The Eighth Day (51 page)

Finally Eustacia received a letter. He was fine. Everything was fine. He had done his recitations in English, French, and Russian for a theatrical manager and had been engaged at once. The plays were awful. They had titles like
The King of the Opium Ring
and
Madge of the Klondike.
He was very good. He had written a play and the manager had put it on. It was called
The Boy Convict of La Guyenne.
It was an awful play, but the best scenes were stolen from
Les Misérables.
He'd send an address when he'd settled down. He directed his mother to keep the window of his bedroom open half an inch, because he might return some night and surprise them. He sent love as big as the Pacific Ocean. It was signed “Jordi (Leonid Tellier).” “P.S. Please give my regards to Mr. Ashley and all the Ashleys.” Eustacia found more to disquiet than to rejoice her in this letter, but she showed no sign of it. We are as Providence made us.

Toward the end of November, 1904, Félicité was greeted on the street by Joel Miller, George's assistant sachem in the noble nation of the Mohicans. The encounter was conducted in whispers with a great air of secrecy.

“Filly, I've got a letter for you. Act as though we were talking about ordinary things.”

“What kind of a letter, Joel?”

“It's from George. He says to give it to you so your mother won't know.”

“Thank you, Joel. Thank you.”

“Don't tell
anybody
I gave it to you.”

“I won't, Joel.”

She put the letter in her muff. She did not hurry her pace through the snowdrifts. She walked solemnly and with sinking heart. She foresaw that some ordeal lay before her.

GEORGE to Félicité (San Francisco, November, 1904, to February, 1905):

“
Chère
Zozo, I'm going to write you a lot of letters. I'm going to send them by Joel. I've sent him some money to rent a box in the post office. He can tell his people that it's for letters he gets about his stamp collection. Don't tell
Maman
I'm writing to you. If you tell her or Miss Doubkov or anybody else the things I'm going to tell you, I'll never write you another word.
I
'
ll erase you from my memory.

“I've been through some rough times,
but I'll be all right from now on.
I've got to talk to somebody and I've got to hear somebody talking to me—and that's
YOU
. I'm going to tell you almost everything—good, bad, and worse.
Maman's
had enough troubles.
We know.
As soon as you get this sit down and write me
EVERYTHING
. HOW is
Maman
? What's she thinking about? Describe exactly what you do in the evenings. Do you have some good times? You don't have to tell me about
Père's
being dead. I read that in a newspaper. Père was always talking about his insurance. Did they pay up quick? How's Mr. Ashley? Write me now because the company I'm acting in may be going to Sacramento or Portland, Oregon, soon.
Je t'embrasse fort.
Leonid Tellier, Gibbs Hotel, San Francisco. P.S. I tell everybody I had a Russian mother and a French father.”

(Later):

“This is what happened to me. I left Coaltown riding possum clancy. In the yards outside St. Louis the train stopped with a sudden jerk. I must have been half asleep, because I fell and hurt my head. I was arrested, but I don't know any more until I woke up in an insane asylum. It wasn't bad. There were lawns and flowers. I didn't tell who I was because I didn't know who I was. One day a lady came to sing to us loonies and she sung that song that Lily used to sing about ‘Home, Sweet Home.' Suddenly I remembered everything. There was a priest that used to visit us. I asked him to help me get out of there. I wanted my clothes back and the money that was in the pockets. A lot of doctors talked to me. I showed them I wasn't crazy, but just a little stupid. I told them I was a Russian orphan from Chicago. After a few weeks they let me out and gave me back my money. That was in September. In St. Louis I went to every theatre and I got to know the actors. I tried to get a job acting. They said they didn't have any parts that were my type. To save my money I got jobs working as a waiter in saloons. Three in the afternoon until three in the morning (no pay, just tips. The tips were in pennies). Like I'm going to write
Maman
, I don't drink or smoke or use bad language. You don't have to worry about me that way. I've got a worse weakness. Do you remember how
Maman
dreamed about going to San Francisco to see the ocean? All the time I had the idea that I wanted to go to San Francisco. Besides the actors said it was a fine theatre town. It is. Maybe I'll get a letter from you tomorrow. Maybe I'll never be happy one day in my life, but I don't care. Other people will be happy.

(The next weeks):

“You wrote the greatest letter a fellow ever got. . . . ? I was very surprised about what you told me about Mr. Ashley. I don't understand it at all. Even a baby would know that he didn't do it. Where do people think he is? Maybe he's right here in San Francisco.

“. . . ? I'll tell you what my weakness is. I get into fights. I can't help it. It's the way I'm made. If a man says anything to me sarcastic like I was just dirt, I boil over. I insult him. I ask him, ‘Did I hear you say your mother was a pig (or worse)?' and I stand on his foot. Then there's a terrible fight. I can't help it. I never win a fight because when I start fighting I get one of my dizzy spells. They beat me up and throw me in the street. I've been put in jail three times. Once I woke up in a hospital. I must have been raving in Russian, because a nurse knew some Russians and a Russian family took me into their home. Miss Doubkov is right. Russians are the greatest people in the world.

“. . . ? The reason I write you such long letters is that I can't sleep at night until I see the sunlight coming in the window. When I sleep at night I have nightmares, almost never during the day. . . . ? Men in white masks come in through the keyhole. I jump out of the window and they chase me all over some mountains covered with snow. That's Siberia. I make crosses with chalk all over the walls and the door. I guess there's no hope for me. I'll have to get used to it. As long as other people are happy,
ishkabibble.

“I know that I was born to be a very happy person, but then things happened. Sometimes, I'm so happy I could crush the whole universe in my arms for love. Doesn't last. You and
Maman
and Anne—be happy for me. Oneself doesn't count.

“I hate the manager of our company, Culloden Barnes, and he hates me. He's an old man, but until I came he played all the young heroes and he plays half of them now. He dyes his hair and wears rouge even on the street. He's an awful actor. I say all my lines real and it makes him look foolish, shouting away and waving his arms about. My young parts are all idiotic, but I study them in my hotel room until I make them sound natural. I love to work. Florella Thompson's his wife. I like her a lot. She's a bad actress, but she tries. In some of our scenes we play very well and the audience knows it. She likes to work, too. She's never too tired to come to the theatre at noon and we work. Then we have corned beef and cabbage brought in. She's always hungry. I like to see women eat, not men. She tells me a lot about her life. Now listen: some actors who live in the room next to them at the hotel say that he treats her terribly. Like I always say.
There are lots of crimes that there's no law against. . . . ?

“I'm a big success now, but he doesn't pay me much because I miss performances every now and then and someone has to go on in my place. . . . ?

“I got fired last Saturday night. You know why. He hates me. I got a job in a saloon again. But he came and hired me back. He couldn't do without me. I'm too popular. . . . ?

“No, I'm not going to be an actor. I just act to make money. Acting's not serious. Maybe I'll be a detective or a wandering story-teller or a jail breaker. Can you imagine that I can cure people? When I was in that crazyhouse in St. Louis I was curing so many patients that they were glad to let me go. I even cured a girl. The men's garden or meadow or whatever you call it was separated from the women's by a high wire fence. A girl sat under a tree by the fence every morning. A lady attendant said she wouldn't talk because she thought she was a stone. I'd talk in a low voice without looking at her directly. I told her she wasn't a stone, she was a tree. Three days later she told me she was a tree and she waved her fingers in the air. I pretended not to hear her. I told her she was a beautiful animal, maybe a deer, a doe. And in a few days she told me she was a deer and she moved around all over the field. At last she became a girl. The men patients would come up to me and say ‘When are we going to do
“glory, hallelujah?”'
That's the way to cure people, with dancing and singing. But I'm not going to be a healer. It gives me terrible headaches. A jail breaker is a profession I invented. It's a man who puts prisons and jails in such confusion that all the prisoners can get out. I've thought of lots of ways to do it.

“For every person who has enough to eat there are ten persons starving (maybe a hundred). For every girl and lady who goes down the street and their friends say pretty things to them, there's a dozen girls and women who've had no chance. For every good hour that a family has in a home evenings,
somebody is paying.
Somebody they don't even know. I don't mean merely that there are a lot of poor people in the world. It's deeper than that. Look at all the sick and crippled and ugly and damned. It's the way God made the world. He can't stop it now or change it. Some people are damned before they are born. You won't like that, but I know. God doesn't hate the damned. He needs them. They pay for the rest. Paryas hold up the floors of homes. Enough said.”

FÉLICITÉ to George (January, 1905):

“Oh, Jordi, let me beg you once again to permit me to show your letters to
Maman.
You've forgotten what
Maman's
like; she's strong. You say you want her to be happy. Jordi, you're stupid. Nobody wants to be happy because they're ignorant. The more
Maman
knows about anything real and serious and true, the happier she is. I beg you to give me permission. . . . ?

“What do you mean about being a scapegoat and a pariah? Do you go to Confession and Mass? Oh, Jordi, are you
sincere
? What do you mean that you can never be happy? How do you know? Are you trying to make a picture of yourself as an interesting tragical person!!!! It's hard to write you unless I'm certain that you're sincere. Do you remember the sermons you used to preach me about sincerity being a habit? You said that the reason why Shakespeare and Pushkin were great writers was because
from the time when they were boys they stood like policemen over their thoughts and didn't allow one small insincerity to creep in.
You used to say of a certain person that he was posing all the time. Do you remember how you hated that word. Go to church. Christians can't pose.”

GEORGE to his mother (Portland, Oregon, February):

“Many thanks for your letter. I read in the paper about what happened to
Père
, but I didn't know that about Mr. Ashley. It's wonderful that somebody saved him. . . . ? Everything's fine with me. Yes, I eat well and sleep well.
Chère Maman
, does Mr. Wills still come to Coaltown once a month to take photographs? I'd like more than anything in the world to have a picture of you and the girls. And a big one of you alone and one of Miss Doubkov. I'm putting a five-dollar bill in this envelope. . . . ? I didn't write you last week because there was nothing new to say. Everything's fine. Maybe I'm going to act Shylock and Richard III. Our company's never done Shakespeare, but a Shakespeare company broke down here in Portland ten years ago. The costumes and scenery are in a warehouse and our manager can get them cheap. They're probably full of holes. I've studied the parts and I know what I'd do every minute.”

EUSTACIA to George (March 4):

“Your sister and I are making costumes for your Shylock and Richard. We've studied all the illustrations we could find. Miss Doubkov is a great help, too. Give us an idea of Miss Thompson's measurements and coloring. . . . ? Yes, dear boy, you should hear us laugh. . . . ? Do assure me that you are faithful in your duties as a Christian.”

FLORELLA THOMPSON to Eustacia (Seattle, Washington, May 1):

“Dear Mrs. Lansing, The dresses are the most beautiful that I've ever worn. I've grown a little stouter this spring. You very cleverly left those gussets and basted darts for alterations. They fit me perfectly now. Business has not been good in the north here and my dear husband has had to postpone the Shakespeare performances until the fall. . . . ? Your son Leo is a remarkable actor. You may be certain that he will go far. In addition he is such a genuine person. I can imagine what a comfort to you he must be. With many thanks from the bottom of my heart for the beautiful dresses and for having so gifted and understanding a son. Florella Thompson. P.S. I enclose a photograph of myself wearing one of the Portia dresses in
Beryl's Secret.
Do you recognize your son? That is my husband at the left.”

GEORGE to Félicité (Seattle, May 4):

“Three years ago today it happened. As another actor said
‘Sic semper tyrannis'
. . . . ? I've got a room a long way from the theatre. It's over some rocks by the ocean. When I sleep by the ocean I don't have bad dreams. I wish I could tell that to
Maman.
After the show it takes me two hours to walk to my room. I sing and shout. . . . ? I hate art. I hate painting and music, but I wish I could paint and write
my
art and music. Because the world is a thousand times more beautiful and
mighty
than most people can see. What they call art is not worth a bean unless it's about what I sing about when I walk to the ocean. I know that because I'm on the outside. I'm a shut-out. And Mr. Ashley knows it, too—wherever he is.