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I won't wait any longer in order to write
you by hand. Some rough-neck smashed the door of the
a
Liggett's Drug Store on my right hand
three weeks ago, and it is still stiff with the bruise. I haven't yet thanked you
for the little image of a saint (I think Saint
Catherine3) which you sent me a long while ago. The orange blossoms
you sent by mail came when I was down at Atlantic
City4. When I got back and opened the box they were still fragrant,
but of course faded. But let me tell you that the orange marmalade you sent me from
your own kitchen has enlivened my afternoon tea all winter and spring. I never
tasted any so good. But this does not mean that I am asking for more — not this year
at any rate,—for there is just enough left to see me
through until I go away. I shall go toward the latter part of this month — probably
soon after the Menuhins5 leave town2. They
will arrive here tomorrow.
Now, as to how I feel about these many marriages: at first I was rather bewildered.
But letters from the children themselves have greatly reassured me, and letters from
my old friend, Isabelle McClung Hambourg6,
have entirely reassured me. She is leading an invalid's life, you know, in
Sorrento7. Ten days before Yehudi's
marriage, the whole Menuhin family and the two Nicholases8 went all the way down to Sorrento in a body, to see
Isabelle and take her enlivenment and cheer. Hephzibah's eighteenth birthday was
spent there. It was a lovely thing for them to do, and just the sort of thing they
do do for the people they love.
Now, Isabelle is critical to a point which sometimes exasperates me. She will damn a man forever because his ears stick out, or because he rolls his ⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ r's too much. But all Australians roll their r's, and this lad's ears stick out a little—but she absolutely loves him. She says there is something extraordinarily charming and truthful about him, and she thinks the sister a desirable match for Yehudi. Says she is attractive (in spite of her published pictures) and that she is at the same time sweet and gentle and very decided. I am so glad Isabelle wrote me, because, you know, I often meet new people in the mood of a prickly porcupine.
As to Thornton Wilder's9
play10, I think it very fine, though I have not had
time to write him11 and tell him so. It
deals with that part of New Hampshire12 under
Monadnock, where I have spent most of the autumns for years and years — I remember
I
was up there when "Declassé"13 was first put on at the Empire14. Wilder's
play seems to me to be the very heart of all the little towns up there that I know
so well. It seems just as true to the New
England15 country as Eugene
O'Neill's16 plays are false. Life in New England hasn't much romping
gaiety about it, you know. But I always
find a good deal of quiet happiness in the people up there. And the friends "laid
away" in the graveyards remain a part of the villagers' lives; a little remote and
mutted
muted (MUTed), so to speak, but still
present in the affairs and thoughts of men, just as they are in Wilder's play. I am
not often a friend to changes in the traditions of art, and I shall go on liking the
good old fashioned theatrical plays when they are good. But this time a fine poem, with no "poetic" language in it, has got onto the stage successfully. It
couldn't happen often, but it happened this time.
I wish I could have written you all this and much more by hand, dear Zoe, but my bruised fingers have kept me even from doing any writing on my book17.
With love and my warmest greetings to you, Willa 2 mag