Letters of E. B. White

by E. B. White

  For two or three weeks she will remain in the hospital, then she will have to have special care, probably a nurse. Lill is here, and she is considering taking a summer cottage on one of the beaches near Washington & having Mother with her. Lill and I both feel that Clara will have to be relieved of the problem, because she is embarked on this very extensive venture. I learned to my surprise that it is a full fledged boarding establishment, serving breakfasts & dinners to 35 guests. I haven’t seen it yet but it appears to be a high class place, with a monthly income of about $1600. She takes it over June 1, fully equipped with full complement of servants—every room occupied & a waiting list.

  If Lill doesn’t follow this plan, I shall try to work out some way to have Mother near us in Maine with a nurse, although it is all highly speculative. Mother may not live to see the summer; and the doctor probably won’t allow her to travel far. There is a very attractive nursing home near Chevy Chase which we are investigating, as a possibility. All that can be done is to give Mother what small amount of happiness and ease life can still hold. It is not much, I fear. The news came very hard this morning, because our hopes had been high—

  Lots of love,

  Andy

  P.S. Please keep the matter entirely to yourself, as to details, etc.—

  To CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

  245 East 48 Street

  3 May 1936

  Dear Mr. M—

  I’ve been in Washington, and have just seen this proof.1 If I’m late with corrections, no matter.

  As for “river-peeper,” I was conscious of it. I take it that it is a resemblance, and not a rhyme, and as such is allowable, just as a missing foot is permissible in the last line of the same stanza. However, if you feel strongly (and perhaps rightly) about this, I am quick to accommodate. Make it, if you like:

  Love in the murmurous pond doth ever

  Gird the lips of maid and lad;

  I hope I didn’t embarrass you over there by sending you this piece, which may well be a pretty flimsy piece of tripe, for all I can tell at this moment. I rose from bronchitis to attend my Mother, who is desperately ill in Washington, and I feel slightly unbalanced about life, deeds, and letters. For heaven’s sake, if you feel more like throwing this away than publishing it, do so and I’ll be grateful.

  E. B. White

  To STANLEY HART WHITE

  [New York]

  Saturday night, May 16 [1936]

  Dear Bun:

  Mother got steadily weaker, and Wednesday I went to Washington in order to see her for the last time. I got there in the middle of a thunder storm, the air very hot and oppressive, and found her hanging on to life regretfully, aware of the noise and afraid of the lightning. It seemed as though her suffering was more than anybody could bear. But the next day—a clear, cool morning with a fine sparkle—I went in and found her in a curiously exalted state; her pains seemed to be gone, and she talked with a sort of feverish excitement about the experience of death, which she was anxious to make us believe (while she still had strength enough to speak) was beautiful. She was very toxic, and focussed her eyes only with great effort, but she managed to convince us that she had achieved a peaceful conclusion. How much of it was chicanery and how much a merciful truth, I will never know, but she appeared to be enjoying a sort of spiritual intoxication. I said: “Isn’t it beautiful, Mother?” (meaning the weather), and she replied, with astonishing fervor, “Oh, my, oh, my—it’s perfectly beautiful” (meaning death). Clara took her hand and said: “Mother, you’re perfectly comfortable, aren’t you?” And she replied: “Perfectly comfortable.” “And you’re perfectly happy?” “Perfectly happy.” It was an enormous relief after what we had been going through. From the parochial school across the way, Mother could hear the voices of the children singing, and she spoke of that and of how much it had meant to her. Apparently she thoroughly enjoyed the Catholic symbols, and took great comfort in them—liked the big crucifix at the foot of her bed. Occasionally a shudder of pain would make her twitch, and she would murmur, “Oh, oh oh, oh” quickly adding, for our benefit: “That means nothing at all, that means absolutely nothing at all.” Her whole mind seemed to be bent on convincing us that all was well with her. She died that night, around ten o’clock; Clara was with her at the time.

  Today she received Burr Davis’s extreme unction, with the electric organ, the stale lilies, the old colored servants sitting silent and attentive in the little chapel, together with the neighbors from across the street, the doctor who didn’t know she had cancer of the liver, and the minister who was sure her soul would go to heaven. Afterwards we drove wearily out to Ferncliff, stopping for the red lights, listening to anecdotes by the interminable Mr. Scholz.1 I walked down and found Father’s stone, which I think is good. We must get another one like it.

  This is a very sketchy account of what has been going on these last few days, but I thought you might like to know at least the bare facts. It seems hardly credible that in the course of a single year, Sam and Jessie have gone from this good life.

  Yrs as ever,

  Andy

  To STANLEY HART WHITE

  Thursday

  Bert Mosher’s.

  Belgrade Lakes, Maine

  [1936?]

  Dear Stan:

  I returned to Belgrade. Things haven’t changed much. There’s a train called the Bar Harbor Express, and Portland is foggy early in the morning, and the Pullman blankets are brown and thin and cold. But when you look out of the window in the diner, steam is rising from pastures and the sun is out, and pretty soon the train is skirting a blue lake called Messalonski. Things don’t change much. Even the names, you still hear them: names like Caswell, Bartlett, names like Bickford, Walter Gleason, Damren. Gram lives alone in the chowder house, down by the lake, brooding on days before the farm burnt, hanging draperies the Count sends her from abroad. The lake hangs clear and still at dawn, and the sound of a cowbell comes softly from a faraway woodlot. In the shallows along shore the pebbles and driftwood show clear and smooth on bottom, and black water bugs dart, spreading a wake and a shadow. A fish rises quickly in the lily pads with a little plop, and a broad ring widens to eternity. The water in the basin is icy before breakfast, and cuts sharply into your nose and ears and makes your face blue as you wash. But the boards of the dock are already hot in the sun, and there are doughnuts for breakfast and the smell is there, the faintly rancid smell that hangs around Maine kitchens. Sometimes there is little wind all day, and on still hot afternoons the sound of a motorboat comes drifting five miles from the other shore, and the droning lake becomes articulate, like a hot field. A crow calls, fearfully and far. If a night breeze springs up, you are aware of a restless noise along the shore, and for a few minutes before you fall asleep you hear the intimate talk between fresh-water waves and rocks that lie below bending birches. The insides of your camp are hung with pictures cut from magazines, and the camp smells of lumber and damp. Things don’t change much. Meadow stream has a beginning in the pickerel weeds. If you push along quietly, a blue heron will rise with a heavy squawk and a flap. The ends of logs that jut out are covered with the dung of little animals that come there to eat fresh mussels and wash their paws at the stream-side. Over at the Mills there’s a frog box, sunk half in the water. People come there in boats and buy bait. You buy a drink of Birch Beer at Bean’s tackle store. Big bass swim lazily in the deep water at the end of the wharf, well fed. Long lean guide boats kick white water in the stern till they suck under. There are still one cylinder engines that don’t go. Maybe it’s the needle valve. At twilight, cows come hesitantly down the little woods roads behind the camps to steal a drink in the cove. They belong to a man named Withers. Withers’ cows. Pasture bars are cedar, stripped of bark, weathered grey. On rainy days swallows come and dip water, and the camps are cold. When the wind swings into the north, the blow comes. It comes suddenly, and you know a change has come over things, instinctively. Next day you will see a little maple, flaming red, all al
one in a bog. It’s cold and fearsome by the lake. The wind still holds strong into the second morning, and white caps are as thick as whiskers. When you get back on the road, away from the lake, the road lies warm and yellow, and you hear the wind fussing in the treetops behind you and you don’t care. The rocks in the stream behind the Salmon Lake House are colored red and colored green, where the boats have scraped them under water. The clothesline behind Walter Gleason’s house is flapping with white wash. . . . There’s a house on a hill where a lady lived that used to keep cats. Along the road the apples are little and yellow and sweet. Puddles dry in the sun, and the mud cakes, and yellow butterflies diddle in the new mud. Cow trails lead up slopes through juniper beds and thistles and grey rocks, and below you the lake hangs blue and clear, and you see the islands plain. Sometimes a farm dog barks. Yes, sir, I returned to Belgrade, and things don’t change much. I thought somebody ought to know.

  En

  To HAROLD ROSS

  [North Brooklin, Maine]

  Tuesday

  [August? 1936]

  Dear Mr. R.

  Two matters for your attention.

  I am planning to come to town this Sunday, arriving Monday morning, for a five-day stay. Will be free to take on any commissions which you might like executed, such as Talk rewrite, visits, reporter, etc. Intend to devote the period largely to work, as have not done any to speak of for quite a spell.

  Two: is there anybody (his name might possibly be Gibbs) who would want to write two comment departments for the issues of September 12 and 19, myself to receive no pay during the fortnight? I would like to have a respite from this none-too-arduous composition. . . . Anything Mr. Gibbs or Mr. McKelway or Mr. Thurber or (possibly) Mr. F. P. Adams or Mr. G. Hellman might care to write would, I am sure, be acceptable to me—not that it has to be acceptable to me. Maybe Maloney(?).1 Or perhaps somebody like Mumford. If no one individual wanted to assume the Magnificent Burden, it would probably be quite easy to ask twelve persons each to contribute one paragraph of about 200 words, from which it would [be] simple to make up two departments.

  Will you take these things under advisement and let me know your wishes, etc. We are having splendid weather and I am building a stone wall. I understand that all literary people, at one time or another, build a stone wall. It’s because it is easier than writing.

  Yrs,

  E. B. White

  P.S. Tell your wife we received the beautiful sandalwood butter churn.

  To GUSTAVE S. LOBRANO

  North Brooklin

  August 6, 1936

  Dear Gus:

  It was a relief to hear from you. Kay and I were beginning to regard the silence as somewhat ominous—we thought perhaps you had both got locked down cellar somehow. Speaking of the cellar, don’t let the wine rot. Use it. I like to think of you living like princes. I like to think of you tiptoeing downstairs, the candle throwing its beam on the spidery walls, tiptoeing down and pulling out a bottle of the pink. The pink is delicious, especially in the warm weather. We are having our usual mid-August cold snap here. We drink nothing in the day time, and grow talkative and friendly in the evening on one martini. I swam today in the rain, quietly, without a shiver. There was no wind, and the rain pricked the sea and me, gentling us. I wouldn’t say I particularly like swimming in the rain, yet this was pleasant, and I felt suddenly integrated. My girl Astrid of the plump stern, is serving us well these days. Kay and Nancy and I cruised to North Haven in her last week and had a fine restless windy time of it, the boat never still except at night, the rigging gradually being strained to the point of parting. We slept late mornings and ate flounder for breakfast, and once we thought the fog had us. This coast is nice, that way: you never know, sailing, when you are going to enter the white limbo. The shore suddenly dims and disappears, and there you are, with your ledges, your thoughts, your chart, your wife who is looking for the parallel rulers, and your fix, such as it is. Fog is really the most impressive of all the phenomena. Can’t you come down here for ten days in September and I will show you about it. Or if you are not interested in fog, just come anyway and instruct the sun. I am not supposed to be here in September, but I think maybe I will stay, keeping Joe here. Kay has to be back on the first, but wants Joe to stay, on account of infantile in the city—September being the big month for it. We are near enough Bar Harbor to make it the ideal place for a Town & Country man. And I haven’t had a haircut since the 26th of June. Blueberries are ripe now, and next week corn. I hear there is very little corn in America, but that isn’t true out back.

  Andy

  • When the following letters were written, Katharine White was visiting her father and two elderly ailing aunts in Northampton, Massachusetts, while White and Joel stayed in North Brooklin.

  To KATHARINE S. WHITE

  [North Brooklin, Maine]

  [September 3, 1936]

  Thursday night

  Dear Kay:

  The great stillness has at last descended. Nancy and Roger departed directly after supper, in charge of Bill Schnauzer and Buster. They were headed for the Boston train via the Dirigo Theatre. I believe a bevy, or cluster, of Roger’s female friends are expected at the station to see him off. Tunney [Roger’s bulldog] is moody, with waves of nausea overcoming him at rather short intervals.

  We had a fine, soft rain all last night, steady and wet. Everything was thoroughly drenched at last, including the priming coat on the fence. It still rained this morning, and Joe and I went over to Center Harbor and boarded Astrid to ease the lines. Nance and I sailed her around yesterday morning, lunching aboard and arriving in time for the race.1 The race, incidentally, turned into quite an affair. There was a flat calm at the start, with the boats unable to drift across the line, all jammed together, panting for a puff. They hung that way for about five minutes, then the wind backed into the south and began to blow hard, rippling the Reach into a lovely sun-flecked turmoil. The Beasts sprang away, and Nance cracked up almost immediately, her ruddertrack pulling out. The committee boat towed her in, and then went out to salvage the rest of the fleet. All but three managed to complete one lap, and then turned tail and ran into the harbor. It was a brisk sight; even the harbor was all chopped up with white caps, and in the midst of everything, in ran the Mattie under full press of sail and rounded to off the old steamboat wharf. She looked alarmingly spruced up, and it turns out she has been all re-commissioned and is now a pleasure boat, out of Camden. How are the mighty fallen!2 Nancy was quite disappointed about not finishing her last race of the season, but was sort of glad to be in the harbor. Dick Emery was indignant that the race was called after one lap, and feels that the Haven fleet is growing soft. . . .

  Joe is well and is turning over in his mind an invitation to a picnic supper at the Sturtevants on Saturday. Mrs. S. and Peter were by this P.M., and Peter remained for a visit. Ros and John and Jane [Newberry] came to tea, bringing me a book and carrying away three. According to Rosamond, John is very anxious to play tennis. I am invited to South Brooksville with Joe for luncheon on Monday. Fanny laid an egg on Tuesday, and again this morning. She uses the north stall this year, rather than the south. Greater privacy. The cock has disappeared entirely, after an affair with Freddy.3 I horsewhipped Fred and banished him to the garage, but he seems keen and ready to go.

  The woods and sea are beginning to close in already. The blue heron fishes daily at the frogpond. Darkness falls with the meat course. Joe and I have gathered boughs of red swamp maple, to decorate the back porch. Last Tuesday in a strong westerly the Bemis sloop dragged its mooring clear across the harbor and brought up on the mud. Mrs. B. (Chapey) got her off, with some local assistance. No damage. Madeline’s food has been very good, with a strong trend to meat balls—or what Joe calls lamb chops.4 My health has been good, but I don’t sleep at night because for some reason I can’t breathe when I lie down. Whether this is climate, heart, or an uncured feather pillow, I can’t seem to determine.

  Joe’s latest lit
erary passion is a Camel ad in the funny paper, called “Mysteries of the Undersea World.” It is all about a deep sea diver, whose digestive processes are improved by addiction to a Certain Brand of cigarette. I had to read it four times tonight, and then had to play the piano loud after Joe went to bed, so the undersea creatures would swim out of his thoughts. He announced today that he wanted to write letters, but then said that it was impossible to do it without you.

  Lots of love from us all, & my best to the Northamptonians.

  Andy

  To KATHARINE S. WHITE

  [North Brooklin, Maine]

  [September 1936]

  Wed. aft.

  Dear Kay:

  Just got your train letter, and guess if I post this right away it will catch you before you leave. Everything has been going swimmingly here, and September is a great boon. Things seem immediately better, in applefall. The sweet corn is unspeakably toothsome, and the corners of my mouth ache from the grinding of the salty ears. Joe is still blooming and asks about your return. He screwed up his courage on Saturday and went to Peter’s party, half reluctant. When he and I arrived at the Sturdevants’, the cottage was seething with slightly older boys, yelling and throwing rubber automobiles. Mr. S. and a bulldog dozed in the maelstrom. Joe clung to my hand and had one of his attacks of the shys. But I just deposited him, and soon the party moved down to the shore and from all reports he had a fine time. You should have seen him, on his return, telling me in a half embarrassed, half triumphant way that he had won a prize—for gathering the most firewood.