“ WRITE TO ME SOON.”

Otago Witness, Issue 3869, 8 May 1928, Page 73

“ WRITE TO ME SOON.”

Sylvia had been writing letters. “What a bore it is,” she said, petulantly, as she licked the envelopes and stuck on the stamps. “ I’ve certainly done my one good deed to-day! Aunt Marian—l’ve never acknowledged the sleeping vests she sent me at Christinas. She spends her days in knitting. Cousin Eva—she’s had pneumonia, you know, and mother has been at me every day to send her a line. Mary Alston—she was at school with me. She lives in the country. She’s an invalid, and she’s always dying to hear all that I’m doing, about the dances, the theatres, the pictures, all that sort of thing. But, dear me, life isn’t long enough. . . And Sylvia thrust the envelopes into the pocket of her sports coat, pulled on her gloves, and rushed off with her hockey stick. I am afraid there are a good many Sylvias among us. Letter-writing was a dying art even before the telephone struck it a final fatal blow. The rush of modern life, its many engagements, have been too much for it. Milady, when she was, more or less, content to sit ail day on a cushion and sew a fine seain, no doubt flew to her pen as, at least, offering a change of occupation. Nowadays it is quite an unequal competitor when ranged against golf clubs, hoc-key sticks, and tennis rackets. There are people who would encourage and foster the cult of the postcard. As giving a little more than the telephone, though a little less than the letter, they would advocate its employment. To me the postcard seems useful only as a transmitter of such messages as “ Expect me on Saturday instead of Monday,” or “Meet me to-morrow at 4.30. All the news when we meet ” —which messages indeed are by some only confided to the telegram. As a herald of social intercourses to follow in the near future, the postcard is entirely satisfactory. As an end in itself it fails utterly. It may be, as the advocates of postcard correspondence insinuate that there are people too busy to write letters. There may be. . . . But there are others. True, I myself may be a busy person —who among us isn’t? Twenty separate people may be pining to hear from me. Can’t you see them all awaking in the morning with the though, “ There may be a letter to-day.” Can’t you see them . standing by the window—the breakfast dishes unwashed, the beds unmade,- the floor unswept—waiting with strained eyes for the postman? He is a little late this morning. But hope dies slowly. Delays do happen sometimes, even in the best regulated services. Perhaps, hope begins to fail—he’s not coming after all. Yes, there he is over at No. 15, just opposite. What a handful for Mrs Smith. Here he comes. Hope takes a great sprint upwards. No . . . he’s not coming here . . . at all. Disappointment persists until the thought of to-morrow comes to renew the flame of hope. I have watched like that myself —iriost of us have done -so. Well, half a loaf is better than no bread, you may say;..let’s send a postcard. FF * *>.-■* *

And yet. . . . A postcard is so public. Its message must be couched in such conventional terms that the postman, should he read it, : shall suffer no enlightenment. None of these delightfully intimate personal things that we love to tell each other can be entrusted to the card that he who runs may read, the hint of a possible wedding, thrown in just to rouse i«‘ erest, the description of some drea>- ’ pale blue chiffon, the sense of personal contact conveyed by some poem. If such thoughts are committed to a postcard they lose their intimacy. The recipient cannot have that gratified feeling that comes, however mistakenly, from being made a confidante. . You expect little from the postcard. And you are blessed in so doing—for you get it! The postcard that tells of the advent of a- future letter alleviates to some extent the ache of hope deferred. But as the days go past, and, as often happens, no letter arrives, you hate that postcard

and its lying message. Nasty, deceptive, cold-blooded things, postcards!

So, shall we write letters instead? They shall not be like Sylvia’s—on that point we are quite determined. Can’t you imagine hers ? “ Dear Aunt Marian, —Thanks so much for sending me these cosy sleeping vests. They are very comfortable. We are all well, except that father has got a slight cold. I hope that you will feel the better of your holiday. We were sorry to hear that Jane had left you. Maids are all alike.” And to her school-friend, Alary, who lies on her couch day after day, finding her entertainment in watching the fields and the sky, save when she peers up the road for the postman—l know that I should have written te you sooner, but really I have been so horribly busy. I have been to the Palais several nights a week. Then there was the Atkinsons’ dance, and the dramatic affair which the Robertsons got up. I’ve been playing golf nearly every afternoon when I haven’t been to the pictures, and such a of shopping to do in the‘mornings. There never seems to be a minute! Tonight I’m going down with Bobby to bays; to-morrow to Phyllis Watson’s. Life s such a rush! ” And Mary Alston, watching the little fleecy clouds that go hurrying across a blue stretch of sky to meet and play with other little white clouds until they are all merged into one, each losing its individuality, has learned to be grateful even for a' lettersuch as that. She wants to know about Sylvia herself. And the letter is a mere list of meaningless names, an empty outline. Perhaps the next time. Someone has remarked that a letter reveals the person to whom it is written more than it reveals the writer. There is, I think, a good deal of truth in the remark. Before beginning to write a letter one has a mental picture of the recipient, intensified perhaps through reading the latest letter that he, or rather she, has written— for women still continue, when weighed against men, to be the better letter writers. Can vou imagine a man, unless to his best'be’oved sitting down to recount every item that has happened during the last week, +bl h Hn ?° W d - e ?' r I Lila got a chil1 ’ a nd the doctor said she must be kept both WilHa n qUle j” and how little brother Willie fell and cut his knee, but he a i U ’ brave little soul > and Mabel looked perfectly sweet in n n Cha I meUSe and se< Juins when she gave her house-warming partv? No it "■"P'.-y donel No? g it’merely . sipuiltv or a superfluity of time that is to be registered when women write such things to each other. to^t^° Ul( i write ?° P e °P le as we "peak for th ° nly ‘ P. erha P s - more intimately. Jor there are things that can be written that could never by any chance be spoken iTtW a e ° ld dayS whe ” ladi es met in their bedrooms for hairbrushing con- ’ As we speak to each individual differently, being, consciously or unconsciously influenced by his or her personferenHv't WC must wr ite difformn » G C&n have no general formula for our intimate letters similar to Yours of the 30th ult. duly received.” and Awaiting the favour of your esteemed order.” To each we would seek to accord the-letter that she seems to deserve. ? We remember, in answering Aunt Lucinda s letter, the things that she takes exception to-—a common practice with aunts. She has never been to a play in her life. No mention, therefore, must be made of our visit to “ Peter Pan.” She objects to pink stockings, short skirts and shingles as chief of her pet abhorrenees. We must forget for the time being that these things exist. And there was that man that Marjorie married didn t he offend Aunt Lucinda in some long-ago-forgotten way past all forgiveness? Alarjorie, therefore, must have no place in the letter.

The result, after so many repressions, is a letter of carefully manufactured sentences. Every phase is carefully restrained, every adjective ebrrectly measured. Emotion likewise must be kept tightly within bounds. Mother’s cold is a subject that can be handled in a detailed manner, from the time of taking it on to the date of casting it off. While Betty’s success in her examination may be appropriately stressed, her ardour for games must be glossed over. And the weather, of course; at all times coines in as a safe and satisfactory fill-up. The prevalent idea is that Aunt Lucinda shall think of her niece as pre-eminently a sane and sensible young woman.

It is a different matter entirely when we write to Rosamond—Rosamond’who loves all the colour and the joy and> softness that life can give her. Rosamond, who is a veritable kitten jn herpntsuit of the pleasant things of life, little person, joyous, lovable, but entirely irresponsible. - (“She will marry early” is what people say about her.) ?So we write to her of the aspect of the-?shops,

we fill pages, about some confection pink and foamy in crepe de chine or ninon that is somebody’s new dance frock. (“ You would look lovely in it, darling,” supplying a pat for a punctuation mark.) We describe in detail what the bride wore at the wedding of the day before yesterday, and what Mollie and Maud and Margot should have worn and did not wear as bridesmaids. And if perhaps we question ourselves as to whether such a letter has too much to do with dress we excuse ourselves by saying “It suits Rosamond.” It does. For the time being, we woujd wish to appear to be in sympathy with her. • • • Then there is the letter that Is the most precious of all. It is equally welcome in times of sorrow as in seasons of joy. It is the letter that can only _be written to those and by those with whom we have secret links of understanding through art, or literature, or long-ago memories, or—the strongest link of all—through suffering. This is the letter that can speak with understanding of the things that are hidden from the casual eye. Perhaps it only speaks through giving a quotation. Some times it speaks in its silences. In writing this letter there is no hesitation as to whether we shall say this or that or leave it out through fear of possible misunderstanding. Such letters have passed beyond all the conventional barriers, as when deep calls to deep. • • • Of the most desired kind of letters, surely, are those which Constance Wake-' field in her little book, “ Renunciation,” makes her heroine, the “ Beloved of One Dead,” write. She tells of all the little things that happen in the life of every day. Her thoughts as to the ultimate “ why ? ” of things are gloriously mixed up with a description of a fugitive hat, a warm bath, and the call of the daffodils. Life is like that. And, above all things, let us be natural in our letter-writing. But Sylvia, all this time, has had her eye on the ball, her cheeks are flushed with excitement, and the letters are safely reposing—in the pocket of her coat. —Glasgow Weekly Herald.