The End of the Point (16 page)
Much love,
Helen
November 3, 1947
Dear Dossier,
Thank you for your letter, and especially the poem. You have a wedding date!! I miss you terribly and must ask of you a tremendous favor: Please convince Mummy and Daddy to let me stay here! I am absolutely happy here—I wish you could see it now. I feel more at home in Lausanne than in any place in the world, except maybe Ashaunt. All the leaves are red and orange along the roads, and the mountains across the lake are completely covered with snow. There are thousands of students wandering the streets and sitting in cafés, and in the morning when the cathedral bell rings at eight o’clock, all of them walk up to the university on the very summit of the town overlooking the lake. I am listening to lots of courses besides my own—Psychology in the Medical School, and Russian History and Philosophy. Professor Guillard, who is head of the École de Français Moderne of the university and my adviser, was the tutor of the Tsar’s children, a great friend of the Tsarina’s, and was in Russia during the Revolution.
Missing my friends and family—you most of all—is the only really hard part; the rest is freedom and flight. I know that getting married is going to be a new freedom for you, especially as you’ve found your perfect soul mate who loves you precisely as you are. I agree that you should just let Mummy plan what she wants for the wedding, as it interests her and will be lovely and doesn’t interest you. I’m doing splendidly in my courses, and I do think that in Europe an intellectual woman is less of an oddity. Here, I could be anyone. I’ve even given most of my clothes away to a girl I met who loves fashion and has almost nothing.
Last weekend André took me to Italy for the day, driving up over the Saint Bernard Pass where monks train mountain dogs, and you can see the ramparts from the war still, and it’s where Napoleon crossed over. As I stood alone in a little empty stone chapel at the top, it was as if I could see Charlie, way, way off in the distance in the Italian part of the sky, flying like Icarus in that Breughel painting. Of course it wasn’t really him—it was clouds—but it cracked me open and I wept and have felt lighter ever since. André knew to stay outside and gave me a sprig of alpine flowers when I came out. He knows just when to come close and when to leave me be, in a very European way. I’ve been reading Flaubert, who writes, “La vie doit être une éducation incessante; il faut tout apprendre, depuis parler jusqu’à mourir.” How is your French coming along, ma petite soeur? Traduction: “Life must be a constant education; you’ve got to learn everything, from speaking to dying.”
Please lean on Mummy and Daddy to let me return to Switzerland for the second term, and don’t worry—I’ll be back in plenty of time to help you get ready for your
wedding!
I’m scouring Europe for the perfect wedding gift.
All my love, Hellion
15 Mars 1948
Chèrs Mummy and Daddy,
Only three weeks that I have been back here, and already I am homesick and also having more adventures. The ski jacket you got me for Christmas is perfect, and everyone here thinks it’s hilarious that it was made in Switzerland. I must tell you about this weekend, which was like a fairy story. I think I told you that André and his friends, Francis and Jean-Claude, and I were going skiing together. Well, on Saturday we took the train from Lausanne with nothing but ski clothes, as we had decided to go to the inn at the summit of the mountains, where everything is very primitive. We went for an hour by train to Bex, then changed to funicular, which started slowly to climb into the mountains and the snow. Everyone on the train was going skiing, and we were all singing and laughing together. After another hour we arrived in Villars, a perfectly lovely little village, closed in on every side by high rocky peaks. There are few automobiles, but the whole town is full of sleighs and bells and little inns. Mostly everyone got out here, but we changed to another tiny funicular that climbed for another hour, slowly crawling around precipices, slipping under snowbound fir trees, until finally we came out into the open, where there were no trees, no roads or rocky cliffs, nothing but brilliant sunlight, deep blue skies and white everything. Finally the funicular stopped at a little inn and we got out. It was very warm and blindingly clear. We had a delicious lunch and then discovered our rooms. I had one alone, very clean and simple and practically free, it was so cheap, and the boys had one with bunks. André’s friends went to ski down the most dangerous part, but he and I walked and then skied in the high mountains for about three hours. It was truly a magic land. You went for ten minutes up what seemed like a tiny hill and suddenly, as you reached the top, miles and miles of Alps stretched before you, and it looked as if you could ski forever down. There was a sense of nothingness—a kind of empty desolation, a universe of snow and sky together alone. I wonder if you can catch the atmosphere.
We came back around six thirty, just when the mountains had turned lavender, and found Francis and Jean-Claude in the bar. We all had something that was supposed to be a martini but was mostly vermouth, and then a dinner of roast beef, French fried potatoes, and red wine. I slept like a baby. At about nine the next day, we began to ski again. Francis and Jean-Claude rode up to Chamossaire, but André and I did something that was really the best of all—we skied down the trail to Villars, a long, long way but not too difficult. The snow is well packed on the trail and winds around the mountains, first completely open, then under the trees. I was terrified at first, but André stayed at my pace, and soon I wasn’t scared at all, but rather in a state of calm rapture that felt almost religious. It was again a brilliantly sunny day, and I thought as we glided over the snow, looking at mountains, deep ravines, snow and sky, that it was worth all of life’s difficulties to get to do this just once. I believe there must be a few moments in every life like this, at least I hope so. Oh my, this has become a very long letter, and I must study now.
Lots of love,
Helen
P.S. You may be worried because I mention André a lot, and I think perhaps it’s best to explain, as the truth may not worry you as much as if I say nothing. As I’ve said before, I’m practically sure I will never marry André, but he is one of the best friends I have ever had, perhaps the best, and he always will be because he is
such
a kind, charming and intelligent person—and European in all the best ways. He is not going to live in Switzerland because he feels he can do no good there, but wants to go to Africa or China or someplace where doctors are really needed. You needn’t worry about my being hurt, because I can handle this perfectly, but I am so afraid I’ll end up hurting someone else. It’s too late for me not to now, but I know I’m doing what is right, which is all one can do. I have told André that as the choice is either to hurt you (my family) or him, I would have to choose to hurt him. This is a fact that I can’t analyze myself, but absolutely true. André, I am afraid, would be a doctor anywhere I wanted, but he has absolutely no money aside from what he earns and he would much rather die than take a cent. In fact, he has a nature ridiculously proud about everything. His father is rather like André but sterner. He used to have a great deal of money that he inherited from his mother, but he gave every bit away when he became a minister, because he believes that money is the greatest evil in the world, especially when it is inherited. The family is full of idealists about everything. You would definitely love André, and it is terribly worrying to me that I am going to have to hurt him soon. I know it is all my fault, but also that I must make up my mind definitively, that there is no way I can escape doing it in the end. For myself, I was right to go home in December, because once you are faced with the realities of a situation, you realize the impossibility of it, which you don’t if you are right up close. The fact is, it is impossible for a person to have a household if he is a doctor at the age of thirty and has literally not
one cent
of money beside his living and won’t take one cent. I hope you don’t worry, but I think I should write you, especially as it may set your mind at ease. There is only one thing that could make me mad—if you ever say anything against André. You can say anything at all against me.
1960
July 28. On to a new diary, as I have filled up the previous one. A rainy day, which I love on Ashaunt as nowhere else. I walked anyway for an hour, and saw a fox. Tonight I read
The Highwayman
to the children, and “I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree.” Charlie and Will are keeping diaries too. They call them “diarrheas” and hang the keys around their necks. I remember when Grandmother P. first gave me a Nature Diary, instructing me in no uncertain terms to be an “eye,” and not an “I.” Now Dr. Hoffman has told me to “write whatever comes to mind” on the page until we meet again. How times have changed! Charlie writes in his diary every night. I got Caroline a little book to scrawl in so she wouldn’t feel left out. She wrote
SAD HAPPY SAD HAPPY
for pages, two of the only words she can write. I guess they more or less sum it up.
As for me, I don’t know. Last summer I found being away from analysis a relief, but this summer I miss it, a dangerous dependency. In my last session before coming here, I said how first I was the third child, and then, when Elinor died, I was the second child, and then, when Charlie died, the oldest, like a game where you shoot down the toy ducks at the fair, but always a kind of poor replacement—and might this explain how I’ve always felt a sham or is it a shame? Dr. Hoffman got (for him) quite animated and said, “That’s extraordinary!” and I felt elated that I’d cracked his shell and gotten him to praise me but also angry, for he knows how much I hunger for praise and also it’s
not
an extraordinary insight—it’s quite obvious. What I strive for is true brilliance and truly being seen and appreciated, and there’s nothing I hate more than a fake (though I believe Dr. H to be quite genuine, so it was all the more confusing). If my ideals are unattainable, either because I’m not up to snuff or because no one can ever reach such an idealized state, then I must strive to be happy with a life of mediocrity, which means accepting it in the people around me as well. What of the bright things, though, what Wordsworth called Spots of Time? I live for moments of intense connection with other people, with nature, with my own mind. If I did not strive, I’d give up all hope, and yet in striving, I am often so unhappy. Of course, I’m hardly the only unhappy person in the world.
Tomorrow everyone arrives, and then it will be dinner parties and houseguests and endless charades and cocktail parties and little spats. If no one came in August, I would be lonely, desperate. As it is, I imagine building my garden wall up and up and just sitting there, not answering when they call.
Aug. 1. Everyone is arriving today with cars and help, and it feels like an actual change of season. I had the strange idea as the cars came down the road that the children and I were the native animals, and now the actual humans will arrive and spoil our peace. Weeks ago, on July 4th weekend, Daddy brought me the new book about the Great War and I still haven’t read it, nor the Freud biography, and Mummy will want to see what I’ve done with the garden. What
have
I done in all this time? But I have been happy (mostly) spending time with the children. All three are darling when they’re cheerful. We wander about like I’m their older sister, not a Mère de Famille. I know Belle expects me to act more my part, but tant pis. Last week I let them eat as many cherries as they wanted, and Belle told them it would make blood come out in their Big Jobs and urine, voodoo nonsense, of course, but they believed her. When André arrived, he said, “Oh yes, this is of grave concern, oui oui, wee wee,” until finally we got it, and even Belle couldn’t help laughing. She doesn’t like me—of that I’m quite sure—and while she is capable with the children, I cherish my privacy and look forward to the day when we no longer require live-in help. I taught Charlie and Will about puns, and Charlie promptly came out with “Surely Shirley Temple likes puns!” His cleverness is second nature to him. I hope he never loses his natural ease.
Aug. 7. Dossy and Phillip were barely here a week and already left today. Holly and Lil-Phil (as the boys call him) have moved over to the Big House. Mummy does not seem capable of understanding how someone blessed with so much can be so unhappy. I think she views it as a kind of moral failing, but I understand it; Dossy just goes
down
. I hate the Portable being empty and for Dos to be gone, but Mummy and Daddy are glad to have the children at the Big House, and it keeps Bea and Agnes happy, scrubbing and scolding and braiding Holly’s hair. Will asked Little Phillip, What does your mum do all day in New York? and Phil said, Oh, she sleeps and talks on the phone and sticks her head out the window to sunbathe. Holly is so brave and cheerful, a little mother to them all. Holly and Charlie love each other so. I could see them getting married someday, except for the inconvenience of being first cousins.
August 15. I took the train back from New York because the plane trip down was so terrifying. Lightning, gale winds, fog. The plane went down a hundred feet every few minutes and seemed to be falling rather than advancing. The train trip back along the coast, in contrast, was so peaceful in the late afternoon post-storm, all quiet harbors with rowboats and outboards anchored, and little salt rivers flowing inland with children fishing at the edges. I felt myself going farther and farther away from New York and toward Ashaunt. A man across the aisle was crying openly with a little boy sleeping on his lap. I think the mother must have died. I felt very sorry for them both and glad to be going home. At Columbia, I settled everything at the registrar’s office, but my textbooks were not in yet. I felt extremely nervous and excited just to be on the campus. I think a university may be the place where I feel most myself in the world. When I am thinking hard about ideas or talking about them or working on a paper, my mind finds a kind of shape and concentration that feels almost spiritual, monastic even. I lose all track of time, and of myself. It may be the purest feeling I have ever felt, though it’s very hard to come by, especially when my insecurities (not to mention my life) interfere. To be a true scholar and professor would fulfill my dreams; I only hope I have what it takes. Dos is already doing better. We had a nice lunch out and a walk in the park. Her doctor told her she is too reliant on her sleeping pills, and that this could account for a large part of her troubles, so she is entering a strict regimen.
