Letters of E. B. White
Page 17
I have the greatest difficulty making myself do any work here. Even writing a letter seems an imposition. I get out my weekly stint in a sort of lonely rage—shutting myself in a room and lashing out at people who make the slightest noise about the house. I foolishly agreed to do several articles, and, also, a short book about New York for the Oxford Press. I doubt if any of these things get done, or even started. They simply serve to annoy me, and prevent peace settling down over me.
I’ve just started National Velvet on your recommendation, and seem about to like it. Wrote some blank verse last week—a sketch for the NYer, called “Much Ado About Plenty,” satirizing the pioneer colony in Alaska. I like the first stage direction. It says: “Enter pioneers, and attendants.” Are you doing anything besides your T & C stint, or does that sufficiently absorb your attention? My best to Joe, by the way.
Yrs,
Andy
• E. B. White’s father died August 13, 1935, at the family home in Mount Vernon, New York. After the funeral his mother moved to Washington, D.C., where she stayed with her daughter Clara Wyvell.
To STANLEY HART WHITE
North Brooklin, Maine
20 August 1935
Dear Bun:
I’m anxious to know how Mother is getting on, and also whether she has any plans for the future—I mean with regard to where she is going to live and how. I presume she won’t wish to continue living alone at 48 Mersereau, and that will mean either that she’ll have to find some other place, or live with the children for a while. Has she talked it over with you, and has she any definite plans?
I thought it would be a good idea for her to come to Maine during the first couple of weeks in September. It would be a lot cooler and healthier than Washington, and I think she would benefit from it—the air is so good. Joe will be remaining here, and perhaps Kay or I or both. If neither Kay nor I stay (and we’re not supposed to because of our jobs) we are going to arrange to have a man living in the house. If Mother’s bent on getting right to Washington, I won’t try to make her change her plans, but I should think it would be lots better for her to come here first for a fortnight.
I wrote Mother to this effect the other day. Let me know how things have been going with you all, and tell me what Mother has said about her future plans. What are you going to do? Are you staying in Mount Vernon, or going to Washington, or what?
Andy
To HAROLD ROSS
[North Brooklin, Maine]
[September 13, 1935]
Friday
Dear Mr. Ross:
Regarding yrs of Sept 10 offering further vacation from comment, would say that I can’t really afford same, and will be back in town on Tuesday ready for the frightful grind. . . .
[It is vital] that you and I should come to an agreement about the uses to which the comment bank would be put. It was probably my fault that the St. Anne comment got into the book, because I should have killed it and many other bank comments long ago, but just let it slide. Anyway, seeing it in print gave me quite a turn. In my letter asking for a two weeks vacation, I thought I made it clear that I wanted time off only if the substitute stuff was to be either original new stuff, or the extra comments which I had turned in the week before. If I had known you were going to resurrect my out-dated and oddly inept remark about Catholicism, I would have gladly forsworn any vacation. I regard the bank (as it exists now) as a somewhat expensive concession to my perhaps overdeveloped sense of perfection (or timeliness). Every week I write and turn in more stuff than can be used, so that I can pick what seems best (and what seems to run together best) and stow the rest away to die or to wait. Some of it improves by waiting (as when it becomes timely by circumstance, or becomes apropos a new comment); most of [it] decays and dies. The expense is shared jointly by the magazine and myself. I think the comment page has improved since the bank has been administered this way instead of the old way of having a third party make up the department hit and miss, with the bank as his chief source of supply. The weakness of the system is that, on very infrequent occasions, such as last week, some very ripe paragraph gets into the book.
I think maybe a good idea would be never to set my extra stuff. It could be simply OK’d by you in manuscript and sent back to me, for my folder. This would save the magazine money, would save a lot of Ralph’s [Paladino’s] time, and might prevent slipups. If you think it necessary always to have a reserve comment supply, in case of acts of God, Ralph could keep the folder. There is really no particular reason why extra comment need be set, anyway. The fact that it has been set makes it harder to kill.
WHITE
• Nineteen thirty-five was a sad year for the Whites—a death in summer, a miscarriage in early fall. Even the scheduled move from Eighth Street to Forty-eighth Street was tinged with melancholy. They had had six happy years in the Village and felt uneasy about moving uptown into the rented unfurnished house in Turtle Bay—a move brought on by their having exhausted the growth possibilities of the Eighth Street apartment. When the following letter was written, Katharine was in Maine, where she had lingered in the vain hope of avoiding the threatened miscarriage. White had gone to New York to superintend the move uptown. Joel was still in Maine, Nancy and Roger were in New York with their father.
To KATHARINE S. WHITE
16 East 8th
[September 18, 1935]
Wednesday night
Dear Kay:
Safe home—all pleasant except the last leg from Bedford, where the Roses1 plied me with a drink which they described as a Scotch highball but which turned out to be straight hemlock. I’m slowly reviving, it being now midnight. Kept Marguerite [the cook] here to administer extreme unction, and she is asleep upstairs. She has apparently been busy—all books, china, etc. seem to be packed, & the place is clean. (She was grieved to hear that you were ill, as were Carl & Dorothy.) I phoned Nancy from there. Roger seemed to be on an extension, listening to [us discuss] the miscarriage. Nancy reported all well & said you were not to worry about R’s birthday, as he will understand. He has a polo coat.
Hope the mail will bring me good news from you tomorrow. I can’t write any more now, as the poison is slowly taking hold. Good luck, & lots of love to you and Joe.
A
To KATHARINE S. WHITE
[New York]
[September 19, 1935]
Thursday noon
Dear Kay:
I’ve just seen the house and it looks wonderful. Vines are flowering at the bedroom window, and paint is flowering all over the walls and on my coatsleeve. Mr. Brigantine [the painter] and your Mrs. Fay [the decorator] have been working night and day, and you would be surprised to see how presentable the old manse is. The nasty Italian walls have been smoothed down so they look like any other wall. Final coats of paint go on the front living room and the bedroom today, and I OK’d them, wearing my finest interior expression. Fay has found some of the prettiest curtain material you ever saw for the bedroom, and even my unpractised gaze was enough to know that you will approve of it when it is submitted to you. The house looks 200 degrees lighter than when you saw it, with its fresh light walls, and the garden is heavy with the sounds and sights of September. . . . The bookshelves are 100 inches more capacious at 48th Street than at 8th Street, so I am auctioning off the old family shelves which you and I loved so well. It is probably the first time Mr. Schoen was ever faced with an electrically equipped bookshelf, all wired for fish.1
Our telephone instructions from Maine had about as accurate an effect as I anticipated. Marguerite packed the books in the trunk which came up from the cellar. You should see it. If you’ve never seen “Is Sex Necessary” in the space where the shirts ought to go, you’ve missed the sights. Have just lunched with McKelway. He and Honey are apartment hunting, and will be unified in October. A good thing, I think. Everybody asks for you, in a worried, loving tone. Miss Terry talks of sending proof. . . .
It is true that Gibbs has a wine cellar. His son is cutting teeth. His
moustache is longer than it has ever been before. I am faced with the instant necessity of doing some notes and comment (those little paragraphs in the front of the magazine) so I can’t go on with this letter much longer. No one around here has ever heard of infantile paralysis. . . . Jim and Helen are honeymooning at the corner of 8th Street and Fifth Avenue,2 where the Italian Pistol Club used to be. Jim celebrated Stanley Walker’s arrival3 by entering his office and telling him he couldn’t stand him. Stanley apologized, trembling all over. That is all the news I can think of at the moment, except that I wish you were here, miss you very much, and hope and pray that you are all well again.
Love,
Andy
To KATHARINE S. WHITE
[New York]
[September 20, 1935]
Friday night
Dear Kay:
An uneventful day, trying to catch up with work at the office. I still seem to be smothered, but have hopes of pulling out over the weekend. I haven’t even taken my suitcase out of the Buick yet—drove right to the garage and left everything aboard. Am going up now to get my typewriter and put in a night of newsbreaks.
Today was a field day for Daise—the office on the brink of moving,1 and Terry beside herself with the lusty joy of extreme executive ability, taking typewriters right out from under a writer’s fingers. Gebert2 loved it, too.
Paid a visit to the house this afternoon, and it is still very painty, but Mr. B. [the painter] assures me he will be out in time. I had the wonderful idea of getting in touch with Della today. I remembered that in times like this, you always added Della to the scene, so I prodded her into action. She is probably recovering a chair or an old icebox at this very moment.
Books, linen, etc, are all packed, ready to go. I wrote the Friends School and the Steinway Piano Company. Gas is flowing from the stove, and the British have moved into the Mediterranean. Got your note and was sorry not to get better news. Be patient. I’m sure you will pull out of this with flying colors! Lots of love to you & Joe.
Andy
P.S. If by any chance I left three black check books on my desk, will you bring them?
EBW
To STANLEY HART WHITE
245 East 48 Street
17 October 1935
Dear Bun:
The question of the grand piano has come up.1 It is mine, and I don’t quite know what to do about it. Kay has a grand here in town, and we have an upright in Maine—which is all we have room for. I don’t know what your Piano Situation is, but if you should want this grand in preference to whatever piano you already own, I would be glad to give it to you for the sake of keeping it in the family. At any rate, I won’t do anything till I hear from you.
Mother was in town last week, staying with us. We drove out on Saturday to Mount Vernon, so that she could perform a few last pitiful rites over some trifling leftovers such as my sheet music and a few old copies of the Oracle. I salvaged some stereopticon pictures—which are really stunning souvenirs of Father’s photographic phase, as well as a remarkable record of the early 1900’s. Mother gave me the portrait of Grandma Blair and I am having it relined and oiled. James Bridges turned up, having been summoned, and helped empty a few scrap baskets. James is a realtor now (the horse having disappeared) and wears a fine sack suit and carries fountain pens. It was a melancholy pilgrimage—the house quite bare and touched with autumnal chill. Mother, however, looks pretty well and seems in reasonably good spirits. She likes it at Clara’s, and enjoys motoring. Clara says she hangs on the postman’s arrival, so we all better keep up a steady flow of letters.
Kay has been sick—ending with a miscarriage. Very disquieting and disturbing to both our spirits. She is better now and started work at the office this morning. Note new address, above.
Yrs,
Andy
To HAROLD ROSS
[1935]
[Interoffice memo]
Isn’t the trouble with the Boo Department that the word “Boo” has two meanings or uses? One is the “Boo!” which a person cries when springing out at someone, the other is the “Boo” of disapproval at the theatre. I was confused at the Boo Dept.
EBW
To JAMES THURBER
[New York]
[January 1936]
Dear Jamie:
. . .I had an idea today, which I thought maybe you could use in your inimitable way—sort of a drawing idea. A picture of a patient in a doctor’s office, together with the doctor. The patient has obviously been in a wreck of some sort—probably a plane wreck—for one of his legs is completely severed and is lying about three or four feet away on the floor. The doctor has been studying some X-ray pictures. He looks up from these and says: “Good news, Mr. VanHorsen, the X-ray shows that nothing is broken.”
Maybe it’s a little like your “Touché” picture, but I leave it with you.
Did you know that Weekes1 was compiling a New Yorker style book which is longer than Gone with the Wind and more complete than Mencken’s American Language? In compiling this book, he has come across some rare old Levickiana, including one note (when Levick was managing editor) which says: “Night club not to be used any more as symbol of gaiety.”2
Andy
• Early in 1936 White was offered the editorship of the Saturday Review of Literature. Christopher Morley was then Contributing Editor.
To CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
In Bed
245 E. 48
[April 27, 1936]
Dear Mr. Morley:
I’m running a slight fever & your letter has not cooled me off any. I am touched, believe me, by your friendly extravagance. My reason for giving you this quick answer is that it may speed up the matter for you. I can’t edit the Sat. Review, & this is the more painful for me because I like it and believe the things you say of it are true. I am, furthermore, hot for change (for myself)—which doesn’t mean disloyalty to the N.Y.’er but more of a kind of super-loyalty to myself. I often feel out on a limb, doing what I’m doing. But not even these considerations can cloud my (minor) poetic vision, & I can give you One Clear No. The trouble with me is I am no editor even with a small E. Understanding this has saved me, & my beloved magazine, much woe. I can’t edit the side of a barn. Without wishing to disparage myself, I can assure you that I could sit at the head of any publication you might name & establish a new high for imbecility. At the NYer I am an office boy de-luxe—a happy & profitable arrangement. My function is solely contributive except for one or two perfunctory chores which I can now do with my left hind foot. I am appalled when I think of taking over the Review. (What a fine, mad bunch of people you must be, anyway, to have cooked up such a notion!) For one thing, I’m a literary defective—I read so slowly & so infrequently that it causes talk even here in my own family; and although it appears to be your intention to seek an editor who is not too deeply covered with book feathers, I am sure you must want one who has heard of a couple of standard English authors & knows their works. Incidentally, although my bronchials are badly clogged, I didn’t miss the melancholy implication of your letter: it’s all so plain—casting about for someone who wasn’t “literary,” you thought immediately of ME. I had many a chuckle over that today, and a few honest gulps that were half remorse, half disease.
I have to make this letter short, but I hope not so short that you fail to catch my feeling about the Review, & about myself. I love us both too well to be willing to mess things up. My health is always whimsical, and I turn out shockingly little work in the course of a week—much less than I wish I did & far less, I’m sure, than you imagine. Being the head of anything would bust me up in no time. What I do hope for myself is that before long I can rearrange my affairs so that I can devote my limited energy & curious talents to the sort of writing nearest to my heart & pen. If this should turn out to be interesting to the Sat Review, that might be another story. Anyway, I have spent the day happily as Your Editor—one delicious day, like those you occasionally read about in the papers: “BOY OF 12 IS MAYO
R OF PATTERSON, N.J. FOR ONE DAY.” It has been a day of unlimited ice cream cones, the sort of day a boy would race home and tell his mother about; and it has been doubly exciting for me because by strange chance it was precipitated by you, Mr. M., who in the old Post days unwittingly supplied 5 o’clock corroboration of my tentative ecstasies (I have always Meant to Tell you This) and infected me with the troublesome gallantry of letters.
Please check my name off with a clear, convincing stroke; this reply is a considered one and is fortified by the extra vision of fever. I have noted the item for my Biographer (“In the early spring of 1936 he was mentioned for Editor of the Review”). I thank you all. I will keep the secret, and assure you that when the Last Great Bronchitis comes and a few trusted friends come to my bedside, they will be thoroughly mystified by my delirium, utterly at a loss to account for the weird executive cries of reminiscent authority over imaginary reviewers—cries of “Get in there and get that author!”
Yrs,
E. B. White
To KATHARINE S. WHITE
Wardman Park Hotel
Washington, D.C.
[May 1, 1936]
Friday afternoon
Dear Kay:
The surgeon discovered instantly that there was no possibility of doing anything for Mother. Her liver, gall bladder, & part of colon are cancered. He didn’t dare disturb anything, merely sewed her up. She will live a few months, in pain.
Whether this all could have been discovered in time, I don’t know. The surgeon says her gall bladder contains five or six stones the size of a hickory nut, which must have been there a long time. I haven’t seen her yet, since the operation. I can hardly face the blow of her disappointment when she learns that it was all for nothing. We are not going to tell Mother that it is cancer, but simply that her trouble is caused by the stones. I think perhaps in her case this is the wisest plan. She is very vague about diseases, anyway, and she has never been the sort of person to face facts realistically.