translate to arabic:"he chief librarian brings me three gray archival boxes containing file
folders that, in turn, contain papers, documents and, in some cases,
little parcels wrapped in brown paper tied with twine that contain
fragile notepads and notebooks that sometimes contain loose sheets and even
slim journals or calendars wedged between their pages.
It becomes clear, going through these materials, that no one has read them
since they were stored away. When I untie the parcels, the string leaves a
pale cross on the wrapping. Moving a newspaper clipping slipped inside a
notebook reveals a decades-long discoloration underneath it. A ribbon
marker, untouched for years, has made a slight depression on the paper.
Some pages stick to each other. Some spines crack. Some brittle edges and
corners crumble onto the desk.
I am the first to touch many of these documents since Mildred Bevel
handled them. This makes me experience a closeness with her that the
insurmountable distance between us paradoxically accentuates.
Her earliest files are dated 1920, the year of Mildred and Andrew’s
wedding. Nothing from her previous life. Perhaps she and her mother were
unable to bring more than their indispensable belongings from Europe;
perhaps she wanted to start on a clean slate.
I take out the first engagement book with burgundy covers and marbled
edges. “Pusey & Company, 123 West 42nd Street, Printers & Stationers.
Fourteen Cylinder & Job Presses Always Busy.” My father hated cylinder
presses.
Over the course of this first year it seems that Mildred is trying to fill the
pages in her book, even if she has few activities and barely goes out. Thepages are gridded: a line for each day and a row for morning, lunch,
afternoon and evening. She writes “at home” repeatedly. I can sense her
boredom. Sometimes she has “fittings,” but they, too, become “fittings at
home.”
As the librarians said, her handwriting is almost impenetrable. It helps to
have only a few words repeated several times in this engagement book to
teach myself how to read her script. Her “s” is just a diagonal line, barely
distinguishable from her “f,” her “l” and her “t,” which are identical to one
another. Her “n” is an inverted “v.” I take note of this, knowing that longer
texts will be harder to decipher. There is something runic about her hand.
In Bonds, I suddenly remember, Vanner describes the journals Helen Rask
kept day and night during her breakdown, wondering if her future self would
recognize her own writing.
Even though I hope to find the real version of those diaries in one of these
boxes, most of the early documents are unremarkable. During the first
months Mildred seems to make a few attempts at socializing. Some
afternoons with a Mrs. Cutting, others with Mrs. Bartram, Mrs. Kimball or
Mrs. Twichell—some of these names are just guesses and approximations. A
few times she meets with small groups made up of these and other women.
Several “luncheons,” some dentist appointments. But her efforts become
more and more sporadic, and in the end Mildred seems to have simply given
up on both visiting and receiving her new acquaintances. Barren calendars.
Anemic address books. Still, because the latter are alphabetized, I find them
helpful to learn Mildred’s peculiar handwriting. I start keeping track of the
variations of each letter. It is true that her writing is difficult to read. It is
also true that after spending enough time with these words and looking at
them in context, some can be deciphered. But no one seems to have spent any
time at all with these documents. No one ever bothered.
Having known Andrew, I think how lonely and suffocated with boredom
Mildred must have felt. At the same time I admire her resolute defiance.
Surely all doors in New York were open to her. She could have seen anybody,
gone anywhere. Artists, politicians, all the big names of the day. Parties,
galas, dinners. I find something both heroic and intriguing in her refusal toyield to any of these obvious temptations. Somehow, her rejection does not
feel disdainful. It does not seem to be the result of shyness or fear either.
Of course I am the one assigning Mildred these attributes. All I have is
mostly empty notebooks, Bevel’s account from fifty years ago and Vanner’s
novel.
A radical change takes place in early 1921, however. She starts attending
concerts. Or at least she starts recording these outings. It is not always clear
what the musical pieces are—sometimes she names both the composer and
the performer; sometimes she simply writes “concert.” Over the following
months and the next year I notice a shift away from “opera” toward
“recital.” There is an “87” next to some of these recitals, which must
indicate that those events are hosted here, in her home.
The formerly empty rows and columns in her engagement books become
peppered (never saturated) with names. Although many weeks remain blank,
she now seems to have something of a social life. But her acquaintances are
not, for the most part, New York society ladies. She receives several men
(sometimes only men), many of whom are among the most prominent
musicians of the day. I am merely an enthusiast with no formal musical
education, but even I recognize a few names mentioned over the years. The
conductor Bruno Walter comes by with some frequency. So do violinists Fritz
Kreisler and Jascha Heifetz. Pianists Artur Schnabel and Moriz Rosenthal.
Composers Ernest Bloch, Igor Stravinsky, Amy Beach, Mary Howe, Raimund
Mandl, Ottorino Respighi and <PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_PERSON> are among the names I can
make out. Possibly even Charles Ives. Later, in a 1928 engagement calendar,
if I am not misreading, I spot Maurice Ravel."