Ruth darling,
Another day mostly wasted, but the lawn did get mowed at any rate. This morning I went out beyond Kirkwood with an acquaintance to do a little pistol-shooting—the first I had done in over a month. This afternoon I mowed the lawn and read a little in “The Story of San Michele,” ((Munthe, Axel. The Story of San Michele. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co, 1929.)) which promises to be an excellent book—in spite of the Italian words and quotations. Are you doing any reading, or is the dish-washing and mountain climbing combination too much to leave time for it? Isn’t this a paradox? My examination in Pharmacology Sept. 15 seems to be approaching with appalling rapidity, but your return Sept. 25 crawls toward me with unbearable slowness. And think too, your little boy will be a year older by the time you return; twenty nine years old.
Wouldn’t these letters of mine make excellent bits of evidence in a breach of promise suit? But I’ll never give you any excuse for so using them darling. You have been away only ten days (unbelievable), and already it has been so long that I know that I’ll never consent to such a long absence again—ever. You are always in my thoughts—if you could only be in my arms.
Remember our discussion of the problem as to whether or not a doctor should help ease along those who are incurable and suffering? A few lines in “San Michele” sum up my ideas pretty well. The author is talking of death, then says, “When he was slow in dealing out His remedy, why should not I deal out mine with its merciful power to change anguish into peace, agony into sleep? Was it not my mission to help those to die I could not help to live.” What do you think?
Perhaps pharmacology will have an inning tonight, but may the night be short, for the postman will surely bring another letter from you sweetheart.
So goodbye until tomorrow, but remember that, with never an intermission,
I love you darling,
Harold