by Willa Cather
Devotedly always
Willa Cather
TO BLANCHE KNOPF
December 31 [1927]
Red Cloud, Nebraska
My Dear Blanche;
What an amazing and magnificent Christmas Box you sent me. The children of the family were all so excited about the box and so thrilled by its contents—so many kinds of food they had never seen before. They all vociferously join me in thanks to you. It has been a fine country Christmas; zero weather, snow, the house full of nieces and nephews, my brothers from Wyoming and California dashing in for a few days. Mother and father are both very well, and all the townspeople have been unusually jolly. I really am a farmer, and this kind of life suits me better than any other. I’ve got loose from Bank street, and I think the next step will be to get away from New York altogether.
I shall be here for two or three weeks yet, and then start for Arizona. I’ll telegraph you when I leave Red Cloud, so until you hear from me please have my letters sent on here[.]
The river is frozen over, and I’m going skating with a lot of youngsters this afternoon—they still do such things here. Altogether, it’s like stepping back about twenty years. It’s refreshing to find that one can still get so much excitement out of weather and wind and ice and snow.
A Happy New Year to you, dear Blanche, and to Alfred and his father, and my deepest thanks for all the many nice personal things you have done for me in this year of confusion and up-rooting.
Yours
W. S. C.
PART EIGHT
Years of Loss
1928–1931
But these vanishings, that come one after another, have such an impoverishing effect upon those of us who are left—our world suddenly becomes so diminished—the landmarks disappear and all the splendid distances behind us close up. These losses, one after another, make one feel as if one were going on in a play after most of the principal characters are dead.
—WILLA CATHER TO DOROTHY CANFIELD FISHER, September 30, 1930
Mary Virginia and Charles F. Cather (photo credit 8.1)
AFTER THE PLEASURE OF spending the holidays at home in Red Cloud while being celebrated for the triumph of Death Comes for the Archbishop, 1928 started poorly for Cather. Her father, with whom she always had a tender relationship, died rather suddenly from heart problems. Her mother took temporary refuge in California with Cather’s second younger brother, Douglass, but while there suffered a debilitating stroke and had to be moved to a care facility. Nearing fifty-five, Cather was becoming part of the older generation. Her home at 5 Bank Street in New York had also been lost; she and Edith Lewis had moved into a hotel, the Grosvenor, intending only a brief stay there until more suitable arrangements could be found. But for the next five years Cather would have no permanent address aside from the Grosvenor, and most of her things stayed packed away in storage. She traveled constantly—to Nebraska, to California, to Canada, to France—to attend to family and professional matters. During this time of loss, however, she did have some solace. The cottage she shared with Lewis on Grand Manan Island was a refuge. More important, she continued to write. In 1928, while on their way to Grand Manan, she and Lewis stopped in Quebec City, and when Lewis fell ill Cather had unexpected time to wander around the old French settlement. What she saw stirred her, and she set to work on a new novel. Shadows on the Rock, concerned with the day-to-day life of a handful of citizens in 1697 Quebec, was published by Knopf in 1931 and became one of the top-selling books of the year.
TO ALFRED A. KNOPF
February 10 [1928]
Red Cloud
Dear Alfred;
I have not written you, as I expected to be in New York at this date. My father has been very ill for the last two weeks, his second attack of angina, and that has kept me here. The things I want to discuss with you are hard to take up by letter.
The demand for the Archbishop seems a mixed blessing, as even now there seems to be no very adequate method of satisfying it. As I telegraphed you last night, the dealers here and in all the little towns about have been trying [to] get books from McClurg, Chicago, to fill the orders of a few patient friends who were not able to get the book for Christmas. Finally McClurg wrote the dealers here that they have ordered the books to be sent direct from the publisher to Grice & Grimes, Red Cloud. So far, they have not come. If all these little town dealers in Nebraska, Kansas, Colorado, Iowa, who always order from McClurg, can’t get books, isn’t there something wrong with the method of distribution? They tell me all their orders for “Antonia” are filled quickly and without trouble.
I have been here nearly three months, and in all that time the book has not had a fair chance in this little town, or in this part of the state. I don’t know about Omaha, but it has been impossible to get the book in Lincoln part of the time. I’ve had so many complaints from Catholics all over the country that I’m afraid there has been the same difficulty in getting books, East and West.
When you decided not to give the “Archbishop” any individual advertising, then I understood that it was up to the book to sell itself if it could. But how can it sell itself if it is not printed, and if the jobbers don’t carry it? It was out of print for a week or ten days at the most critical part of the selling season. Only ten days, but they were the ten days before Christmas. However, that’s over. The point I raise is, why is it still so hard to get books?
I shall start east in a week or ten days, as soon as I feel that it’s quite safe to leave my father. I’m your personal friend and admirer, now and always, but I don’t think you’ve given the Archbishop a flattering share of your interest and attention. With any personal enthusiasm behind it, I feel sure the book would have done much better. But we can talk of these things much better than we can write of them. I write a devilish hand at best and I’ve been under a considerable strain since father fell ill.
Faithfully
Willa Cather
The Knopf offices, upon getting this letter, responded quickly with a promise to investigate. Internally, they suspected that Cather was exaggerating the problem.
In February, Cather returned to New York, since her father seemed to be recovering. On March 3, however, Charles F. Cather had a heart attack and died. She immediately took a train back to Nebraska, arriving very early in the morning the day after his death.
TO DOROTHY CANFIELD FISHER
April 3 [1928]
Red Cloud
My Dearest Dorothy:
My father died on March 3d, just seven days after I had left home for New York. He was ill only a few hours—angina. He was happy and gay to the very end. I’d like to show you his picture sometime, he kept such an extraordinarily youthful color and young eyes and figure. He was very handsome, in a boyish Southern way. I have lost people I loved terribly, young people, but this is the first death there has ever been in our family—never a child or grandchild. I did not know death could be so beautiful. I got home to him a little after five, just as the dawn was breaking over him. He lay on a little stretcher in the big bay window of his own room, in one of his long silk shirts, and all the rest of the tired family were asleep. He looked so happy, so contented, so at home—his smooth fair face shaved—everything as it always was. He was such a sweet southern boy and he never hurt anybody’s feelings, not even in death.
Think of it, my dear, this winter of all winters, I had here with them, simply because I felt we could never be so happy again. I stayed because they were both so well, not because they were ailing. Having had those three months as by a miracle, I’ll stand a good deal of punishment at the hands of fate.
Dear, I never knew any Preston in Pittsburgh. I knew a Preston Cooke Farrar but no Preston.
Mother went to California with my bachelor brother two weeks ago. I’ve been staying on alone to have a lot of papering and repairing done. Such a nice wise, kind Bohemian paper-hanger to do everything. And just silence in the old house and in father’s room has done so much for me. I feel so rested and stro
ng it is as if father himself had restored my soul.
I suppose after Easter I must go back to the world—but not for long.
Lovingly
Willa
Though Cather and her parents had been lifelong Baptists, they were confirmed as Episcopalian in 1922. Charles Cather’s memorial service was held in Red Cloud’s Grace Episcopal Church.
TO MARY VIRGINIA BOAK CATHER
Monday after Easter [April 9, 1928]
Red Cloud
My Dearest Mother;
After two weeks of spring we had a bitter cold Easter. Elsie and I decorated the altar in memory of father. The church was nearly full of people. After the service I gave one of the Easter Lily plants to Molly [Ferris], and one to Hazel Powell, and the daffodils I took down to father’s grave—you know he loved the “Easter flowers” as we used to call them, and they are the very first flowers I can remember in Virginia.
I had dinner with Will [Auld] and Charles [Auld] at the hotel. Later I made a call on Mrs. [Alta] Turmore and Clifford—she had asked me to dinner, but I could not go. Then I went over to Molly’s and had a delicious little supper with her. It was lucky Elsie did not try to come down, as the weather turned so bitter.
Isn’t it funny for me to be getting a card from the Peggs? When that bashful blond boy in the butcher shop lost his wife and baby I went down to Carolina and ordered a lot of those beautiful snapdragons such as were sent to father. Everyone felt so sorry. She had a tumor inside her which grew along with the baby and strangled it. A proper examination and operation would have saved her. She had been carrying a dead baby for several days. Dr. [James W.] Stockman only called [Dr. E. A.] Creighton when she was dying. Poor Albert walks about like a dead man.
Lizzie [Huffmann] has been at the Macs [McNenys’] for a week now, but she still dashes in in the morning to make the kitchen fire for me, and I dine over there occasionally. Helen [McNeny] is home sick with grippe.
I’ve got such lovely silk curtains up in the big dining room. My little old bed is painted primrose color like the washstand,—I mean the wooden bed that was in the west room. And the table in [the] downstairs back hall, which proved to be not walnut at all, I had mended and painted and it’s very pretty.
Molly had dinner with me here on Good Friday and Saturday nights, and says I’m a good cook. She helped me wash the dishes.
I had all father’s oak furniture gone over with furniture polish for you and it looks so much better. If ever you want it painted I’ll have it done.
Please write to me, dear mother.
With much love,
Willie
TO ROSCOE CATHER
April 11 [1928]
Dear Roscoe;
Yes, indeed, I’ve been staying on in the old house and finding it such a comfort. I’ve had all the downstairs re-papered, except the parlor—thought mother might like one room just the same. They had to scrape off four layers of paper so it was a mess for days. Then I had father’s room papered in a lovely gray English chintz paper for mother. I’ve had the yard cleaned and new shrubs set out, and lovely drapery curtains put up in the front dining room. The back dining room really looks lovely. Ondrals, the nice old Bohemian painter will do the bath room over after I go. We had to do a good deal of plastering, as most of the sitting room ceiling fell down. These messy repairs could never have been made with mother here—it would have fretted her to death. I’m awfully pleased with the results, and I’ve seldom spent money that I’ve enjoyed so much.
Your draft I’ve registered in the one account book I carry about with me—a complete list of checks received,—and I’ll credit it on your note when I reach New York. I’ll stay on here a few days, then go to the Mayo’s for awhile, and on to New York. Edith’s poor mother is still dying—it is surely a long, hard way.
My love to you, dear brother and to all the ladies of your house. They are all grown up now!
Yours,
Willie
TO MARY VIRGINIA BOAK CATHER
Sunday [April 1928?]
The Kahler Hotel, Rochester, Minnesota
My Dearest Mother;
I got here this morning, and will register at the clinic in the morning. This hotel has been made over and is now better than the Zumbro.
I spent about four hours with Elsie in Lincoln, and we had a long talk about you and your future. We are agreed that whenever you want to go home one of us will be there with you and we will do everything we can to make you happy there. We will put our whole heart into it. Elsie can get a year’s leave of absence next winter, she says. If she can’t, I will be there, I promise you.
I bought a sprinkler for the lawn at last, and before I left Mac [Bernard McNeny] and I were rivals in getting the grass green. The new shrubs Will and Amos set out are coming on well. I am paying Amos five dollars a month regularly to water and cut the lawn, and May 1st he and Floyd Turner [?] will set out big red zenias in the bare patch where father used to have various little flowers. I chose zenias because they are so hardy and will make their way alone.
There will be nothing desolate inside or outside the house if you want to come back to it, and everyone wants you to come. Elsie’s school is out the first day of June, so if you want to come back with Will Auld the first of June, Elsie can meet you there. The last word Lizzie said to me was, “Oh just let me know a few days before your mother comes, and I’ll make the house look like a palace for her.” You have your own house—the Bishop [George Allen Beecher] and Mrs. [Florence George] Beecher think it a very attractive one, and I’ll make it more and more so. And you have your own friends, and they miss you terribly and you will enjoy them more than you ever did before. Indeed, I love them so much for their loyalty to you that I feel I can never keep away from Red Cloud long again. That’s true!
So don’t be blue, Mother. You seem to me almost the most fortunate old person I know. You have Doug to travel with, and several of us to hang about you when you want to be at home. Of course if Elsie is with you next winter you will keep Lizzie, and I think we ought to pay Elsie, too.
Now cheer up; you are getting older, and that’s hard luck—but your children and all our old, faithful friends, and the young friends, too, are determined to make you happy.
With a heart very full of love for you
Willie
Characteristically, she fended off attempted inroads on her time, including a suggestion by Ferris Greenslet in late April that she write a biography of the poet Amy Lowell.
TO MARY AUSTIN
May 9, 1928
Grosvenor Hotel, New York City
My dear Mrs. Austin:
I wish the suggestion made by Mr. Greenslet and Dr. [Henry Goddard] Leach had come a year ago, when I had a good deal more time and energy than I have now. Just because I never write biographical or critical studies, editors bother me to death trying to make me do them. They simply want them because I resist their persuasions. Greenslet has just been trying to crowd on me a biography of Amy Lowell—I would be as likely to undertake a history of the Chinese Empire! I wouldn’t do it for the whole amount of the Lowell Estate,—simply because that sort of writing is an agony to me. I need very little money, and my life and liberty are very precious to me.
One of the pleasures of having an absolute rule is that once or twice in a lifetime one may break it, and if things were at all well with me, I would be tempted to break it on your account! [B]ut this has been a very bad winter for me, and I’m not going to do any writing at all for at least six months. My father died in March, and I have just come back to New York after several weeks at the Mayo Clinic. This is the first time in my life that I have ever felt absolutely tired, through and through, and I am simply going to rest for a while. I don’t know where yet, but I may go on to my mother, who is in California with my brother. For this year, my family concerns, father’s death and mother’s consequent breakdown have simply wiped out everything else. I know you will understand that I speak to you with a frank and open heart. Sometim
es the difficulties of life are just too much for one, and then it is best to keep away from the desk.
Faithfully yours,
Willa Cather
In early June, after weeks battling influenza, Cather received an honorary degree at Columbia University.
TO MARY VIRGINIA BOAK CATHER
June 7 [1928]
New York City
My Darling Mother;
No, no, no, I’m not cross! But I’m still very wobbly from that influenza, and people have been unusually merciless in pursuit of me. I am not accepting any invitations, but even writing notes of polite refusal becomes a heavy task.
The Commencement at Columbia was really quite thrilling and splendid; I wish some of you could have seen it. I was the only woman among the seven recipients of honorary degrees, the rest were all old men, as you will see by their pictures. I sat between the French Ambassador [Paul Claudel] and the President of the University of California [William Wallace Campbell]. We were all in caps and gowns, of course. I really got a great deal more applause than any one else; Edith was there and she says the roar for me lasted twice as long. I rose when my name was called, walked up to the President [Nicholas Murray Butler] and stood there until the applause was over; then he made a speech at me and gave me a diploma, two Deans of the University put a gorgeous collar about my neck and fastened it on my shoulders, and conducted me back to my seat on the platform. The other six were applauded only after the degree was bestowed, but I was applauded like a ball game, both before and after.
The great old Cuban patriot, [Antonio Sánchez] du Bustamante [y Sirvén], seemed to be second in popularity, and he is a wonder. I was never so patted and embraced by so many old men at once.