Whistled Like a Bird, page 8
Since the Morrissey sailed nearly six weeks before, Dorothy had found little to celebrate. Waiting for news from the crew was discouraging and stressful as she fretted over their safety. “There is so little word of the boys this summer, they seem to be held in the ice—and for 20 days have made only two days progress.” At last, on August 5, she received letters from all three men: “After all these weeks I suddenly get some adorable letters from the Morrissey! George, David and G.W. Mailed in North Labrador on June 30 and brought down by some little boat All so dear and I’m so lonely for them. Yet so thrilled to hear these personal messages.” And on August 6 she was even more elated by the hand delivery of a cleverly masked radiogram that G.W. had wired to her directly from Baffin Land:
A second wireless from the Morrissey had been sent directly to The New York Times. She recorded in her diary on August 7:
Yesterday’s “N.Y. Times” had long account or Arctic boys. George has gone of in the whale boat with Dave, G.W., Pope, Barnard, and an Eskimo hunter. So far, the boys have two polar bears. Eight weeks now, and in another eight they ought to be home here again.
She had gone so long without news that now she was filled with enormous relief and an almost psychic sense of G.W.’s presence: “I have had a strange feeling of nearness to G.W. Either he is thinking very constantly of us and this house, or my thoughts are trying to get over to him.” Anticipating his return, Dorothy poured out her love: “I am more contented, in a way, than ever in my life. Perhaps I’m in love—peacefully—and with no further stirrings for anyone else! To give oneself to an affair and burn out, to remember the glow and give oneself again!”
For weeks she had planned to welcome the Morrissey back in Nova Scotia personally, though George had discouraged her from making the long trip. In mid-September she was on her way. “Off on the early train to Nova Scotia. I’m so restless and under such a strain I wish I could ‘let down.’ At noon a follow-up wire from Fitz—relayed from G.P. He wants me to wait in New York! Little does he know my summer or what mental reactions I’ve had.”
Leaning back against the stiff maroon cushion of the northbound train, she visualized the vessel sailing toward home. Nova Scotia was three days to the north, and exactly when the Morrissey would arrive was still unknown. She vowed to be there at first sighting whatever the day.
On September 21 her journey ended on the island of Cape Breton in North Sydney, Nova Scotia. At Dorothy’s request, a small, weather-battered inn made preparations to welcome the crew with clean rooms, baths, and fresh fruit and milk. “The countryside is too gorgeous for any description, a riot of reds and deep greens with a flash of gold. I walk—read much—write letters—think over my past indiscretions and plan future sins! And yet, fundamentally, I’m good, really!”
The separation between G.W. and Dorothy had been wrenching, but she hoped their love would be renewed. Each day she walked to the top of the highest hill, looking out to sea. Staring toward the horizon, she was prepared to hide her disappointment if G.W. showed no signs of affection, or if one hundred days at sea with the two Putnam men had altered his love for her. In her heart, she still had faith in him.
One morning there was a sharp rap against the door, which hung at an angle making a bright triangle of light beneath it. Impatient for news, Dorothy pulled it open quickly, only to find a young boy standing before her holding a piece of yellowed paper. A radio message had been sent to Dorothy from the previously unknown shores of Northern Fox Land to New York, and then had been rewired back to her again in North Sydney. Pushing the door closed across the swollen floorboards and latching it this time, she read his words and recorded them in her diary:
SEPTEMBER 25, 1927 “Even in Fox Land I found yellow daisies.—George W.” Rather dear to remember and more, to send the little message.
In the mention of the daisies was the answer that she had been yearning for. Relieved, now standing before the open window, Dorothy breathed in the misty air and listened to the cackling scream of hungry gulls. A second radio message arrived shortly after. The ship was due the next day. There was also some unwelcome news: G.W.’s hand was badly infected and required immediate medical attention. Dorothy fretted about this unsettling development: “Why? Why, should he be the injured one?”
The long-awaited morning finally dawned, and into the snug little harbor steamed the Morrissey.
OCTOBER 1, 1927 Just after midnight the Morrissey arrived! I had lain awake early late worrying, then at last gone to sleep. And in walked George with a full, brown beard! Rather unpleasant and ugly. We talked oh, so many topics while he drank milk and ate fruit. Everyone has been sea sick lately, beastly rough weather.
OCTOBER 2, 1927 Big dinner party and again supper for the whole gang. Gay flowers and leaves. A fine talk in my room and magazines and candies and books, etc. Walked to hill, Pope, Ed, and G.W. afternoon. G.W. a bad thumb, very serious and has been his whole arm. Off to hospital and gas.
The following day, Dorothy, along with the six members of the Morrissey crew, boarded the train for home. First, she had said another good-bye to G.W., for he was left behind, hospitalized with a severely infected arm and hand. “On train to New York. Amusing. They’re a great bunch. I fancy the other passengers aboard are wondering about us. Hated to leave G.W. in the hospital there. He’s so cheerful and optimistic and dear, as ever.” Their love for one another was evident, but their true reunion would have to wait. Reluctantly, she joined David and other crew members for the long train ride back to reality.
After three days of raucous tale-telling, the bearded troop of adventurers, accompanied by an amused Dorothy, arrived in Rye. She had only two days to get David ready for boarding school at Hotchkiss. Sitting at the foot of her bed, with a pile of blue towels and folded white sheets beside her, she lifted the final piece of linen to sew the name “David Binney Putnam” across its tiny hem. The huge foot locker was filled with blankets and new underwear, socks that would soon become unmatched, and the oldest sweaters that David had chosen, not wanting to look too proper.
OCTOBER 5, 1927 Took Dave to Mother’s and then off to Hotchkiss to school. Heavenly clear lovely day and fine drive. All well and happy, pleasant room, etc. I believe he will adore it later on, and the discipline of crowds will be good for him.
During this period, Dorothy’s relationship with her sons was unusually close. David had grown as a fourteen-year-old well beyond his years and had become somewhat of a celebrity in his own right. His first two books for young readers became bestsellers and reflected the maturity encouraged by parents who had introduced him to the world at an early age.
David completed his book about the Arctic sailing adventure, David Goes to Baffin Land, and described the journey’s end on the last page. The final paragraph is set apart, in a quiet tribute to his mother, Dorothy Binney Putnam:
And that really about ended the expedition. Of course it was a long way home. About 1500 miles to Sydney, I guess—a long, long sail along the coast of Labrador. Much of it was very rough and pretty slow going. We were delayed a lot by head winds and heavy seas.
But at last, on October first, we got to Sydney. And there the summer actually ended for me, as I took the train and hurried back to school. And at Sydney I found a fine surprise. It—that is, she—came all the way up to meet us, Dad and me. That was just like Mother.
6
THE TUTOR
“Loving changes you—according to whom you love you are different. True or all intimate companionships. How can one explain to anyone how you’ve once been to someone else?”
DOROTHY WAS IMPATIENT FOR G.W. TO be released from Sydney Hospital and transferred to Rye. It was early October 1927. She was distracted by a flurry of activity, making sure his favorite foods were stocked and that his cozy jungle room was cheerful and bright. A pitcher of ice water and a blue ceramic bowl filled with oranges and bananas waited beside the bed, and on the table in the sunlight were the yellow daisies she had picked that morning.
The following day, she received word that G.W. was on his way. She sat at the piano playing Brahms, some Irving Berlin, and a scattering of pieces she had written for herself over the years. G.W. was not afraid to interrupt her this time, as he appeared in the door and walked toward her. His one free arm lovingly circled her waist, and she turned her face upward to meet his. He was home.
OCTOBER 6, 1927 Servants out. George in town and on a wild rush, G.W. arrived for overnight before going to the hospital His hand is bad, his color frightful and he’s haggard and worried. But determined not to complain. As sweet and thoughtful as ever. Such a charming personality, really remarkable for a youth. Like Spring.
Feeling even further detached from her husband and family, and spending most of her time attending to G.W.’s needs, Dorothy began to consider the frightening prospect of separating from George. “My brain is in such a whirl! Such an odd life I’m facing! And questioning oh so much! What is ahead of me?” Her husband had become aware of his wife’s growing discontent, yet he still believed that with all of her financial security and social standing, she should be satisfied. What he wasn’t aware of, however, was Dorothy’s boredom, and her determination to escape it. “Lunch at Helen C.’s [an unidentified acquaintance of Dorothy’s]. She has divorced, and is living alone in a small house. It is very odd, and yet oh so understandable! Why go on forever living with a person who bores one excessively! It’s easier to be beaten.”
OCTOBER 10, 1927 To town, primarily to see G.W. in the hospital. Took him a bath robe of gay blue and yellows and grays. He wanders around the halls, etc. or sits in his tiny room. Had a nice talk, but he is so utterly cheerful and determined not to have any sympathy.
The antiseptic hospital room was stark when G.W. first arrived, but after a few days Dorothy had transformed the sterile space into a cheerful sanctuary with pots of plants and flowers. Despite the emergency medical attention he had received in Nova Scotia, G.W.’s left thumb had to be amputated in a New York hospital soon after he was admitted. He had taken the surgery with his usual nonchalance and did not want Dorothy to worry.
There are numerous diary references to moonrises from the woods and golden sunrises from the shore that symbolize their moments together. During George’s speaking engagements away from home, these brief interludes were all they had. The full moon in October 1927 would hold a sentimental meaning forever. “Cold and crisp and clear. A heavenly day, and my instincts singing. I long for the tropics. Met G.W. at train. He has a short leave from the hospital. We talked late and adored the lovely night. Moon.”
In the span of Dorothy’s diaries the most moving entries cover the next two years. As a conscientious diarist, Dorothy often sought guidance and approval from outside sources, which would help her understand and accept her own behavior:
OCTOBER 23, 1927 There’s a new novel about “George Sand.” Hers was not a search for love, but appeasement or a primordial urge. She had one great desire in life, to be loved as she loved. And to love when she liked. A profound inconstancy and a thing rarely granted to a mere woman and yet a Goethe-like, Wagner-like passion.
G.W. spent most of November and December commuting between the hospital and Rocknoll, where he wrote stories and speeches describing his trip to Baffin Land. His own words in the third person cryptically recalled events following the expedition. “GTW got an infection and had his thumb amputated which necessitated him spending two or three months in the Putnam household in Rye.… A lot of publicity followed that enabled me to earn my way through the last two years of college lecturing on ‘My Trip to Baffin Land.’”
Dorothy continued to find odd jobs for him around the house to help him earn his keep, something he had insisted upon until his hand healed and he could return to Yale. “G.W. doing some painting jobs, etc. A gay lunch—G.W., Hub [Hubbard Hutchinson, friend and Putnam’s author] and myself and a charming afternoon and music and naps and hours together full of enchantment and gaiety. Hub playing in inspiring notes. The beloved Pagan appears in jungle costume!—and sleeps and roughhouses divinely.”
As the year drew to a close there were fewer opportunities for them to be alone, and she dreaded the upcoming separation. They both recognized the significance of his move back to Yale; it was the end of the romantic idyll they had shared.
After his lengthy recuperation, G.W. wrote a private letter to Dorothy revealing his dependence on and affection for her. He expressed an obvious gratitude for my grandfather as well:
NOVEMBER IS, 1927
Dearest Dorothy:
Nothing to do—an excellent opportunity to attempt the impossible—thank you, Dorothy dear, for the past, the present, the future incomparable happiness which is mine and for which you and G.P. are 99% responsible.
You must have realized how I dreaded the prospect of and my actual confinement in the hospital. To be home and yet not home at all was dreadful, but for a physically ambitious animal like myself to be pushed into a stuffy, coldly plain room after a summer of healthy, exciting exercise was ghastly. How vastly you alleviated and brightened my state of mind. I can never tell you mere words would not only be superficial, but absurd as well. I also learned that it takes the meagerest kind of sickness to bring bubbling to the surface G.P.’s thoughtfulness and altruism which is so latent that, frankly, I have often questioned its existence. Rather a rotten admission, but all the more condemning to me in the recognition—if I know what I mean. If I ever should succeed in accomplishing something worthwhile in life—you and G.P. must feel responsible to no small degree for you have broadened me inside and out, and given me things so delicate, and sweet and dignified that, although I cannot describe them, they are an integral part of me. Just to be always a part of your house I should gladly take a job as a gardener or chauffeur or nurse at no salary—so just yell when!
In 25 minutes—the hospital again and then if possible the two o’clock for Philadelphia and my devoted, really wonderful family once more. They mean a great deal to me as you know and I do want them happy. They are happy, but foolish people, they are allowing a few paltry financial worries to darken their horizon away out of proportion to their importance.
You were such a brick at the game Saturday. Know—although you deny it—that you were bored to exhaustion, but you made a brave attempt at seeking pleasure where there was none to be found and I love you for it. Hope Junie is better. Will be over sometime this week for a dressing. Will—if O.K.—come out to house.
My love always,
George
The following day G.W. arrived at Rocknoll, and he and Dorothy seemed delirious in their passion.
NOVEMBER 17, 1927 G.W. came out from Philadelphia, just before supper arriving in a violent rainstorm. A thundershower, vivid lightning and wild wind. A weird night altogether, and apropos to unusual exotic dreams or unbelievable things for hours and hours. Theatrical—all night!
It is clear that Dorothy was experiencing a passion she had not known before, and was overcome with emotion. I can sense a gradual transition in her life, as if she were finally willing to pay the price for such abandon. “Would I rather be dull, apathetic, unawakened or a hot-blooded lover of life who willingly meets things halfway? Then suffers!”
With George away again on a three-day speaking engagement, Dorothy and G.W. had the opportunity to spend most of their time together. During this period their love affair grew more intense, and my grandmother’s elation over finding such a powerful lover is repeatedly recorded:
DECEMBER 1, 1927 We may love to “baby” our lovers, but when they love us, we demand to be dominated and controlled. And so soon as we can control and direct them in that process, so soon then we cease to consider them our lovers. Perhaps the elemental pagan woman in us wishes to be mastered. I do.
DECEMBER 13, 1927 There must always he turned-down pages in everyone’s life, I suppose. For some of us can’t ever have a confessional or a confidante. I realize, now, how utterly far I’ve ever been from having one. So much is bottled up. With just the most evasive surface touching or facts. I’ve never confided in anyone! And do they consider me the matronly turnip I seem?
In truth, Dorothy was an exotic, intoxicating woman. G.W. later wrote that she had introduced him “to a lot of very intimate things, such as wine is better than liquor, Jack and Charlie’s [now the “21” Club], which was the best speakeasy in town, not to smoke is a worthwhile attribute, and champagne bubbles helped lovemaking a lot, etc.!”
She also wrote out a list of favorite senses, and experiences, many of which no doubt were influenced by their deep love for one another.
These are things I love and really care about:
l) My two boys with an aliveness and intensity that sometimes scares me.
2) The look of transparent deep water.
3) Ragged mountain peaks against distant skyline.
4) Rising tide lapping edge of beach.
5) Yellow; all shades from pale cream to burnt orange.
6) Any physical feat well done—long strong muscles.
7) Smell or ferns and earth.
8) Salt sweet smell or sea.
9) Smell or pine needles in the sun.
10) Hot desert, noon day smell or sagebrush.
11) Perfumes, sachet.
12) Blossoming orange grove in moonlight.
13) Feel or satin against my skin.
14) Crunch or fresh snow.
15) Feel or hot summer sun against my body.
16) Smooth muscles in a man’s back.
17) Bundle or tiny baby at my breast.
18) Man’s clean strong hands, power.
19) Man’s wide throat muscles where they lead in to the shoulder.
20) Man’s instep and turn of the foot
21) Low voice.
22) Natural laugh (rare).
23) Thrush’s dawn note.
