The Selected Letters of Willa Cather

by Willa Cather

  By the way, Elsie, you must write the Chicago News for translations of the Swedish review. They are fine. The new Swedish edition of “O Pioneers” is one of the handsomest books I have ever seen. I have ordered several from Stockholm, and when they come I will send Mother one. The Swedish looks so funny to me, Mother; like the Petersons’ newspapers I used to bring home from Mr. Cowley’s in a flour sack, on horseback. You remember? A very fine French translation is being made of Antonia, some of the chapters have been sent over to me for suggestions, and it is simply beautiful French, clear as Latin. Miss Herbek [probably Šárka B. Hrbková] was here for dinner last week—I got the dinner—to see about getting the rights for translation into Bohemian. You see the tide seems to be coming in for me pretty strong. It won’t make me any richer, but it makes me a great deal happier, dear Mother.

  We have not been able to have our dear Fridays at home yet, but will begin next week, and on our cards we have written that it is only December and January that we will be at home. That is because I want to go West later,—I mean home, of course. The reason I could not go home for Christmas was that my Publisher came up to Jaffrey to see me and begged me to get as far along with the novel as I could before I broke off, for he is going to England in March, and if he can take about one-half or two thirds of the story in its final shape, he hopes to be able to make good terms for it there. You see Hugh Walpole, author of “The Dark Forest”, is lecturing in this country now, and he talks about my books everywhere he goes, even at dinner parties, “raves” about them the newspaper men tell me, and he says the younger men in England are getting very much stirred up about me. So my publishers think this is the time to try for good contracts in England. I have got about two-thirds of my book written through for the first time; next week I begin to write it through from the first again. Some of it will have to be done over four or five, or even six times, but there is good life and movement through it. I hope I will be at home when it comes out, for it was almost the greatest pleasure I ever had to be at home when Antonia came out, and you and Father were reading it, both of you at once, and I could see how much you really did enjoy it. Yes, I think that was about the most satisfactory experience I ever had. It made me happy the way I used to be when I was a little girl and felt that you were both pleased with me.

  I was at home when “The Song of the Lark” came out, too, but you and father were in Lander, and Douglass was at home, and he was cross about the laundry bill and the book, and sore at Mr. Cotting because he put the book in his window. That was an awful time, and I cried every day and was afraid to meet people. And, anyhow, I had paid the laundry bill!

  Evening

  Why, Mother, your letter has just come, and I had completely forgotten that tomorrow is my birthday! You were so nice to write me. Please thank father for the interest check he sent me.

  Mother, I am so sorry, so sorry, to hear about your eye. Do, do, be careful of the other one! Oh, I am sure it’s come from reading lying down so much,—and I do just the same thing. Don’t do that any more. Don’t read much; get Father to read to you. Don’t fret about being a care to people. The last two summers I have had at home with you and Father, were among the happiest I ever had in my life. I wouldn’t give them up for anything. And I’ll always be glad to come and be with you. You ought to believe that, after the good times we had last summer. I will come in February or March to see you, and then I’ll come again as soon as I get back from France, and I will always be glad to come. Of course, I almost have to have a place here, and if you have a place you have responsibilities, and must keep up to them, but I will always be glad to go home to be with you, and then Elsie can go away for a change. For didn’t we get on nicely last summer, when we had nobody else to help us? It seems to me I can’t remember a single unpleasant moment, except when I got cross about Mrs. Bradbrooks pan! You tell her for me, that I’ll never forget her pan again.

  Dear Mother, I send you such heaps of love. I think daughters understand and love their mothers so much more as they grow older themselves. I find myself loving to do things with you now, just as I did when I was a little girl, and I used to ride up to Aunt Rhuie’s on the horse behind you and feel so proud that I had such a handsome young mother. Oh, I don’t forget those things! They are all there, deep down in my mind, and the older I grow, the more they come to light. Of course, there was a time when I was “All for books” as Mrs. Grice says, and didn’t think much about people. I suppose that had to be; but, thank God, I got over it!

  Oh mother, I would do anything if I could help your dear eye! If you’ll only be good to the other one I’ll come and help you any time.

  So lovingly,

  Willie

  Dear Mother, if you love your daughter, send her some of Margie’s dish towels for Christmas, and a WHITE APRON to meet reporters in!

  I can’t send any presents to anyone this year, but I will try to find something nice for you. I have no time at all, and not nearly strength enough to keep all my engagements. You see, while this little flurry of excitement about my books is on, I must see a great many people, and I must answer their nice letters. I wish, sure enough, that it had waited, like the twins!

  Though Cather still planned to let Houghton Mifflin publish her new novel—or at least she was undecided about it—she did agree to a proposal from Alfred Knopf to publish a book of short stories. The book, titled Youth and the Bright Medusa, came out in the fall of 1920 with four stories that had already been published in The Troll Garden (“Paul’s Case,” “A Wagner Matinée,” “ ‘A Death in the Desert,’ ” and “The Sculptor’s Funeral”) and four new ones (“Coming, Aphrodite!,” “Scandal,” “A Gold Slipper,” and “The Diamond Mine”).

  TO FERRIS GREENSLET

  December 28, 1919

  New York City

  Dear Mr. Greenslet;

  You have probably not followed the controversy in the Tribune about Antonia. The enclosed is an extract. I will tell you what I think about Mr. [Arnold] Mulder’s book [The Outbound Road] when I see you. When, by the way, shall I see you? Is there any chance of your being in town before January 7th? I would like to have a session with you before that date if possible.

  Within a few days I have had to autograph four copies of “O Pioneers!” three of them for publishers, it is true, but they had price marks on the front page, so I think they were honestly bought. The ugliness of that mustard-plaster binding has begun to get on my nerves. I have always hoped that if the book kept alive you would, of your own accord, give it a new binding. Now, won’t you please tell me how many are left bound up in this ugly cloth, and whether you will be willing to give it a new binding in the cloth I sent you sometime ago. The typography is good, and you used to print it on good paper; why not drop the incongruous colored frontispiece, give it a decent binding, and let it look like the book that it has proved itself to be. Please let me hear from you definitely about this. If your people do not want to bother about the book, and would like to get rid of it, tell me upon what terms.

  I have promised Mr. Knopf that he can bring out a new edition of the “Troll Garden” stories, as he has made me very generous terms. This, I am sure will not displease you, as Houghton Mifflin have never shown even a momentary interest in reviving this volume. The plates were destroyed, so it will have to be set anew.

  Mr. Knopf would like, of course, to bring it out in the early spring. However, if you are to bring out “Claude”, there might be some unfairness to you, and incidentally to myself, in letting the impetus of “Antonia” be transferred to this book or earlier work instead of passing it on directly to “Claude”. If you advise, I will stipulate that the volume, which will have a discriminating introduction by an interested person, does not come out until six weeks or two months after Claude. I suppose he will be dashed when I make this condition about the date of publication, but I expect you will agree with me that I had better make it. Knopf will make a handsome book for me, and the introduction will state clearly that
the stories are early work. I think it a sporting proposition in him, and I shall be interested to see what he can do with such a slight book.

  Faithfully yours

  Willa Cather

  P.S. There is a phrase in Miss Birtwell’s letter that ought to direct the advertising of the books mentioned; that the fine thing is rare, very. But your publicity man will never, never be bold enough to use that phrase. What he says is, “All our books are the fine thing, our great country is full of them, genuine interpreters of American life.” With one exception, the page ad in the Bookman, the copy he prepares for me would do just as well for [prolific American novelist] Clara Louise Burnham. Please show your publicity man this post script, and ask him if all books read just alike to him.

  Greenslet was cordial and even optimistic about Cather’s deal with Knopf for the reissue of old material; he thought keeping her name in the public eye would benefit sales of all her books. The staff at Houghton Mifflin, including “publicity man” Robert Newton Linscott, did not much like Cather’s characterization of him in her letter to Greenslet, though. Linscott wrote Cather a cordial defense of the copy he had written on her behalf, though he admitted in his letter that he didn’t like the last half of Song of the Lark and so put off reading My Ántonia. He said he loved My Ántonia after he finally read it, of course.

  TO FERRIS GREENSLET

  January 7, 1920

  Dear Mr. Greenslet;

  [Thomas] Capek’s book on the Cechs [Czechs in America] arrived today. The idea of advertising Antonia so conspicuously on the back cover is a splendid one, so good that I hate to see it spoiled for many people by a stupid mistake. The Bohemian who wrote that letter is a prominent man among his people in Nebraska, as you say; he is well known all over the state; but his name is SADILEK, and your advertising people have printed it Sadiler! Now, I very much doubt if Sadiler could be a Bohemian name at all. Such a needless mistake destroys part of the authenticity and force of the letter. I have several perfectly needless mistakes of that sort against your publicity department.

  Have you forgotten that when you were here you definitely promised me that every line of copy to advertise any of my books should be submitted to me in proof? With a stroke of the pen I could have caught up this foolish mistake. Besides, that was an agreement.

  I am looking forward to seeing you soon. There are a number of things I want to take up with you as soon as I can, not least among them is Mr. Linscott’s remarkable letter. You had better read it before you come, to be prepared, knowing me as you do, for my state of mind. Are there no diplomatic posts vacant?

  I’ve just finished a really fine 15,000 word story that I did for a Christmas treat and to rest my hand from the long book. New York ‘studio episode’, and it’s turned out very well; and it’s opened up a mine of untouched material, a long account in another bank,—on which I can draw pretty heavily when I want to. Attendez-moi!

  Hastily

  W.S.C.

  The 15,000-word story was “Coming, Aphrodite!,” which was first published, in an expurgated form, in the Smart Set in 1920.

  Cather took delight in her nieces and nephews throughout her life, taking time to write them entertaining letters like the one below to her niece about the German American puppeteer and artist Tony Sarg.

  TO MARY VIRGINIA AULD

  [Probably February 21, 1920]

  Dear Mary Virginia;

  Some day when you go over to see Grandmother, you will find this note for a surprise. Several weeks ago Tony Sarg came for tea, and brought one of his marionettes, carried him over in a large paper sack. He was Prince Bo-Bo, from Thackeray’s “Romance of the Rose.” He walked in beside Tony, just like a real man, only very tiny. Tony introduced him to me, and he bowed very politely, and I introduced him to everyone else. I asked him if he would have some tea, but he shook his head and picked up a cigarette out of a tortise shell box someone brought me from Italy. I told him he was too young to smoke, and he tossed it into the fire and fell down upon his face and sobbed piteously, his back just heaved up and down as if he were choking with grief. I told him I was sorry if I had hurt his feelings. Then he wiped his eyes, snuffled a little—Tony does the snuffling—and sat down on my foot, where he sat for half an hour in an attitude of deep dejection, while I poured tea for people. He did not forget his manners, however, and whenever a lady came in, or got up to take her leave, he rose instantly to his feet. When Tony came to take him away, the little Prince took up his feathered hat and kissed my hand very gallantly, and bowed his way out. He really was a wonder; few live men are as entertaining at a tea,—though of course, here, men go to teas, not for the tea but because they want to see the hostess. I do love to live in a world where everybody is polite. Everybody is so much happier. It is merely a habit, anyway, whether people get into the way of saying agreeable things all the time, or disagreeable ones. Never, my dear, get into the habit of knocking! It disfigures people for the company of nice people as much as a hare-lip or a hump nose. Verily, verily, I say unto you!

  I go to the Opera a great deal this winter. My old friend Zoë Akins, who made a lot of money on her successful play, “Declasseé” has season tickets for every Thursday night, splendid seats, near the front, and she comes down in her car for me, and brings me home in her car, so it’s little effort, even if I’m tired.

  I wish you could have seen my little house on Valentine’s day, it was like a conservatory, so full of flowers. I hope you will have a splendid winter, dear. Please give my love to our little neighbor, Helen.

  With heaps of love from

  Your Aunt Willie

  Though Cather seemed to rely on anecdotes from friends for her evidence, she was convinced that Houghton Mifflin was failing to fill orders for My Ántonia correctly and, thus, hurting its sales. Houghton Mifflin claimed that the orders were being filled properly.

  TO R. L. SCAIFE

  February 21 [1920]

  Dear Mr. Scaife;

  Your letter about the supply of “Antonia” in Chicago is a distinct shock. The three people who wrote to me before Christmas were not “investigators”, but bone fide buyers who wanted the book, were unable to get it, and two of them sent me checks, begging me to send a copy if I had one. I am convinced that they had made an honest effort to get the book at home before they took that trouble. It must be, as you say, that they applied to a green salesman, or to several green salesmen. Could the fact that the buyers called my name rightly, and that clerks in bookstores usually call it “Kay-thur” have anything to do with it. It is all nonsense that an unusual name is an advantage in authorship. One had much better be named Jones. Salesmen in New York and Chicago always correct me when I pronounce my own name. Mr. Sell published a paragraph telling people that the name rhymed with ‘rather,’ but if it convinced others, it did not convince the bookstores.

  I will read Miss [Elsie] Singmaster’s book [John Baring’s House] as soon as I have time, but I’m not very hopeful. Like everybody who has ever done editorial work on a magazine, I’ve read scores of her manuscripts. Sometimes they served a useful purpose and we bought them; but there was no more surprise in them than in Kirkman’s laundry soap. Even her faults were not interesting. She not only hadn’t a voice, she seemingly had no ear; she droned along. However, I’ll read her book, since you’ve been kind enough to send it.

  Sincerely yours

  Willa Cather

  In May 1920, Cather left for her fourth trip to Europe. This time she was going to France as part of her research for her new novel.

  TO MARY VIRGINIA BOAK CATHER AND ELSIE CATHER

  May 27 [1920]

  aboard the R.M.S. “Royal George”

  My Dearest Mother and Elsie:

  A week today since we left land, and we land in three days more. I have never had such a restful, peaceful crossing before. The weather has been beautiful, cold but not too rough, and I have felt exceptionally well all the time. Edith is always seasick and has been miserable—had to stay
in her cabin most of the time. I don’t see how she can be so patient. We left New York with our cabin full of fruit and flowers, six baskets of fruit in all and three boxes of flowers; from both my publishers, from Madame Fremstad and other friends. I sent a lot of the fruit down to the children in the steerage and gave one basket of it to Miss Pfeiffer, of Lincoln. As Edith can’t eat any fruit, I am not equal to it alone.

  I saved your letter and Elsie’s to open and read on the steamer. Yes, Elsie, the novelette in my book is the one Mencken bought for the “Smart Set.” [“Coming, Eden Bower,” August 1920, later retitled “Coming, Aphrodite!”] It had to be cut and changed so for the magazine that I don’t see why they wanted it—I really think they wanted me to have the $450 they paid me for it to help me on my travels. They never pay anybody else more than $100, so they make good their faith with works, which is more than most admirers do.

  I liked Miss Pfeiffer when I was a kid, and still like her, but that hard grind has surely worn her out. The suffragettes don’t bother much—some of them are nice and some dreadful. But there are many nice English and French people on board. I do very little but eat and sleep and look at the sea and look at the water, and sometimes think about the new novel that will be so good or so bad. I’ve not many ideas about it, but I’ve a great deal of love and a good deal of faith. Goodbye, now, dearest ones, I will write again from France.

  Willa

  TO MARY VIRGINIA BOAK CATHER

  [May or June 1920]

  Paris