Letters of E. B. White

by E. B. White

  The question of “style” is a vexing one, always. No sensible writer sets out deliberately to develop a style, but all writers do have distinguishing qualities, and they become very evident when you read the words. Take Hemingway and Willa Cather—two well known American novelists. The first is extremely self-conscious and puts himself into every sentence and every situation, the second is largely self-effacing and loses herself completely in the lives of her characters.

  Sorry not to give you more assistance but you can appreciate my predicament.

  Sincerely,

  E. B. White

  To ROBERT L. SMOCK

  [New York]

  April 18, 1955

  Dear Mr. Smock:

  Thanks for your letter and the suggestions.

  Quite a number of children have written me to ask about Stuart. They want to know whether he got back home and whether he found Margalo. They are good questions but I did not answer them in the book because, in a way, Stuart’s journey symbolizes the continuing journey that everybody takes—in search of what is perfect and unattainable. This is perhaps too elusive an idea to put into a book for children, but I put it in anyway.

  I appreciate your taking the trouble to write, and my best to Peggy and Polly.

  Sincerely,

  E. B. White

  • Deane W. Malott had written White to ask him to attend an alumni-faculty panel discussion. White refused, but he had been amused by Deane W. Malott’s signature. White’s own initials, on his note to Lobrano, were penned in imitation.

  To GUSTAVE S. LOBRANO

  [New York]

  [May, 1955]

  Loby:

  Thought you might like to see the signature of the President of Cornell. It looks like the track of a figure skater who got drunk on the eve of the finals.

  Yrs. for higher education.

  EBW

  To HOWARD CUSHMAN

  Chagford

  Devon [England]

  15 June 1955

  Dear Cush:

  They say down in Maine for a very good reason. Sailing boats used to be the principal means of getting to and from Boston, and since the prevailing winds along the coast are SW, Maine was a down wind sleighride, while Boston and New York were uphill all the way for the mariner. Next question.

  Your letter reached me in London, where I was not smelling any dung or compost but was trying to dodge in and out of a Mayfair hotel without being seen by any of the innumerable employees. Finally we beat it for here, rail strike and all. The only employee at this hotel is named Valerie, and she sneaks in at 8 a.m. with coffee and bacon and leaves me at peace with my whisky and Schweppes water the rest of the day. I have become a walker, except I have no brogues, no stick, no pack, and no cap. I do carry a Mac, though, rolled neatly, for the little downpours between the bright intervals.

  Chagford has the distinction of having once used the same body of water for its drinking supply and its drainage system—as neat an arrangement as I’ve ever heard of. A poet was murdered here, but not recently. The inn was built in the 15th century, and you can sit on a can named “the Improved Vesta” and gaze out at a thatched roof. The countryside is incredibly beautiful—if I were a sheep I wouldn’t live anywhere else. Day starts at 5, with the chorus of ring doves and cuckoos outside the window. Sunset about 9:30.

  We may visit the Cotswolds but we are fairly immobile, because I’m scared to drive a car here and it’s too costly to have a driver. Also we may fly to Frankfort to see Joe, who is a PFC in the Army at Gelnhausen.

  . . . One of my memories of departure from New York is that smell of demolishment. One nice thing about England is, nobody has knocked anything down in nine hundred years—except the Germans.

  Yrs,

  Andy

  To MRS. JOEL M. WHITE

  The Connaught Hotel

  London, England

  7 July 1955

  Dear Allene:

  Your letter with the good news about the Gelnhausen apartment got here a few minutes ago, brought into our sitting room by the beautifully-dressed hall porter and handed to us as we sat at breakfast trying to decipher the London Times. The railways and dockers strike is quite tense in England, but the Times is equally concerned with the odd behavior of a British bird and is not thrown out of its routine by a mere stoppage of trains and ships. Lots of people feel that the strike is going to spread and attain almost the proportion of a general strike, and we don’t feel at all sure about our return passage in the Queen Elizabeth next month.

  [INTERRUPTION]

  8 July

  I am anxious to get out of London as soon as possible—the life in this plush hotel is getting me down. Never has so much comfort made one man so uncomfortable. I can take the Boston Ritz in my stride because the employees are reasonably surly, but I am miserable in the hands of the British serving class. Neither K nor I had any idea the Connaught was so upstage—somebody told us the food was good, so we plumped for it. My experiences in London so far have been so grotesque I’m preparing to write a piece called “Courage, England, I’ll soon be gone!”

  Anyway, we shall probably head for Oxford and the Cotswolds in three or four days. Maybe if I could look a sheep straight in the eye I would regain my composure, but I don’t even fully trust a British sheep not to call me “Sir.”

  [INTERRUPTION]

  It is now Thursday, [July] 9, and for 48 hours I’ve been trying to sit still long enough to write this letter. In desperation I have taken to bed. K is in the next room being interviewed by the Sunday Times. Yesterday morning I was interviewed by a remarkably disagreeable woman from the Daily Express. Yesterday noon we had Mollie Panter-Downes and her husband to lunch in the hotel restaurant and I have never been so pushed around by wine stewards, captains, and waiters—all of whom know I can’t read French, don’t understand wines, and am a soft touch when not too confused. It was a thoroughly bad occasion in Mayfair for all concerned. From lunch K and I went to 4 o’clock tea in the sacrosanct offices of Punch in Bouverie Street, arriving in a shower of rain. We were escorted first to the editor’s office and then to the room where the editors foregather every Wednesday around a table carved with the initials of the great. It is quite possible (although I’m not sure) that K is the first female ever to cross this holy threshold. Tea was brought in by serving people, and I had the great good sense and guts to ask for whiskey instead. The Punch people politely followed my lead, and I managed to get Punch a little stewed in the middle of the afternoon—most un-British, but jolly good fun. When we took our leave, the editor Mr. Muggeridge and 2 others of the staff took us to the street and all went dashing about to get us a cab. Our next date was the theater—(at 7:30!) so we had a martini and a sandwich in our room and a tomato juice in the “interval,” and were too exhausted to dine afterwards (at 10:30) and simply finished off our private supply of crackers and went to bed. I’ve lost 12 pounds since arriving in London—part fatigue, part simple starvation. Our most recent plan is to leave Monday by car, and go to a hotel in Chagford, Devonshire, operated by a friend of Betsy Warner’s.

  As to Germany, we still don’t know whether to attempt it. If we can recapture our health in Chagford, we shall probably fly over to Frankfort; but London has really knocked us both out. One thing that has happened is that I’ve lost my courage about driving a car in England—the roads are crowded with lorries because of the rail strike, and I would kill myself if I tried to drive on the left in my present state.

  Is there anything we can do to help you get off? We have not had a letter from Joe yet. How should we address our letters to him from here—should we send them to Co “E” 12 Inf. Regt. Gelnhausen, Germany, instead of APO 39 NY? The most fun we’ve had in London was buying Martha a dress at Liberty’s.

  Everyone says the air trip across the ocean is easy, and they say to take sleeping pills along. Whether that applies to the mother of two babies I wouldn’t know. What you probably need is something to knock Steve out for the duration. A pint
of rye, perhaps. Excuse this awful letter. It carries loads of love love love.

  Dad

  To HOWARD CUSHMAN

  North Brooklin, Maine

  11 August [1955]

  Dear Cush:

  I don’t think I ever thanked you for the Omsk poem, which reached me when I was dizzy from travel (England) and heat (New York) and when—come to think of it—I was sitting in nothing but my trunsk. I made an effort to bring your poem to the attention of the editors of the New Yorker, but I think they were barely conscious and it did not get taken. Willie Strunsk would have liked it, though; but Willie is dated, alas, and so are the days when poems had hearts that were young and gay and were written by extroverts and drunsk. Nowadays they are written by the late Dylan Thomas, who drank more than any of us but wasn’t relaxed enough.

  I have two grandchildren living in the top floor of a farmhouse in a small village in Germany. This seems to me absolutely incredible, and every time I think about it I give myself a sharp rap on the side of the head to test whether I can still pick up routine sensations. It seems odd enough that you and I are grandfathers, but I be god damned if I can get used to this particular circumstance. Joe’s wife wrote me that Steven (my grandson) wears lederhosen, sticks his hands in his pockets like a Bavarian hotel keeper, and plays cricket with the little German boy in the next house.

  K and I are sitting here waiting quietly for the two hurricanes that are promised us, and on the whole we are enjoying a peaceful interlude. Hope you, too, are at peace and in good health.

  Yrs,

  Andy

  To HOWARD CUSHMAN

  [North Brooklin, Maine]

  [Summer, 1955]

  HINDSIGHT THROUGH GUNSIGHT PASS

  Or, Anybody With Half an Eye in Yakima Could Have

  Foreseen What Is in Germany and Maine1 Today

  Was Cush his time investing

  Simply to make some westing?

  What sought they thus afar

  In their small trembling car?

  Was White inviting

  His soul for writing?

  Don’t be ridiculous!

  Like migrant birds questing

  They sought grounds for nesting.

  Cushman and White

  Were in spring flight,

  Scrawling in youth and happiness

  The prelude to grandpappiness.

  Andy

  • The piece discussed in the letter that follows was the first of the “Letter” pieces that White was to write during the next few years. “Letter from the East” was dated December 10, 1955, and The New Yorker ran it in its issue of December 24.

  To WILLIAM SHAWN

  North Brooklin, Maine

  Friday 9 Dec [1955]

  Dear Bill:

  This piece is timely, on account of the stuff about Christmas trees, etc., and I may be springing it on you too late. It is also a sensationally slight piece, and if you don’t care for it, or if it means a lot of rearranging of the book, the thing to do is send it back and I can probably salvage quite a bit for a possible later Letter.

  I tried various heads and now lean to Letter from the East. Seems to me that if I can latch on to the four points of the compass, I can manage anything. A letter from Nome or from 110th Street would be Letter from the North. A letter from Third Avenue would be from the East. And so on. I tried such words as Letter from Hereabouts, but didn’t come up with anything I liked.

  Am also enclosing some source stuff that might be of use to checking.

  Best regards,

  Andy

  To PAUL BROOKS

  [New York]

  January 12, 1956

  Dear Paul:

  I have no objection to that quote. I guess I said it all right, although I don’t recall the circumstances.

  I had forgotten Weeskaijohn. I did read your piece, though, when it came out in the Atlantic, and enjoyed it. David Thompson’s description of the whisky-jack is so close to a description of me as to be acutely embarrassing: “. . . is easily taken by a snare, and, brought into the room, seems directly at home, when spirits is offered, it directly drinks, is soon drunk and fastens itself anywhere till sober.”1

  The Canada Jays mentioned in my “Letter” were the first I had ever seen around our place in Maine. I spotted another bird last summer that thoroughly baffled me. It belonged, I’m pretty sure, to the family of jaegers, skuas, fulmars, etc., and it used to take a bath in the freshwater pond in my pasture. Its wings were somewhat more dagger-like than a gull’s and in the air it ranged about very rapidly. I never identified it to my own or anybody else’s satisfaction, but I thought fondly of it the other day when a fulmar showed up in New York and the Times reported the intense disappointment of the museum authorities on having to release it. Seems they hoped it would die so they could stuff it.

  Best regards,

  Andy

  To GUSTAVE S. LOBRANO

  229 East 48

  [January 14?, 1956]

  Saturday

  Dear Gus:

  My latest missive from Mike [Galbreath], received this morning, ended “Give Gus my best”—so I hasten to pass the greeting along. The word PERGE also appeared on the postcard, so I pass that along too. What we all need is a lot more, and better, perge.

  I am just winding up a four-week spell of New York stomach, but I think I’m coming out on top. Passed my annual physical exam at the Medical Center this week, but didn’t enjoy it as much as a year ago, when the electrocardiogram operator (a female) asked me my age and whether I had had any drugs that morning. And I replied “Fifty-five, and I’ve had nothing but a little opium.” My heart reacts with increasing irritability to the EK machine as the years roll on. But I don’t mean to dwell on my own health at any length, as yours is so much more pertinent. How are you? I get reports here and there, mostly in the vicinity of the water cooler. I was saddened to learn of the return of phlebitis and all those lousy injections, and I hope you’ll soon be released from that, and that we can all converge on Hawley’s [Truax’s] gall bladder, which is certainly the gayest of them all and has, in my imagination, almost the quality of a May pole.

  There is not much news that I can bring you from the Outside World because I don’t get to the Outside World as often as I used to, and sometimes days slip by without my picking up any information at all. But I hope you heard the Sevareid broadcast last night, when he described how most of the members of the Cabinet had stabbed themselves in the back with their own pen, starting with Dulles and ending with Benson’s remarkable communication in Harper’s.1 His description of the Republican stalwarts with sharp quills sticking out of their flesh was quite funny. Anyway, I am cheered up when I see our political giants discovering that the lil ole writing game isn’t quite the sleighride they like to think it is. After the events of the last couple weeks, I think the entire Cabinet wishes it had never heard of the printed word. What will probably result from these pratfalls will be a great speedup in the investigation of MAGAZINES.

  Well, good old 1956! Whatever it brings to our frail bodies, it’s going to bring a lot of wonderful TV and radio listening to our tired old ears. I dearly love a presidential year. What capers! What laughs and spills! And—at the end of the line—a real, live President. And the people’s choice at that.

  Get well. These are great times.

  Love,

  Andy

  Perge!

  To STANLEY HART WHITE

  229 East 48 Street

  21 January 1956

  Dear Bun:

  Except for waves of nausea that glide through me on their little cat feet, I’m fine. We greatly enjoyed the plant you and Blanche sent us and it served as our table piece for many days, flanked by a couple of candles that arrived from Germany, where all my direct descendants seem to have drifted. The two gifts combined beautifully and your plant bloomed with great ferocity and shed many a glow—and of the right color for the diningroom. We had our Christmas dinner out at Roger’s house, a fe
w miles north of here on the Hudson, where there is always plenty of food and drink and action and cats and dogs and granddaughters. I really enjoy Christmas best when I can just sit back and drink and let somebody else work it out, which is the case when I go to Roger’s. The news from Joe is pretty good. He gradually maneuvered the Army into a seven to five job as company clerk—which wasn’t too hard, as he seems to be the only person in his company who can read and write. So he is able to be with his wife and children quite regularly, with time out for occasional field trips. We received quite a batch of good snapshots the other day, and now know in a general way what Steven and Martha look like. Steve talks and thinks almost entirely in German and acts as interpreter (at the age of two) for his Pa and Ma, who still think in English. . . .

  Do you expect to come east in 1956? Somebody told me you were going (or had gone) to California for a while on a teaching job. But I hear all kinds of things. I am looking forward to 1956 because I love political oratory and rallies and suspense. My prediction is that the right man will win. I don’t know how he’ll manage it, but he will.

  Yrs,

  En

  P.S. I saw a very old single-cylinder Palmer engine recently and it started me thinking about the Jessie. I would like to know the true story. Did you and Al frame and plank the boat? And where did you get the molds? Did you install the engine? I was pretty young and remember only that there was a fuss out there in the barn, and also I recall the day the motor was given a dry run. Didn’t some professional boatbuilder show up to perform the finishing touches? And how in hell did Father ever get the Jessie to Great Pond from Summit Avenue? I used to love to steer the boat, but was disappointed that there was no way to sit directly behind the wheel—always must sit either on one side or the other. This meant sighting along a deck seam, which I didn’t care for. I wanted to sight straight across the prow.