To Bertha from Marie Schubert –
(Date is approximate)
By the way, did I tell you I had a letter from Delores which I honestly was sorry to receive. She isn’t happy I’m sure and has taken refuge in a hard slaugy rough sort of mood with here and there, the most pathetic little glimpse of an entirely different nature, a sensitive, hurt little girl.
Fate does cruel things to such nice people that I know that is riles me thoroughly (to say nothing of the cruel things fate has done to the just mediocre acquaintances within my observation.) There is a wonderful blue dusk veiling the lights, and it must be time to start home.
Tomorrow the Biennial with D. Davidson. More later.
Sunday morning –
It is darling of you to “remember” my precious wee rascal. He is just beginning to really eat you know and that cunning little spoon is quite the most appreciated gift he could receive.
He hasn’t been “christened” yet I did so want you to be his godmother. It would be a pleasure to me to feel that he belonged just a little bit to you, too. The denizens of the place included two rather undernourished looking chaps one an actor, one an Englishman and I think also an actor (or a critic) a perfectly delightful man who played Grieg for me till some unfeeling creatures began heaving back the chairs and begging for a Fox Trot. Dorothy said of him that he was “clever” and “all right if you put him in a room all by himself and shut the door.” Whatever that meant, I shrieked with laughter at her tone. He was lots of fun, no end witty, and rushed me all evening. Wanted to call.
I hadn’t the heart to blurt out a flat, “I am a married woman,” so I just left the question in the air so to speak so that he might recover from the shock of hearing “Mrs.” not “Miss” without having me there to witness his confusion.
There was a “Pat of a Chaperone” there Mrs. Swift, a widow, a naval officer, member of the arts club who told the actress that she knew her instantly when she “doubled” a part, and who set Mr. Casset’s teeth on edge with her prods about prohibition, and who insisted upon discussing the curtain raiser “Suppressed Desires” which was one of those plays about inhibitions and complexes and subconscious yearnings and sex which, if the worst comes to worst, one can bear upon the stage but not in the General Conversations when I pat cooking by the fireplace. She said, “Are you uncomfortable?” I remarked to her that whatever was the opposite of cold feet was what I was suffering from. She tittered, “Opposite of cold feet? Hot dogs!” You know the worst of her now? No, you don’t, she wore long jade earrings with a blue foulard.
There was Cleon’s adoptive sister a skinny bobbed-hair nice kid who smoked cigarettes and told hair-raising jokes. Others not quite sufficiently nondescript or bizarre to warrant a description.
I thoroughly enjoyed myself, but that was because the witty man saw to it thoroughly because the witty man saw to it thoroughly that I did, and I enjoy dancing again. I love it. There is something fascinating in swooping about in perfect rhythm, even on splintery planks.
Must get dinner, get dressed, and so forth, so forth. So once more, I’ll say, “continued in our next.” Think I’ll post this afternoon on my way to D’s and Biennial because I probably won’t have time for another “scratch” till next Sunday.
Am very much with the illustrations for Christmas, you know. The subject of my picture? My dear, I know dozens, the thing is to find time to do them.
Good luck,
Marie
P.S. Did I mention that the hero of “_____ Jones” was a real negro and these are the Provincetown Players. Or that I am having my piano out of storage and into D. Frantis’ studio?