paper for a long while before she wrote.

  Dear John,

  I am in Paris now. Did you know there was a big flood here? Water from the river rose up to the second floor of buildings in some places. I was not here during the worst of it, but was told that people rode around in boats through the streets. The water has gone down, though, and the sun is shining. People are on the streets smiling again.

  I hope you are smiling, too, my love. I miss you terribly. It seems every time I turn a corner, I am reminded of you. I see so many things you would enjoy, and someday I will bring you here to see them for yourself.

  It would make me so happy to be with you and Martha. I will be back, but not quite yet. For a few months, I will be a student just like you. I plan to study Swedish in Germany so I can translate some books. It will be my new job.

  Everything is going to be all right, Johnny. I know your papa and Aunt Lizzie and Louise are taking good care of you. Do not think that I don’t love you, or that you have done something wrong. You are a good and brave boy, my darling. You are the very best son anyone could have. Be kind to your little sister. But then, I know you will.

  I love you,

  Mama

  CHAPTER 26

  In Leipzig, Mamah was twice the age of the other stud
ents. She sat upright, intently scribbling Swedish phrases into a notebook, while all around her, young men lolled in their seats, intoxicated by the approach of spring and the promise of beer in the evening.

  Her professor, an ebullient fellow in his fifties, was an acquaintance of Ellen Key’s. He addressed his lessons to the dark-haired woman in the front row, pleased to have someone respond to his questions.

  Twice Mamah traveled to Berlin to visit with Wasmuth, to assess the state of the portfolio’s printing, and to report to Frank her findings. Otherwise, she lived quietly in Leipzig, allowing herself few indulgences. Her pleasure came from growing confident in Swedish.

  In late May, as she prepared to depart for Italy, she received a letter from Ellen inviting her to visit her new home on Lake Vattern. Mamah carefully worded a telegram to Frank asking his indulgence once more.

  Take what time you need, he replied. Within a few days, she was on her way.

  Arriving in Alvastra, she was met by an elderly gentleman whose words were incomprehensible, thanks to a considerable wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek. He ferried Mamah by wagon to Ellen’s house, which was set just above Lake Vattern, then led her into the front door, where she stood in a hallway with white walls, a redbrick floor, and rows of freshly painted red doors along its sides. Near the ceiling ran a stenciled frieze of green garland. Above the front door, painted in red, were the words MEMENTO VIVERE. Remember to live.

  At that moment Mamah was nearly toppled by a Saint Bernard who came roaring from the end of the hallway.

  “Wild,” Ellen Key said when she found Mamah wiping her wet hands on her skirt. “That’s his name. He’s an affectionate fellow, but sloppy.” Ellen embraced her heartily. “Welcome to Strand, my dear. Now sign my guest book. You’re one of the first.”

  THAT A WOMAN could make a house like this, on her own, was a wonder Mamah pondered over the next five days. She had not read Ellen’s book Beauty for Everyone, but in the rooms, she saw her “light and healthy” aesthetic. Gustavian furniture painted pearly gray. Every window in the house open to the June breeze. Folk crafts scattered all around.

  “Why did you name your home Strand?” she asked Ellen once the young housekeeper had brought tea.

  “Come over here.” Ellen led Mamah back out into the hallway and pointed to a framed map of the Vattern area. Painted in blue and yellow letters above it were the words DÄR LIVETS HAV OSS GETT EN STRAND.

  “‘Where life’s sea has given us a strand,’” Mamah translated.

  “That came quite easily. You’ve been working at it, haven’t you?”

  “IT IS MY QUIET STRAND,” Ellen said later. They were sitting near the lake on a bench in a circular columned portico that perched atop some rocks just above the waterline. Wild rested at Ellen’s feet. “It’s so beautiful here, especially in the morning.” She stopped to reconsider. “No, especially at night under the stars. Well, you’ll see. I’ve been sitting out here lately, thinking that I want to make Strand a kind of legacy once I’m gone. I’m just drawing up a will now that spells it out. What it will be is a haven for workingwomen who need a rest. They can actually have a holiday.”

  Mamah smiled. “Am I the first?”

  “I suppose you are.” Ellen grinned as if the idea pleased her. “It has been a hard go of it, yes?”

  The question caused Mamah to close her eyes.

  “Come along, dear,” Ellen said. “Let’s have a swim.”

  They changed into bathing suits, black baggy things, and swam out into Lake Vattern. Mamah floated on her back, studying the cloud formations. From time to time she saw Ellen dive under the surface with her broad back arched, then reappear seconds later some distance away, her head popping up like a seal’s.

  “Please, Ellen Key,” she called to her friend, “no more talk of wills. I want you to live here forever.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Ellen called back.

  During the next four days, Ellen’s small, womanly kindnesses moved Mamah deeply. Gerda, the house girl, brought her breakfast in bed with flowers on the tray every morning. The sheets smelled as if lilacs had been pressed into them.

  In the hours they spent together, talking of so many things, she watched Ellen’s face. Ellen was calm here, less dogmatic. In fact, she was maternal. Mamah wondered what sadness she had experienced in her own life. How had she ended up alone? The professor of Swedish in Leipzig had spoken of a married man in her life for many years, who had failed to leave his wife. Mamah wanted desperately to ask if this were true, but she held her tongue. Ellen Key was like her sister Lizzie in that way. There was deep vein of goodness in her, but she kept most people at arm’s length.

  Still, Mamah could see that her visit pleased Ellen. To her surprise, she also discovered that the great philosopher was a little vain. At one point she showed Mamah a magazine cut of an official portrait that had been painted by a Norwegian artist.

  “What do you think of the likeness?” she asked.

  Mamah examined the picture. “He’s depicted you as a seer, hasn’t he? A sort of high priestess. It’s a very lovely likeness.”

  Ellen beamed.

  “But these curtains,” Mamah said playfully, pointing to the abstract drapes that curved over the top two corners of the painting. “Can’t you talk him into painting them out? My goodness. They look like two ugly blobs on either side of your head.”

  Ellen shot her an offended look. Then she burst into laughter. “I like someone who speaks her mind.”

  LATE IN THE DAY, walking down to the water, Mamah felt the dry ferns brush against her ankles. She sat down cross-legged on the floor of the portico and listened to the waves lap against the rocks beneath her. She wanted a home like this of her own. In the past, she had thought only in the abstract about a house for herself and Frank, but now she could picture some details. It would be out in the country, near water, but close to a city, as this place was close to Stockholm. A home that guests would remember for its small indulgences. Frank would make it a miracle of light and space. And she would make it feel the way this place felt.

  They spent their mornings in Ellen’s study, talking. Mamah guessed the pile of letters on Ellen’s desk could be from any of the famous figures she said she corresponded with. Sitting in the sun-filled room, a lake breeze quivering the beech leaves outside, she was struck by the honor of being among the first guests at Strand. How strange to be sitting across from a woman her countrymen regarded as Ibsen and Strindberg’s equal.

  Photos of Ellen’s famous friends—Rilke, Bjornsen—hung on the wall above her desk, interspersed among the colorful prints of family life painted by her friend Carl Larsson. Mamah tried to imagine what gift she might contribute to the house that could possibly measure up to the personal objects Ellen had already assembled. Then it struck her. She would ask Frank for one of his beloved Hiroshiges to send to Ellen.

  “WOMEN NEED TO DEVELOP their personalities from within,” Ellen said. They had been talking for hours about how Mamah might get Ellen’s essays into The American magazine, how different pieces might be edited down, how best to reach women readers in the United States.

  “It’s hard to say how The Morality of Woman will be received once it’s published there,” Mamah said. “The focus of the Woman Movement in America is the vote and equal pay.”

  Gerda came into the study and set down their dinner: rib roast and potatoes.

  “To free women from conventionalism—that should be the aim of the struggle.” Ellen’s tone was agitated. “What good does it do if woman is emancipated but has little education and no courage to act?”

  “But there are many women—” Mamah began.

  Ellen either ignored her or didn’t hear. “Men have always been trained to have the courage to dare.” She chewed meat off a rib bone. “Women, on the other hand, are stuck being the keepers of memories and traditions. We’ve become the great conservators. Oh, I suppose we’re suppler, as a result, because we’ve learned to see many sides. B
ut what a price has been paid. It has kept us from greatness! And most women are happy just to repeat opinions and judgments they’ve heard, as if they thought of the ideas themselves. It’s dangerous!” She poked the air with the white bone. “Women need to understand evolutionary science, philosophy, art. They need to expand their knowledge and stop assassinating each others’ characters.”

  “This has been a personal struggle for you,” Mamah said gently.

  “They say I’m licentious, all sorts of sordid things.” Ellen’s proud, full face took on a haggard expression. The deep lines beside her mouth made her look like a bitter old warhorse. “It’s a very effective method: Attack the personal character of the thinker, and you will kill her ideas. I have been forced to live a careful life as a result.”

  Gerda came in to clear their plates, then returned with generous slices of butter cake. Ellen’s whole countenance changed. “Oh,” she said, lacing her fingers together like a child at an unexpected treat. While Mamah picked at her dessert, she watched Ellen eat her slice with abandon, then chase the remaining crumbs around her plate with a fork.

  Mamah felt a pang of pity for the solitary life Ellen had ended up with. She searched her mind for some little kindness to bestow. “You remind me of Frank,” she said.

  Ellen’s eyebrows went up. She leaned back in her chair.

  “You each have made a reputation with your aesthetic ideas about making a home. You both seem to take great pleasure in writing sayings on your walls,” Mamah teased. “And you’re both ornery as can be.”

  Ellen Key’s earthy laugh filled the room. “I shall have to meet this man.”