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

Darling,

Isn’t it queer that we should both pick on the same song from “Show Boat”? Last night I quoted a fragment from it, and today your letter contained another. Incidentally who wants to help loving somebody? I’m sure I don’t, and I hope you are too. Although there is good proof at hand that love, coupled with absence of the person loved, is one of the world’s greatest depressants—even worse than the wine of which you speak. And, while it occurs to me, are you going to develop into tippler on me, or is that reserved for very special occasions? From beer, to wine, to what next? To my arms soon, let us hope. They are frightfully empty since you are away, my little sweetheart. There surely are exceptions to the often repeated saying, “[illegible] Absence makes the heart grow fonder, of someone else,” for in one case I have in mind absence only makes the longing grow greater—but not for someone else. I’ll swear in any court that the last two weeks have been easily the equal of any two months I ever saw before. Do you suppose next June will ever come?

Are you still having rain? We have an occasional shower, and it is really cool, I had to hunt a blanket last night.

Today I filled out an application blank for an FERA (used to be CWA) job. You never saw such an inquisitorial document in your life. There were four typewritten pages with the most darn fool questions. How good were you in high school? What was your principal’s name? superintendant’s? What was your ranking? Did you have a father? A mother? Are they living? Are they mortgaged? (yes, to the Gov’t.)! etc, etc., etc. But I hope I can get a job, because we’ll surely need the money, my dearest.

If this is mailed right away it will make tonight’s mail, so shall close.

Darling, if you could only know how I miss you, how much I think of you, how proud I am of you, and how I watch for word from you, then you would begin to know a little of how much

I love you,
Harold

Little sweetheart,

The last two mornings were dark and gloomy because of the lack of word from you, but, in spite of clouds, this evening was a glorious one, since I found three letters—or two letters and a note—waiting for me after the last mail. You would never believe that a letter could make such a difference—but such letters! no others affect me so.

As per directions, I ambled over to 5127 Waterman ((Add note on Erlanger House.)) tonight after clinic, but it was like visiting a tomb, no tall, dark-haired, and lovely girl opened the door for me. And no one said at long last, “Harry darling, you must get some sleep. Go home.” What did happen was that I squatted in the hall striking matches with one hand and sorting mail with the other until the matches nearly gave out. I picked out all the first class mail excepting a letter from the electric company and one from the gas company, which I didn’t think would interest you—if so I’ll send them. There was no letter from my mother there, so I’m wondering if some of the mail got through, or if I might possibly have given mother the wrong street when I sent her the address. Have you gotten her letter yet? You didn’t mention it in the letters you wrote up to Aug. 19.

Darling, you call me “little piggy” for wanting so many letters, but what is one to do when one is part in St. Louis, and the more precious part away out in Colorado? Truly it is as if that had happened to me. I miss you so terribly much, and warn you right now that there is going to be a first class revolution in camp next winter if that one time a week yo rule you speak of is enforced. That is, unless you really don’t want to see me any more often than that—then, of course, I shouldn’t feel like insisting. However, there is enough, shall we say?, conceit in my make-up not to believe that you do w feel that way. See how upset the thought makes me.

The reference to your Dad’s idea ((Add reference to Letter 5.)) was to the one about it being a good plan for you to get in some practice at dishwashing and cooking this summer. Are you doing much of it?

So you want to see a person 1200 miles away? Trying to tell me that you have a beau in St. Louis, or is it in some other direction? Drat the nurses! How could I do otherwise than leave not only nurses, but also all other women, alone since I’ve found—and won (I think)—you? My dearest, there is no other woman in the whole world for me, nor will there ever be. You have all my love, all my plans revolve about you, you are always in my thoughts, and without you I could never be anything but miserable. The cynical skeptic has certainly [illegible] been transformed in the past few weeks. ¶And you would go to Portland without seeing me again? I don’t like that idea at all, and if I didn’t know that you aren’t going you might see a young chemist (?), who had chucked a job, turning up in Ouray via the highway in a week or so. All the jobs this side of—you know where—couldn’t keep me from being with you again before Christmas—why, damnation, that is something like three or four centuries away at the rate of flight that time seems to maintain of late.

Saw “Show Boat” last night, and missed you terribly. There was a lot of good music, even though they did leave out my favorite song, “The Lonesome Road.” However, one song—with a change of one word—sort of expressed my feelings:

“Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly,
I gotta love one girl (changed) ’till I die,
Just can’t help lovin’ that girl o’ mine.” ((reference))

Can’t, and don’t want to, help it—believe it or not.

The acetylating has progressed from castor to linseed oil. Started on the last today. Started making freeing the fatty acids from the oil, and ran acetyl values on five samples of oil varying from 0.73 to 1.93 gm. The values I found were, from lowest to highest weights, 7.6, 7.5, 7.7, 8.7, & 8.6. don’t know why the largest samples jumped up, but an acetyl value which chucks in 1 point isn’t so bad, especially with such small titration differences.

See how I bobble back and forth between telling you a little news, etc., and repeating how much I love you. Just can’t get away from it no matter how uninteresting so much repetition may make a letter, but, sweetheart,

I do love you so,
Harold

P.S. I wrote the postmaster of the field station about forwarding your mail. The card your mother had sent him was among the other mail at the house.

Darling,

And again today it rained here—while rain fell in my heart as well, for the postman failed to bring the letter which alone could start my day with sunshine. What are you doing now? Any horse-backing yet? The things from Montgomery Ward’s must have come by this time so that you can live in, at least comparatively, luxury. Do you still stay sleepy as you did?

Bob Stephens and I are going to see “Showboat” this evening. Hope we don’t get rained out—like we did once.

By the way, Miss Case and her sister now have a ’31 La Salle convertible coupe to tear around the country in—a gift from their mother. I haven’t seen the charming secretary for the last two days; i.e. since she got the car. I just happen to remember that Dr. Muckenfuss married the former Dr. Brebner’s widow.

So you are exercising to get strong so you can struggle against me more effectively next Sept.—and I had hoped that you wouldn’t even want to struggle. Oh darling, I do love you so much, and I look forward so to the time when I shall see you again. I’ve never spent a summer which seemed so long and so empty as this one does. But I shouldn’t feel that way either, for I have a glorious thing this summer which I have never had before—the knowledge that you love me. Yet it does take an interminable time for the days to pass, you haven’t been gone two weeks until tomorrow—and I’m sure no two years were ever longer.

There isn’t anything else to say, excepting to repeat that I love you, and perhaps you tire of so much repetition. Goodnight, dear heart, and please listen while I say once more,

I love you, love you, love you,
Harold

My darling Ruth,

Your letter about the offer from Dr. West came this morning, and it made me feel ashamed of myself. If your letter meant what I think it meant you are anxious and worried, feeling that you should do one thing and wanting to do another. Please don’t let Dr. West know I double-crossed him, but I can’t bear to have you worried, so here goes. Dr. West thought it would be a great joke to offer you a job starting next June 1, and then to see your reaction. I promised not to tip his hand, but only because I had told you he knew about our plans (but he didn’t know I had told you) and thought you—knowing him—would see through his trick at once. Of course I shouldn’t tell you this even now; however, he has had your letter sent to him and so will have his joke, while you must not (I beg you) write to him before you hear from him again—then don’t tell. Please forgive me for ever promising not to tell.

In spite of the rain we are having today there is a song in my heart, for two of your letters came this morning, and though the second made me rather ashamed, it also told me again that you love me—the thing which means more than anything else to me.

Of a certainty we shall chop wood next fall. My entire youth was spent wielding an axe—just so, I discover, that it would be possible for me to do a good job of supplying wood to keep a fire blazing in our fireplace—if and when we ever have one. In the meantime the one, or ones, in your parents’ home will serve as substitutes—this winter at least.

I’m really terribly busy this afternoon. Artie & Adler are disrupting the place, it is now 2:30, tonight is clinic night, and I have 12 tubes acetylating which have to be titrated, etc. yet. In spite of this I had to take time out to tell you what I did. Did you ever think that I should have let Dr. West offer you a job which would have taken you away this winter? Silly, if you did. And what is more there is a great difference of opinion about such a thing probably being desirable—I take the negative, now and forever after—just because

I love you,
Harold

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

My darling Ruth,

Your card came this morning, and for the first time I began to get an idea of the looks of Ouray. I hadn’t expected such rugged and rocky mountains. You will certainly be able to do a bit of climbing if you want to do that. How did they ever happen to drop a town into such an isolated bowl anyhow? Is there snow on the peaks now?

Perhaps you tire of hearing it, but sweetheart the days since you left have seemed years to me—and they become longer all the time. Your return is about the only thing I find myself looking forward to; that, and next June. Oh, my dearest, was there ever anyone as fortunate as I? You are so sweet and lovely—and you love me! That is the surprising thing. If I were a praying person I should thank God every hour of the day for the miracle which has happened—and so I do if there be any God. And, my beloved, I love you so much that your absence seems to have left me only a part of a man—my heart is utterly gone, and you have it somewhere or another among your belongings. Still more surprising, perhaps, is the fact that I’m glad to have my happiness depend upon someone else for the first time in my life.

As usual there is no news. The only excuse for writing is to tell you again that oldest story, which to everyone who loves is a new and lovely one. So again turn your ear close for the whisper,

I love you with all my heart,
Harold

Sweetheart darling,

Once more the sun is shining, and once more there is a song in my heart, for didn’t the postman bring a letter from you this morning? Dear heart of mine those letters mean so much to me—you say the sweetest things. Only it would be so much nicer if I were where I could hear you say them.

From your description of the conveniences there you must have almost gone primitive. Did you have a blowout in the mattress? And has the shipment of domestic reinforcements arrived yet? Of course it isn’t nice having to put up with such inconveniences, but then it will only make things seem nicer when you are all nicely settled. Perhaps I could use the same line of reasoning about waiting until Sept. 25 or so, but there is a flaw somewhere, since I could never be made happier than I have already been with you; at least, not until that dear finger which wears the invisible symbol (and here is another for it) shall also wear a visible golden band. However, I mustn’t think too much of that or the time until next June will seem even more of an eternity than it is.

My work is going along about as usual. I’ve prepared crude ricinoleic acid by about 57 different methods, but have finally gotten to what promises to be a satisfactory one. If it will work O.K. the running of the other oils and their acids will be a rather simple matter.

Are you climbing lots of mountains now, or is the process of taking long walks still a painful one. I walked out from the Union Station the other night after Dr. West left. That is the most I’ve done in some weeks. I really should get into good physical condition this summer too. Guess I’m just plain lazy.

Wish you were here to see “Showboat,” which they say is the best of the season’s offerings. Bob Stephens and I are going to see it next Tuesday evening—it is playing for two weeks.

I must go down town, then get back to night clinic so shall stop until tomorrow. But the tomorrow will never come when I shall stop wanting to whisper to you,

Darling, I love you,
Harold

Ruth darling,

And again today only disappointment awaited me in the mail-box—when I was so sure that another of your precious letters would be there. Funny how one can get such a grip on the heart of another. If anything should happen to part us it would prove a far greater blight on my spirit than the darkening of the sun would be on my sight. The book “Life Begins at Forty” was wrong in-so-far as I’m concerned—it really begins at twenty eight years and nine months.

Have you done any riding yet? And have you climbed any mountains? Couldn’t we have fun scrambling over the hills together? We shall have someday. Tell me all about your comings and goings—excepting with the miners. By the way, if tomorrow doesn’t bring a letter I shall almost be ready to move on the mines of Colorado in force.

Ray Williams was here for supper tonight. At the present he is sitting over in the rocker smoking his pipe—says to give you his best, etc.

We had 1.96 inches of rain last night and this morning. The cooling effect was something marvelous, but it is warming up already.

Please give my regards to the rest of the family. I’ve been intending to say that every time I wrote, but when I am writing it seems that my thoughts stay on you alone.

There is little else to write, but I must write if there is nothing to say in the way of news, for I must tell you, however indirectly and unsatisfactorily,

I love you, my darling
Harold

Sweetheart,

It was with great disappointment to me to find no letter from you waiting when I came home a few moments ago. I do prize and look forward to them so much.

Dr. West left last night for Wisconsin. I surely hated to see him go, and shall miss him a lot. At any rate it is cloudy here—trying to rain—everyone is gone, and for the first time in years I am so lonely that I don’t know what to do with myself. If we could only be together.

Are you having a good time in the mountains? How are the horses? Be sure not to get thrown, or to fall over a cliff. How is the dish-washing and cooking job progressing? or are you still at the hotel?

My work is going along slowly. We have changed the method so often that I spend nearly all my time preparing reagents, but everything is about straightened out so that it will be possible to get something done shortly.

The office is taking applications for C.W.A. jobs next year, so I put in mine today. Perhaps it will help take us west next summer.

Did you know Miss Dickson, who did some work in the Bact. Dept.? Well, she and Kenneth Jensen, a class mate of mine, got married a week or two ago. Also Dr. Muckenfuss went off the deep end with the widow of some M.D. who died a while back following a monkey bite. I forget the name. ((The unfortunate physician was Dr. William Bartlet Brebner, 1903–1932. Brebner was seeking a cure for infantile paralysis when he received the fatal bite in his lab at New York University.)) There is no other gossip which I can recall just at the moment.

Please try to find a way of setting the calendar ahead in order that I may see you sooner my dearest. There are few moments during the day when you are not in my thoughts. Who would have thought the selfish cynical old bachelor of the class could have been so changed? But then look what it took to change him. Oh my darling you are so lovable that I fail to see how anyone could resist your charms.

The rain is falling by the bucketfuls now, but clinic is calling so I must stop.

Always, dear, remember that

I love you
Harold

Darling,

In the last two days fortune has smiled on me surely, for I have gotten three letters from you in that time—one yesterday morning, another yesterday afternoon, and the third today at noon. And they give me so much pleasure, although your dear self would be incomparably to be preferred. Please try not to have the pleasure of your vacation diminished sweetheart, I shouldn’t want that at all. Aren’t you the same girl who was telling me that September was just next door—and June only next door to that? But it does seem such a long time dear, although we can afford to wait a little for the long, happy years to come when we shall always be together. I like to think of that, my darling.

Dr. West is leaving at 11 tonight, and it is now 10. He is getting everything together as I write. The place will surely be lonesome without him—or you either.

I should certainly like to see the mountains with you, but then I’m really afraid that I should see very little of the mountains—by preference—with you.

Tell your dad that his idea is an excellent one. He is a real friend. And it is so nice that both Margaret and your parents think as they do about things. Everything is so much more pleasant when there are no objections.

Hope it is real cool there, for we are again sweltering to the tune of up to 100° here. Dr. West is leaving at a very appropriate time.

Work is progressing slowly, and study has been absent for the last few days, but will start again now that the Boss is leaving.

I want to take this down and mail it as the Dr. goes to the train so shall stop for this time, yet not before I tell you that I love you more than I can say.

Goodnight dear heart,
Harold

D – – – ! tall, dark, and handsome miners. If this keeps up I’ll have to counter with a bevy of wild and wicked nurses (like heck I shall, for the comparison with you would make them seem distastefully plain). Seems that I still have difficulty in saying a final,

Goodnight darling,
RHS