Posterity (20 page)

The White House
Washington, DC
October 2, 1903.

Dear Kermit:

I was very glad to get your letter. Am glad you are playing foot ball. I should be very sorry to see either you or Ted devoting most of your attention to athletics, and I haven't got any special ambition to see you shine overmuch in athletics in college, at least (if you go there), because I think it tends to take up too much time; but I do like to feel that you are manly and able to hold your own in rough, hardy sports. I would rather have a boy of mine stand high in his studies than high in athletics, but I could a great deal rather have him show true manliness of character than show either intellectual or physical prowess; and I believe you and Ted both bid fair to develop just such character.

There! You will think this a dreadfully preaching letter! I suppose I have a natural tendency to preach just at present because I am overwhelmed with my work. I enjoy being President, and I like to do the work and have my hand on the lever. But it is very worrying and puzzling, and I have to make up my mind to accept every kind of attack and misrepresentation. It is a great comfort to me to read the life and letters of Abraham Lincoln. I am more and more impressed every day, not only with the man's wonderful power and sagacity, but with his literally endless patience, and at the same time unflinching resolution.

Mother and I had a nice ride yesterday, Yagenka behaved well, but upon my word Renown is more nervous and given to shying than ever. “Age cannot still nor custom wither” the infinite variety of that particular fool's folly. He is worse about automobiles than he ever was, and as they swarm in and around Washington a ride upon him is a live experience.

Allan has gone to be trained. Ronald has won golden opinions of all the people around here, as he is very well trained. He sits up beside the driver in the wagon, and follows every one obediently round. He seems to be an excellent city dog.

Quentin is the proud possessor of two white rabbits with pink eyes, in which he and Archie revel. Ethel and Archie played tennis yesterday.

Your loving father,
Theodore Roosevelt

W
.
E
.
B
.
D
U
B
OIS TO
Y
OLANDE
D
U
B
OIS

“The main thing is the YOU beneath the clothes
and skin—the ability to do, the will to conquer,
the determination to understand and know this
great, wonderful, curious world.”

At thirty-five years old, W. E. B. Du Bois soared to prominence with the 1903 publication of
The Souls of Black Folk
, a collection of essays exposing the extent of racial prejudice in America. His challenge of the undisputed African-American leader of the time, Booker T. Washington, caused particular sensation. Du Bois criticized Washington especially for shifting “the burden of the Negro problem to the Negro's shoulders . . . when in fact the burden belongs to the nation.”

As a founder of the NAACP, historian, professor, and the first African American to earn a Ph.D. from Harvard, Du Bois knew the opportunity afforded by vigorous study. Here he writes to his only daughter, Yolande, a nearly fourteen-year-old student at the Besales School in England.

New York, October 29, 1914

Dear Little Daughter:

I have waited for you to get well settled before writing. By this time I hope some of the strangeness has worn off and that my little girl is working hard and regularly.

Of course, everything is new and unusual. You miss the newness and smartness of America. Gradually, however, you are going to sense the beauty of the old world: its calm and eternity and you will grow to love it.

Above all remember, dear, that you have a great opportunity. You are in one of the world's best schools, in one of the world's greatest modern empires. Millions of boys and girls all over this world would give almost anything they possess to be where you are. You are there by no desert or merit of yours, but only by lucky chance.

Deserve it, then. Study, do your work. Be honest, frank and fearless and get some grasp of the real values of life. You will meet, of course, curious little annoyances. People will wonder at your dear brown and the sweet crinkley hair. But that simply is of no importance and will be soon forgotten. Remember that most folk laugh at anything unusual, whether it is beautiful, fine or not. You, however, must not laugh at yourself. You must know that brown is as pretty as white or prettier and crinkley hair as straight even though it is harder to comb. The main thing is the YOU beneath the clothes and skin—the ability to do, the will to conquer, the determination to understand and know this great, wonderful, curious world. Don't shrink from new experiences and custom. Take the cold bath bravely. Enter into the spirit of your big bed-room. Enjoy what is and not pine for what is not. Read some good, heavy, serious books just for discipline: Take yourself in hand and master yourself. Make yourself do unpleasant things, so as to gain the upper hand of your soul.

Above all remember: your father loves you and believes in you and expects you to be a wonderful woman.

I shall write each week and expect a weekly letter from you.

Lovingly yours,
Papa

J
OHN
O'H
ARA TO
W
YLIE
O'H
ARA

“Beginning with the day you read this
you cease to be a child.”

John O'Hara was not a darling of the critics, nor was he the recipient of major literary honors—and it bothered him. Yet, beginning with his first novel in 1934,
Appointment in Samarra
, through thirty-five subsequent books, including
Pal Joey
and
From the Terrace,
John O'Hara consistently enjoyed the attention and financial rewards of a large readership. He had a plain and old-fashioned style, combining masterful dialogue and precise, accurate details, and always his mission was to show clearly “the way it was.” He wrote mostly in the hours after midnight, usually short stories in the summers and novels in the winters, and he considered himself a “pro”—one who was at his work day after day, making it “look easy,” when of course it was not.

In 1959, O'Hara was in the decade that would be his most prolific. His work had made him a wealthy man and he spent summers on Long Island, took pride in his Rolls-Royce, traveled often to England, joined clubs, and passed winters at his French manor house in Princeton, New Jersey. Yet, despite all of his commercial success and popularity, O'Hara's commitment to his writing never dwindled. His only daughter, Wylie, was fourteen years old in September 1959 and was just beginning her first year at her deceased mother's alma mater, the St. Timothy's School in Maryland.

22 Sept. 59

My dear:

Welcome to St. Tim's! I am writing this on Tuesday afternoon. You are upstairs, I am in my study, unable to leave because I am expecting two telephone calls. Hot out, isn't it?

By the time you read this you will have spent your first night in your new room, or so I imagine, and I am also imagining what your first day will be like. You will be doing and seeing so many new things and meeting so many new faces that you will wonder how so much could be crowded into one day, and you won't have a chance to think about it until you go to bed, the second night. That's the way it will be for a week—you must have had much the same experience at Interlaken and Ralston Creek. Then, almost without realizing it, you will find yourself a member of a new community.

And that's something I would like to talk about. Just as I am going on a voyage, so are you embarking on a journey that is much more important than my quick trip. Mine will be over in a month, and the real purpose of my trip is to get away from my typewriter and my habits of work in order to get a new perspective and come back, I hope, the better for my holiday. But your journey is more important because you are entering into a new phase of your life. Beginning with the day you read this you cease to be a child. Your memories, naturally, will all be memories of childhood, the life you have led so far. But each day will be part of the future that you have been looking forward to all your childhood days. You will be assuming new responsibilities but you will also find that responsibility does not necessarily mean something irksome. Responsibility, and responsibilities, can be a pleasure. The greatest pleasure I have in life is the responsibility of being your father. It is a greater pleasure than my work, which is saying a lot because I love my work. But a man is not born with a love of his work, and he
is
born with the nucleus of a love for his children, and his responsibility toward them, or toward her, in my case, is only the practical side of that love.

In the Catholic Church you are taught to start each day by dedicating everything you do that day toward the greater honor and glory of God. Most Catholics forget that, and none of them remembers it every day, throughout the day. We are all human. But it is possible to copy something from the Catholics that is helpful: as I wrote you two years ago, “to thine own self be true,” and if you do that every day you'll be all right. When I stopped drinking I did not say to myself “Quit for a year.” I did it a day at a time; get through one day, then repeat it the next. Well, that's more than six years ago. And quite frankly, I still do it day by day. I take those damned exercises every day, not with the thought that I will be taking them for the rest of my life, but with the thought that I will do them today—and let tomorrow's temptation to skip them take care of itself tomorrow.

I hope you will write me while I am abroad. The address is at the bottom of this page so you can tear it off. After the 15th of October write me at home, as letters sent abroad will not reach me after that date.

I wish you happiness in this new phase of your life. You have come through childhood as a fine person, with wonderful prospects for a wonderful future. You have made Sister love you as though you were her own. And I was born loving you.

Dad

Care of Cresset Press,

11, Fitzroy Square—London, W.1, England

“Life is tough, Wylie. But you don't
have to be tough to enjoy it.”

One week later, on September 29, 1959, O'Hara again wrote to Wylie. The following morning he departed by ship to join his third wife, Katharine “Sister” Barnes Bryan, in London.

Tuesday p.m.

My dear:

The Outerbridges very thoughtfully, very kindly had me to dinner tonight, otherwise I'd have been alone at home. They also invited Mr. and Mrs. Bramwell. We watched the Braves lose to the Dodgers until five minutes of nine, when I excused myself to telephone you. I wanted to speak to you again after you and Patience had your chat, but I guess she misunderstood me and the connection was broken. So I am writing you to finish up what I wanted to say—and probably will say it a little better here than on the phone.

You and I are really very close, I think. I think we understand each other because we are both sensitive people. I'm sure, for instance, that you understand what I mean when I say that I have misgivings about my trip, somewhat the way you felt when you were getting ready to go to the ranch last June. We are both shy people, and yet are fond of other people. For instance I had a good time with Mr. and Mrs. Outerbridge and Mr. and Mrs. Bramwell tonight because I know them and am relaxed with them. When I get on the ship tomorrow I will not know a soul, and even though there is quite a good chance that I will run into people I know, I am prepared to spend the entire time alone. The Cunard Line has put a typewriter in my room, and I have a book I want to read (The Education of Henry Adams) and a double-crostic to do, so I will be able to occupy myself until I meet Sister in London.

It would have been a lot easier for me just to stay home and not to take this trip. But because it would have been easier is precisely the reason I am going. I love my work, I am happy when I have work to do, but if I sit here in my study in Princeton I am really pampering myself, even though I may justify it by saying I am working. It is a dangerous thing for a writer to do, to bury himself in his work and never stir away from it. I know that is true, because I will confess to you that I am
afraid
to be alone in England, etc. I would not make the trip if I were not going to meet Sister. Now that is proof of the danger of sitting here and burying myself in my work. My life has become you and Sister, and even my friends don't count as much as they should. What remains is my work, with which, as I say, I pamper myself and make excuses for not participating in life.

What I am leading up to is that life is or should be full of doing things you would prefer not to do. The best recent example of that was the ranch experience, which you didn't want to do, but ended up being glad you did it. Believe me, it is easier to learn self-discipline when you are young than when you are older. By self-discipline I mean obeying your parents and your teachers. Yes, that may seem contradictory. You may think of it only as discipline and not self-discipline, but it is
self
-discipline if you follow advice in the proper spirit. It is discipline when you obey because you have no other choice.

Life is tough, Wylie. But you don't have to be tough to enjoy it. However, you do need some toughening, and the best toughening is that which you give yourself. In fact it may be the only kind that has lasting value. It becomes part of you and not something that originated with someone else.

You have only to look at the faces of men and women who have not learned to discipline themselves. Then look at those who have. Whom do you trust? Whom would you count on? Your Grandmother O'Hara is a case in point. She was strictly brought up in a family who were in comfortable circumstances, able to send her away to boarding school. Soon after that she married my father and she began to have children, eight of them, with all the problems of a large family. Then when my father died and there was practically no money and none of us old enough to make a decent living, she had to struggle somehow to keep a family going, giving up things she had been accustomed to, unable to provide what she wanted to provide. But I never heard her complain, and neither did anyone else. Sometimes I would come home and find her doing household arithmetic, trying to figure out how to pay taxes, grocery bills, etc., but there would be no complaints, although God knows she must have stayed awake many nights wondering and worrying. Now she is over 80, as enthusiastic and loving about you as though you were her first-born, and if you study her face you will see that it is remarkably unlined. There are women, and men, many years younger, who do not have her serenity, and the reason is that they do not have her character. And the character was something she acquired through self-discipline.