Herself

by Hortense Calisher

  Of course he had no real idea why I was there, nor I—I cd not make him “give” though I pranced about conversationally from several tacks, even giving my best imitation of a silly woman in order to draw him out. Rather fazed me by saying that he always ended up by “interviewing the interviewer”—since of course I do the same. Had a quote from Toynbee under a glass on one of his desks in the anteroom where we waited for him—something to the effect that it is useless for a patriot to die for his country if the country dies with him in a last grand and glorious—etc. From Toynbee,—he wd not commit himself—I got him on to Russell, or rather he got me, and seemed to agree that R., whom I said I admired more, was the clearer writer. I mentioned that T. was a Jungian—no response. Showed me a sort of style dictionary—Updike—from there I tried him on Fowler, little response. Asked me if I had read Zorba the Greek—Kazantkakis—hadn’t alas. Neither of us got much out of our “interviews.”

  Took Bill and Morales to the Overseas Press Club, where B. had kindly got me a press card. Then rested briefly before driving out to U.P. again to record story on tape—I did “In the Absence.” They played it back and I tried not to listen, rather horrified at my voice, which comes over “urban-sophisticated” and rather “superior” in tone. Clipped. Not right for that story. Then to the Ateneo, Loyola Heights—the Jesuit college. Father Bernad, the head, writes for their journal, Phil. Studies, leading Catholic scholar in town apparently, as well as of course one of leading Catholics. Was determined to give it to them within terms of courtesy, and did. Wish I had tape of that! Can’t remember all, but did emphasize that artist’s voice must be “single”—no labels of any kind—said this in one way or other several times. Said Artist was comb. of arrogance and humility—for duration of creating his “world” he must believe in his own judgment—but only for moment—Humility is that of the search. All great and good artists interested in moral values—but must; be unhampered in search for them.

  One student asked typical Jesuit query, “Which is better, good ideas written badly, or bad ideas written well.” Answered—what did he mean by “good” and “bad”?

  At this point Father B., who remained on platform next to me at all times, started explaining me. This, in the pleasantest way (I think), I wd not tolerate.

  He said he “thought I wd agree” that a book abt a murderer, approving same, wd not be a valuable book.

  I replied, “Ah that’s too black-and-white a way of putting it; a book by one of the greatest novelists in the world, Dostoevski, is about a murderer, who, though not “approved” is so presented that we “understand,” and no one who reads it can ever fail to understand the little spark of murder that we may carry about in our hearts.”

  It went on like this, and thanks to the practice of recent days I was able to do right well.

  Was asked by student whether the “sordid” should be portrayed? Went to town on that—said although I wasn’t sure what he meant by “sordid,” certainly what I presumed he meant was a part of life—the human condition was of all kinds and had to be so represented, otherwise we get a glossy, sentimental 19th c. etc., etc. And worse—or rather better. Was asked what Student shd read. I said—“Everything.” Forget what Father B.’s comment was—again an attempt to “explain” or qualify me.

  I turned to him and said: “Father, I believe one must be allowed to read everything—without censorship of any kind.” How else to form taste and judgment? Said that “some people” when they thought of liberty of expression immediately thought of license—I thought rather that liberty implied self-control; latter came only from it.

  Was asked whether writers came more from lower classes, didn’t I think so? Again took off—said we did not have div. quite in the upper-lower way they had—rather one long, gray middle. Laughter on this. Said we had poor, but fewer so poor as here—our differences in class were economic, but mainly we were a middle-class nation.

  One of the Irish Fathers, at the tea and cakes we had after, said, rather worriedly that it was “a good experience for the boys.” How regimented they were, standing up politely—all thru the question, clapping when signaled! Only place I was asked for autographs. Bill D. said after he was sorry he wasn’t present; Sam Capistrano, his ass’t, a Fil. of Baptist descent, had reported all in high glee.

  That evening went to dinner at the Francisco Arcellana’s, to meet all the ones who had been at Iowa. Very dull evening, enlivened only by fact that one of the boys who teaches at Ateneo came in saying that he had prearranged some days ago to drive Father Bemad to join us—but went by, and Father cd not be found.

  Thursday, did my little act at Far Eastern University. As I now know all these U.’s (other than the Catholic)—all private ones, are run as profit-making establishments. Thousands of students everywhere, night and day—when they arrive and leave in the evening they create their own traffic problem. Some of these U.’s necessarily low standard—F.E.U. is apparently fairly high, tho probably not as good as U.P. Very nice young woman, Miss Legarda who had heard me the day before at Ateneo, warned me that her classes here, and much of audience, wd have some lang. difficulty and not be as advanced as U.P. or Ateneo. This true, but we managed to have a lively time—again the “sordid” question. Since this is not a Cath. college in effect, but almost all students wd be, I rather think fame had preceded me.

  Lunch at Harold Scheidmans of the Embassy, Cultural Div., not sure what his job exactly. Handsome villa—the nice ones here run to very large rooms opening into one another, wooden paneled walls, some use of bamboo etc. Mrs. S. a sculptor, some pieces around. He is earnest as opposed to serious, bet there’s an advertising bkgrnd in the woodpile, loves polls of opinion and used wd “media” etc. Teased him consistently about polls, but he has no humor, same with wife. Very competent at his job, which must be some variant of turning paper into ideas, ideas into paper (effect of Jesuits on me!), well meaning and full of the patter, advertising “liberal” with a slight taste for modern art, and with a Mercedes. Which I envied. Much better off, the Merc., in hands of liberal writer. Wish C. and I cd acquire one. Even better off in hands of two liberal writers.

  Liked their guest Ben Legarda, brother of Miss L., as I later found out, economist, Harvard trained, influential family, heads Manila Symphony Board—mother has just been appointed Ambassadress to Vietnam—was much amused at my comment on polls. (Must remember not to carry this salon-manner with me when once tour is over—how awful it wd be—but it is well-nigh impossible not to, just now, given me, and being given my head like this.) Legarda invited me to Sat night’s concert—all Strauss conducted by a grandson of Johann. Other guest of honor is Strickland, conductor, here again after a triumphal tour a few months ago. Much talk abt S.—very handsome, all Filapenas (ladies) adore—also a good conductor. L. said he wd try to arrange to have Strickland accompany me, saying nicely “what an entrance that will be.” Found later, thru sister, that this cd not be arranged, have to go with the S.’s. Shall I wear black puffed sleeves, dangerously like the “mestiza” sleeves, and be regal but not so conspicuous, or the white sheath. Burning question which wd surprise some of my auditors of late.

  That evening went with Bill and Fred Morales to “Traviata” done in Tagalog. Language is soft and very suited to song, much better than Eng. which is awful in opera—did not miss Italian, until a few arias where I realized diff. in words simply because I knew the Ital. Very well sung by a beautiful F. soprano. Costumes good, real flashy-dainty, in the F. way. Later Fred took us to a restaurant where had ice-cream made of carabeo milk and custard-apple. Try that on Gourmet mag. (Saw Barnad at opera—we shook hands. Church will survive.)

  Friday, lectured at Santo Tomas, the less intellectual Cath. U.—Dominicans. More of same. Sam C. said he overheard two of fathers saying afterward “We shd have screened the questions.” Was asked about F. Sagan, as I had been on several occasions. Also the “sordid.” This time I mentioned sex. Right out loud. Said some people equated it with sordid;
I did not. Was asked some complicated Jes. question about “truth in being, error-in-being” for the Catholic. Said I cdn’t answer for C.’s, wasn’t one—a kind of sigh (horror or “I thought so”—an “Ah”) from audience. Very silly audience, high-schoolish, giggled at everything and anything. Some nuns and teachers. In interval three boys came up and did crooning, with a guitarist. First time ever shared platform with crooners. Sorry to say, rather typical of the lower echelons of Cath. educ. Head father nice however afterwards, as well as two women teachers. Third, younger, said very shyly she had heard that yesterday, at Ateneo, I had advised reading everything, “even things on the Index.” Said I hadn’t mentioned Index, but wdn’t mind saying that I wd say this. Cdn’t advise Catholics, but came from a country where freedom of speech was guaranteed for all; I believed that any constriction of freedom protected the few at expense of many, and even this doubtful. Etc. Even spoke of Mrs. Lefon’s pornography case with Father Panizo, who indeed was kind (I remembered A. Christobal’s remark that they wd kill me with dogmatic kindness.) Father said action had been brought by citizens of Holy Name Society—had nothing to do with church. I went along with this, wide-eyed; “then if they were wrong, these citizens, cdn’t the church do something abt?” Oh no, said the Father. Presented me with his autographed book—on function of art. Art and Morals—it is entitled—glanced thru—familiar.

  Whole thing a waste of time, as cd not speak on higher level cd at Ateneo. All a waste of time. Went home and washed hair, and thought of Tabriz.

  Monday, Oct. 6th, ’58

  Am down in “South,” in Visayen country, at Siliman U. which is on the sea, and at the moment houseguest of Edith and Edilberto Tiempo, both writers—he head of Eng. dept here—she a teacher in it. Very open-air villa, climbing orchids outside blinds, lizards running up and down walls, ants along the window sills, and not much water in the pipes. A Presbyterian college, rather sec, I’m afraid, from tone of luncheon guests—but am ahead of myself.

  In last entry, forgot to record that on Thursday Scheidman took me and the Nakpils to lunch. At her insistence we went to the Manila Hotel, Bamboo Room (on the water, and very posh—wish they had quartered me there) so that I might have real F. food. Rice, fish, wonderful salads and vegetables—all somewhat too sweetish for my taste.

  Carmen Guerrera-Nakpil is the columnist for the Chronicle, deemed by all to be most brilliant of all, very easy in Eng. Had met her before at Bill’s party—handsome woman, this day very elegantly attired all in pale blue, down to handmade leather handbag and shoes. (The shoes in this country very elegant—good thing I don’t have time to have some made up.) She and I got along very well—talked of many things alone first, since Scheidman coyly said the scheme was to leave us together. At table however, he was his earnest, heavy self. He was surprised that Faulkner was not “like his works” etc.—I said few writers were, and a lucky thing—Carmen and I agreed loudly that we wd hate to look like our works—she has similar problems with children in schools (Catholic)—she tells them one thing—the school another. Part of her ability to say what she thinks comes from belonging to family she does—father Amb. to St. James; all family has some history of being aristocratic malcontents, I gather. Americans say her position as a writer, and as a woman is limited here, by her being outside a circle, no place to go further. She is reserved, felt we liked each other, but naturally cd not get in deep first meeting. Afterwards Nakpil took me to see the cathedral, now being restored. Exciting to see a cathedral in process, tho indeed nothing like Chartres. Stuff is all being imported piecemeal from Italy, beautiful marbles, bronze angels standing around in crates. Ocampo, the architect took us around—occasional interpolations “The Immaculate Conception will be there, and will arrive shortly.” Downstairs to vaults, where there will be burial room for eleven or so Archbishops, or perhaps a round dozen—I’m always so weak on statistics. Outside the cathedral—squatters. Carmen told me they had been in the bombed cathedral—Archbishop offered them 65 pesos per family to move—obligingly they accepted, and moved—outside the doorstep.

  Saturday, Virginia Moreno of the U.P. writers took me to market (stall) where I bought material for a Maria Clara blouse, of jusi, native woven material, if washed in rice-water should last forever, bought me lanzones—a native fruit, utterly unanalogous to any of ours, fed me a merienda of their special tea and a bibinka—pancake made of rice flour, cheese melted in, and hard-boiled-egg—a fritter, really, eaten with masses of shredded fresh coconut—then we—she, Bill and I—went to the party scheduled for me of the “working” writers. A Miss Mcintosh, Barnard, on U.C.L.A. language project out here, also turned up, wanted to talk about language problem, spoke of F.’s as “they”—rather bewildered by what “we” writers began to say to each other.

  Rushed back to go to all-Strauss (Josef and Johann) concert, conductor a nephew, of same. Wore the black with the big sleeves, because sheath just too warm for this country—and glad I was that formal, since discovered that newspapers had announced Strickland and me as “honored guests for occasion.” Afterwards Ben Legarda, sister, S.’s and I went to the “Old” Selecta, taken by his aunt, a handsome aristocratic type—lovely face—though not an elegante like a Mrs. Paterno (a sugar baroness), who met us on the way to her limo—they are as dainty as Parisiennes when beautiful, and with something of the same taste—elaborate, but superb. Had mango ice cream. Nice gay party.

  Sun. morning Bill took me to plane to Cebu, said the time I’d been here had been a week to remember, etc.—this in answer to my thanks for squiring me around so kindly. Both sad that one meets so many nice people whom one may never see again.

  Plane ride to Cebu (in cramped small plane—but am told PAL is more trustworthy than other mechanical things in this country) was very clear. Terrain around Cebu—rings of small regular cone-shaped hills, rather terrifying since we flew so low—near enough to count the branches on the palm trees, a green doll-country rather like the models-to-scale that museums build, with cottony green vegetation, fuzzed, balled, strung and shaped, matchstick and papiermache—only this was real and we were very near—and these are the mountains over which Magsaysay crashed. In Cebu met by Charles Ransom and wife—she Barnard again. Very nice both. Very intelligent, alert, thinking people—USIS again as distinct from Embassy. Good we have people like this abroad.

  Handsome villa on sea, ten miles out of Cebu. Drove along road at sunset, and this was palmy postcard country indexed. One of the nine novena nights before a feast, people carrying lighted candles and singing as it got dark later on, now gathered in stalls along roadside—each barrio has its own festivals, each group of houses, its people carrying home their suppers, in baskets on heads, dead hens in hand, etc.

  Showered, then into Cebu to “Eddie’s,” a very American place where had a very welcome American steak. Had martinis—in preparation for missionary Silliman. Good talk with Ransom. They are biding extra room but haven’t it yet, so spent night in Capitol Hotel, a facsimile of a hotel. Shower and complete bathroom (no tubs in Islands) but no water runs in pipes, nor did they call me in time for plane—as instructed. Luckily my inner clock worked. Plane had extra passenger, one too many, turned out to be me—apparently someone hadn’t entered the reservation made in Manila. But I rode—a man took the jump seat. To such close weight-tolerance were we, one bag in which I had traveling iron was left behind—turned up somewhere in Vocational School at U. hours later—a boy scout troop had got it. Shall take all 3 back on plane with me today, and hope plane stays up.

  Staying with Edith and Edilberto Tiempo, 4 yrs in Iowa, old friends of Paul Engle.

  October 13th—Bangkok—Monday

  In retrospect the evening with the Ransoms seems especially nice—both superior people—he very keen on his job, she natural, intelligent, friendly—comes of an old vaudeville family. Sorry to leave. Silliman is a Pre. Mission school, very enlightened in some ways comp. to Catholics—in comparison, their somewhat eupeptic Protestantism isn’t
as unpalatable as it might be elsewhere. The Tiempo’s met me—I stayed in their house. Embarrassingly deferential, but this became a trifle more natural as they saw I wasn’t the sort. Both write—they are rather funny together and sometimes spat with each other in class, to great entertainment of all. She has adopted the “American” woman’s attitude toward hubby—what a shame! He has just had a book published by Avon—she does learned reviews, poems, short stories—supposed by some to be the more talented, but rather think she may be the more academic—his mind seemed freer to me. House incredibly hot—thought I wd perish the first night. No water in taps—a pressure problem everywhere in these parts.

  At 7 they were ready for breakfast—oh the missionaries—had workshop in morning—had had one in evening at the Tiempo’s home the night before. Told them they had to read writers other than Americans—they are far too oriented toward us. Truth. Wonder if State Dept. Would approve of that.

  Man whom I’d met before—Dr. Alden of San Jose College, here on language project, came and complimented me on my “stamina.” He had heckled me mildly at one gathering—asked whom I preferred in Amer. Lit, past and present. I’d not mentioned Twain—he asked why, what wd I take on a desert island, of Twain’s? Said I had to confess a preference which might seem odd in this company—T.’s Epistle to the People Sitting in Darkness (his vitriolic essay agin missionaries.) It wasn’t only the old debbil rising in me; I do love that thing, and quoted it in “Two Colonials.”