41 Love Letters R. H. Swinney to Ruth Erlanger, 1934

Sweet, my darling,

Tonight I’m very tired, but I shall never be too tired to tell you I love you, nor shall I ever become weary of hearing you say you love me. Oh, it’s such a glorious thing that you do. I marvel, and shall always do so, that you have given me the privilege of believing you will always love me and be my sweetheart. Whatever the world shall think of me in the years ahead of [illegible] I shall know I have been favored by the gods in this—that you have chosen me ahead of all others. What more could I ask, excepting to be able to take care of you and to justify your choice to some extent. Darling, I intend to work so hard for you. But I’m afraid you’ll have to be satisfied with a sort of ordinary husband.

Work didn’t go so well today. I ran acetyl values on linseed oil using the weaker reagents I used on the free acids yesterday, but the checks were rotten. Oh well, just another thing to repeat. Seems I’m not much of a research worker.

How is the cold? You poor darling, a cold is such a miserable thing to have in the summer time. Doesn’t it appear that I use the word darling too much? ((42 times so far, chief.)) Whether it does or not you and darling are synonyms in my thoughts.

Just think, tomorrow is Saturday, and Monday is a holiday, so I can look forward to three whole days without word from you—I am desolate. Yet Tuesday will be something to await eagerly, for then those tardy letters should arrive. In the meantime the ones which have come already will be read and reread again. I haven’t tried it yet, but I must be almost able to recite every one of them by this time.

Is the chemistry department deserted now? Dr. West gone for good; Drs. Shaffer, Ronzoni, and Urban ((research these names)) out of town; Artie left today; Miss Case, Adler, and the new janitor are on their vacations. Miss Wieghard comes over occasionally to do a combustion or optical rotation, but there is absolutely no one else around. Yet the only thing which makes me lonely is your absence. If you were here they wouldn’t even be missed. Sweetheart mine, it is an old, old story, but I know of no better way to tell it than to say again,

My precious darling, I love you,
Harold

Sweet one,

I think I’m going to be a misunderstood husband right from the start. You must think me a terribly straight-laced, or narrow, person. Of course I don’t object to your drinking of wine, but you said you were so sleepy from it, etc., that I was joking about your drinking so much as to affect you—and I don’t particularly care for that. The beer drinking is a hopeless case, I fear me. Every stein I drink is just one more too many. It isn’t the principle, it’s the taste. You are welcome to it if you want it—as long as you don’t drink it out of twenty-six ounce steins. A woman drinking from one of those is a disgusting sight. And I don’t agree with children being allowed to have alcoholic drinks or tobacco, or for that matter having much of an example set by their parents. However, don’t think I’m preaching to you, I have too much respect for your good sense to think that necessary. The only preaching I shall do will be at myself in case I should happen to be unkind or to, or neglectful of, you. Fortune has been so kind in that she caused you to smile upon me that I can never be glad enough, nor can I ever cease to wonder at the glorious and lovely treasure which has come to me. My darling, I do so love you, and I shall always love you no matter what happens to me. It often happens that a person meets someone and learns to love them, but it must be seldom that one finds as one gets to know [illegible] an acquaintance that that person is the one he has loved in his dreams ever since he was scarcely more than a child. However imperfectly the last sentence tells its story, you can get an idea from it of what has happened to me. It all means so much to me I’m afraid—afraid I shall find I have been dreaming an impossible dream. Even if that were true, my sweetheart, the dream would have left me far richer that it found me, although I should go through the remainder of my life with an ache in my heart which nothing could take away. These last weeks would have scarcely been bearable if I had not had your letters, and had I not been able to think of your return. Use that in court, if you wish. I love you, I want you, and I’ll never be happy without you. ~~

Let’s not figure on anything in the way of money, sweet. Seems as if everything I do figure up goes wrong. I could not even forsee the the possibility of my not getting a scholarship for the next year, but that has happened. The $800 loan is O.K., and they have recommended me for an additional loan in place of the usual $100 scholarship—but loans have to be paid back with interest, and they are holding up the loan because of unpaid interest on what I’ve already borrowed. Seems silly, too, as in order to pay the interest I’d have to borrow it from them first, and I can’t see what difference it makes to either me or the corporation whether they compound the interest, or loan me money with which to pay it. I think I’m going to welcome the acquisition of a financial manager. You are going to get a husband who is a 24 carat financial babe-in-the-woods. Sorry?

Don’t worry, I shall take no work besides that which is already on deck—that is enough. And working in chemistry will be a pleasure when I can see you all the time, and do things for you, even if I may call on you only once a week—unless you can be persuaded otherwise.

Acetyl values came along well today. I’m running the fatty acids from linseed oil now. In order to get any titration difference using 1⁄7 acetic anhydride-pyridine mixture, and 0.6 N alkali for titration I had to use large samples which were very hard to manage on the Goldberg apparatus because of the way the soap fluffed up. Today I tried a 1⁄10 mixture and 0.3 N alkali. That gave a 31 cc blank and over a 30 cc titration, so I had to refill the burette for each determination, but the results were fine. Five samples from .45 gm to 1 gm (avoided so much difficulty in the drying down) gave values of 7.8, 7.2, 7.8, 7.7, 8.0⁻. How is that?

We won’t argue about Martha Carr, but I still think such columns are dumb. Speaking of rock formations we’ll see some next summer if and when we go to Idaho. The Craters of the Moon National Monument is near home. It is a volcanic area supposed to have been active in about the last 500 years. Such sheets of lava. Gigantic waves, etc., solidified as they flowed, caverns, tunnels, craters, and so on—as well as ice caves.

I just thought—what on earth would you sue me for? The only thing you could collect would be a boat-load of love, and you would never have to sue for that—so why bother?

Dr. West didn’t give you any chance to turn the joke on him, did he? We shall have to figure out something sometime. He and Mrs. West must be almost to Portland by this time. If the weather there still maintains the July ratio the poor people have had to dig out their winter overcoats (what other kind would they have, I ask you). Last night I had to get out of bed and hunt up a heavy blanket to keep me from shaking the bedstead to pieces.

You know, it’s seven o’clock, and I haven’t eaten yet; therefore this epistle is going to be summed up right shortly. At any rate it is about a record-breaker in regard to length as it is. Perhaps the longer my letters grow the worse they become. Whether that is true or not the longer our separation lasts the more I long for you and the lonelier I become.

Before I leave you this evening please turn your head on my shoulder so that I may whisper into your ear,

Always and forever, dear heart, I love you,
Harold

My darling,

I’ve just run home, while some acids are acetylating, to get your letter. I’m going to be late tonight so shall scribble a note to you now, as one written after night clinic wouldn’t get away until tomorrow. It pleases me greatly every time a day ends while you are away because then your return is just that much nearer—and I do so long to hold you in my arms again, little sweetheart.

Pharmacology got soundly thrashed yesterday, but there is much to be done yet as the exam is just two weeks from this next Friday. There is a very good chance that the desired 94 won’t be forthcoming too. Seems as if I never know anything at all about drugs, I don’t know how I fooled Carl F. ((Probably Carl F. Cori, head of the Department of Pharmacology from 1931 to 1947. Cori shared the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1947.)) into giving me a 90.

By the way, I hope it is the old Swedish farmer about whom you are so enthusiastic! Had a card, written the 23^rd, from Dr. West. He was in Rapid City S.D. and said he was just taking his time, although he must be nearly to Portland by now. Have you heard from him yet? He said he received your letter.

Sorry I can’t write more, but I must run. You probably think I’m silly for coming home just to get your letter, and maybe I am, but, Oh, my darling,

I’m so foolishly and completely in love with you,
Harold

Little sweetheart,

For to me you will always be a little girl, and, my dearest, such a sweet little girl. Do you know that I have always been half afraid to touch you? You have made me feel as though you were—not exactly fragile, but like a delicate and precious thing with which great care should be taken. Besides that I used to be, and still am, in awe of you. Am I not giving you a plethora of two-edged weapons to turn on me?

The letter I received from you today has become one of my treasures, to be kept as long as I live. And for that long at the very least, my darling, I shall continue to love and worship you. The thing which has happened to me in the last couple of months is the very finest (note superlative) that has ever come to pass in my whole life—or that could have.

Somehow or another though your letter left me feeling a little disappointed. Perhaps I read meanings into it which weren’t there. I hope so. [illegible] I actually dread the the thought of spending the long months until next June while seeing so little of you. You are very sensible about the whole matter, and I’m not, but seemingly it can’t be helped. We were foolish—admittedly—yet I had resolved not to act like I have again. The whole thing was my fault, since I should have thought more of you than to allow my feelings to get the upper hand. Never think that I haven’t reproached myself; still, reproaches mend no broken crockery. As for my standing, I’ll only try the harder to maintain it—I do so want you to be proud of me, little as I deserve it. However, I shall never fight with you—it can’t be done—although it’s certain I shall spend some lonely evenings unless you change your mind before school starts. Please do believe that you have nothing to fear from me, or shall ever have. Every word I told you was the truth, I couldn’t give you that reason for always reproaching yourself and me. If I seem to run on and to be sort of incoherent at times try to overlook it, I’m really a lot like a little boy—no sophistication, wear my heart on my sleeve, fancy things that hurt me, and, dear heart, I love you so much that the very thought of losing you terrifies me. Do you know what I was thinking of the other day? Something or another made me think of the inevitability of death, and I was rather afraid of it for the first time. I’ve always thought I could meet death as calmly and unafraid as I can face sleep, but that is changed now, and the reason is that death—and death alone—will part us. And that will be such an irrevocable separation that the thought of it makes my throat ache, and tears come to my eyes. If it wouldn’t be a selfish wish I should hope that you would outlive me, for then I should at least be spared seeing you die and leave me. Perhaps this train of thought is morbid; after all the glorious years we shall spend together we should be ready to travel on along that new road, but I should prefer to have you by my side. Don’t you suppose that the wish for the company of those one loves has been in some measure father to the belief in immortality? However that may be, life will never be the same again for me without you.

I sent the card in with my letter to the P.O., but it was dated Aug. 8, and postmarked. As for the letter from my mother, it was sent some time ago, in fact she said she had sent it when she wrote the answer to my letter telling her the news about us. I’m almost sure that I gave her the wrong address, for there is a sneaking suspicion in the back of my head that Waterman became Westminster when I wrote to her—and I’ll be hanged if I know why.

We are going to have to use paper dishes and throw them away, since I too like to cook, but hate to wash dishes. However, that will all come out in the wash, as the laundryman said.

You would be surprised at the eagerness with which I await your letters. I don’t leave the house until after the first mail in the morning, and I try to arrange my work so I can come back at 2:30 to see if there is any word from you—your letters usually come in the afternoon.

Kiss that spot on your finger for me once in a while. Your lips will have to wait until later, but I shall save every caress and deliver it in person as soon as you are back in St. Louis. How I long for that time to come, my dearest. And that is on account of how,

I love you so,
Harold

My darling Ruth,

It was a long wait over the week end without a letter from you, but getting three letters—and such sweet letters—today was recompense and to spare. The fact that you love me so really makes me afraid, dear heart. I know I’m not half good enough for you, and I am fearful that you’ll find it out. However, good enough or not, I love you as mush as it is possible for one person to love. There is a song in which the singer wishes he (or she) were twins so, “I could love you twice as much as I do,” but I wouldn’t want to be twins and love you because one of me would always be jealous of the other one of me. Such a situation!

“San Michele” hasn’t been cutting in on my study, but laziness has. I really put in more time and get less done than anyone else in the world. To date I’ve only read the notes on my first trimester’s work in pharmacology, and it’s less than three weeks until the exam. The quicker it comes the better though, for you will come home soon after it is over. Artie is painting the lab tomorrow so I shall study all day. The rest from chem. will be a welcome one, too, as things are going badly today. In order to get any kind of titration difference I have to use large samples of the fatty acids from linseed oil. Then the KOH for saponification must be more than doubled causing much salt formation in the blanks, and the large amount of the sample causes great difficulty in pulling it down to dryness without having in fluff clear out of the tube, and the Lord only knows what the results will be as it isn’t ready to titrate yet. You see, this is being written while I wait for acetylation to be completed—saving time by making this business of writing to you fit into the odd moments. That is sort of fitting in a way, as I think and dream of you not alone for the most of the time, but also in all the odd little moments too. And my love for you fills all the odd little corners of my heart, because it so completely takes up the room there that it has to use those corners also or it couldn’t get in. The way it grows your little boy is likely to develop dilatation of the heart right soon.

Always believe, darling, that no matter what happens [illegible] you are my one and only love, and know too that,

I’ll always go on loving you,
Harold.

Ruth darling,

Ray Williams had me over to dinner this afternoon. The meal was good and the time passed pleasantly, but I wished I were with you instead. Today was lovely, cool, clear—in fact just about right for a walk with you; yet any day would be just about right if you were with me. That is why my life is going to be a glorious one always—if the time until next June will ever pass.

The pharmacology notes have been taking a slight beating this evening, not a hard one though. Seems I can study very well, but not about pharmacology. Guess what?

Just now a song is coming from the radio, a song which makes me long even more, if possible, than ever for you. It is the beautiful “One Alone” from “The Desert Song.” ((Add reference.))

“The world would be a magic world to me,
If she were mine alone.”

It is, and I think she is; it’s certain she can be sure I’m her’s alone.

Is the surrounding country getting pretty well explored, or is there enough left to keep you from taking up the hunting of miners for diversion? If you did that I’m afraid you would soon have so many trophies that the mines would have to turn to power alone, or close. Here’s hoping for an inexhaustible supply of trails and scenery, although I’ve no fear that is necessary, for you are an honest and faithful little sweetheart unless you have completely fooled me. It is true at any rate that you are able to inspire honesty and faithfulness.

The mail situation must have been corrected, for I stopped by your house today, but found nothing which had been delivered since my previous trip.

Give my regards to the family, and tell Margaret ((Margaret Erlanger, 1908–1974. Ruth’s older sister.)) that she needn’t pity me for having to read your (as she called it) scrawl, the ones to be pitied are those millions of fellows who don’t have that great privilege. I’m looking forward to tomorrow and another letter from you; and even more to those many, many glorious—if poverty-stricken—tomorrows with you, darling.

The time has come to send you my love, but there will be more tomorrow, for, dearest, you never saw anything else which grew so rapidly. Not only with all my heart, but with all my being,

I love you,
Harold

P.S. Have you told Herman? And what does he think?

RHS

Little sweetheart,

I’m heartily in favor of abolishing Saturdays because there is only one delivery of mail then, and so your letter, which comes in the afternoon, has to wait (and I also) until Monday. So today there was no word from my darling, but then Monday will be a feast day as there will be two or possibly three letters all at once. There will need to be after two whole days without sunshine. When I think of how independent I used to be it makes me realize that there has been a profound change, since I am now so utterly dependent upon you for happiness. And, dear heart, I’m so proud that you have made that true. I only hope that I can always keep your love, and be in some small measure deserving of it. You are going to be just what you want to be to me—wife, sweetheart, companion, friend, and beside this the deity of my place of worship. Every time I think of you I invariably feel something of the awe and reverence usually reserved my most persons for a God they can’t see or understand. Perhaps I can’t understand you—it is certain I can’t see you just now, excepting in my dreams. And I dream of you day and night. The witchery of your smile and the loveliness of your—what shall we call it?—personality, spirit, soul—have done nothing less than cause the unconditional and eager surrender of my heart—with the addition of my independence, for you now come far before me in all my plans and I do so look to you for everything.

Studied a little today, not much, but did hear some excellent music this afternoon, the Chicago and the Detroit Symphony Orchestras. Study must have a little more attention tonight though.

Are you still having rain? It is so cool here that I’ll be blamed if I don’t seriously consider building a fire. Hurry home so we can gather wood and then use that fireplace.

If this letter is to make the mail this evening it will have to go to the mail box. And if it sounds sort of incoherent it only reflects the result of your absence—think what I’ll be in another month! Goodnight darling,

I love you,
Harold

Dear heart,

Wouldn’t Martha Carr (( “Martha Carr” was the pseudonymous byline adopted by a number of advice column writers at The St. Louis Post-Dispatch over the course of several decades. Her “syndicated sisters” is likely a reference to more famous advice columnists of the day, such as “Beatrice Fairfax” (Marie Manning) and “Doris Blake” (Antoinette Donnelly).)) and her syndicated sisters howl criticisms at our frankness with each other? They say, “To keep his love don’t let him know how much you care,” and “If you want to preserve her affection for you be indifferent.” But they don’t know what love is if they think rules like that are necessary, they must believe it is some sort of game—and, oh my darling, how far they are wrong, for to me this not a game to be played as I live, rather it is life itself. I think it means that to you too, that is why I’m not in the least afraid to put the power your last letter mentions into your hands. In-so-far as I’m concerned we never need fear anything from one another, for as long as we live we shall be merely the two halves which together make a complete unit—and which apart are only two unfinished fragments. Which prompts me to tell you that one of those fragments is terribly lonesome for the other, sweetheart.

With this little paragraph of introduction we shall proceed to the main business of the day, which is to tell you I love you. Fool you?

The mail situation has, perhaps, been straightened out, as the enclosed note will testify. ((No note was found with this letter.))

Your description of the first walk up to the mine makes me very envious of you. The scenery there must be, as your father says, glorious. Someday we shall see the mountains together, and that will cause them to be even more glorious to me. But darling we’re going to be so poverty-stricken, yet rich in that we shall have each other (you may be sort of short-changed at that).

How was the first ride? You must surely be sore and stiff now. I remember that I all always am after my first in quite a while. Wish your horse would head for St. Louis, and refuse to stop—almost. That is sort of selfish, isn’t it?

Artie is painting and so has me stymied over the week-end; however, I can use the time for study so don’t mind.

Night clinic is calling; therefore this letter must end. After reading it would you ever believe

I love you?
Harold.