He also made me see that I’ve made one great error, an error I want to correct. I see I’ve always been quick to criticize, and that I have never told you how much I like, respect, value and admire you. So I say it now—without reservations. I hope you will believe that.
We have worked so closely together, and seen one another so often, that I realize I have assumed, in my usual arrogant way, that you knew this. I’ve assumed you would understand the unspoken, and I see now just how mistaken that was. Colin said you felt I despised you—Lindsay, nothing could be further from the truth. I feel for you the very warmest admiration and regard; I rely on your friendship to a far greater degree than you perhaps realize; but then, I trust you completely—and I’m not good at trusting; I trust very few people indeed. I feel the deepest affection for you, Lindsay, even when I am insulting you, even when I have lost my temper, and especially when you are being, as you often are, one of the most provoking, most impossible women I’ve ever known.
You have great generosity of heart, Lindsay, and despite what I said yesterday, when I was angry for a hundred other reasons that need not worry you, I realize that your intuition and instincts are much sharper than mine. Yes, you jump to conclusions, but they are often the correct ones, whereas I am often too slow to acknowledge a truth, and try to argue it away. Something very obvious can be staring me in the face, and yet I refuse to see it until it is too late and an opportunity has gone. I don’t know why I do that: obstinacy, perhaps, or I could blame caution. I think I sometimes fail to act for fear of mistaking the circumstances, or for fear of causing harm.
Well, I won’t dwell on these very male defects, and I know I can rely on you to mock them. The point is, I accused you yesterday of acting first and thinking afterwards. I now see that’s not always a vice, and can be a virtue. It is a virtue you possess—to act on the impulses of the heart—and I wish it were more often my own.
There are many other things I would have liked to say to you, but now is not the moment; besides, this letter is already too long. So, will you forgive what I said yesterday? There will be no more lectures; I give you my word.
I wish you happiness, joy and success with your book, with your new life, and perhaps with your new home. In respect of property, Colin is a very good guide and advisor—far better than I could ever be. You can be confident that any proposals he makes are made with your best interests at heart. Colin can be as exasperating as you can be—and as I know I can be—but he is a good and utterly trustworthy man.
If you do go to live at Shute Farm, I hope it will fulfil all the dreams you spoke of—I’m sure that it will. Meanwhile, I’m not certain when you are returning to London—perhaps after Thanksgiving? Perhaps when you return we could all three of us meet? I’d like to see you and try to begin making amends.
I can’t stop thinking about your tears. I wish to God this had never happened. I realize that now I’ve said only a few of the things I wanted to say, and no doubt said them ill. Lindsay, I trust to your generosity of heart to read between the lines and see the degree of regret I feel.
Damn! More time has gone by. I’m not writing as coherently as I’d hoped, and I’ve now discovered it’s almost impossible to courier a letter to New York over a weekend. I’ve finally found a firm that swears it can do this, so my letter can go off today and will, I hope, reach you tomorrow, Sunday morning.
I shall think of you reading it. I’ll listen for the curses you’ll no doubt, and justly, heap on my head. I’ll be able to hear them, I promise you, very clearly across this distance of three thousand miles.
Please don’t reply to this letter. It doesn’t need a reply, and it’s better to let it stand. Can you read my writing? I’m not feeling as calm as I should, and I expect my punctuation leaves something to be desired.
My love—best and warmest good wishes to you—I hope I can still sign myself as your friend.
Rowland McGuire.
This letter, which Lindsay received without curses and with tears, arrived at the Pierre on Sunday afternoon. On the tenth reading, she still found herself puzzled by that reference of Rowland’s to his punctuation. Rowland’s punctuation was meticulous down to the last semicolon; in which respect, she thought, it was in singular contrast to her own letter to him, which had crossed with this one, and which she had posted express the previous day.
Dear Rowland,
I am in one of my states. I can’t sleep, and I’ve been pacing up and down the room in the stupidest way. It’s the middle of the night, and I can still hear myself shouting down the phone at you like some demented fishwife. Oh dear!
Listen—I’m just going to scribble this very fast and then rush out and catch the first post. Rowland, I’m so sorry I said all those horrible things to you. I want you to know—everything you accused me of was true. I see now that I’ve been a total fool about that bloody book contract. I think I knew that publisher man was a complete shit really, but I sort of buried the idea and hoped I was wrong. You’re right about the money too—what’s the matter with me? I always intend to get tough on the money front and then I never do. I think it’s that I secretly despise money, so talking about it, let alone angling for more, always seems so low. So I’m always v. dignified, get screwed and end up living on vegetables for the next ten years.
But you don’t have to worry, truly. I have some money saved, and I think Shute Farm may work out—in which case, I shall be able to afford bread and jam, if not blinis and caviar. I’ll be so tucked away too, that I’ll have no distractions—no movies, or theatres or friends, so I expect I’ll write the book in record time out of sheer boredom and nothing else to do…
Hell. I’m putting off the serious thing. Rowland—when I think of what I said about Oxford and Tom and Katya, I want to die. What’s wrong with my brain? Whenever I talk to you, especially on the phone, I get into this stupid flurried state—it’s like listening to fifteen radio stations simultaneously. Then I tune in on one of them and it’s always the wrong one.
Rowland, I’m so ashamed I said those things. No wonder you were so hurt and furious. I just go into a blind panic if I think anything could harm Tom, but if I’d paused for two and a half seconds, I’d have known you would never act foolishly, because you always think everything through too carefully, and there’s no way you’d commit a dishonourable act. It’s strange, isn’t it, that no-one seems to use the word ‘honour’ any more? I think honour is important; I also think you’re the most honourable man I’ve ever known. Yes, I know you can lie to get your way—I’ve seen you do it at work a thousand times. And you lie so well: flagrantly and coolly. I wish I could do that. I’m a lousy liar—well, sometimes I am. Maybe not all the time. But I know you would never lie about anything important. I think of you as a man of truth, an honourable man of truth, so there! That’s why I want you to know that yesterday I said the very opposite of what I meant, as usual. I didn’t mean any of those horrible insults I hurled at you. The truth is, I’m always grateful to you for your concern, your kindness and your strength. And your wit, too, Rowland. It was good of you, yesterday, when listing my drunken sins in Oxford, to be discreet about that shaming episode when I kissed your sweater. This was gallant of you. Thank you for that.
Anyway. Mea culpa. Will you forgive me, Rowland? I shall be coming back to London after Thanksgiving. I’ve decided to stay on here until then; I have some Chanel research to do—I’m looking forward to becoming an archive addict. Quiet, dedicated and nun-like—and Colin is going to be here, so it seemed quite a good idea.
Colin came here yesterday, after you telephoned; he was understanding, gentle and kind. You have nice friends, Rowland. He told me all about his brother and how you helped him at Oxford. He is very loyal and devoted to you, and so am I.
He’s going to take me to see Shute Farm when we get back to England. I’m praying it will work out. I’m praying I’ll cope if it does—I’ve never lived in the country. If you’ve forgiven me, I hope
you’ll come and see me there—you could teach me some useful rustic things: how to chop logs, how to light a fire.
Shall I buy some chickens? Or ducks? There’s a stream. Oh, Rowland, I feel excited and afraid all at once. Since yesterday, so much has happened—and one day I’d like to tell you about it, but not now.
Are you in your lovely sitting-room as you read this? Are you frowning or smiling? I wonder, are those shutters I admire so much open or closed?
You’ve been a good friend to me, Rowland. The very best, kindest and most loyal of friends. I wish I’d said that yesterday, but since I didn’t, I’ll say it now.
God, what horrible handwriting I have! Can you make out any of this? I hope you can at least see the important bits and read the important words.
I send you my thanks for all your wise advice and your insufferable but accurate insight into my defects of character. I send you my apologies. I send all love and best wishes. Damn! My pen’s run out. No ink available at the Pierre at 5 a.m. I’ll have to use a biro. The smudges everywhere are from the biro. You are a dear friend, Rowland, and I kiss your green Christmas sweater in a very sober way. When you next see me, you’ll find I’m a reformed character.
Lindsay.
Something went wrong with the US Mail Express system, or possibly there were problems at the UK end. Lindsay’s letter did not arrive in London until four days had passed; then, since Lindsay did indeed have horrible and illegible, handwriting, especially when writing numbers, so that all her sevens looked like ones, the letter was delivered to Rowland’s neighbour at number eleven in his terrace, and not to his house at number seventeen. The neighbour was away; he finally dropped the letter through Rowland’s door late at night on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.
Rowland found it on the mat early the following morning, as he was leaving for work. He read it only once on that occasion, but he read it with great care. He returned inside, called his secretary and various colleagues, cancelled all his appointments for the next three days, gave his deputy editor instructions, and then left for Oxford before nine.
Meanwhile, Colin Lascelles was finding the telephone an inadequate instrument to express himself.
Saturday. Montana.
Dearest Lindsay,
Have just spoken to you. Am going to bed. The sky here is amazing—I’ve never seen so many incredibly brilliant stars. I miss you terribly. I think I said that on the phone, but I’ll say it again. I could throttle Tomas for dragging me out here, but I do feel sorry for him; he looks desperately ill. I’m going to fax this to the Pierre, so I can’t say what I want to say. Imagine asterisks and all they imply. Can you understand Latin? I need to know immediately. You can fax me at the above number and I wish you would because I feel totally sick at heart and soul. I send you love and trois mille bises.
Colin.
Tuesday. Montana.
Darling Lindsay,
Talking to you on the telephone is the only thing that’s keeping me sane. When we talk, I feel as if I’m with you, holding you in my arms (and if you’re the desk clerk at the Pierre reading this fax, FUCK OFF. This is private, you understand?) I’ve never known it to be so easy to talk to someone as it is to you. Do you feel that, darling? You’ve made such a difference to me in such a short time. I feel I can do anything: climb a mountain; fly.
I got up very early this morning—I couldn’t sleep anyway for missing you. I borrowed one of Tomas’s horses and went for a ride. The landscape is spectacular. I could see the peaks of Glacier National Park in the distance. Watched the sun rise and thought of you.
Tomas now much better and visibly stronger. There’s umpteen production people here during the day, but they piss off in the evenings to some hotel, thank God, so apart from the odd bodyguard and staff, it’s then just Tomas and Thalia and me.
He and I had a long talk yesterday, after Thalia had gone to bed. I forgot to tell you about this. He’s a very interesting man—proud. I feel for him. I think he’s in agony about—better use initials—NL. And about her move to Emily’s building. I heard from Emily this evening, and apparently, NL must have had everything organized, and ready to roll, because the decorators are in there already. According to the Emily bush telegraph, always reliable, the whole thing will be finished by the end of this week. Yet she can’t have known they’d admit her and the odds were against—most mysterious! NL apparently very thick with Biff already, which was predictable. H. Foxe singing her praises as well, which annoys Emily no end. NL not popular with Giancarlo and the other porters though, I hear. Trouble of various kinds, I gather—constant hassle from some anonymous caller—in view of what I told you, worrying, eh?
Listen, darling, we must talk tomorrow about Thanksgiving and all our other plans. I always mean to on the phone, but my mind goes into a whirl the second I hear your voice, and besides, we have other things to talk about then.
Is your friend Genevieve still coming up from Washington with her husband for Thanksgiving? When shall we fly back to England? I can’t wait to show you Shute Farm. Isn’t it great about the rent? I gather they want a tenant who loves the place—money isn’t the issue. Money should never be the issue, I say, don’t you agree?
Darling Lindsay, I’m very glad you can’t read Latin. I’m afraid I had it rather dinned into me at school. Vivamus, dear Lindsay, atque amemus—soles occidere et redire possunt, nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda…Incidentally, you know that little thing you do that I mentioned (desk clerk at the Pierre, get LOST) the thing you do when I—you remember? Well, I’m thinking about it now. Effect immediate—and wasted alas; most frustrating. I send love, darling Lindsay. Take care of yourself. I hope the research goes well. Gabrielle Chanel sounds odd. Why didn’t she marry the Duke of Westminster? I think of you in the archive place, darling. If I were with you there, we could do some very interesting research…Will call usual time tomorrow. You can read my writing, I hope? Darling, I kiss all your asterisks.
Colin.
Wednesday. The Pierre.
Dearest Colin,
The desk clerks here are giving me very peculiar looks. I wonder why? It’s a great boost to my confidence—I’m perfecting a sultry slink for their benefit. This cheers me up when I get back from work. All day today in the Abbott Levy archive at MOMA. Wearying. Escaped finally, and came back feeling a bit low for some reason—having to concentrate, I expect. Then Emily kindly called and asked me round for a drink. We had great fun—I think I’m now getting used to her. I certainly like her a lot. I heard all the latest news about Biff, H. Foxe et al. (Ah, I find I do know some Latin after all.) I’ll regale you with it when you call.
Emily told me the whole story of Anne Conrad and the two brothers. Heavens! It terrified me. No wonder she still haunts the place. The elevator was out of order when I left (overloaded by NL’s decorators, and the first time it’s broken down since 1948, Emily said), so I had to walk down that staircase alone.
I wished you’d been here when I returned. I miss you too, but there are so many things we need to talk about. Hurry up and come back to New York, I’m lonely and V jvfu lbh jrer xvffvat zl oernfgf evtug abj. You are a wonderful ybire, and I am very, very sbaq of you—but don’t make me run too soon, dear Colin: I’m always slow off the starting blocks.
I’m faxing this, so you can work out the above. Also this: V jvfu lbh jrer vafvqr zr, in fact, V jvfu guvf constantly. More research tomorrow. Not sure I’m cut out for this—archive libraries awfully quiet—no-one allowed to speak. Good night, Colin. I can just see the moon. Can you see it too? I send all best wishes and love, kisses too.
Lindsay.
Friday. Montana.
My darling Lindsay,
Your letter came today. Darling, it made me So happy. I’ve read it a thousand times. It’s folded up with that wicked fax you sent me—naughty girl! I carry both of them next to my heart. Your code nearly drove me frantic—but, yes, I’ve cracked it. Wish-fulfilmen
t and memories of prep-school helped me. Very useful! I’ve been thinking about lbhe oernfgf all day, and how it feels when I pbzr vafvqr you. Do you know what it does to me when you gbhpu zl pbpx? I was thinking about it today, in the middle of a production meeting—concentration badly impaired. Also had the most rabezbhf rerpgvba. Most embarrassing.
Darling, promise me: I don’t want you to worry about anything. We can go as slow or as fast as you want—at the moment, I can’t think beyond the day when I next see you. I just want to take you in my arms. I will never rush you, darling, please believe me. If I should ever sound hasty, it’s because I’m so impatient to be with you. Darling, you are in my thoughts, day and night. Everything I see and do and think is only for you. I watch the sun rise and the moon shine and, unless I can tell you about them, they have no meaning at all. Oh, Lindsay, I wish you were here. Darling, your absence makes my heart ache.
I’ve been trying to convince myself that this sudden parting could be of use—a baptism of fire, perhaps. When we return to England, I’ll have to be in Yorkshire most of the time, and I’m praying that this separation now will help us to bear that one. What do you think? We’ll still be able to talk to each other, the way we do now. I’ll have a mobile. You can always leave messages—coded or otherwise!—on my machines. Then, if you’re at Shute—and I hope you will be, darling—I’ll be able to come down to see you on odd days and the occasional weekends. It’s about four hours door to door—I’ve been working out times and best routes! And you might like to come up to Yorkshire, perhaps, to see at first hand the sheer soul-destroying tedium of actual filming, in what will probably be snow or pouring rain, I expect.
Then you could have the dubious pleasure of meeting the famous Nic Prick—you remember? The one who played Prospero to my definitive Caliban at school? He was called Hicks-Henderson then, and he was a world-class jerk aged fourteen. He remains one. He flew in here yesterday from LA—or the Coast, as he likes to call it. I was counting his name-dropping rate: it was three a minute when he arrived; he got it up to six a minute by the time he left for New York. I realized that Tomas is very devious and very smart: the Gilbert Markham character Nic’s playing is a smug, vain, sanctimonious, prurient prat—typecasting. After he’d called me ‘Col’ fifteen times, I remarked on this. Sarcasm wasted: he was delighted—but then he thinks Markham is the hero. I think Tomas was very amused at that. Have you started reading Tenant, darling? I want to know if you agree with Rowland—maybe there were things I missed.