Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction, page 253
“Yes, sure. You’re going to demonstrate…uh…?”
“Cosmic entity, of course. What do you think I’ve been talking about?”
I tried to remember what she had said about cosmic entity. “You mean you’re going to try to turn matter into space or something like that?”
“Something like that. I intend to translate matter-energy into terms of space-time.”
“Oh,” I said, “equations and symbols and all that.”
“I just said I wasn’t going to write a book.”
“But how—” I started up as the impact struck me. “You’re going to—” I groped for words. “You’re going to build a…an engine which will move through time?”
“Putting it crudely. But close enough for a layman.”
“You once told me your work was theoretical. That you were no vulgar mechanic.”
“I’ll become one.”
“Barbara, you’re crazy! As a philosophical abstraction this theory of yours is interesting—”
“Thank you. It’s always nice to know one has amused the yokelry.”
“Barbara, listen to me. Midbin—”
“I haven’t the faintest interest in Oliver’s stodgy fantasies.”
“He has in yours though, and so have I. Don’t you see, this determination of yours is based on the fantasy of going back through time to—uh—injure your mother—”
“Oliver Midbin is a coarse, stupid, insensate lout. He has taught the dumb to speak, but he’s too much of a fool to understand anyone of normal intelligence. He has a set of idiotic theories about diseased emotions, and he fits all facts into them even if it means chopping them up to do it or inventing new ones to piece them out. Injure my mother indeed! I have no more interest in her than she ever had in me.”
“Ah, Barbara—”
“‘Ah Barbara,’” she mimicked. “Run along to your pompous windbag of a Midbin or your oh-so-willing cow-eyed Spanish doxy—”
“Barbara, I’m talking as a friend. Leave Midbin and Catty and personalities out of it and just look at it this way. Don’t you see the difference between promulgating a theory and trying a practical demonstration which will certainly appear to the world as going over the borderline into charlatanism? Like a spiritualist medium or—”
“That’s enough! ‘Charlatan’! You unspeakable guttersnipe. What do you know of anything beyond the seduction of cretins? Go back to your trade, you errand boy!”
I seemed to remember that once before an incident had ended precisely this way. “Barbara—”
Her hand caught me across my mouth. Then she strode away.
The fellows of Haggershaven were not enthusiastic for her project. Even as she outlined it to them in more sober language than she had to me it still sounded outlandish, like the recurrent idea of a telegraph without wires or a rocket to the moon. Besides, 1950 was a bad year. The war was coming closer; at the least, what was left of the independence of the United States was likely to be extinguished. Our energies had to be directed toward survival rather than new and expensive ventures. Still, Barbara Haggerwells was a famous figure commanding great respect, and she had cost them little so far, beyond paper and pencils. Reluctantly the fellows voted an appropriation.
An old barn, not utilized for years, but still sound, was turned over to Barbara, and Kimi was delighted to plan, design, and supervise the necessary changes. Ace and a group of the fellows attacked the job vigorously, sawing and hammering, bolting iron beams together, piping in gas for reflecting lights to enable them to work at night as well.
I believe I took no more interest than was inescapable as a fellow of Haggershaven. I had no doubt that the money and labor were being wasted, and I foresaw a terrible disappointment for Barbara when she realized the impossibility of her project. For myself I did not think she would play any further part of importance in my life.
We had not spoken since the quarrel, nor was there inclination on either side toward coming together again. I could not guess at Barbara’s feelings; mine were those of relief, unmixed with regret. I would not have erased all there had been between us, but I was satisfied to have it in the past. The raging desire vanished, gradually replaced by an affection of sorts; I wanted no more of that tempestuous passion, instead I felt aloofly protective and understanding.
For at last I was absorbed with Catty. The raw hunger of the moment when I first realized I wanted her came back with renewed force, but now other, more diffused feelings were equally part of my emotion. I knew she could make me jealous as Barbara could not; at the same time I could see tranquillity beyond turbulent wanting, a tranquillity never possible with Barbara.
But my belated realization of what Catty meant to me was no reaction to Barbara or connected with the breaking of that tie. The need for Catty was engendered by Catty alone, and for Catty apart from anything I had ever felt for another. It was in some ways an entirely new hunger, as the man’s need transcends the youth’s. I understood now what her question in the woodlot meant, and at last I could truthfully answer.
She kissed me back, freely and strongly. “I love you, Hodge,” she said; “I have loved you even through the bad dream of not being able to speak.”
“When I was so unfeeling.”
“I loved you even when you were impatient; I tried to make myself prettier for you. You know you have never said I was pretty.”
“You aren’t, Catty. You’re extraordinarily beautiful.”
“I think I would rather be pretty. Beauty sounds forbidding. Oh, Hodge, if I did not love you so much I would not have stopped you that day.”
“I’m not sure I understand that.”
“No? Well, it is not necessary now. Sometimes I wondered if I had been right after all, or if you would think it was because of Barbara.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No. I was never jealous of her. We Garcias are supposed to have Morisco blood; perhaps I have the harem outlook of my dark Muslim ancestors. Would you like me to be your black concubine?”
“No,” I said. “I’d like you to be my wife. In any colors you have.”
“Spoken with real gallantry; you will be a courtier yet, Hodge. But that was a proposal, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answered grimly. “If you will consider one from me. I can’t think of any good reason why you should.”
She put her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “I don’t know what reason has to do with it. It is what I always intended; that was why I blushed so when Hiro Agati blurted out what everyone could see.”
Later I said, “Catty, can you ever forgive me for the wasted years? You say you weren’t jealous of Barbara, but surely if she and I—that is…anyway, forgive me.”
“Dear Hodge, there’s nothing to forgive. Love is not a business transaction, nor a case at law in which justice is sought, nor a reward for having good qualities. I understand you, Hodge, better I think than you understand yourself. You are not satisfied with what is readily obtained, otherwise you would have been content back in—what is the name?—Wappinger Falls. I have known this for a long time, and I could, I think—you must excuse my vanity—have interested you at any moment by pretending fickleness. Just as I could have held you if I had given in that day. Besides, I think you will make a better husband for realizing you could not deal with
Barbara.”
I can’t say I entirely enjoyed this speech. I felt, in fact, rather humiliated, or at least healthily humbled. Which was no doubt what she intended, and as it should be. I never had the idea she was frail or insipid.
Nor did Catty’s explanation of a harem outlook satisfactorily account for the sudden friendliness of the two women after the engagement was announced. That Barbara should soften so toward a successful rival was incomprehensible and also disturbing.
Because both were fully occupied they actually spent little time together, but Catty visited the workshop, as they called the converted barn, whenever she had the chance and her real admiration for Barbara grew so that I heard too often of her genius, courage, and imagination. I could hardly ask Catty to forgo society I had so recently found enchanting nor establish a taboo against mention of a name I had lately whispered with ardor; still I felt a little foolish, and not quite as important as I might otherwise have thought myself.
Not that Catty didn’t have proper respect and enthusiasm for my fortunes. I had completed my notes for Chancellorsville to the End—that is, I had a mass of clues, guideposts, keys, ideas, and emphases which would serve as skeleton for a work which might take years to write— and Catty was the audience to whom I explained and expounded and used as a prototype of the reader I might reach. Volume one was roughly drafted, and we were to be married as soon as it was finished, shortly after my thirtieth and Catty’s twenty-fourth birthday. There was little doubt the book would bring an offer from one of the great Confederate universities, but Catty was firm for a cottage like the Agatis’, and I could not conceive of being foolish enough to leave Haggershaven.
From Catty’s talk I knew Barbara was running into increasing difficulties now the workshop was complete and actual construction begun of what was referred to, with unnecessary crypticism I thought, as HX-1. The impending war created scarcities, particularly of such materials as steel and copper, of which latter metal HX-1 seemed inordinately greedy. I was not surprised when the fellows apologetically refused Barbara a new appropriation.
Next day Catty said, “Hodge, you know the Haven wouldn’t take my money.”
“And quite right, too. Let the rest of us put in what we get; we owe it to the Haven anyway. But the debt is the other way round in your case, and you should keep your independence.”
“Hodge, I’m going to give it all to Barbara for her HX-1.”
“What? Oh, nonsense!”
“Is it any more nonsensical for me to put in money I didn’t do anything to get than for her and Ace to put in time and knowledge and labor?”
“Yes, because she’s got a crazy idea, and Ace has never been quite sane where she’s concerned. If you go ahead and do this you’ll be as crazy as they are. “
When Catty laughed I remembered with a pang the long months when that lovely sound had been strangled by terror inside her. I also thought with shame of my own failure; had I appreciated her when her need was greatest I might have eased the long, painful ordeal of restoring her voice.
“Perhaps I am crazy. Do you think the Haven would make me a fellow on that basis? Anyway, I believe in Barbara even if the rest of you don’t. Not that I’m criticizing; you were right to be cautious. You have more to consider than demonstration of the truth of a theory which can’t conceivably have a material value; I don’t have to take any such long view. Anyway I believe in her. Or perhaps I feel I owe her something. With my money she can finish her project. I only tell you this because you may not want to marry me under the circumstances. “
“You think I’m marrying you for your money?”
She smiled. “Dear Hodge. You are in some ways so young; I hear the wounded dignity in your voice. No, I know very well you aren’t marrying me for money, that it never occurred to you it might be a good idea. That would be too practical, too grown-up, too un-Hodgelike. I think you might not want to marry a woman who’d give all her money away. Especially to Barbara Haggerwells.”
“Catty, are you doing this absurd thing to get rid of me? Or to test me?”
This time she again laughed loud. “Now I’m sure you will marry me after all and turn out to be a puzzled but amenable husband. You are my true Hodge, who studies a war because he can’t understand anything simpler or subtler.”
She wasn’t to be dissuaded from the quixotic gesture. I might not understand subtleties, but I was sure I understood Barbara well enough. Foreseeing her request for more funds would be turned down, she must have cultivated Catty deliberately in order to use her. Now she’d gotten what she wanted I confidently expected her to drop Catty or revert to her accustomed virulence.
She did neither. If anything the amity grew. Catty’s vocabulary added words like “magnet,” “coil,” “induction,” “particle,” “light-year,” “continuum,” and many others either incomprehensible or uninteresting to me. Breathlessly she described the strange, asymmetric structure taking shape in the workshop, while my mind was busy with Ewell’s Corps and Parrott guns and the weather chart of southern Pennsylvania for July 1863.
The great publishing firm of Ticknor, Harcourt & Knopf contracted for my book—there was no publisher in the United States equipped to handle it—and sent me a sizable advance in Confederate dollars which became even more sizable converted into our money. I read the proofs of volume one in a state of semiconsciousness, sent the inevitable telegram changing a footnote on page 99, and waited for the infuriating mails to bring me my complimentary copies. The day after they arrived (with a horrifying typographical error right in the middle of page 12), Catty and I were married.
Dear Catty. Dear, dear Catty.
With the approval of the fellows we used part of the publisher’s advance for a honeymoon. We spent it—that part of it in which we had time for anything except being alone together—going over nearby battlefields of the last year of the War of Southron Independence.
It was Catty’s first excursion away from Haggershaven since the night I brought her there. Looking at the world outside through her perceptions, at once insulated and made hypersensitive by her new status, I was shocked afresh at the harsh indifference, the dull poverty, the fear, brutality, frenzy, and cynicism highlighting the strange resignation to impending fate which characterized our civilization. It was not a case of eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we die; rather it was, let us live meanly and trust to luck—tomorrow’s luck is bound to be worse.
We settled down in the autumn of 1951 in a cottage designed by Kimi and built by the fellows during our absence. It gave on the Agatis’ cherished garden, and we were both moved by this evidence of love, particularly after what we had seen and heard on our trip. Mr. Haggerwells made a speech, filled with classical allusions, welcoming us back as though we had been gone for years; Midbin looked anxiously into Catty’s face as though to assure himself I had not, in my new role as husband, treated her so ill as to bring on a new emotional upset; and the other fellows made appropriate gestures. Even Barbara stopped by long enough to comment that the house was ridiculously small, but she supposed Kimi’s movable partitions helped.
I immediately began working on volume two, and Catty took up her sewing again. She also resumed her visits to Barbara’s workshop; again I heard detailed accounts of my former sweetheart’s progress. HX-1 was to be completed in the late spring, or early summer. I was not surprised at Barbara’s faith surviving actual construction of the thing, but that such otherwise level-headed people as Ace and Catty could envisage breathlessly the miracles about to happen was beyond me. Ace, even after all these years, was still bemused—but Catty…?
Just before the turn of the year I got the following letter:
LEE & WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY
Department of History
Leesburg, District of Calhounia, CSA
December 19, 1951
Mr. Hodgins M. Backmaker
“Haggershaven”
York Pennsylvania, USA
Sir:
On page 407 of Chancellorsville to the End, volume I, Turning Tides, you write, “Chronology and topography—timing and the use of space—were to be the decisive factors, rather than population and industry. Stuart’s detachment, which might have proved disastrous, turned out extraordinarily fortunate for Lee, as we shall see in the next volume. Of course, the absence of cavalry might have been decisive if the Round Tops had not been occupied by the Southrons on July 1…”
Now, sir, evidently in your forthcoming analysis of Gettysburg you hold (as I presume most Yankees do) to the theory of fortuitousness. We Southrons naturally ascribe the victory to the supreme genius of General Lee, regarding the factors of time and space not as forces in themselves but as opportunities for the display of his talents.
Needless to say, I hardly expect you to change your opinions, rooted as they must be in national pride. I only ask that before you commit them, and the conclusions shaped by them, to print, you satisfy yourself as a historian of their validity in this particular case. In other words, sir, as one of your readers (and may I add, one who has enjoyed your work), I should like to be assured that you have studied this classic battle as carefully as you have the engagements described in volume I.
With earnest wishes for your success,
I remain, sir, Cordially yours,
Jefferson Davis Polk
This letter from Dr. Polk, the foremost historian of our day, author of the monumental biography, The Great Lee, produced a crisis in my life. Had the Confederate professor pointed out flaws in my work or even reproached me for undertaking it at all without adequate equipment I would, I trust, have acknowledged the reproof and continued to the best of my ability. But this letter was an accolade. Without condescension Dr. Polk admitted me to the ranks of serious historians, only asking me to consider the depth of my evaluation.
Truth is, I was not without increasing doubts of my own. Doubts I had not allowed to rise to the surface of my mind and disturb my plans. Folk’s letter brought them into the open.
I had read everything available. I had been over the ground between the Maryland line, South Mountain, Carlisle, and the Haven until I could draw a detail map from memory. I had turned up diaries, letters, and accounts which had not only never been published, but which were not known to exist until I hunted them down. I had so steeped myself in the period I was writing about that sometimes the two worlds seemed interchangeable and I could live partly in one, partly in the other.
“Cosmic entity, of course. What do you think I’ve been talking about?”
I tried to remember what she had said about cosmic entity. “You mean you’re going to try to turn matter into space or something like that?”
“Something like that. I intend to translate matter-energy into terms of space-time.”
“Oh,” I said, “equations and symbols and all that.”
“I just said I wasn’t going to write a book.”
“But how—” I started up as the impact struck me. “You’re going to—” I groped for words. “You’re going to build a…an engine which will move through time?”
“Putting it crudely. But close enough for a layman.”
“You once told me your work was theoretical. That you were no vulgar mechanic.”
“I’ll become one.”
“Barbara, you’re crazy! As a philosophical abstraction this theory of yours is interesting—”
“Thank you. It’s always nice to know one has amused the yokelry.”
“Barbara, listen to me. Midbin—”
“I haven’t the faintest interest in Oliver’s stodgy fantasies.”
“He has in yours though, and so have I. Don’t you see, this determination of yours is based on the fantasy of going back through time to—uh—injure your mother—”
“Oliver Midbin is a coarse, stupid, insensate lout. He has taught the dumb to speak, but he’s too much of a fool to understand anyone of normal intelligence. He has a set of idiotic theories about diseased emotions, and he fits all facts into them even if it means chopping them up to do it or inventing new ones to piece them out. Injure my mother indeed! I have no more interest in her than she ever had in me.”
“Ah, Barbara—”
“‘Ah Barbara,’” she mimicked. “Run along to your pompous windbag of a Midbin or your oh-so-willing cow-eyed Spanish doxy—”
“Barbara, I’m talking as a friend. Leave Midbin and Catty and personalities out of it and just look at it this way. Don’t you see the difference between promulgating a theory and trying a practical demonstration which will certainly appear to the world as going over the borderline into charlatanism? Like a spiritualist medium or—”
“That’s enough! ‘Charlatan’! You unspeakable guttersnipe. What do you know of anything beyond the seduction of cretins? Go back to your trade, you errand boy!”
I seemed to remember that once before an incident had ended precisely this way. “Barbara—”
Her hand caught me across my mouth. Then she strode away.
The fellows of Haggershaven were not enthusiastic for her project. Even as she outlined it to them in more sober language than she had to me it still sounded outlandish, like the recurrent idea of a telegraph without wires or a rocket to the moon. Besides, 1950 was a bad year. The war was coming closer; at the least, what was left of the independence of the United States was likely to be extinguished. Our energies had to be directed toward survival rather than new and expensive ventures. Still, Barbara Haggerwells was a famous figure commanding great respect, and she had cost them little so far, beyond paper and pencils. Reluctantly the fellows voted an appropriation.
An old barn, not utilized for years, but still sound, was turned over to Barbara, and Kimi was delighted to plan, design, and supervise the necessary changes. Ace and a group of the fellows attacked the job vigorously, sawing and hammering, bolting iron beams together, piping in gas for reflecting lights to enable them to work at night as well.
I believe I took no more interest than was inescapable as a fellow of Haggershaven. I had no doubt that the money and labor were being wasted, and I foresaw a terrible disappointment for Barbara when she realized the impossibility of her project. For myself I did not think she would play any further part of importance in my life.
We had not spoken since the quarrel, nor was there inclination on either side toward coming together again. I could not guess at Barbara’s feelings; mine were those of relief, unmixed with regret. I would not have erased all there had been between us, but I was satisfied to have it in the past. The raging desire vanished, gradually replaced by an affection of sorts; I wanted no more of that tempestuous passion, instead I felt aloofly protective and understanding.
For at last I was absorbed with Catty. The raw hunger of the moment when I first realized I wanted her came back with renewed force, but now other, more diffused feelings were equally part of my emotion. I knew she could make me jealous as Barbara could not; at the same time I could see tranquillity beyond turbulent wanting, a tranquillity never possible with Barbara.
But my belated realization of what Catty meant to me was no reaction to Barbara or connected with the breaking of that tie. The need for Catty was engendered by Catty alone, and for Catty apart from anything I had ever felt for another. It was in some ways an entirely new hunger, as the man’s need transcends the youth’s. I understood now what her question in the woodlot meant, and at last I could truthfully answer.
She kissed me back, freely and strongly. “I love you, Hodge,” she said; “I have loved you even through the bad dream of not being able to speak.”
“When I was so unfeeling.”
“I loved you even when you were impatient; I tried to make myself prettier for you. You know you have never said I was pretty.”
“You aren’t, Catty. You’re extraordinarily beautiful.”
“I think I would rather be pretty. Beauty sounds forbidding. Oh, Hodge, if I did not love you so much I would not have stopped you that day.”
“I’m not sure I understand that.”
“No? Well, it is not necessary now. Sometimes I wondered if I had been right after all, or if you would think it was because of Barbara.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No. I was never jealous of her. We Garcias are supposed to have Morisco blood; perhaps I have the harem outlook of my dark Muslim ancestors. Would you like me to be your black concubine?”
“No,” I said. “I’d like you to be my wife. In any colors you have.”
“Spoken with real gallantry; you will be a courtier yet, Hodge. But that was a proposal, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answered grimly. “If you will consider one from me. I can’t think of any good reason why you should.”
She put her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “I don’t know what reason has to do with it. It is what I always intended; that was why I blushed so when Hiro Agati blurted out what everyone could see.”
Later I said, “Catty, can you ever forgive me for the wasted years? You say you weren’t jealous of Barbara, but surely if she and I—that is…anyway, forgive me.”
“Dear Hodge, there’s nothing to forgive. Love is not a business transaction, nor a case at law in which justice is sought, nor a reward for having good qualities. I understand you, Hodge, better I think than you understand yourself. You are not satisfied with what is readily obtained, otherwise you would have been content back in—what is the name?—Wappinger Falls. I have known this for a long time, and I could, I think—you must excuse my vanity—have interested you at any moment by pretending fickleness. Just as I could have held you if I had given in that day. Besides, I think you will make a better husband for realizing you could not deal with
Barbara.”
I can’t say I entirely enjoyed this speech. I felt, in fact, rather humiliated, or at least healthily humbled. Which was no doubt what she intended, and as it should be. I never had the idea she was frail or insipid.
Nor did Catty’s explanation of a harem outlook satisfactorily account for the sudden friendliness of the two women after the engagement was announced. That Barbara should soften so toward a successful rival was incomprehensible and also disturbing.
Because both were fully occupied they actually spent little time together, but Catty visited the workshop, as they called the converted barn, whenever she had the chance and her real admiration for Barbara grew so that I heard too often of her genius, courage, and imagination. I could hardly ask Catty to forgo society I had so recently found enchanting nor establish a taboo against mention of a name I had lately whispered with ardor; still I felt a little foolish, and not quite as important as I might otherwise have thought myself.
Not that Catty didn’t have proper respect and enthusiasm for my fortunes. I had completed my notes for Chancellorsville to the End—that is, I had a mass of clues, guideposts, keys, ideas, and emphases which would serve as skeleton for a work which might take years to write— and Catty was the audience to whom I explained and expounded and used as a prototype of the reader I might reach. Volume one was roughly drafted, and we were to be married as soon as it was finished, shortly after my thirtieth and Catty’s twenty-fourth birthday. There was little doubt the book would bring an offer from one of the great Confederate universities, but Catty was firm for a cottage like the Agatis’, and I could not conceive of being foolish enough to leave Haggershaven.
From Catty’s talk I knew Barbara was running into increasing difficulties now the workshop was complete and actual construction begun of what was referred to, with unnecessary crypticism I thought, as HX-1. The impending war created scarcities, particularly of such materials as steel and copper, of which latter metal HX-1 seemed inordinately greedy. I was not surprised when the fellows apologetically refused Barbara a new appropriation.
Next day Catty said, “Hodge, you know the Haven wouldn’t take my money.”
“And quite right, too. Let the rest of us put in what we get; we owe it to the Haven anyway. But the debt is the other way round in your case, and you should keep your independence.”
“Hodge, I’m going to give it all to Barbara for her HX-1.”
“What? Oh, nonsense!”
“Is it any more nonsensical for me to put in money I didn’t do anything to get than for her and Ace to put in time and knowledge and labor?”
“Yes, because she’s got a crazy idea, and Ace has never been quite sane where she’s concerned. If you go ahead and do this you’ll be as crazy as they are. “
When Catty laughed I remembered with a pang the long months when that lovely sound had been strangled by terror inside her. I also thought with shame of my own failure; had I appreciated her when her need was greatest I might have eased the long, painful ordeal of restoring her voice.
“Perhaps I am crazy. Do you think the Haven would make me a fellow on that basis? Anyway, I believe in Barbara even if the rest of you don’t. Not that I’m criticizing; you were right to be cautious. You have more to consider than demonstration of the truth of a theory which can’t conceivably have a material value; I don’t have to take any such long view. Anyway I believe in her. Or perhaps I feel I owe her something. With my money she can finish her project. I only tell you this because you may not want to marry me under the circumstances. “
“You think I’m marrying you for your money?”
She smiled. “Dear Hodge. You are in some ways so young; I hear the wounded dignity in your voice. No, I know very well you aren’t marrying me for money, that it never occurred to you it might be a good idea. That would be too practical, too grown-up, too un-Hodgelike. I think you might not want to marry a woman who’d give all her money away. Especially to Barbara Haggerwells.”
“Catty, are you doing this absurd thing to get rid of me? Or to test me?”
This time she again laughed loud. “Now I’m sure you will marry me after all and turn out to be a puzzled but amenable husband. You are my true Hodge, who studies a war because he can’t understand anything simpler or subtler.”
She wasn’t to be dissuaded from the quixotic gesture. I might not understand subtleties, but I was sure I understood Barbara well enough. Foreseeing her request for more funds would be turned down, she must have cultivated Catty deliberately in order to use her. Now she’d gotten what she wanted I confidently expected her to drop Catty or revert to her accustomed virulence.
She did neither. If anything the amity grew. Catty’s vocabulary added words like “magnet,” “coil,” “induction,” “particle,” “light-year,” “continuum,” and many others either incomprehensible or uninteresting to me. Breathlessly she described the strange, asymmetric structure taking shape in the workshop, while my mind was busy with Ewell’s Corps and Parrott guns and the weather chart of southern Pennsylvania for July 1863.
The great publishing firm of Ticknor, Harcourt & Knopf contracted for my book—there was no publisher in the United States equipped to handle it—and sent me a sizable advance in Confederate dollars which became even more sizable converted into our money. I read the proofs of volume one in a state of semiconsciousness, sent the inevitable telegram changing a footnote on page 99, and waited for the infuriating mails to bring me my complimentary copies. The day after they arrived (with a horrifying typographical error right in the middle of page 12), Catty and I were married.
Dear Catty. Dear, dear Catty.
With the approval of the fellows we used part of the publisher’s advance for a honeymoon. We spent it—that part of it in which we had time for anything except being alone together—going over nearby battlefields of the last year of the War of Southron Independence.
It was Catty’s first excursion away from Haggershaven since the night I brought her there. Looking at the world outside through her perceptions, at once insulated and made hypersensitive by her new status, I was shocked afresh at the harsh indifference, the dull poverty, the fear, brutality, frenzy, and cynicism highlighting the strange resignation to impending fate which characterized our civilization. It was not a case of eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we die; rather it was, let us live meanly and trust to luck—tomorrow’s luck is bound to be worse.
We settled down in the autumn of 1951 in a cottage designed by Kimi and built by the fellows during our absence. It gave on the Agatis’ cherished garden, and we were both moved by this evidence of love, particularly after what we had seen and heard on our trip. Mr. Haggerwells made a speech, filled with classical allusions, welcoming us back as though we had been gone for years; Midbin looked anxiously into Catty’s face as though to assure himself I had not, in my new role as husband, treated her so ill as to bring on a new emotional upset; and the other fellows made appropriate gestures. Even Barbara stopped by long enough to comment that the house was ridiculously small, but she supposed Kimi’s movable partitions helped.
I immediately began working on volume two, and Catty took up her sewing again. She also resumed her visits to Barbara’s workshop; again I heard detailed accounts of my former sweetheart’s progress. HX-1 was to be completed in the late spring, or early summer. I was not surprised at Barbara’s faith surviving actual construction of the thing, but that such otherwise level-headed people as Ace and Catty could envisage breathlessly the miracles about to happen was beyond me. Ace, even after all these years, was still bemused—but Catty…?
Just before the turn of the year I got the following letter:
LEE & WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY
Department of History
Leesburg, District of Calhounia, CSA
December 19, 1951
Mr. Hodgins M. Backmaker
“Haggershaven”
York Pennsylvania, USA
Sir:
On page 407 of Chancellorsville to the End, volume I, Turning Tides, you write, “Chronology and topography—timing and the use of space—were to be the decisive factors, rather than population and industry. Stuart’s detachment, which might have proved disastrous, turned out extraordinarily fortunate for Lee, as we shall see in the next volume. Of course, the absence of cavalry might have been decisive if the Round Tops had not been occupied by the Southrons on July 1…”
Now, sir, evidently in your forthcoming analysis of Gettysburg you hold (as I presume most Yankees do) to the theory of fortuitousness. We Southrons naturally ascribe the victory to the supreme genius of General Lee, regarding the factors of time and space not as forces in themselves but as opportunities for the display of his talents.
Needless to say, I hardly expect you to change your opinions, rooted as they must be in national pride. I only ask that before you commit them, and the conclusions shaped by them, to print, you satisfy yourself as a historian of their validity in this particular case. In other words, sir, as one of your readers (and may I add, one who has enjoyed your work), I should like to be assured that you have studied this classic battle as carefully as you have the engagements described in volume I.
With earnest wishes for your success,
I remain, sir, Cordially yours,
Jefferson Davis Polk
This letter from Dr. Polk, the foremost historian of our day, author of the monumental biography, The Great Lee, produced a crisis in my life. Had the Confederate professor pointed out flaws in my work or even reproached me for undertaking it at all without adequate equipment I would, I trust, have acknowledged the reproof and continued to the best of my ability. But this letter was an accolade. Without condescension Dr. Polk admitted me to the ranks of serious historians, only asking me to consider the depth of my evaluation.
Truth is, I was not without increasing doubts of my own. Doubts I had not allowed to rise to the surface of my mind and disturb my plans. Folk’s letter brought them into the open.
I had read everything available. I had been over the ground between the Maryland line, South Mountain, Carlisle, and the Haven until I could draw a detail map from memory. I had turned up diaries, letters, and accounts which had not only never been published, but which were not known to exist until I hunted them down. I had so steeped myself in the period I was writing about that sometimes the two worlds seemed interchangeable and I could live partly in one, partly in the other.
