Walter Macken

by Ultan Macken

  The play opened at the Booth Theatre on Broadway on 22 September.

  My parents were in America from 14 August until nearly the end of November. Wally Óg and I primarily stayed with our relatives in Galway; I think we spent some time with the Kennys in Salthill and the rest of the time with the Lohans in Woodquay; both families were relations of my mothers. Every week my father wrote and included a US dollar for me.

  When they returned to Galway my father began a period of great productivity and he wrote the following article analysing his work which I found among his papers:

  I believed that my first work would set the world on fire. I knew that first novels rarely became best sellers (outside of America) but I now know that each writer considers himself a special case. It’s the egotism that keeps you going. In few other professions is your ego in for the mangling it’s due to receive just when you think everything is lovely.

  Your poor ould ego is due to be kicked and battered and despised and spat upon and sat upon and jumped on from a height. So at the time when you think everything is going to be fine, you wake up and find you are farther back than when you started. You will never again have that untarnished beautiful knowledge that everything you write is perfect and is going to be greeted warmly immediately it is released.

  When my first play and my first novel had been launched with moderate success, about one millionth of what it deserved. I had to sit down and set to, considerably shaken, feeling that my faith in myself was on very unsolid ground. I wrote two novels containing almost a million words. I knew they were trash before anybody told me. They told me. My second published novel was on the cautious way back. I believe I have steadily improved since that. I believe this cautiously, keeping my fingers crossed as I think it. I am now very critical of what I put down. My fractured ego is recovering. It will never be the same. It will always show the marks.

  I believed that the people among whom I was born in my own home town were the people to write about. They weren’t people who were well off. They had to struggle for their food, their clothes and their relaxation. I was interested in everything about them and me and where we lived. But would other people in other lands be interested in me and my people. I didn’t really give a damn. They were, because people are the same everywhere, as delightfully unpredictable in a Galway street as they are in a small town in America or England or France. So you put your money on the people you know and they will win out. I still believe this, that a writer should write about the things and the people he knows. He should write so that the people he knows would get a kick out of what he writes if they ever bothered to read what he writes about them, which they probably won’t.

  Once a writer starts writing so that people in a foreign place get a kick out of what he is writing about his own people, he is on the way out. He is getting tired. It is easy for a writer to get tired in Ireland. People in Ireland have very little respect for Irish writers. They write them off. They ban their books. Three of my novels are banned in Ireland. I can’t tell you what a hurtful thing this is. You are supposed to be artistic and laugh it off. A good joke. You are supposed to talk about clodhoppers and jumping Jesuses and craw thumpers, but I must confess (is this literary weakness) to be hurt and bewildered every time they ban one of my books.

  You are writing for your own people. What’s going to happen if they stop your own people from reading you. Is your writing as they say indecent and/or obscene or is this in their own minds, or are they reading excerpts out of context like picking out the dirty bits from the Bible. I don’t know.

  But I still believe that you should write for and about your own people. I believed writing would be a great adventure. I still believe this. Once you have reached the stage of reason where you can let your mind wander over a story, and be stuck with it and can’t go on. Day after day, month after month and you see no resolution. And then in the middle of the night when you awake from the tail end of a dream, or when you are out walking on a city street, or catching trout on a lake, it comes into your mind, so clear and so real, the solution you wanted, that quite likely you will say out loud, I have it! I have it! And if there is somebody with you looking at you with wide eyes it will be a bit of an anti-climax to try and explain what you mean, you probably won’t, but there is a great river of joy inside you that lasts until the next depression. The next depression begins when you have to sit down and write out what your brain has already written.

  You will find many excuses to avoid this writing business. The weather will be heavy or there will be a few jobs to do around the house, or the fishing will at that point become particularly good and you just have to go and get a few fish while they are on the take, or you have a cold coming or you don’t feel so well or you have some urgent books to read that must be read at once. There are a million excuses but eventually you will have to be drawn to that typewriter and when you sit down and get going, you will wonder why you have been fighting so hard against the inevitable, and why is it that each time you get away from it, you have the same struggle to get back with it. At times like this you so envy the writers you read about in interviews who go to their studies each morning at six o’clock and work steadily until breakfast time at nine. Then back to work at ten and quit at one, having completed six solid hours of writing.

  They never deviate from this, four to six hours a day. You can envy those writers and pray that you may emulate them because after the first fine rapture is over, every instinct you have will be crying out for you to go the contrary way. I think you will have more fun being contrairy [sic] if that’s bad advice, I can’t help it. I’m sticking with it. Apart from all that, you know yourself in your own head where you are going, and nobody can stop you from going there. You know when you are good and when you are bad. Deep down in you, you know all the answers and you will keep sending them out until your well is dried and that will be when you are six feet under or a handful of ashes scattered on a hill.

  Details of his earnings from the American production of Home is the Hero were sent to him as follows:

  Dramatists Guild,

  6 East 39th St.,

  New York.

  Gentlemen,

  Enclosed is the statement and our check covering the balance due to Mr Walter Macken on ‘Home is the Hero’. The check is made out to his agent, Miss Ruth May Bendukov at the instruction of Mr Macken. The check represents the following:

  Sept 5 Westport $875.61 Gross $11,756.10

  Sept 25 NY $621.47 Gross $ 9,214.72

  Oct 2 NY $675.30 Gross $ 9,752.99

  Oct 9 NY $701.64 Gross $10,106.41

  Oct 16 NY $958.29 Gross$12,582.94

  __________

  Total $3,832.31

  Less advance $2,100.00

  $1,732.31 (check

  enclosed)

  Statements for the Westport engagement were sent to Miss May, statements for Sept 25th and Oct 2nd were sent to the Dramatists Guild and I enclose statements for Oct 9 and 16.

  If any further information is needed, let me know.

  Sincerely yours,

  Margaret Becher (Bookkeeper)

  In November, my father wrote a letter to Sabina Walsh, his first cousin in New York:

  Gort na Ganiv.

  November 13th 1954

  Dear Sabina,

  Peggy is of course completely ruined on me. My counter-reformation assaults are moving very slowly. We have had to give up window shopping. Anything she sees under £50 – she just scoffs at it. We haven’t got the new car yet. We gave up the old Ford and decided to buy a small car for Wally Óg. We did and now we are stuck with it because Wally Óg can’t get insurance cover until April when he will be 17. But we managed to put the fix in and got him a licence.

  All the days are passing in a sort of Celtic Dream. My old typewriter gave up the ghost at last and it takes years to get a new one – so I have a great excuse for not working. I’m afraid that new typewriter will turn up any day now. Ruth May has been fired. I have a new a
gent now [Don Congdon] and he is panting to perform and I have nothing for him to sell … The station is of course not a station [station mass due to be held in our house]. They call it that. The main purpose is to say mass in homes that are far away from churches so that the old and the feeble may have a chance to get mass and Holy Communion either in their own homes or in the homes of a neighbour. It is a terrific privilege for us that he will say mass in our home. It will never happen again because it is principally a privilege of the poor. I told the priest that I could always qualify under that heading, but it is decent of him to grant us the opportunity.

  The people of the neighbourhood, five or six families come to the mass and they get a cup of tea afterwards. If you are not joking about coming, I can’t tell you how pleased we would be to see you. I have sent you page proofs copies of ‘Sunset on the Window Panes’.

  All my love,

  Walter

  It’s not clear why my father changed his American agent at this point.

  My father’s cousin, Rita Joyce wrote long and detailed letters to my father and mother. Here is one of my father’s replies:

  Gort na Ganiv.

  January 25th 1955

  Dear Rita,

  Thank you for your letter. I’m glad you liked the book [he had sent her a copy of ‘Sunset on the Window Panes’] and pleased you wrote and said so. It’s encouraging to know that here and there; there are a few people who like what I’m trying to say.

  We are very pleased to get home. It’s wonderful to sink into the old routine and watch the elements. We had a very bad winter since we came home, rain and floods and recently snow and frost, with pipes bursting and cars sliding. We are not used to weather like that so we are not geared up for it like Americans. Now the weather is grand and mild and there seems to be a suspicion of spring in the air. Very soon we will be on the lake fishing for trout and I will have to be resisting the temptation to fish unless I have done enough to earn our daily bread. I’m sure all around you is lovely in the spring with all those woods ready to burst.

  Give our love to your mother and the rest of the family we didn’t meet. I don’t know when, if ever, we will get to America again, but I am sure (no matter what your mother says) that even if it is twenty years she will still be there to chat us.

  All the best from the lot of us,

  Yours sincerely,

  Walter

  In the summer of 1955, there came great news from his new American agent, Don Congdon:

  Harold Matson Company,

  30 Rockefeller Plaza,

  New York 20.

  June 22nd 1955

  Dear Walter,

  I’m delighted to report that Randy Williams of Macmillan wants to go ahead with a collection of short stories. He says: ‘We’ve read them with interest and genuine enthusiasm and while some are considerably better than others, that’s as might be expected in a collection of short stories.’ He says that he has worked out a plan for all the stories we have sent along. I am asking him for a formal list for the record. This I’ll send along to you when I get it.

  The terms offered are $750 advance on signing, royalties of 10% on the list price to 5,000 copies, 12 and a half percent on the next 2,500 and 15% thereafter. If you’re agreeable I’ll forward the contract. They also want to have an option on your next novel. I hope that’s all okay with you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Don Congdon

  More concrete news came in August 1955:

  The Macmillan Company,

  New York.

  August 11th 1955

  Dear Mr Macken,

  Before we proceed to place your book of short stories, we should like to know in what order you would like to have the various stories appear in the book. For your convenience, these are the names of the stories:

  The Proud Man, Gaeglers and the Wild Geese,

  The Young Turk, Duck Soup,

  Green Hills, The Curragh Race,

  Barney’s Maggie, The Fair Lady,

  The Gauger, The Wasteland,

  The Atheist, Tuesday’s Children,

  Hallmarked, The Lady And The Tom,

  The Eyes of The Cat, Foreign Fish,

  The Sailor, The King,

  The Hurling Match,

  The Boy and the Brace, The River.

  We are a little disturbed at the title you have selected – namely, ‘Tales of a Citie’. The title is quite clear when one reads your dedication, but we are wondering whether it has in itself enough inherent appeal to capture the interest of a prospective buyer.

  I talked to Mr Don Congdon about this and he thought that probably it didn’t make much difference what the title was, the book being a collection of short stories. Some of us rather liked the title ‘The Green Hills and Other Stories’ and others liked the title ‘The Proud Man and other stories’. Perhaps it does not make any difference, and we shall use the title you have suggested, unless on further thought you wish to make a change.

  We are delighted indeed to have the privilege to publishing these stories and are most happy to have you back on our list of authors.

  With kindest regards to you and Mrs Macken,

  R. De Wilton

  The year 1955 was a productive one as regards publishing – Sunset on the Window Panes was published and now a book of short stories, The Green Hills and Other Stories, was accepted and his new play, Twilight of a Warrior, was about to open in the Abbey Theatre and was going to be published as well. A letter came from Lovat Dickson at the end of August:

  Macmillan & Co. Ltd.,

  London.

  Dear Walter,

  Thank you for your letter of August 24th. Yes it will be fine if you send us the book of short stories when they are in proof. It will do splendidly if you get an amended script from the Abbey Theatre of ‘Twilight of a Warrior’ when they have rehearsed and have made their cuts. We will go ahead and try and get a London production for you. It’s a wonderful idea for a play, and should just appeal at this moment.

  Yours ever,

  Rache Lovat Dickson

  In my father’s letters to Rita Joyce there is interesting news:

  Gort na Ganiv.

  Dec. 23rd 1955

  Dear Rita,

  Many thanks for your letter and card. It was kind of you to remember us. We were reading about the hurricane there with you and felt sorry remembering what the last one we experienced was like. My pen has been pretty slow for the past year. I wrote a new play called ‘Twilight of a Warrior’. It was produced in the Abbey Theatre in Dublin for a few weeks. It was very well received – adding enormously to my reputation but not a lot to my purse – and perhaps that’s the best way. It will be published in the New Year and I will send you a copy.

  I have a collection of short stories being published in the US in the New Year called ‘The Green Hills’. You would be able to get a copy of that more quickly from your bookseller than I could get it to you. It is being published by the Macmillan Company. I hope when you have read it you will tell me which stories appealed most to you.

  My eldest son Wally Óg will be going to University next year. At the moment (this is his 5th choice) he intends to study for his Master of Arts and after that to do an exam for the Diplomatic Service. I don’t think this is his final choice but he has until next October to decide. We are very well Thank God but it is very doubtful if you will see us in America in the foreseeable future. I have given up acting altogether and am endeavouring to live solely on the pen. It saves a lot of wear and tear on the body. So I’m afraid you will have to take a trip over to see us. That’s a more likely proposition. However, if we do get to New York, we won’t fail to go and see you. Tell your mother we send her our love and think of her often.

  Sabina Walsh spent a week with us when she was in Europe last year. We had good fun. It’s a pity you don’t know one another better but sure that’s the way it is with close relations – the further apart they are the better it suits them and that has been going since the c
reation of the world. It’s the same way with ourselves. This Xmas is a bit sad for us. Just when the play started in Dublin, we had to rush back from the first night to get to the bedside of the eldest child of Peggy’s sister, Annette.

  We watched her die for three hours. She was only 14, but the behaviour of Peggy’s sister and her husband in their terrible trial was a wonderful pointer for the strength imparted by our faith. It wasn’t that they weren’t heartbroken – they were and are – but they got the grace of fortitude. How awful if would be to have nothing to fall back on! We are setting up a Christmas tree for them and having them all out to our house – in a rather futile effort to induce forgetfulness.

  We loved Christmas in New York the first time we were there. The whole world seemed to be lit up. But then of course we were separated from the lads and that wasn’t so good. So long, write again when you have time. Peggy sends her love to you and to your Mother and the lovely rosary beads always bring her to our minds.

  God bless,

  Yours sincerely,

  Walter

  My father also wrote to his American cousin Sabina about the death of Annette Lohan:

  Gort na Ganiv.

  Dec. 23rd 1955

  My dear Sabina,

  We were very relieved to get your letter, but sorry to hear about all the trouble [Sabina had been ill] and hope with the help of God that it is all now past – that you will recover your strength in the shortest possible time. We had a spot of trouble ourselves – not directly – you remember Peggy’s sister May – the tactless one!

  Well my play was on at the Abbey in November and we went up for the first night, but on the way we heard that their eldest child, Annette, 14, was in hospital for an operation. That was Monday (the 21st November). We came back from Dublin on Wednesday at 3 p.m. and spent from then until 5 p.m. watching poor little Annette die. She was only sick for one week. If she had recovered, she would have been a semi-invalid for all her life – she had some sort of blockage in her intestines. Anyhow she suffered a lot of agony before she died. Even when one knows there is a logical theological reason for children to suffer before death – it is very hard to watch it. But out of this tragedy came the light from May of all people and her husband, Mick – incredible fortitude that could only come from deep faith.