best wishes to you both,
W. Gaddis
future [...] no destination: from part 3 of Eliot’s “Dry Salvages”: “We cannot think [...] of a future that is not liable / Like the past, to have no destination.”
City Lights: one of Chaplin’s best-known films (1931).
To Edith Gaddis
Paris
29 october 1950
dear Mother,
Here I am, just a week late, thanking you for the package which arrived last Monday. I cannot tell you how glad I am to have those books, they are exactly what I’ve been after, though I was upset to see the figure 10 in the Legge book, and if that means what I think it does, if it refers to the price, I am sorry to have put you to such an expense (and forget the Vautier book, I think this fellow must have given me the title wrongly, I can’t come across it here). And the shirts are excellent.
Otherwise everything is going quietly. Ormande deKay, an old ex-Harvard ex-everything boy (he wrote the script for the film Lost Boundaries which you may have seen) is now staying in the small room here, plans to sail for NY the 10th and will certainly call you. (I’d thought you might see him for lunch, it would be nice if you both and Margaret could lunch, they know each other too). All I’m sorry about concerning Ormande is that you didn’t meet him when you were here; because I know you’d have been delighted with him, he’s still a college boy, and would have off-set the other disconcerting group I did present to you. And Wheatland, I wish you’d met him (he is quite a young man & smokes cigars in his office I’m told), to show you that we haven’t spent all our time with strange people. [...]
Incidentally when Dol Emmart was here, he and I talked of player pianos &c (I know you must be as tired as everyone else of hearing about that thing), he suggested I send it to someone at the Atlantic monthly, which I did, after re-writing it a bit. I doubt it will make anything, there seems to be too much of horrendous import (I was a communist, How Russia built the Korean army, How to get along with your wife/mother/son/father/boss, Dewey, MacArthur,) to fill these magasines, the same article being written a thousand times, for people to waste time on reading about player pianos. So I said that if they can’t use it will they send it on to you. I’ll write again asking you do take it another step. (Don’t bother mentioning this to Margaret, since I don’t think anything will come of it.)
You remember Otto Friedrich (and Priscilla) who recently went to Germany where he’s working as a sport reporter for the Stars & Stripes. They were back here a few days ago, he’s trying to start a small magasine, read what I’ve got done of my novel and wants to use the first chapter, which they both liked a good deal, in his first issue, early next year. I am sort of disconcerted over such a prospect but told him he could, have since written to John Woodburn asking him if such publication would make for any difficulty later on when I want to publish it as a book, if I can. [...]
with love,
W.
Legge book: Forerunners and Rivals of Christianity by Francis Legge (1915; WG owned a 1950 reprint published by Peter Smith), which provided a handful of details for R. ($10 would be almost $95 today.)
Vautier book: unidentified.
Ormande deKay: de Kay (1923–98), writer, poet, and translator. As noted earlier he recorded his memories of WG in a 1993 interview with Charles Monaghan, available online at http://www. williamgaddis.org/reminisce/remdekaymonaghan.shtml.
Lost Boundaries: de Kay only contributed to the script of this 1949 movie.
Dol Emmart: A. D. Emmart (1902–73), a reporter and art critic for the Baltimore Sun. Five years later he would vote for R in a few polls for the best novel of 1955.
Otto Friedrich (and Priscilla): prolific American author and journalist (1929–95), married to Priscilla Broughton. In R, Otto’s play features a woman named Priscilla. WG quotes from Friedrich’s 1989 biography of Glenn Gould in AA. No evidence has been found that Friedrich ever launched the magazine WG refers to, unless this was New-Story (1951–53), a French journal founded by David Burnett that featured American writers, which I have not been able to examine.
To Edith Gaddis
Paris
[16 November 1950]
dear Mother,
Happy birthday, finally; I’ll say I’d hoped to manage something a bit jollier than the triumph of confusion which follows here; so stop reading this for a moment, relax, then get hold of yourself while I carry on.
Lord Lord where’s the dollar. It isn’t all that bad really, only confused. Mostly for the moment settling about Happymount, this insane asylum I’m living in, the P. d’Antin. My French improves greatly with fury. Adrenilin goes into the larynx I believe, I can shout all sorts of complicated grammatical constructions. That’s the way I spent yesterday. And right in the middle of all this was Helga. Don’t ask me who Helga is, she’s a German girl from Bremen upstairs, that’s Mme Haefele, our protectrex and landlady. No land. No lady. Nosir. When it was all over, I’d lost the two small rooms, barricaded myself into the larger one where I sit now, atop Margaret’s trunk (which is the size of Little Blacknose), Jacob’s trunk, hundreds of pink coathangers, red high-heel shoes, and Renee’s dressing robe, which appeared from somewhere. Also pots and pans. What I’d planned doing was to leave here at the week’s end, go to London, and leave this room with an Australian novelist; but after yesterday I don’t think it would be allowed. I still may get to London, as planned. I’ll let you know about that. Let’s not get started with Helga. I had to take her for a sightseeing walk, and tea at the Cafe de la Paix. Right in the middle of everything. A long road that has no turning.
No; here’s my most immediate concern, it’s about the player piano piece. I’d hoped to hear from you by now about what John Woodburn would suggest. I wrote Morton (Atlantic) saying thanks, and that I hoped to try it elsewhere, that if it didn’t go I’d send him the excerpt he mentioned. I wonder this: if I could sell him that, and retain reprint rights, so that if I should ever sell the whole somewhere else that passage would be included. I suddenly am afraid, that maybe I’m losing everything; that Atlantic will foreswear the whole thing, and no one else will take it. I’d depended on John to say where else it might be sent. But it may be best to simply send the excerpt to Charles Morton at Atlantic, if it could be copied out and sent separately. At least get that 75$. I’m in no position here to try to handle it I’m beginning to realise. And as far as I can see I’ve got no agent. Congdon wouldn’t even send it around for me the first time (2 ½ years ago). What about him. Here I’ve a letter from Margaret, and she says, —Your mother is distressed about agents and legal technicalities and is not sure that you know Congdon is telling people he thinks you are terrific and is expecting something from you any day . . . I’m sorry to be causing you this upset. I’d hoped the player could be tried at the American Magasine. Otherwise, the excerpt to Atlantic, and a letter, which I’d have to write I suppose, asking permission for reprint rights, but not demanding them, since selling it, even that fragment, is most important.
Now about Congdon, agents &c. I’m again sorry to put this on you, but you are a business woman, and could you talk to John about it? Frankly I don’t think Congdon’s much good, not much good to me at any rate. I hear him highly recommended but he’s not done me nor any I know any favours. I don’t know what all this rubbish about him thinking I’m terrific and expecting something any day . . . but it sounds like NY cocktail-party editor-publisher-agent-over-drinks rubbish to me. I sent him a story from Madrid two years ago and he didn’t even bother to send it around; it mayn’t have been good, but it was worth sending out I believe still. Then he answered me by ordinary post instead of airmail. That may seem like a small thing, but it’s memorable to me because it indicates either plain sloppiness or disregard for the client (me), and I remember it. I may write him, I suppose I should, and cut things off. I’ve a couple of good agents lined up here, and also, as far as a novel goes, there is John at Little, Brown, and another friend (an uncle of Ormonde de
Kay) at Scribners, &c. Also about Congdon, I’ve been seeing a boy here named Gordon Sager, two of whose novels Congdon has handled. And handled poorly as far as I can see; brought out by a small house, and Gordon says that for a year’s work (the first novel) he’s made 600$, or 50$ a month. Isn’t this a billion-dollar country? I don’t know; I’d like to talk to Congdon, squarely. I think best that within the next few days I write him, asking questions.
Sorry to go on like this, and I’m thinking as I write, so that this may not have much continuum. Let me see. Look, I’ll write, now, and enclose, a covering letter to be sent with the player piano piece to the American Magasine, if you’ll be good enough to do that, asking that they return it to you if they don’t want it. Then, if you’ll have copied out the excerpt (page 17: Selling the player . . . through line 6 page 20) and ready to send it on to Charles Morton at the Atlantic when the whole comes back from American Magasine. But if you’ve done anything else, I’ll be glad to hear.
Whoops. Another day, another dollar. But Lord, Lord, where’s the dollar. I think this is about all for the moment. I’ve got to go see my dentist, have the grand extraction, and pay him. If you’ve sent the money to London, OK because I’ll either get it there or have it sent back here if I can’t manage to go.
Again, I hope your birthday is (or was?) a good one—
with love,
W.
Happymount: the name of the insane asylum Rev. Gwyon is sent to (R 712).
Little Blacknose: the eponymous steam locomotive protagonist of an award-winning 1929 children’s book by Hildegarde Hoyt Swift (1890–1977).
Renee: unidentified.
Australian novelist: Robert S. Close (1903–95); see 28 November 1950.
Morton: Charles W. Morton (1899–1967), an editor at (and frequent contributor to) the Atlantic Monthly. WG had hoped to publish his complete essay there, but had to settle for a brief excerpt.
American Magasine: the American Magazine was a general interest periodical that ran from 1906 to 1956.
Gordon Sager: American novelist and short-story writer.
To Edith Gaddis
Paris
[? November 1950]
dear Mother,
Just a note to thank you immensely for all your trouble over the player. Of course the Atlantic note delighted me, and made for an extremely pleasant evening. (I’d dinner with Juancho at that Roger the Frog place, where we went you remember & it was so crowded that they carried a fainting girl out, returned for lunch next day?) So I’ll hang on and wait for Atlantic, there’s nothing could be more wonderful though I doubt that he (Morton) can get a unanimous agreement from his staff on it. If it won’t do, then, could you send it to American magasine?
Look, Congdon never sent that thing around, I’m certain. And what the devil is he agrieved about? Really, agents agrieved over expense-account liquor at the 21, I can’t take it seriously. The last thing I’ve written and tried to sell was the story from Madrid, which I sent him, and he didn’t make any effort for. Since then I’ve written nothing finished. (While I think of it, I believe I tried the player at Esquire, Chandler was working there then.) I’ll wait to hear from Congdon, we can have a correspondence. It is nice of him to tell everybody I’m good, but what the devil. I’ve nothing to sell now. When I finish the thing I’m trying to work on now, then there will be matter for talk. Or being agrieved. You’re awfully good to be so patient in the middle of it. I do get truculent sometimes. As you know.
(Incidentally, if anyone should take the player, there’s material in the last paragraph which must be checked, probably changed; v., mention of the rolls Macy’s sells, & the price, which may be different; also mention of a Mr Carlton Chase, who may be dead by now, things like that.)
I didn’t go to the dentist yesterday for the extraction, I was in a terrible state of exhaustion and that would have been the End. I’m going next Wednesday. Right before Thanksgiving. Lord lord. You’re awfully kind about wanting to pay it. (Apparently English dentists are famous for being the most dangerous and bad in the world. All thumbs.) (Yes I do think Jean-Jacques Stoffel is a good dentist. Charming fellow.)
That’s all for this moment. Oh things are in a state. Not bad. Just busy. Wheatland, who’s just gone to NY for a few days, left me his yellow MG (the car we went to Madrid in), and tomorrow I hope to drive to a monastery somewhere beyond Chartres for a day of quiet, and music. I do look seedy but I’m really quite well.
with love,
W.
Atlantic note: this note stated that the magazine would consider publishing the essay, but was not an acceptance (this wouldn’t occur until February 1951).
Roger the Frog: Roger la Grenouille, a well-regarded restaurant in Paris, still taking reservations today.
the 21: the 21 Club in midtown Manhattan, also still in business.
Mr Carlton Chase: unidentified, nor mentioned in the various available drafts of the essay.
To Edith Gaddis
Paris
28 November 1950
dear Mother,
Lava from Mt Etna, I understand, is flowing at the rate of 120 feet a minute; the United States Atlantic seaboard under 26 feet of water; and the Belgian coast under the heaviest fog in its history. Aside from these prodigies of nature—including a wind of 120 miles an hour on top of Mt Washington in New Hampshire (though what anyone is doing up there I haven’t figured out)—we have such ingenuous contributions of human origin as the Long Island Railroad, and the little girl with the sunflower growing in her lungs. Fortunately the Pope has proclaimed the dogma of the Assumption, so I suppose there’s really nothing to worry about. (They say that the bubonic plague has re-appeared in north-Africa.)
In times like these, a small person returns to his own pitifully limited means of accomplishing disaster; and the best one can accomplish is lampshades of human skin, or soap made of human bones. Recalling the crucifix at Burgos (in the north of Spain), where for many centuries it was believed that the Figure was made of human skin, though eventually someone proved it to be buffalo hide. There was also, somewhere in the annals of the entertainment world, a mermaid presented at sideshows fashioned from the upper half of a monkey and the lower end of a codfish. Bringing us back to the world of Freddie’s Football Dogs, and the play The Deserter (presented in London in the late 19th century) entirely acted by animals.
Material, one might say, for a novel.
Speaking of novels, I’ve the author of something called Love Me Sailor settled here in the back room. He is an Australian, and if you know any Australians that’s enough said. Very nice fellow. It seems his book is going to be a real Best Seller.
Thanksgiving was very pleasant. Not turkey, but rabbit with a mustard sauce. Mathilde was ill, and husband Clements trying to go to a dinner party in a cream-coloured sports shirt; so I was asked over to keep her company, which I did, enjoyably, in just such a frame as people think a young man’s life in Paris should be—the lovely lady with red hair cascading to her waist, and the small table set for two in the bedroom before a fireplace and a fire. And so I made a number of grogs, buttered rum, and the evening went on for some time, when Clements returned with a red carnation because it was his name day, St Clement. The tooth gave little bother, though its old niche is still sore.
I think the notion of sending the player to William B Hart (of the Hopalong Cassidy Harts?)(or red-Heart dogfood?) is excellent, if Atlantic can’t use it. Of course I’m still here hoping.
HG Wells said, somewhere, —We seem to go through life waiting for something to happen, and then . . . it doesn’t happen. I am waiting for something to happen; though as might be said quite justly, isn’t Mt Etna, the LIRR, and 26 feet of snow enough for you? No.
Yes, I did get a pleasant enough note from Congdon. I’m going to write him now, telling him that if I sell the player piano anywhere he is not going to get any %. $. %”_#&$(%*@@@@¾¾!) He doesn’t know why he hasn’t had a letter from me. What would I write him about? I�
�ve nothing finished to sell. I’ve two ideas that I want to ask him about. If he thinks they are good or worth($) while, maybe we can recover our lost intimacy. Otherwise I shall continue to play Greensleeves on the recorder, in the Gardens of Spain.
In spite of my pretentiously erudite references, Burgos and Freddie’s Football Dogs, this isn’t a very intelligent letter. Is it.
I’m glad you found Ormonde entertaining and reassuring. It’s some days since I’ve heard from Margaret. I don’t know what she’s up to? Perhaps on the High Seas, cast perilously adrift on a raft of her own fashioning between Woodmere and Greenpoint. Or forging ahead, Scott of the Antarctic. (I read recently that a Exquimo was eaten by his sledge dogs—news from Copenhagen.)
You were extremely kind to send me make-up money for the dentist, and the news that my bank balance is undisturbed. Unfortunately I can never present you with a Toothpaste Smile, because my teeth just won’t be pearly, they haven’t got it in them. But they are clean, and serve to ruminate what crusts come my way.
And so, recently, I study about old Flemish painters, having reached a snag in my work, which, since it concerns a man who is forging paintings (it is his father who is counterfeiting a religion, that’s why I needed Forerunners and Rivals of Christianity), I must know more of than I do. And so, in my mind this wet Paris morning, I have only pictures of St Barthemew being skinned alive, proof, perhaps, that the mediaeval imagination was as equal to conceiving outdoor sports commensurate with its capabilities as our own.
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