LETTERS from James & Orpha: contents
mad in pursuit home
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Saturday 7.10.26, from James in Lynbrook NY
Friday night
On the last day of June you wrote me, "I shall write you an effort at a
satisfactory reply to all you have presented tomorrow." I thought to
wait for that letter, and then, in turn, try to write to it a
satisfactory reply.
On Sunday I wrote to you steadily for six hours; but I wanted to have a
reply to your reply with it, so I waited sending it. Each day I felt
sure you'd write, and so I went to the Post Office several times a day,
always in a vain hope. I'd have been alarmed if I hadn't grown to half
expect your indifference to correspondence.
When I at last heard from you today, a few lines saying you could not
send what you have written and could not write, I was frightened; I
called you as the quickest way to answer you and get a reply.
So many things of fact I have wanted to discuss with you — besides all
the rest — about the operation — when I could come to see you — what
your plans are — what mine had best be — when you can come here — what
I'd better do — a dozen matters which I held from day to day waiting for
the reply you promised.
Please send anything you write; you know that all the trivial reasons prompting you not to send things are of no matter.
I have kept the letter I wrote last Sunday; in the rest of this letter I shall embody most of it, altering, amplifying, and deleting as I transcribe.
Beginning with a poem I wrote you last summer (I rather egotistically memorized it). I am adding a few more stanzas; they are rather harsh, wanting of the wistful delicacy the first two have, yet perhaps are stronger, embodying more of an epic swing. The poem is still unfinished; probably I shall never attempt to write another, but soon I shall finish it, and we will be glad it did not end last summer. (Then I thought it was a complete octave). I do not stop where I have because my progress ends there; it is at that point that I wish to digress for a discussion with you upon which the rest of the poem in a measure depends.
Now I have decided to save the things in the Sunday letter to discuss with you when we can talk.
To that end, seeing you, I have just conferred with Mom. The plan I hope you will be able to and will wish to accept is this: to come here as soon as you can, during this week of July 11 or if that is impossible, the next week at latest. And that's all there is to it — don't worry about apparel or anything — bring a bathing suit under your arm and wear the blue cloth dress with gold and blue buttons in the front, and the blue hat, and your striped shoes — also a pair of tennis shoes (under the other arm) and you will have all the requisites for a week's visit.
Please write me at once that you are coming right away — tell me what time your train reaches New York. It is better for you to come here now than for me to come there; it will be a change for you, less bother for your family, and you and I can examine the situation down here and decide what we must do.
Please tell me you are coming — the change will rest you, will save my life, and then you can go back and get your operation over with if you want to.
You must know why I can't write well, why I don't write — it is because my whole existence consists of wanting you — you are more restrained that I am — all I can do is fight against the minutes and hours until I can have you.
Tell me you are coming —
James
NOTES
"The operation": Orpha is supposed to have her tonsils out.
This poem was found separately -- it might be the one he refers to. It doesn't quite match his description, but does fit the occasion:
This evening – after calling you –
A soft glow of saffron
Steals from the sunset.
But the spell
With which it charms me
Is not its own.
It is an enchantment
Which has flown through the twilight –
A small exquisite hummingbird
Darting through the dusk
It has come
On the wings of your voice
Saying I may see you.
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