The Selected Letters of Thornton Wilder

by Thornton Wilder

  You broke the approach of friendship; you made discussion impossible; and you became a hysterical bore.

  That’s what the practice of hate does. By design and by your own confession, you employed hatred as an administrative method from the beginning. It took; and the blood has rushed to your head ever since. Now you imagine that everyone hates you and you plunge from one distorted position to another.

  For God’s sake, clear your head.

  You have a large theatrical property.

  Manage it judiciously, and from a distance.

  It’s a play basically requiring high standards; maintain them.

  Don’t listen to Shubert Alley wise-guy advice; they don’t know anything about this kind of property.

  See that it satisfies the highest type of audience in every town,—then the hoi-polloi will follow. But if you direct it to the hoi-polloi, they won’t like it and you’ll have lost any solid following.

  You have my friendship waiting for you when you’ve emerged from your illness, and show yourself again an able business man; a cool clear administrator; and a worker in the arts who is unshakeably set on only being connected with the highest standards procurable.

  When you can assure me of that, I’m

  Your old friend,

  Thornton

  201. TO ISABELLA N. WILDER. ALS 2 pp. Yale

  Censored

  T.N. Wilder

  HQ NAAF A-5

  APO 650

  c/o Postmaster NY NY

  Sept 15 1943

  Dear Mom:

  Lovely long letter from you.

  I am delighted to learn from you that I am the one of your children who is now most a subject for your concern; for I am not likely to cause you any beyond what your imagination can invent. The city I was in for a month and a half had many mosquitoes, but the citizens were proud to say that none of them had been carriers for ten years. This is hard to understand, because the city was very dirty, as they all are here. At present I am about 10 miles from another famous city; here the mosquitos are carriers and we sleep under nets. A number of my colleagues have had short fits of malaria, dysintery, etc. I suffered with the latter for one day. I confess I do not take the atropin tables urged on us by the Medical Corps and placed in every mess. I don’t like drugs of any kind, unless you call whisky a drug and I get none of that here. Africa is the continent of insects. I think using Lifebuoy soap has kept me fairly unmolested.

  A-5 has moved into a wealthy Mohammedan’s villa. Seven rooms about a large central court. Hideous “European” murals. A Squadron Leader; (i.e Major) a Flight Lieutenant (Captain) and I share a room, and are a congenial and gratifying example of “combined staff” harmony. The Mediterranean is a heavenly blue. The place-names of the region are famous in warfare, ancient and modern.

  It’s true that I was in one raid which I shall remember as the most magnificent display of pyrotechnics that a small boy could imagine. 40 planes of the enemy did little damage and were driven off with losses. It was at 4:00 a.m. and you know how I like early rising.

  I loved your going to Hartford to shop with Mrs Burton, and would like to see what you both bought. And I loved Isabel’s account of your gira100 to Boston, the Pioneer, the visit backstage, etc. And I liked best your determined resolve to live well past 90. Take care of yourself, especially on those back stairs. Try not to be a concern to me and I’ll take care not to be one to you.

  Lots of Love,

  Thornt.

  202. TO ISABELLA N. AND ISABEL WILDER. ALS 2 pp. Yale

  Mediterranean Air Command APO 512

  c/o Postmaster, NY, NY.

  Dec. 20(?) <1943>

  Dear Ones:

  A new address

  I don’t dare think how long it may have been since I last wrote.

  We moved because we have a big piece of new work to do, and we had to begin the work before and during the work. We’re back in the second city in which I was stationed before. I love it when the work is concrete.

  This afternoon when we asked our boss, the Group Captain, whether there was to be a “office conference on progress” he stopped and thought a minute and said, “No,—my advice to all of you is to go out and take a long walk.” Oh, boy,—I walked home and took a nap which was mighty welcome.

  Now, dears, I gotta tell you an awful thing,—I am now established in a billet of delicious comfort!! It weighs on me. Two other officers and I have a 5 room apartment on the main street of the city (elevator and everything); we have a bonne à tout faire,101—une “perle”,102 who adores us. We draw comestibles from the quartermaster and she cooks our breakfasts and dinners. The minute we take off a piece of clothes she whisks it away and washes and irons it, and refuses to think of keeping a record and being paid for it. What’s more, her soups are delicious, her coquilles (from G.I. salmon with bechamel sauce), everything.

  She is slightly touched with what G. Stein calls “cook-stove craziness”; but I like her fine and she’s recounted the story of her 56 years to me with details which would have startled the late Delia Porter.103

  I get up at quarter to seven from between real sheets. I bathe cold, but I could bathe hot, if I dared manage the alarming looking geyser which has a pilot-light on, like a perpetual votive flame. I take bus, tram or hitchhike a considerable distance to the hut (“Nissen hut”) in which my desk is. Lunch at “Senior Officers’ Mess”. Start home about 7. Loud welcomes from Françoise. Dinner and early to bed to read a little Balzac before turning out the light. Such are the rigours of war.

  Another thing has arrested us all from writing. No one can settle for us what our address is. We have risen one echelon higher, yes, ma’am. I am now the head of Mediterranean Air Command Air Plans III. All MAC is one APO number. Should we or not, include our section? Is it a breach of security? Yet if we omit it, would correspondence ever reach us?

  Darlings, your packages are piled up in one corner of my armoire. Christmas day will be like any other day probably; but one of my housemates has ordered a turkey from a farmer (an American!) 15 miles from this city, and that we’ll have on the Eve and I’ll open my packages by myself in my luxurious bed after dinner.

  Dec. 21

  Again interrupted.

  Work increases. I love it, and enjoy the approval of my bosses. Someday I shall a tale unfold.

  This letter’ll never get off, if I don’t give it up to the Sgt. now.

  Look at the date.

  We don’t even think Xmas yet.

  But

  tons of love

  Thornton

  203. TO EVELYN SCOTT METCALFE.104 ALS 2 pp. Tennessee

  T.N. Wilder, Major AC

  HQ MAAF

  APO 650

  U.S. Army

  July 28. 1944

  Dear Mrs Metcalfe:

  Indeed I understand very well the assumption behind your letter that Charlotte judging by her letters may be soon permitted to return to normal living.105 We have it often, too, after a visit to her when her conversation for the most part gives every indication of being restored to herself. I have not seen her since I came overseas, more than a year ago. For a time she had seemed to benefit greatly from the shock treatments and several of the nurses said that they had never seen such improvement in her type of illness.

  Unfortunately, however, the lucid interval and the balanced letter are only a part of the story. For us the distressing part is the sudden bottom falling out of a conversation and the disappointment to our hopes: the sudden insistance that she has only been ill a year; the announcement that there are many people going around in the world saying that they are Evelyn Scott or Thornton Wilder, but that they aren’t and that we must protect ourselves against them. From the doctors’ point of view a still more conclusive reason that she is not well enough for removal is the fact she towards the doctors—all of whom have been unfailingly tactful and discreet—she maintains an implacable silence & pretends not to see nor hear them.

  Fortunately
for my own reassurance that no injustice is being done Charlotte’s opportunity for the best surroundings conducive to her recovery is the fact that Dr Tom Rennie, the head of the Psychiatric Section of the NY Hospital and one of the most distinguished doctors for mental illness in the country is a friend of mine; has interested himself in Charlotte’s case and is able to read the reports which we are not allowed to see. He assures me that there is still a measure of hope that she may rejoin the outside world and that he will continue to follow her case and let us know when he thinks that she has sufficiently recovered to justify a change of background.

  Sincerely yours

  Thornton Wilder

  204. TO ISABELLA N. AND ISABEL WILDER. ALS 2 pp. Yale

  HQ MAAF APO 650 Oct 17, 1944

  Dearest Twain: Suddenly I’m aware again that quite a time must have elapsed since I last not only vowed each morning to get a letter off before the day was over, but did it. My days are more and more cluttered with other duties than my military. The American service personnel who are interested in putting on plays have urged me to let them do Our Town, and I can’t offer any very good reasons not to, so a group of soldiers with little theatre and professional experience and some WACs are already rehearsing. In addition, I was pushed into being Acting Chairman—I at least insisted it was only “acting”—of the committee supervising all productions at the Hq., and now there’s a perfect fever of theatre going on.—there were highly successful runs of “Outward Bound” “Rope” “French without Tears” and <“>Pirates of Penzance” and now four companies are rehearsing Arsenic and Old Lace, Blithe Spirit, Tons of Money and Our Town. All this requires a lot of coordination and committee and club meetings, and is accompanied I’m sorry to say with a lot of underground politics and some very bitter feuds. I’m getting out of the chairmanship as soon as I can, and will restrict myself solely to overseeing the Our Town. ¶ The Wing Commander is back from his wedding journey106 and the eternal teasing of him by the entire staff will soon die down, speriamo.

  TNW as a lieutenant colonel in the Army Air Force.

  TNW as a lieutenant colonel in the Army Air Force. Courtesy of Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

  The capitols of enemy held Europe, are falling<.> Riga and Athens these last few days; two more any day now.

  We gave a goodbye party to another of our staff who got an appointment at the Pentagon. I was told the same could be had for me for the asking but I replied that I didn’t want to go there or home, until this mighty action had seen its ending.

  It’s getting colder, dearies. I don’t wish to harrow my mama, but it certainly is idiotic the way that during the day I forget to call up the billetting officer and ask for another blanket. I only think of it nights when it’s too late!! So I put rolls of Sunday NY newspapers under my lower blankets—newspapers are very good insulation—and my heavy raincoat over my feet and over the two other blankets—can you bear it, mother?—and make out very well. Today, and no later, I shall call up and arrange for everything. My colleagues who were here last winter say that seven blankets is par.

  Rê Xmas presents. Well, dears, edibles are highly welcome. Due to my not going to mess at noon and merely nibbling sweets. From the PX we can draw unlimited fruit juice so that prevents my picnic lunches from being downright deleterious. What is most deleterious, however, is sitting down to a full dinner at noon. As for the rest, any practical clothing from underwear to sox are also welcome. Heigh-ho—what I want most is to give you some big hugs and lie on the hearth rug and listen to the radio describing the reconstruction activity after the war.

  lots of love and you’ll hear from me oftener.

  Thine Thorny

  P.S. I’m still in top health, girls, explain it.

  205. TO ISABELLA N. AND ISABEL WILDER. ALS 2 pp. Yale

  HQ MAAF APO 650 c/o P/M NY NY Nov. 10, 1944

  Dear Ones.

  Such fascinating packages arriving from you every day. The smaller ones I shall dip into as comestible in order to augment my picnic lunches,—ie that retirement to my tent, disdaining the plethora of the mess, and opening a can of fruit juice, etc, etc, reading a few pages of Freeman on Lees Lieutenants or Croce on old Naples,107 occasionally catching a cat’s nap, etc.

  Our Town rehearsals go on pretty well. I’ve rec’d very high approval for the transfer from an air combat unit of a sergeant who was asst stage manager at the Los Angeles production—so I won’t have to give so much time to it. The “Stage Manager” does pretty well, but he’s atrocious in the clergyman’s speech at the wedding. How that must have been misread in the many small-town productions. It’s not a small-town comment on the ceremony!

  I loved your letter on the garden. I love all your letters and don’t deserve them. Its downright abysmal how few I write: between rehearsals on alternate nights; Hq. Theatre Club committees (very stormy) on other nights; a new military committee I’m on and which requires writing up reports on other nights, I get very little time. Since with old fashioned scrupulousness I refuse to using the working day for such things. This minute it is 0825 and my colleagues have not yet appeared.

  Nice letters from Eliza and Rebeckah Higginson.108 Helen Hawey<?>109 sends me impetuous greetings from time to time and even got a book to me without my having requested it (Little Coquette—tepid Tilleul)110

  Day follows days with an featureless uniformity, a sort of winter quarters monotony. Some pleasant new officers have joined our section to replace those who sweated to get themselves into the Pentagon. An order suddenly closes all civilian restaurants in Italy to service personnel, so the little Italian grape arbor trattoria to which I took many an acquaintance is now out of bounds. I paid a last visit to Signora Napolitano (the family name) and to little Catarina (aged 10—but what a capable little manageress since she speaks Inglis) with many protestations of undying affection.

  The wedding which I practically staged is a great success in many ways. Already Mrs L. (Flight-Officer WAAF) knows she is to become a mother, so by regulations she is hustled back to England by the first boat, discharged from the service (tho’ honorably) and generally encouraged to increase the population of the United Kingdom. I have been a very close party to all this, even my rich store of learning in gynecology being put to service, so there’ll be lots of tears to shed when Eileen leaves her husband and “loco parentis”.

  Oh angel-mama, the letter I wrote to make you happy, succeeded only in distressing you. I cannot repeat too often that I love my tent and my fixtures and my getting up and my lying down. It’s not only comfortable in itself, but I have a temper which finds things comfortable about me, what a fortunate young man, and how devoted to his mother and sister to whom he sends his love

  Thorny

  206. TO EILEEN LE GRAND. ALS 2 pp. Private HQ MAAF APO 650 U.S. Army.

  Feb 15 1945

  Dear Eileen:

  You can imagine with what absorbed interest I read your letter (and reading correctly, I hope, still further between the lines) and with what interest I listen to Roland as he thinks aloud about you, which he loves to do with such moving affection.

  I try to imagine what the life is like there. I’m angry angry angry at the weather. There’s nothing harmful about outdoor cold as long as one is warmly dressed and if there is, at least occasionally, sunlight. Its long been noticed that very young children thrive on outdoor cold, if they’re warmly dressed. Their faces seem not only bear the cold better than ours, but even rejoice in it. But, oh. I wish you had more sunlight.

  I’ve been thinking over, as you asked me to, some occupation for your time and attention that can remove you at least for a few hours every day from the routine-domestic and the self-occupied reverie. (There’s nothing wrong in itself with long meditative hours about yourself and Roland and the child; its only that there comes the moment in such thoughts daily when they start repeating themselves and going around in circles; that is the moment when they turn into
dejection, or worry, or self-pity, or conscious loneliness: and that moment one must rise firmly above and occupy oneself at something else.) Rê all this I remember my dear Gertrude Stein once saying that ‘the business of life is to create a solitude that is not a loneliness’’. And that’s where the fine arts and the intellect and each person’s creativity comes in. My regards to MM.111

  What I am going to suggest is this that you set aside a number of hours every week to go to the University or municipal libraries (if you find yourself getting interested this may turn into several hours a day) to read and study systematically: the Psychology of Children. I have known a number of young mothers whose friends or doctors placed such volumes in their hands, but they read them only desultorily. They were too absorbed in maternity itself; they told themselves that the “maternal instinct will enable them to supervise the early years of their children, etc.” But it is a science, and one which has made extraordinary advances in modern years. Moreover, it is a profession requiring training and skill. I hope (and there is every reason to believe) that you and Roland will live a long long happy life together; but maturity teaches us to look in the face all the accidents which might arrive in the future. It is only one advantage of the project I suggest that if under certain contingencies you could demonstrate that you were well-read in the psychology of children you would find yourself eagerly sought after. one thing we’re sure of in the world of the future is that the Governments are going to interest themselves in the physical and mental well-being of children.

  The one drawback against the above suggestion is that the latest studies about it are full of material which laymen would call: “unwholesome.” The world’s authority is Dr Anna Freud, whom I know, the daughter of the great Doctor. Don’t begin, then, with the psychoanalytic books on the subject; save them until the later stages. The really important thing now is that your mind is principally filled with confidence, gratitude, and proud tenderness. Whatever vexations the daily life and the weather and separation and the stringencies of wartime living may bring, do, do combat as far as possible any mental inroads on your sovereign mind: there we can all be rich, serene, and (blessèd word) independent. Perhaps one way to combat just such vexations is to tell Roland about them (and me, if you had time; or me through Roland). He won’t misunderstand as long as you can assure him that you’re also proud and happy to be Mrs Le Grand and mother.112 God bless you,