by Willa Cather
I know, Roscoe, these letters from Jim would have great influence with you if I had only saved them, but that little taint of ingratitude and disloyalty was like an ugly smell to me. I would keep the letters for a few days, try to answer them, then tear them up. There are many good qualities about Jim. When I am with him, I always feel a peculiar and special tenderness for him. But he tremendously overrates his own ability, and he is continuously nagged on by a wife [Ethel Garber Cather] who is full of petty ambitions, and who has developed a much more venomous nature than ever her old mother had. Ethel was patient with Jim for a long time, I know; but when she turned, she turned not to vinegar but to hydrochloric acid. I am not judging her, but it is up to you, your father’s son, to see that these furious and self-seeking women do not attack Miss Rogers tooth and nail and do her more harm than our family has already done her. Father would not have dealt fiercely with her. If she has another will tucked away somewhere, properly executed, as an honorable man you will have to see justice done. I am almost sure she hasn’t. Elsie’s hypothesis, that she encouraged him to drink these last five or six months, is so absurd. We know now that he knew he had a bad heart and the game might be up any time. One sort of man would lie in bed and read and eat toast. He wasn’t that sort. When he had drunk a few cocktails or a bottle of champagne, that dark shadow withdrew to a distance—did not seem so close, and he could talk to Miss Rogers about his rosy plans for the future and how he meant to go abroad on the Queen Mary. I think it was to get rid of that fear that he has been using himself up for the last year or so.
4. Now Roscoe, usually I keep peoples’ secrets, especially when they are secrets I am ashamed to read. But I think you ought to know how vacillating and unappreciative of favors and how weak Jim is—under his queer kind of conceit. I hope you will not try to give either him or Jack much authority, but will trust rather to the experience and to the possible, even probable, integrity of Douglass’ partners—whom he trusted so much. Jack is a dear fellow but—feels no responsibility, happy-go-lucky. You can’t make men over after they are thirty-five. Don’t put Jim up against any important men—Roy Oatman, Russell Amack, etc., etc. were always his kind. I know Doug’s partners are not exactly Harvard men, but they know their business, have proved it. Jim says there is nothing whatever about the business to know.
This is the last letter I shall write you on this subject. As soon as I am well enough, I will get off to Grand Manan, where I have no typewriter and nobody who can take dictation from me. But when you talk about “developing” Jim and Jack, I think I ought to ask you to sit down and consider awhile, and I feel that I ought to give you this important sidelight on Jim; that he is not loyal, and never while Douglass was living did he write a nice letter about him—only fault finding and distrustful ones.
Jim is sweet with his children, poor lad, but I don’t believe he is much fonder of them than Douglass was. Doug’s face used to glow and his voice was just full of feeling whenever he spoke of those children.
When I knew her Miss Rogers was not looking about for a man—most of the young men at the sanitorium disliked her. She was extremely good at her job, and wanted to make a real career of it. When I went off on a three day trip down to Caliente she never said or did anything that made me feel that she was a cheap sort. She was then a frank, fresh, rather intelligent Western girl; I never saw her throw a soft look at Douglass, or hold his hand in the car, or languish. She behaved like a well brought up girl. I am (oh this pen!) I am sorry if her life has been spoiled. Deal in this case as Father would have done.
Lovingly
Willie
Destroy Elsie’s letter after you have read it
Cather’s first book, April Twilights, began with a poem titled “Dedicatory,” dedicated to her two oldest brothers, Douglass and Roscoe. It remembers the “three who lay and planned at moonrise, / On an island in a western river, / Of the conquest of the world together.”
TO MARGARET CATHER
[Postmarked July 13, 1938]
Admiral Beatty Hotel, Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada
My Darling Margaret;
We are here in this old town again—great showers of rain and bitter cold. We left New York in intense heat, both of us exhausted by packing. Here we will shop a little and rest in bed a great deal. So many hard and sad things have come down on me in the last six weeks that I am rather a wreck. I didn’t quite know whether I could take the noon train for Boston on Sunday. Just as I was putting on my hat to take the cab, a box of great gardenias dropped down into my lap—sent by Yehudi’s darling little new wife [Nola Nicholas Menuhin] with such a tender message. Somehow it did hearten me. I can’t feel utterly knocked out so long as the young love me. Nola is just the right wife for my boy,—and just the kind no one would ever have selected for him. I am hard to please, and I was very jealous for Yehudi. I might have thought she wasn’t brilliant or picturesque enough for him. But he sees the souls of people—that is his peculiar gift. She is the right one.
Dear child, I was and am so glad your kind mother thought of giving me a little place in the service for Douglass by having that first dedication read. It would never have been taken out if it hadn’t been such very weak verse. But I’m glad I wrote it and felt it, if it is poor verse, and glad that we three loved each other so dearly in our youth and always, though it breaks my heart now, and it seems to me that I never can care very much about living again.
Give a warm and loving greeting to Elizabeth when you write
Lovingly
W.
TO ROSCOE CATHER
[Probably September 1938]
Grand Manan Island
My Dearest Brother;
Your long letter from the clinic brought me great peace of mind; first, because it gave good report of your physical state, secondly because you confessed a weakness, and that enables me to confess mine. The reason I have not written you oftener is that after I write a letter to any of the family, I lie awake all night, and all my past failings and failures go through my head like a horrible cinema film: Why did I not do more for mother and father when they were living? Why did I give up one evening of Douglass’ short stay in New York to an English publisher, and send Doug to a show alone? My life seems to have been made up of mistakes of this kind. And yet, I have never been “ambitious”. I drove ahead so hard because I wanted never, never to come back on Father for anything, nor to ask any of my family to put up a dollar to back a game they didn’t understand. But in doing that, I let a good deal of life slip by. I was at home on three different summers when Jim was coercing, tormenting father to “set him up in a business”. Father used to hide in the bath room for hours. I got a great disgust for that form of parent-torture. Perhaps in trying so hard to be quit and clean of that sort of wheedling, I neglected some things that mattered more.
You ask for a report of health. Better than when I left town. Then I had not been sleeping without med[i]cine for sometime, and had a very unpleasant trembling of the hands. All nerve reactions were bad, and, funniest of all, my hair was coming out in great bunches—it seems that sometimes results from nervous disorders.
I am much better now, of course. My hands are steady again, I sleep fairly well, but I am not very happy.
[This paragraph marked in margin: “copy for Elsie”] It seems strange that Alfred Knopf, who has been always such a dear and loyal friend to me, in music and in art, not to speak of our happy business relation, should turn up with the only recent picture I have of Douglass. One day when I took Douglass into his office, Alfred snapped him with his little Leica camera, invisible and soundless. Douglass never knew he was snapped, and I didn’t know it. They were not very good, so Alfred didn’t offer them until after Douglass’ death.
Please send on[e] of the prints I enclose to Elsie, with a Copy of this explanation. Keep one for yourself, and give one to Jack and one to Jim; to no one else.
Elsie says you have Douglass’ copies of my books. You may give one to Jack
and one to Jim, but see that they are copies which are clearly inscribed to Douglass. Even so, they may be used for club purposes by the women. All the other copies you will please take to your own home.
Tell my darling little Margaret that I am very happy that she is happy, and that every one of our lovely places on this island make me think of her. Last summer I had five gay companion[s] who made me love life; the twins for summer, and the Menuhins for winter. Within six months they have all married. Just now I must try to work a little every day on the book I began in the last autumn. It’s lost its pep, but it is the only thing that will bring me back to myself; regular work hours, I mean. Alfred and Dr. Garbat agree on that. Letter writing disintegrates me. Margaret will get a little wedding present some day.
I shall not be here after September 15th, but I don’t yet know just where I shall be.
This is the old typewriter Doug bought for me from the busted gambler in Cheyenne thirty year[s] ago, when we three were there together. It has lain up here in the damp sea air for six years, so please excuse mistakes. Ralph [Beal] has tried to mend it with automobile tools.
Very lovingly to you all
Willie
Isabelle McClung Hambourg, who was very ill with kidney disease, was living in Sorrento, Italy, with her husband, Jan, at the Hotel Cocumella.
TO EDITH MCCLUNG
September 26, 1938
My dear Edith:
I do not wonder that you are feeling anxious about Isabelle’s situation in Italy, but in so far as I can tell, Mussolini’s aim in expelling a great number of Jews from Italy is to give more jobs to the native Italians. His action seems to arise from the unemployment situation, rather than from personal hatred as it unquestionably does with Hitler. As Jan is not engaged in any business which would take a job away from an Italian, I think there is a very good chance that he will not be troubled. I understand that Jewish tourists are admitted to Italy and courteously treated. Mrs. [Elizabeth Moorhead] Vermorcken of Pittsburgh has lately gone over to Italy, and is at the present time at the Hotel Cocumella. If she saw anything threatening, I think she would write or cable me.
I got back from Canada, where I have been all summer, only the day before yesterday, and found a short letter from Isabelle awaiting me here. She has never given me any indication of feeling alarm about the Jewish situation in Italy. But in this last letter, the last paragraph reads as follows:
“If we should be going away from here, I’ll cable you. As long as I do not cable, you will know that we are here in the shelter of this simple and comfortable room with the kind Garguilos”.
I believe the G–s are the proprietors of the hotel.
This summer (July 1 to September 15) I have heard from Isabelle less often than usual, and I know that she was less well than in the winter. But when she did write, she always told me that there were some nice Americans staying at the Cocumella, and that she enjoyed their company when she was well enough to see them. One of these people was Miss [Florence] Overton, director of the branches of the New York Public Library, and as soon as I get my trunks unpacked, I shall go to see her for information. Miss Overton was in Sorrento in the early part of the summer, and I think the Jewish question had not yet arisen when she sailed for home. If, from her or from any other source, I get any information about the Hambourgs’ actual position there at the present time, you may be sure that I will let you know at once.
Very cordially yours,
Willa Cather
TO THORNTON WILDER
October 9, 1938
New York City
Dear Thornton Wilder;
For nearly a year I have been wanting to write to you. I truly think “Our Town” is the loveliest thing that has been produced in this country in a long, long time—and the truest. From several technical points of view it is highly important, as nearly everyone recognized at once. But of course its great importance is something that everyone feels and nobody can define: we can only vaguely say the “spiritual quality” of the play. Two hearings of it are not enough. I must hear it once again before I leave for Jaffrey New Hampshire to spend a few weeks on Monadnock. I have been going there in the autumn for fifteen years, and in your play I find a complete expression of everything I have ever seen and felt and become friends with in that countryside and in all the little towns scattered about the foot of that mountain. Something enduring and resigned and gracious lies behind the details of your play, as the mountain lies behind (and permeates) all those little towns and farms, and the lives of all those people. Exiled Americans, living abroad, to whom I have sent the book of the play, write me that it has made them weep with homesickness.
I love everything you have ever written, but you have done nothing so fine as this. I am not only happy about it, but thankful for it.
Faithfully yours
Willa Cather
TO FERRIS GREENSLET
October 12 [1938]
Dear F.G.
No, please. By no means let Antonia go on the air. Thank you for letting me know about this proposition, as I have a strong feeling against it.
Isabelle McClung Hambourg died yesterday, in Sorrento, Italy. I need scarcely tell you that this [is] another great change in life for me. It is only four months since my brother Douglass, the one closest to me in my family, died of a heart attack, in California. They were the two people dearest to me.
Faithfully
Willa Cather
TO IRENE MINER WEISZ
October 14 [1938]
Dearest Irene;
Isabelle Hambourg died in Sorrento, October 10. Her last letter to me was dated September 24. It was written in the garden, looking out on the bay and Vesuvius; she was in her wheelchair enjoying the autumn weather.
With Douglass and Isabelle both gone out of my life, I scarcely know how I shall go on. Please tell Carrie.
Lovingly
Willie
You and Mr. Weisz were so nice to her. I shall not forget, ever.
TO EDITH MCCLUNG
October 24, 1938
My dear Edith:
Please excuse my typing this letter. My hand-writing grows more and more difficult to read, and I don’t wish you to puzzle over it.
I feel very remorseful that I did not telegraph you when I received a cable from Jan a few days after Isabelle’s death. I thought, of course, that he would have cabled you at the same time. On the same afternoon that I got Jan’s cable I got a long distance telephone call from my sister-in-law in Sacramento, telling me that my older brother [Roscoe] was having dangerous hemorrhages after an operation, and asking me whether I could come on by air at short notice. His condition remained dangerous for four days, and during that time I was in a half-stupified condition. This house was full of paperers and painters, so I went to the Lowell Hotel and took the rooms which Isabelle used to occupy, awaiting the issue. If conditions had been otherwise, I would naturally have written to you at that time, even though I took it for granted that Jan had cabled you word of Isabelle’s death. He should have done so, but I cannot blame the poor distracted man for anything he did not do; there is so much red tape to be gone through when a foreigner dies in Italy and is buried there.
Jan’s letter to me about the last days of Isabelle’s illness probably came on the same boat as his letter to you, and it tells practically the same story. In one paragraph he says:
“During nearly five days I watched her strong, loyal and loving heart resist death. Not more than half a dozen times did her face show anguish or anxiety, then only for a few minutes. She slept as though under the influence of a potent anaesthetic. As she died her face took on a perfectly calm remote look. After three hours her lips shaped into a gentle gracious smile. The parish priest came on Saturday and prayed for her. The Nuns (who had been at her bedside day and night) dressed our Darling in her favorite lace dress and she looked so handsome—her distinguished self.”
Isabelle’s last letter to me was a short one, dated September 24th. It was written
on her knee as she was sitting in the garden. She says: “These September days are soft and warm and lovely. We are down on the terrace, so this untidy note is being written on my knee.” All the first part of September she was able to walk with Jan down to the end of the garden and sit looking at the sea. I think September 24th must have been her last walk to the terrace. The letter is short, but the tone of it very cheerful.
Everyone who saw Isabelle during her stay at the Hotel Cocumella speaks of the beauty and dignity of her life there; how she never oppressed anyone with a sense of her illness, and how everyone loved to be with her and felt privileged to have a little private conversation with her. When she did not feel strong enough to see people (which was often) she stayed in her room or sat on her little balcony in the sun. She did not go down to dinner except when she could appear with graciousness and ease of manner.
I had made all arrangements to go to Sorrento in July, but on June 13th my brother Douglass died in Los Angeles of coronary thrombosis—having had no previous illness. After that I felt unequal to the voyage, but had planned to spend a part of this winter in Sorrento.
Surely, when you saw Isabelle last you must have realized that her time was short. Her doctors at the Lenox Hill Hospital thought she could scarcely hold out through the year. That was why I followed her a few weeks after they sailed for France, and rejoined them there, and spent the autumn there at a nearby hotel, so I could be with her every day. Nobody ever bore a long and fatiguing illness with more courage and more dignity. When I went over to Paris in 1930, she was already very ill. I went over in April and stayed until late November. She was even then struggling under a dragging fatigue which almost never left her. She had lived for years on the strictest diet, cutting out everything that increased blood pressure, except weak tea in the afternoon and a few cigarettes. She knew nothing definite about her kidneys being wrong until she came back to New York. Perhaps that was just as well. As you know, when people have that particular defect of the kidneys, they are born with it, and it develops slowly all through their lives. Nothing can be done about it, and I think it was better that she was spared the knowledge of an incurable defect as long as possible. It seems just too cruel that such a thing should fall upon her, of all people. But even that slow poisoning could not take away anything of the beauty, or charm, or great heartedness she had for the people who loved her,—and they were many. Jan’s absolute devotion to her during her long illness was very precious to her, and even people who sometimes found him a little difficult could never find anything to criticize in him as a husband. She hated being handled by nurses. She loved having him give her her bath, lift her when it was hard for her to rise, and by so many delicate attentions disguise her actual infirmities from everyone.
