by E. B. White
Happily, White had recently bought (for about $400) a Model-T roadster, and the two men decided to “go West” and see America—an adventure that in those days still posed a challenge. Motoring was in its early stages, the great West was still largely uncharted territory, roads were bad, signs few. The early tourist carried a “Blue Book” and followed stripes painted on telephone poles to mark the route.
Although their decision to make the trip was impulsive, the two men planned carefully. White took the Ford, which he had named Hotspur, to a blacksmith and got him to rivet two iron brackets for a foot locker to the left running board. “In the back compartment,” White wrote at the time, “is a big telescopic suitcase full of shirts and things that will soon be dirty judging by the present rate of consumption, two Coronas, a can of grease, 40 foot of rope, a jack, two pairs of shoepacks, and a brief case. On the left running board is the Army trunk full of sweaters, notebook paper, stationery, Corona tripod and sixty-two what-nots, including one money belt (Cush’s, but he can’t wear it because it itches so), one complete lottery set, one hunting knife, eighteen pairs of heavy socks, two journal covers, three issues of the Greenwich Village Quill, and a whetstone. Also on the left running board is a book-box within easy reach of the driver so that he may lean over and bring up the Holy Bible or Putnam’s Word Book without slackening the pace. Jammed in front of the spare on the rear is the bed-roll—our pride and joy—tent, blankets, and ponchos all neatly contained within a buckled duck ground cloth. Hanging one on either side of the windshield are spacious bags—one of ’em is an S bag to catch the eye of Cornellians along the route. These are catch-alls, and incidentally hold such things as percolators, double boilers, grills, pans, and one fiddle. Cush harbors a mouth organ about his person, which he blows into without success I think.”
Their strategy was simple: they would drive from one college town to another, scrounging bed and board from fraternity brothers and friends. Between the college towns they would camp out. They would get jobs when necessary, but for the most part would cultivate idleness—and literary ambition. They left Mount Vernon on the afternoon of March 9, and reached Cushman’s hometown, East Aurora, New York, nine days later.
To JESSIE AND SAMUEL WHITE
East Aurora, New York
Saturday, March 18, 22.
Dear Family:
A robin awoke me this morning, but he should have held his peace, for he is a false prophet. The weather is beautiful though wintry. Spring dallies somewhere in the offing, like a backward child asked to perform.
We have come about four hundred and fifty miles, I reckon—through Albany, Schenectady, Utica, Cortland, Ithaca, Geneva, and Batavia. We left the Beta house at Union College, Schenectady, just a week ago this morning, and arrived in Ithaca that night in time to drop in at the Manuscript Club meeting. The road along the Mohawk Valley to Utica was rutted seven inches deep with frozen snow. We covered almost as much territory backing up to let other cars through as we did advancing to let ourselves through. Fords are always the goats in that respect—and besides Cush and I are essentially good humored and make it a point never to dispute passage with other cars larger than ours. Utica we found in the midst of Spring. And an hour later, turning south from Chitanango, we toiled up a rise of seven or eight hundred feet and flew through a countryside buried under two inches of new-fallen snow. The hills, all bonneted, were like little Alps; and, toward twilight, everything turned blue—hills, snow, and sky.
We were in Ithaca until Thursday morning. Although we slipped into town darkly and without noise, people seemed to find out quickly that we were there. Scandal travels fast on the Hill. Monday night at B.A.’s house we took up a collection and got 61 cents for singing a very brief song, entitled “Father’s a hand-organ man is he.” We were also presented with a very small stove. Enclosed is a Berry Patch which we wrote one day as a diversion.
We left in a blizzard, donning Army underwear and sheep-coats for protection. Confining our remarks to a few well-frozen words (Cush’s, not mine) we arrived completely paralyzed in Geneva on Thursday noon. After shopping round a bit we lodged in a back room of a commercial hotel and sat down by a simmering radiator and wrote things on Spring. It was a very pleasant room, I thought, for it made you think you were aboard ship. The dresser was heeled over at a pretty good angle, and the wash-stand and bed listed to port also. You could almost feel the sails drawing and hear the swish of the scuppers.
From Geneva to East Aurora the ride was smooth and without wind. This is really a most cheery and exciting time of year—the world holds its breath, anticipating the great event. Farm animals stand motionless against the mows, which at this season are gutted all round the base from being eaten into so much; country schools hold session with doors tight shut and windows; streams, silent beneath a thin crisp coat of ice, throw back the mild grey glare of the sky; cats, hunting in brown fields, are poised in the midst of motion, as though caught by the cold; and sad-eyed loungers at the cross-road inns stand blankly up against the outworn bar, awaiting the provocation to spit. A most cheery time of year. Sheep stand in barnyards, boasting new-born lambs who also stand, musing upon the day when they shall gambol. Our one annoyance was the recurrence of Rotary Club signs. Just when we would be settled into our skins, wrapped in complacency, we would come upon an enormous poster bearing a legend such as this: “Work hard today!—Rotary Club of Rochester,” or “Give your best to the work before you.—Rotary Club of Canandaigua.” It was most irritating to be continually harassed by these busy clubs, lashing us to an industry which we purposely shunned. I advocate the destruction of these signs, which will not allow an idle man to ride along in peace.
Waiting for me in East Aurora was your fine letter. Also my check from the American Legion. They paid me for two weeks instead of one (sort of bonus idea, I guess). Nice of Mr. Helm, though. In spite of my assiduous attempt to become poor for this occasion, I am acquiring wealth. The Masque [Cornell dramatic society] handed me fifty dollars which they owed me, when I was in Ithaca. What chance has a poor man to become penniless when ruthless debtors beset him on all sides with payments.
I am sorry that there was a certain abruptness about my departure. It was not entirely without reason—the fact was I wished to avoid saying anything about going until I knew for sure that I was going. And I didn’t know until the day of departure. (No one ever does.) I don’t blame Mother for being shocked. I really thought that she would be home for luncheon and that we could eat together.
The trip is not without purpose, although I doubt that I could make it plain to you. It was planned deliberately on my part and hence is no passing fancy or thoughtless escapade. It may be a success, of a sort, and it may be a sort of failure.
But it’s going great.
Better just set aside a drawer somewhere and into it throw whatever comes to me in the way of mail, as I don’t expect to acquire a forwarding address.
With most affectionate regards,
Andy
P.S. The laundry and suitcase have arrived—which is very nice of you.
•White, who was in love, occasionally tried to press his suit, but always cautiously and sometimes ambiguously. There were several misunderstandings. Miss Burchfield, although fond of him and attracted to him, was wary of his intentions and at this juncture worked to keep their relationship relaxed. White, in poetical fashion, savored the sadness of being an unsuccessful suitor, all the while knowing that his “unsuccess” was the result of his own irresolution. On his way through Ithaca with Cushman, he attempted to see Alice by waylaying her on a bridge on her way to classes—a tactic that probably appealed to him because it introduced the element of chance. The attempt failed, and they did not meet. A couple of weeks later, during his long stay in East Aurora, he went to see Alice in Buffalo when she was home from college for a few days, and he proposed to her—proposed in so guarded a manner as to cause any sensible girl to hesitate. The following letter was written after this encounter.
To ALICE BURCHFIELD
[East Aurora, New York]
[April 1922]
Wednesday Night
Dear Alice:
Having so many things that will be said, I hesitate where to begin. You know, I’ve been sitting here with my dreadful pipe, trying to get straightened out, and it seems like the realization of an early dream that I should be writing you, because I used to wonder—coming up late from town through the cemetery—whether I’d ever have as a friend the one that grinned so cheerfully in Goldwin Smith.1 And here we are.
There are a few things that I want to get down on paper—and then after this I promise that all my letters will be in the most orthodox friendly vein. I don’t want you to think me a bad loser because I went ahead and said the things that were in my head even after you had explained my role to me. I think you’ll forgive me that much, won’t you?
One thing I’m not sure you know is that I called you up before ever receiving Mrs. Adams’ letter, so that had nothing to do with the case so far as I was concerned. I managed to get myself to a telephone Thursday night, and the letter didn’t come until Saturday morning. If that ill-conceived missive did anything, it deterred me rather than urged me to renew our much mangled relationship. Ever since Sunday night, Alice, I’ve been almost out of my mind because you gave me the impression, by something that you said then, that you thought the only reason I asked you to marry me was because of something in that letter. Good Lord I’ve been looking forward ever since Senior Week to it—you don’t suppose I had to be told by a well meaning friend, do you? I came so near to it that night at Percy Field that I’ve been wondering ever since how I held my breath so long. In everything I wrote I hoped I was making you understand how I felt; and up until February the only reason I never said anything was because, like a fool, I believed I had no right to, having no money nor immediate prospect of getting any. . . .
It’s only now that I realize what a despicable performance I gave in Ithaca by not seeing you. I did intend to see you, and Sunday afternoon someone said you were engaged, and Monday morning I developed a funny looking boil on my nose, and between the two I quit entirely and spent the rest of the time trying to convince myself I was having a fine time “back at college.” Those morbid berries in the Patch testify to the splendid time I was having. Wednesday night I put some salve on the boil, set my alarm for seven o’clock, and the next morning I was up on the bridge sitting in the Ford waiting for you to come across. I was going to ask you to cut your eight o’clock and go out to Forest Home,2 and from there I was willing to go anyplace.
I suppose you wonder why I don’t act like a normal person. I wonder too. Instead, I wait on bridges for people and when they don’t come, I pack up and go on to Geneva. I hope I get over it some day.
And now when I look back at the last few days, what I marvel at most is the conceit I must have nourished in supposing that you could like me after the way I had kicked you around. Only a very conceited person could have thought that. I must have thought you were like the Mutt. But actually, Alice, I was so completely absorbed in you that it never occurred to me that you might have other ideas. I guess I had always sort of thought that when anybody felt the way I did, it was bound to be mutual, and when I found out otherwise by what you said, it took it a few minutes to sink in. For that I apologize. I spent all the next morning allowing it to sink in, in spite of opposition from one song sparrow, one warm breeze, one patch of wild flowers, and about a million little frogs.
You once gave me a card that read: “Never explain—your friends don’t need it and your enemies won’t believe you any way.” And here I’ve waded through three pages of explanation. But it’s just that I can’t bear to think that you’re thinking things that aren’t so about me. You see, I thought things that weren’t so about you, and look where I got!
Friends believe each other, so I’m happy in being confident that you believe what I have said and that you will continue to believe me. I’m a born idealist, Alice, and when I sometimes seem blue it’s because the pictures that I paint in my mind are often disappointing when they appear in the bald cold colors of every day life. One of the pictures that I used to paint in school was of you. I was content to look on from a distance, partly because I was afraid it would vanish if I came any nearer, and partly because at the time I didn’t know how to come any nearer. And then one night a year ago, when I was all ready for the disappointment, I discovered that instead of appearing less wonderful you increased in loveliness when I knew you. It wasn’t any wonder that last spring was the happiest time I had ever known, because I began to renew what faith I had in ideals! I used to write things about you and not show them to you because such a thing as marriage seemed a thousand years away and I didn’t think it was fair [to] say things promiscuously. In New York I guess I failed because instead of being full of ambition I was full of doubt all the time.
This letter is all ego. You must be tremendously disgruntled at my rambling on about myself. But it’s about you too, which vindicates me. Besides, from now on, as I said, my notes will pass any censor, and I’ll write of the weather and similar gol darn things. And everything I write about you will be stuck all proper in some dusty journal, unless you want ’em for light Sunday afternoon reading.
It’s time I began getting some sort of conclusion under way—conclusion to this letter I mean. Please keep the pin just as a pledge of my good faith and of my friendship. I’m going to get a lot of fun out of being a friend of yours. Don’t forget what you promised me—I mean about calling me up when you need someone to bail you out or to cheer you up by bringing you a lollypop. And remember, too, what you said about writing. I’m going to write as often as I can, but maybe you can figure out why it won’t be as often as ink allows.
I’m wishing you lots of luck this spring with Bianca and chemistry and whatever else you take it into your head to get interested in. Once in a while take a lazy look down the valley when the train is whistling and remember this: that there are some things in the world that I never change my mind about, and one of ’em’s you.
Sincerely,
Andy
P.S. Hope you wear the blue suit when you invite me to tea. I can take my tea with or without sugar.
To PETER VISCHER
159 Park Place
East Aurora, New York
[April 1922]
Dear Pete:
A letter from Mother mentioned that you phoned some time ago. In the hope that you owe me money I hasten to reply. Actually, it’s been on my mind to write for quite a while, for no other reason than that we used to play golf together.
Cush and I start Monday in a Ford. We’ve been hanging round Buffalo quite a while, transacting business and buying double boilers. Cush busted—I guess you heard. I wrenched myself from the ill-smelling press agenting job, somewhat to the dismay of my boss, who offered me $50 to stay and said it would be $75 in June if I continued to write good stuff. We stopped in at Ithaca for a week coming up—the town was still murmuring something about your having been there shortly before to get a Farmers’ Week story or something. Pretty low, boy—we used to make freshman competitors write about the Ag hens and the calving rate.
But I certainly hand it to you, selling the World on a story of up-state rural pleasures, with round trip ticket and everything. You and Herb1 must be hitting it off.
If you’re so damn influential, you might show him—or whoever handles features—the enclosed travelogues as samples of what the Cushman-White syndicate are going to turn out. Let me explain:
We happened to hit on the idea of parodying travel lingo. At first we just sent a couple to the Berry Patch for the fun of doing it. Then we showed samples to John D. Wells, managing editor and columnist of the Buffalo Times. He’s a brisk, snappy individual that never cracks a smile. He read ’em carefully, told us he thought they were good, said he would use ’em as a daily feature at a dollar a throw, and suggested we attempt to syndicate them to t
en or a dozen papers so that we could afford to write them at that price. You now find us attempting.
Mostly rejection slips so far (from a somewhat hit-and-miss list of eastern dailies), but we are pleased to offer the World the privilege of contributing, confident that nothing more brilliant will ever be offered to their columns. The editors will die laughing. All that is necessary is to sign up for our stuff, and they will never know another unhappy moment.
We supply copy, six travelogues at a time, one dollar each, to be released daily except Sunday (one a day) beginning April 24, and to run for three or four months. As you observe two fictitious characters are created, who will travel completely round the world, starting from New York, and visiting such interesting places as Marion, O., Death Valley, San Moritz, the Hinterland, Yonkers, Hollywood, Korea, Punxatawney, Mauch Chunk, Filbert Islands, and the rubber fields of Akron. There will be hot stuff about the coolies and cold dope about China; there will be just enough psychology to make it suitable for women readers, and positively no mention of William Jennings Bryan.
You can tell Herbert that Cush was the best editor the Widow ever had and that everyone thinks I’m funny. Autographed photos of the authors supplied free of charge.
Do what you think best, and above all things don’t get thrown from the World on our account. But let us know as soon as possible, will ya? Hell, we don’t want to starve along the roadside. A letter addressed here will be forwarded. . . .
Wish I could tell you more about the real purpose of the trip, Pete, and about the good time that we’ve had thus far. Cush and I are both bent on the profession of writing, and just now we are interested in seeing all sorts of people and all kinds of country, so that we will at least know where to begin. It sounds pompous, I guess, to talk abstractly of “background” and “experience” and “travel—the great educator” and all that sort of stuff—but we are both convinced that now, if ever, is the time to bum about a bit, so here we go, jogging leisurely from one free meal to the next, taking a general westerly direction, and bothered neither with road maps nor collapsible buckets, writing a lot, selling a little maybe, and chopping proverbial wood to eke out a supper. Wish you could see the Ford. . . . We’re equipped for any exigency (except making a respectable living), and can appear properly dressed for any sort of party, from an antelope hunt to a Charity Ball. I don’t know when we’ll be back, or how far we’ll get. There is, of course, the chance that we might like the West, or China, well enough to linger.
