1910  

CHAPTER 25

AWAITING YOU.

CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES PLAZA, ROOM 15.

FLW JAN. 19, 1910

The terseness of Frank’s telegram was a confession: He was miserable without her. She would give herself another whole day, then go to him on Friday. She missed him, too, but leaving Nancy was the last thing she wanted to do. Sitting in the hotel room translating Ellen’s essays, she had found more than peace of mind. She had discovered the state of her soul set down in ink.

While she translated, Mamah thought of her father off and on. During the months she and Edwin had lived with him in the old house, he would sit in his study and read the New Testament, a habit he had never bothered with while her mother was alive. From time to time he shuffled out of the smoky study in his slippers, talking and nodding to himself. Mamah had begun to behave in a similar way in her hotel room.

Just this morning she had tried to draft a letter to Ellen Key to thank her. She wanted to say that she truly understood. That she would bring Ellen’s ideas to America out of gratitude, never mind the compensation. Yet every word she wrote seemed badly chosen. She crossed out the sentence You have saved my life. It would probably frighten the woman away.

On Friday morning, a cold drizzle melted the skin of snow on the street as Mamah walked to the train station.

“Are you going to Paris?” a man said to her as she stepped into the ticket line.

“Yes.”

“Don’t bother waiting. There are no trains to Paris because it’s flooding there. Part of the city is underwater now. The stations are all closed.”

“But I had a telegram on Wednesday—”

The man shrugged. “It was very sudden. The Seine has filled up the subways, electricity is out. Everything’s disrupted. They won’t even estimate when the trains will start again.”

“Do you know the Champs-Élysées Plaza?”

“Yes,” the man said. “It’s new.” He shook his head. “It’s not far from the Seine.”

A newsboy on the street hawked papers with the headline INONDATIONS!

She had been holed up in her room, unaware.

Frank is resourceful, she thought; a flood won’t rattle him. Both of them had witnessed the Des Plaines River near Oak Park overflow time and again. If he were struggling, it would be because he was alone, his work disrupted once more.

In the absence of telegrams and trains, there was no choice. She would wait it out in Nancy and continue working. She went back to the hotel and put away the folded clothes.

         

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, rain pounded the sidewalks with a fury. It had been five days since the first news of the flooding, and the skies continued their barrage. At breakfast she caught the eye of a businessman with a newspaper who read her question in a glance. He shook his head. “It keeps going up,” he said. “There have been some deaths.”

She bought a newspaper, sat down in the hotel lobby, and studied the little map on the front page depicting the Seine snaking up from the southeast in a loop around the city. The situation had grown much worse. The basement of the Louvre was filled with water. A photo of the Gare d’Orsay revealed it to be a swimming pool, its locomotives drowned like sunken ships.

Have I grown numb to the point of stupidity? Mamah felt oddly unworried about Frank. A strange new confidence had descended on her.

The peacefulness of Nancy had taken her by surprise. After a few days, she felt as if she had moved back one step and could look at her situation from the outside. At moments she could even imagine that everyone involved—Edwin, Catherine, the children—would someday be happy.

It felt callous to compare her public humiliations with the miseries of the desperate Parisians. Yet the flood’s allegory was there for the taking, if it was perspective one wanted.

On January 30 the papers announced that the siege had ended. Parisians were boating about in the sunshine, celebrating. When word came later that trains were scheduled to move again, Mamah raced to the station to buy a ticket.

In the crush of people and luggage along the platform, she held a small valise tightly beneath her arm. Inside were her handwritten translations of The Morality of Woman, The Woman of the Future, and The Conventional Woman. She felt fiercely protective, the way she imagined Frank felt carrying his portfolio of drawings—like a courier with a blueprint that was about to change the world.

The train slugged through Frouard, Commercy, Bar-le-Duc, and Vitry-le-François before it stopped for four hours in Chalons-sur-Marne. Mamah bought food from a man with a cart near the station, then climbed back on board and fell asleep. When she awoke, they were nearly to Paris. As they moved through its eastern suburbs, she saw battered little villages where rowboats were hitched to garden gates and ladders led up to second-floor windows.

Past muddy fields of dun-colored, matted grass, the train lurched forward. Mamah saw large shapes dotting a pasture up ahead in the distance. When the train drew closer, she realized the forms were the bloated carcasses of cows. Farther on, a small cemetery looked as if it had been turned upside down. Headstones and empty caskets lay scattered around a field nearby. She caught sight of what appeared to be the arm of a corpse hanging from one wooden box.

Alarm rippled through the train as passengers moved about to get better views. “Jesu Christe!” an old woman cried in a seat nearby. “The dead have been ripped from their graves.”

But the calm that had possessed Mamah in Nancy persisted. Sunlight breaking through gray clouds brought the scenes outside her window into sharp focus. She felt a clarity, even more than before, as if she were viewing everything, even herself, from a distance. How small we humans are, she thought. All our scrambling around, trying to buttress ourselves against death. All our efforts to insulate ourselves against uncertainty with codes of behavior and meaningless busyness.

How ridiculous it all seemed, when life itself was so short, so precious. To live dishonestly seemed a cowardly way to use up one’s time. For all the troubles life had meted out to her, she thought, it had given her more extraordinary gifts. Martha and John were that. And then, quite by chance and in the wrong order, life had bestowed on her another kind of love that was both erotic and nourishing. To embrace Frank, to accept the gift, seemed to be an affirmation of life.

How to reconcile the deepest loves of her soul? Staring out the window, she tried to imagine a time in the future when she would explain to her children this understanding. They would have to be adults to comprehend it. But she believed they would see that her choice to leave their father was not meant as a cruel self-indulgence geared to make them unhappy. Rather, it was an act of love for life.

Mamah remembered a line from Hymn to Nature: She turns everything she gives into a blessing.

Somehow she would turn this terrible mess into a blessing for the children. She believed it was possible that they could someday feel enlarged by the love all around them. People with children got divorced and remarried; it wasn’t the end of the world for them. Martha and John could actually end up better off, with four happy parents.

Mamah’s whole life seemed to be of a piece at that moment. Working for Ellen Key was simply more evidence of an impulse inside her that was growing up like a plant, stretching, seeking the light. With every word she translated, she leaned harder toward love and life.

Loud banter turned to whispers as the train pulled into the city. Mamah’s eye caught a clock stopped at 10:50. Then she saw another and another. All of the public clocks of Paris had halted at the same instant, marking the eerie moment when the river had rendered schedules irrelevant. The strangeness of the scene snapped her from her reverie.

“Champs-Élysées Plaza!” she said when she got a taxi. “Quickly, please.”

At the hotel, she dropped all her bags except the valise in the drenched, smelly lobby and raced up the stairs to the third floor. Her heavy coat tripped her, and she stopped to pull it off. At Room 15, she rapped and waited.

The door opened and Frank, his face unshaven, peered out into the dark hall.

She sighed when she saw him. “Thank you, thank you!”

“May-mah!” He laughed, lifting her off the floor in a swooping bear hug. “What a beautiful sight.”

“I would have come sooner if I could have.”

“I missed the worst of it. I went out into the country when the river came over the sandbags. I just got back yesterday.” He pulled her into the room. “Be careful where you step.”

They tiptoed through the drawings that were spread over the floor. Frank was using his portfolio cover as a drawing board on the carpet. A hard half-eaten loaf of bread sat on top of the dresser, along with an apple core and a jug of water. They sat down on the bed.

“I thought you were all right,” she said, “but then we got close to Paris, and I was frantic with this fear—”

“But I’m safe. Everything is fine.” He put his arm around her shoulders.

“—and I thought, What would I do if something happened to you? My life would end.”

“You’re trembling,” he said. “Here, lie down.” He drew a blanket over her on the bed.

Mamah eased her back against the pillows and sensed the tension in her body ebb. Light filtered through the window’s tracery and cast shadows on gray wallpaper printed with urns and draping vines. The quietness of the city struck her. Not a horse or car or voice could be heard from the sidewalk below.

There was so much to tell Frank, but she felt no hurry. She put her arms around him, then pulled his shirt up in back and slid her hands under it to feel the hot expanse of skin beneath. Her palms moved around to his chest, slowly, feeling the heart beneath the ribs, the rise and fall of muscle under her fingertips. She pressed her mouth to his neck and breast, exploring him unabashedly, gratefully. It was as if they were the first lovers, as if words had no use compared to this.

         

“I’M STARVING.” Frank was awake and getting dressed. She put out a hand, and he pulled her up. As they prepared to go out, he collected his cape and placed a jaunty beret on his head.

“You look wonderful,” she said, a little bewildered.

“I found a hatter over at the Place Vendôme,” he said. “The man can make anything.”

Outside on the street, the low sun yellowed facades and faces. Mamah approached a passerby and got the location of an open café. They walked eight or nine blocks before they found the little place, its white tile walls sparkling. Only the smell of bleach hinted that muddy water had filled it just days before.

The café was packed with diners chatting gaily. “Eggs,” the waiter said. “That’s all we have. Does that suit you?”

“Yes. Omelets would be marvelous,” she said.

When the wine arrived, Frank clicked her glass with his. “To Italy,” he said. “If we leave tomorrow, we can be there by Friday.”

Mamah’s shoulders fell.

He grabbed her hand. “You’re tired, aren’t you? We’ll go the day after. We can sleep late tomorrow.”

She saw an omelet pass on a tray and realized she was famished. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Leipzig just yet; he seemed so happy. She would present the idea tomorrow.

They drank the bottle of wine, Frank regaling her with stories of his Parisian encounters, she talking excitedly about what she had just translated.

On their way back to the hotel, they walked in the street next to the Seine.

“I feel a little woozy,” she admitted. Frank grabbed her elbow and navigated her around a large hole where the street had caved in.

“The French are a little woozy right now,” he said. “No one will notice.”

Naphtha flames lit the river’s edge, where workmen struggled to dislodge a wood pier that had wedged itself under a bridge.

“The studio in Florence is all arranged. Lloyd will be coming over to help with the drawings. And a young fellow from Salt Lake who’s worked for me—Taylor Woolley—he’s coming, too. I need both of them.”

“I thought Catherine would never allow Lloyd to leave school. That he couldn’t be in the same place I’m staying.”

“I’ve convinced her you won’t cross his path. I’ll find a room for him and Taylor apart from ours. They’re young—they’ll want to explore Florence on their own.”

“So you’ve heard from Oak Park.”

Frank stopped to squint at something across the river. “I don’t want to think about it,” he said.

         

BACK IN THE HOTEL ROOM, he gestured toward the dresser. “You have a letter. Wasmuth forwarded it.” Frank delivered the information as carefully as she would have delivered it to him—without emotion. Mamah stepped haltingly across the room and looked at the envelope from a distance. Edwin’s Wagner Electric logo was in the upper-left-hand corner. She knew what the envelope held. How could you? Come to your senses.

Frank made noise settling her luggage in a corner and kept his eyes averted. She knew he was tendering her a small mercy. It was the first mail she’d had since the newspaper clippings, and he was offering her what little privacy he could. She slit the envelope with her thumbnail, then set it down.

“I’ll read it in the morning,” she said.

WHEN SHE WOKE, Mamah felt her jaw clamped shut. She had been grinding her teeth, maybe all night. She slipped out of bed while Frank still slept, then pulled Edwin’s letter from the envelope. His words hit their mark—the household on East Avenue came into vivid, painful focus. His elderly mother was now living with them, trying to help. Lizzie was bearing up, assisting with Martha and John. Louise had been valiant, chasing away reporters when they showed up on Christmas Day. Edwin added at the end that young Jessie would be leaving the household to live with the Pitkins, her father’s family.

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