Intimate Memories

The Autobiography of Mabel Dodge Luhan

Mabel Dodge Luhan, Lois Palken Rudnick

• Publisher: UNM Press
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9780826321060
• eBook ISBN: 9780826332493
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

Mabel Dodge Luhan’s Intimate Memories offers the brilliantly edited memoirs of one woman’s rebellion against “the whole ghastly social structure” under which the United States had been buried since the Victorian era. Luhan fled the Gilded Age prison of the upper classes to lead a life of notoriety among Europe and America’s leading artists, writers, and social visionaries—among them D. H. Lawrence, Gertrude Stein, and John Reed.

Intimate Memories details Luhan’s assemblage of a series of utopian domains aimed at curing the malaise of the modern age and shows Luhan not just as a visionary hostess but as a talented and important writer.

VOLUME ONE

Background

(1879–1897)

Dedicated to Buffalo, New York

CHAPTER ONE

BUFFALO

In 1880 Buffalo was a cozy town. At least it was for those who formed the nucleus in the center of it, that central part made up of Delaware Avenue and the avenues parallel to it and the cross streets that intersected the privileged area. This fashionable part of Buffalo, where one knew practically everyone one met on the street, was only a small portion of it, but it seemed to us to be the only real Buffalo. On the other side of Main Street, where all the stores were, it was just an outer wilderness.

Our instinctive feeling towards the East Side was one of contempt that had something inimical in it. Charlotte Becker made one of her jokes about the beautiful Reinhardt girls whose German father came to live in our part of town when they began to grow up. Because they had lived on the East Side, everybody snickered at Charlotte’s remark that the Reinhardt girls didn’t “come out” like other girls—they just “came over.”

Within the narrow limitations of life in Buffalo, where the occupations were so unvaried and the imaginations so little fed, there came to be many queer characters and people with curious ways. Although everybody knew everybody else and all there was to know about everybody else, yet by a kind of mutual agreement they all pretended to ignore each other’s inward lives. People never talked to each other except of outward things, but about each other they exchanged many conjectures. There was hardly any real intimacy between friends, and people had no confidence in each other. People in this town neither showed their feelings nor talked about them to each other. To their neighbors or to their families, they only talked of other people’s feelings. Inside the house or outside, no one ever talked about how she felt . . . her own pain and fear—she just felt and buried it.

Life flowed on in an apparently commonplace way until, once in a while, something happened. Donald White would be found hanging to the gas fixture in his bedroom, naked except for a pair of white gloves; Caroline Thompson would suddenly be seen no more among her friends and her mother would not mention her absence. But people would whisper: “They say they had to take her out to the insane asylum”—and she would never be seen again. It would not be long before she was forgotten by everyone except perhaps her parents, who seemed to go on as they always had, though their faces changed almost unnoticeably from the hidden grief.

Scattered among the houses that made up Buffalo for us lived our doctors and our ministers, and that was about all of Buffalo, except the shops. There was Boyce’s on the corner of Main Street and Allen, where all the women in our neighborhood met every morning to pick out their groceries and meat, and Allen’s drugstore, on the corner opposite. Next to Boyce’s was Miss O’Brien’s, a tiny shop containing tiny dolls and dolls’ furniture, knitted mittens and mufflers, hairpins and kid curlers, and many little oddities. Farther down on Main Street there stood Flint & Kent’s, a large refined drygoods store. It had attractive things in it; all our ribbons and ginghams for summer dresses came from there, and when people bought some new furniture covering or things for their houses they bought them upstairs in that store.

Still farther down Main Street were other, larger department stores—Jay & Adams, and Adams & Meldrum’s—but these were not pleasant stores to go to. One met fewer people one knew there. These stores were full of people we didn’t know and never would know, and the air was close and had a disagreeable, common smell we always associated with common people.

When I was ten years old my grandfather Cook gave me a Shetland pony named Cupid, with a tiny two-wheeled cart, and some of the other girls and I used to range all over Buffalo, galloping as fast as we could go. We knew all sorts of places in that way that other children never could have known in that town. We used to drive out to Forest Lawn, the new cemetery that took the place of “the old burying ground” on the corner across from our house that held the first graves of people—many of them Indians.

We used to be allowed to take things out to eat and picnic there in Forest Lawn sometimes, and once we forgot to notice the shadows growing longer as we played behind a tomb, and when we realized it was late we made a dash for the gate and found it locked! Three small girls not yet in their teens and locked up in the cemetery for the night! We were instantly filled with a thrilling, delightful terror. We knew we were scared but yet how we enjoyed it!

From the very earliest days in Buffalo any accidental heightening of feeling was welcome. No word reached us of any way to live beyond the routine of sleeping, dressing, and “going outdoors to get fresh air.” Until we began to read books, our need for change and variety was gratified only by our companionships and expeditions around town. And these companionships were comparatively few. However, I think we savored to the utmost the qualities and differences we found in each other, and while we were still children we used to talk about each other and call each other’s attention to the slightest change or alteration in those whose backs were turned for a moment!

So we savored each other and fed upon each other a little. Later we played a game together called Truth, in which we had to answer every question truthfully or not at all. In this game we grilled each other, probing into the most hidden corners, laying bare preferences, analyzing each other and ourselves until we were in a tingling excitement. But it helped us by letting off steam and it helped us, too, to call by name the vaguer thoughts and feelings that we carried about inside us, as well as by airing those secrets that were all too defined for comfort. The unloading of secrets—what a pleasure that always was! Since that time I have been indiscreet. Everybody says I tell everything, my own and everyone’s secrets, and it’s true! I cannot, to this day, resist that peculiar urge to tell what is not really mine to tell. Just a little interesting news and an interested mind nearby, and “My dear, do you know . . . ?” and the secret’s out! I used to be sorry I did it and ashamed that people knew it and said it and called me a sieve. But I don’t know that I feel particularly sorry anymore. The less secrets the better—of my own or anybody else’s. Need anyone ever feel ashamed? I doubt it.

Besides the cemetery, of course we made excursions in all the other directions about town. Once in a while, on a gray, dull day when hearts sank and seemed to beat more slowly, we would whisper to each other: “Let’s go to that street.” “My dear, that’s a bad place. No one ever goes there!” “What of it? Let’s go and look at it.” And so rarely—maybe it only happened two or three times—we turned down from the street where the General Hospital stood and we searched out Grove Street, the bad place where the “men” went. It did not look any different from any of the other streets, either east or west of our part of town. Wooden houses painted gray or brown, little yards, verandas with rocking chairs on them, that was all. But to us it seemed to be masking another world altogether. Life of some kind, other than that of our own houses, went on behind those windows. We had to taste it all—all the flavors the town had in it.

I do not need to say that every street and house in our quarter of Buffalo had for us its particular look and character. The houses of the people we knew were all big, solid houses, each standing on its own and having flowers about it in the summer. Buffalo always grew northwards and people beginning life down on Lower Delaware Avenue or Franklin Street, where my grandparents first lived in Buffalo and where I was born in 1879, people already living in comfortable brick or stone houses, following some urge, from time to time would build new and larger houses farther uptown. So that when I was little my parents moved up to Delaware and North Street to live in the square redbrick house that Grandpa Cook bought for my mother.

It seems an obvious thing to say, yet how many people know that beauty and reality in a house come from a sharp personal feeling for all the things in the house—and for a need to have them there either for use or merely to live in through the eye? I have never had a room merely “arranged” in any house I have ever lived in, from the time I first wrestled with death in our house—wrestled and won a room to “fix up,” above on the third floor. I have never, thank God, regarded things as merely inanimate. They have always lived for me or else I did not have them about. And every house I have ever lived in has been a reflection of myself as I lived in it, sometimes changing noticeably year by year. There has never been any setting for a personality unfelt or any longed-for grandeur. When I had grand surroundings I felt grand and that was why I had them. They did not make me so. So the houses I have lived in have shown the natural growth of a personality struggling to become individual, growing through all the degrees of crudity to a greater sophistication and on to simplicity. Of all these houses I shall try to tell, for they are like the shells of the soul in its progressive metamorphoses—faithfully revealing the form of the life they sheltered until they were outgrown and discarded.

CHAPTER TWO

IN OUR HOUSE

It stood on the corner of North and Delaware—that’s the way everyone spoke of streets in Buffalo. There it was of red brick and half covered with an ampelopsis vine in the summertime. It was square and had a cupola on top. In the center of the neat lawn there was a circular bed of flowers that held, through the warm months, different kinds of blooming things.

My mother was rather proud of this flower bed on account of its hard, unfailing precision. First the hyacinths would come up in rows: pink, blue, white, and deeper pink. With no expression at all, they just came up in large healthy spikes. In tulip time the tulips would radiate in symmetrical circles of white, red, yellow, and pink—every bloom a perfect, unblemished success, every leaf strong, aggressive, and tailored, and the whole thing so mathematical and so ordered that all the spontaneity and flowerness of growth couldn’t be felt at all. It was like a slaughter of innocents to plant those hardy bulbs there and make them come up in unbroken and undifferentiated rows. Because every flower is a thing, a special individual thing in itself. A hundred specimens of it is only a hundredfold camouflage of singleness and identity. So that I, who loved flowers so much and who used to try to assimilate each into myself by a passionate sniffling, followed often by a more passionate tasting, could never bear that flower bed. Besides, the colors in those rigid rows were so hard and ugly, planted willfully like that.

The tulip bed was a symbol for the rest of our house. It was all ordered and organized, nothing was left to fortuitous chance, and no life ever rose in it taking its own form. My mother was too good a housekeeper for that.

The rooms were filled with furniture that had no significance for me either. Not even before my mother “did over” the house, when I was maybe ten, nor after, can I recall any object in it that was, so to speak, mine. Excepting the possible case of the wallpaper in the nursery where I slept in the early years, and this became mine from many nights’ association with it, rather more than from the days, for in the early evening summer twilight I used to lean my head against the wall and press my mouth to the small figures in the paper until I had aroused in myself some feeling of comfort. The scenes were from Mother Goose and the simple outlines of the forms were filled in with a light wash of pinks and blues. I can only recall the kind of thing they were and not any detail. They were simple, cozy, and familiar, and I was so used to them that I could trace their outlines on the wall when dark had settled down altogether over the room and blotted out everything except myself and my everlasting need to rest—for nothing in my actual life about me did anything to lessen the ache and the hunger. I believe if there had been one picture in the house that I could have looked at from which I could have drawn some of the spirit of life, I would have been satisfied by it. One thing, if it had been true, would have been enough to slake me. Or one face that had real feeling in it for me would have answered. But there was nothing and no one.

I would gladly have exchanged what I felt to be finer in myself for the kind of perception that would have let me enjoy the things I had to live with. Besides, I suffered very much from my failure to hide my lack of interest and feeling for my world, or for the world into which I was pitched at birth, for the people in our house felt my criticism, no matter how I tried to dissemble it. Anyway, I could not always pretend an enthusiasm that was singularly absent, for them and all their ways, and at the earliest age they revenged themselves upon me by sarcastic utterances in my hearing, such as: “Oh, she was born old!” . . . “She was born bored.” . . . “She’s always blasé.” That I showed no feeling was of course supposed to be due to a lack of it, and no one ever suspected—or if they did they never showed it—that feeling was there, accumulating in me all too fast in the absence of anything to which to attach it. Only on the nights when the west wind blew down North Street and loosened the perfume of the hyacinths, only at moments like that could my own perfume leave me and spend itself on the warm night.

Probably most people have some memories of their earliest years that contain a little warmth and liveliness, but in my own I cannot find one happy hour. I have no recollections of my mother’s ever giving me a kiss or smile of spontaneous affection, or of any sign from my father except dark looks and angry sound. I know now they must both of them have been cheated of happier times than they found under their own roof, and that they had no happiness to radiate to a solitary child. We all needed to love each other and to express it, but we did not know how.

My mother was married to a man whose years passed in an increasing inner torment and whose temper grew worse with these years. She was a strong, energetic woman with ruddy hair and truly no words in her mouth. She was of the purest Anglo-Saxon blood. She was not tall—about five feet six, I think—and her small bones were padded with the whitest, firmest flesh. Always plump, in the later years she grew quite stout. She had no imagination and no fear and she seemed to live without love, though both my father and she loved their animals. They each had a dog, usually little longhaired Yorkshire terriers or Boston bulls, and they always had a tenderness for these.

My mother spent herself in ordering her household and in controlling the servants. Everything was carried out according to “what was what.” No unhappy maid was ever allowed a visitor in the evening, though there was a servants’ dining room that could easily have harbored an occasional addition to the dull domestic discipline. No, my mother knew “what was what,” as she had been heard to announce. Any servant who ever had a beau was dismissed—and yet she herself had beaux. Quite early I sensed this and was terrified by it. I didn’t know why. Not for my father’s sake, certainly, for when he flew into a storming rage of jealousy and stamped and shouted and called her names, and I saw her cold, merciless, expressionless contempt behind her book or newspaper, I tried to imitate her look, for that was what he made me too feel.

My father would shout and fling his arms about and his face would seem to break up into fragments from the running passion in him, but my mother behaved as though she were not alive, and when he could shout no more he would stamp out of the room and mount the stairs and presently we would hear his door slam far away in the house. Sometimes, then, she would raise her eyes from the pretense of reading and, not moving her head, she would glance at me sideways and drawing down the corners of her mouth, she would grimace a little message of very thin reassurance to me, upset as I must have looked. For these storms shook me through and through, menacing the foundation of a life that, unsatisfactory though it was, still held all the security I knew.

So that was why I feared that my mother had secrets, because it made my father so wild, and me so afraid that someday our whole life would fall apart, and I could not conceive any other than the one we had so miserably together. I would have had to stay with him, as I had heard him threaten her, when he swore he would leave her and never come back and that if he left I would leave too. That I was to be used merely as a weapon to overcome her I quite cl...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half title
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Preface to the 2014 Printing
• Introduction
• Volume One Background
• Volume Two European Experiences
• Volume Three Movers and Shakers
• Volume Four Edge of Taos Desert
• Afterword
• Glossary of Names