Topical Guide 320
Mark Dorset
Letters, Correspondence, Motives for: Revenge
Letters: “Poison Pen”
[H]e had had on his desk a letter from Bertha, the letter she had begun writing the night they left Chacallit. She had taken a long time deciding to send it, but the bitter taste she associated with Lorna kept coming back, and sweet foods wouldn’t drive it away. Finally she decided that there was only one way to eliminate it. She mailed the letter. …
What made her write this? he asked himself. What really made her write it? This is the sort of thing a person does to get even. Get even for what? For May’s teasing? That doesn’t make sense. Nobody would write this because of some teasing. There’s got to be more to it. Jealousy, I’ll bet. She must have been jealous of Lorna and Luther. That must be it. Bertha wanted Luther. God, how she must have taken it out on Lorna when they were kids. Poor Lorna. And poor fat, miserable Bertha. She made herself crazy.Herb ’n’ Lorna, Chapter 10
It is I suppose comprehensible that the letters which we receive from a person are more or less similar and combine to trace an image of the writer so different from the person whom we know as to constitute a second personality.
Across the transatlantic world in the early decades of the twentieth century a terrible wave of poison attacks took place, cruelly claiming hordes of human victims. In contrast with the toxic chlorine, phosgene and mustard gases which armies put to such ghastly and inhuman use during the First World War, however, these particular poisons were not delivered via canisters and shells. Rather, the instrument through which these poisons inflicted their damage was the pen—the so-called “poison pen” (a term which encompassed as well that click-clacking symbol of modern business efficiency, the typewriter). For these poisons were words which, like weapons of war, could not only hurt but in some cases kill. …
1922 and 1923 proved banner years for poison pen cases in the transatlantic world. In May of the latter year, the internationally prominent George Maxwell, an expatriate Englishman who was co-founder and current president of the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP), was indicted in New York for “sending scurrilous and obscene letters through the mail.” The indictment claimed that over the course of a decade the handsome fifty-two year old Maxwell, styled a “gay Lothario” (i.e., serial womanizer) by newspapers, had mailed, with tragic consequences, nearly one hundred and fifty poison pen letters sexually defaming nine prominent East Coast socialites. (Possibly there were as many as forty women involved.) It was said that as a result of the letters homes had been broken up, a man had gassed himself, a woman had swallowed iodine and another woman had been driven insane.Curtis Evans, “The Poison Pen Letter: The Early 20th Century’s Strangest Crime Wave,” in CrimeReads
Kate up-ended the Spanish basket and strewed about thirty letters about on the dry pale yellow mats of the hay. She leaned forward and began turning them over and laying them out in rows.
Ducane, suddenly interested, leaned forward too, inspecting the letters. Then with a soft hiss he reached out a long arm and snatched up a brown envelope which lay at the end of one of the rows. Fingering the letter he turned to face Kate, frowning and narrowing his blue eyes against the sun. The frown made his face look even bonier and thinner, a wooden totem anointed with oil.
Kate felt a sudden slight alarm. He looked so stern; and her first thought was, he’s jealous of someone. Who can it be? He’s recognized someone’s writing. Kate, who was on very affectionate terms with a number of men, preferred for humane reasons to keep her friends in ignorance of each other. However, the writing upon the envelope, a rather uncultured hand as far as she could see, seemed unfamiliar.
“What is it?” she said playfully. “You’re stealing my mail!” She reached out for the letter but Ducane withdrew it.
“Whatever is it, John?”
“Will you do me a great favour?” said Ducane.
“Well, tell me what it is.”
“Don’t read this letter.”
Kate looked at him with surprise. “Why?”
“Because it contains something unpleasant which I think you shouldn’t see.”
“What sort of thing?”
“It’s—it’s something concerning me and another person. Something that belongs entirely to the past. A malicious busybody has written to you about it. But there is absolutely no point in your reading the letter. I will tell you about the whole thing myself later on, now if you wish it.”
Kate had turned sideways and they faced each other knee to knee. The hem of the striped dress brushed the hay. She did not know what to think. She was still a bit alarmed by Ducane’s sternness, though relieved to find that the misdemeanour in question appeared to be his rather than hers. She thought, perhaps it’s to say that he was once a homosexual. He might not understand that I wouldn’t mind. She felt very curious about the letter.
“But if it’s to do with the past and you’re going to tell me anyway, why shouldn’t I see the letter? What harm can it do?”
“It’s better not to touch pitch. A really malicious letter should be read once only and destroyed, or best of all not read at all. These things lodge in the mind. One must have no truck with suspicion and hatred. Please let me destroy this letter, Kate, please.” . . .
“Dear me, we are moral today. John, have some common sense! I’m dying to know what it’s all about! It can’t possibly harm you. I love you, you ass!”
“I’ll tell you what it’s all about. I just don’t want you to see this ugly thing.”
“I’m not as frail as all that!” said Kate. She snatched the letter from him and stood up, retreating behind the wooden seat.
Ducane looked up at her gloomily, and then leaned forward to hide his face in his hands. He remained immobile in this attitude of resigned or desperate repose.
Kate was now very upset. She hesitated, fingering the letter, but her curiosity was too strong. She opened it.
[more to come on Friday, August 19, 2022]
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