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

August 24, 1934

Letter 15

Filed under: The Letters — R. H. Swinney @ 3:37 pm

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.

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