I learned today by mail about the publisher's check. Mr. Barnes tried all week to reach me, unaware I was hiding from the telephone. Soon I'll have to do something about the mail; the box fills daily with notes from readers. Seven proposals of marriage, so far. Such a query requires a gentle response, but I'll confess I'm flummoxed. I've had no practice in the skills of being admired. Frida, sometimes an acid panic rises in my throat; people want something, and I am not the thing at all. As I've mentioned, girls are desperate, with the fellows still over there patching up the potholes in France. Poor England and France. Their great kingdoms nothing now but fairy tales.
Did El Diario mention Churchill's speech last week in Missouri? The European leaders seem terrified by the new landscape, flattened at the middle with Truman still on his feet at one end, and Stalin at the other. You could see why Mr. Churchill wants to keep them from shaking hands--if Harry and Comrade Joe reach across that mess, these two could make a new empire on which the sun never sets. Mr. Churchill sounded like a child goading his parents into an argument, he was absurdly dramatic: "A shadow has fallen upon the scene.... Nobody knows what Soviet Russia intends to do," etcetera. Next he will probably go to Moscow and say the same about us.
How strange, that this is the wide-open moment Lev spent his life hoping for. With America brimming with brotherly love for the Soviets, our own laborers on the march, and Russia with everything to gain, it seems the right time to support them in tossing out Stalin's bureaucrats and finishing the democratic socialist revolution as Lenin intended. Or, it could go the other way, our two nations falling apart like split kindling. Mr. Churchill seems to want that. "From the Baltic to the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the Continent." He sweetened the pot later with goodwill for the valiant Russians and comrade Stalin. But the howlers went right to work as soon as they heard of this strange new curtain of metal. They are thrilled with the image. The cartoonists draw the poor Russians slamming their heads against an anvil. Probably in a fortnight they'll have forgotten it, but for now it's a sensation. Two words put together, curtain and iron, have worked alchemy on a kettle of tepid minds and anxious hearts.
The power of words is awful, Frida. Sometimes I want to bury my typewriter in a box of quilts. The radio makes everything worse, because of the knack for amplifying dull sounds. Any two words spoken in haste might become law of the land. But you never know which two. You see why I won't talk to the newsmen.
My dread is sometimes inexplicable. How do you bear up under so many eyes? And what ludicrous worries I have, compared with yours. I hope the bone-graft operation you mention will make your life worth living again. I worry for your weariness, but trust in your strength, and often see your paintings in my dreams. Your friend,
H. W. SHEPHERD
P.S. I enclose a review, to clear up any mistaken notions you may have about my novel.
The Echo, February 28, 1946
This one is flying off the bookstore shelves from coast to coast: Vassals of Majesty by Harrison W. Shepherd, with 50,000 sold the first month after publication. Its pageant of noble heroes and dastardly villains plays out on the golden shores of ancient Rome. When you've had enough of the "heart and soul of the common man" exalted by the late FDR, here are uncommon men with derring-do, sweeping the reader into the Success Dream that drives them. Ladies and gentlemen, but definitely. Harry Shepherd cranks out a darn good read. And watch out, girls: he's single!
March 13, 1946
Dear Shepherd,
What's steamin, demon? Remember me, from civilian service? (Nobody forgets this Tom-cat.) Hope you're all the aces since last we soldiered together for Art and Country. Everywhere I go now, some guy is just home from Europe telling how he dodged the lead pill or brought in his bomber on a wing and a prayer. Does anybody want to hear a hair-raising tale of Army SNAFU in the National Gallery? You and me buddy, a couple of Civvy cream puffs, it's a void coupon ain't it? If only my old chum Shepherd were here, we could tell some war stories, sure. How you and I drank so much joe on the train, we almost dropped a marble Rodin on its head in the Asheville station.
Man, you could have had me for soup when I saw your name in the Book Review. Is that you, or some other Harrison Shepherd? I didn't have you figured for the Shakespeare type. But who knows? If it's really you, drop a line.
Plant you now, dig you later,
TOM CUDDY
March 29, 1946
Dear Shepherd,
Holy Joe, it's really you. Thanks for the buzz. Cat, you know how to percolate.
With everything you are currently hipped to, this will probably sound like cake and coffee, but a proposition has come up and I figure I'll give it a sock. The Department of State is getting into the art business. It's not enough that chumps like us packed off America's treasures to the Vanderbilt Mansion and back, to keep them safe from Tojo. Now the idea is to pack up a fresh load of paintings on Uncle Sam's ticket, and parade them around the museums of Europe. A special show of American painters to send overseas, to show those Parisians we're not a bunch of rubes. Somebody spilled the beans to the Department of State that the Europeans hate us. Surprise, Jean-Pierre thinks GI Joe is a slob with chocolate on his face! Between you and me, I doubt the Parisians care, as long as we keep putting the bricks back in their castles. But the Congress cares, they are convoying this ship and aim to blitz it.
Here's where you and I come in. They recruited my old boss for the job, Leroy Davidson from the Walker. He only got 50 thousand clams to work with but he's done a killer job, Leroy chose everything himself. He's fed up with the Europeans sniggering about heart-throbbing landscapes and the American Scene, so he decided to give them an eyeful. Seventy-nine paintings, mostly Modern Art: Stuart Davis, Marsden Hartley, Georgia O'Keeffe, it's a killer. Even Goodrich at the Whitney says so. We're hanging it here in New York for the summer and then it moves to the National for a few weeks. Leroy says Congress needs to see what American Art looks like, before we send it off.
That's the story, morning glory. You'd come to D.C. in October. You're already on the State Department's cleared list, Leroy says we can hire you in a tick to help with the crating and get this show ready for transatlantic. If you want, you can even come along for the ride. The war's over, pal, this time we would go first class, not steerage. No more riding on top of our wooden crates in the train car, which really was not half a bad place to lob around, as it turned out. (Like Hope says, Thanks for the memories!) But think of it, man, you and me in Europe. Goose-feather beds. What a gasser.
Sounds like you might be cooking with gas already in your present situation. But give me a buzz if you are ready to take Paris. So long chum,
TOM CUDDY
April 3, 1946
Dear Frida,
Your letter arrived yesterday and now lies open on the desk, a spectre, burning at its edges. This damage is not yours, you aren't the cause. It's a normal and ordinary request, for a friend to come and visit in New York when you are there for the bone-graft surgery. A friend who owes you everything, and might now smuggle rellenos into the hospital to speed your recovery, who should do this. But no sleep came last night, only thoughts in a nightlong darkness of the summer coming, a ride on the train, the penetrating glare of strangers. Imposing on your fashionable friends in New York, these Americans who understand everything. All of it envisioned in a cold panic.
This is a despicable confession. But one telephone call yesterday to the train station to ask about a ticket was enough to drag a stomach inside out, dejado de la mano de dios, left alone by god, this feeling. Abandoned by reason or safety. Perched on the side of the bathtub rocking like a child, hopeless, wishing for the invisibility of childhood. August of each year brings thoughts of dying. But bad days come in any month. Eyes can pierce a skull. Travel to New York is unthinkable, when even at the corner market, a stranger's stare can paralyze. This terror hasn't any name. This running home, feeling like a scorched muslin curtain that blew too near the candle.
>
Forgive this cowardice. If you have the strength to lift your head as you travel down Fifth Avenue, look for one book in the shop windows there, standing in as a substitute for your once and future friend,
SOLI
The Asheville Trumpet, April 28, 1946
Woman's Club Sponsors Book Review Night
by Edwina Boudreaux
The Asheville Woman's Club sponsored its annual Book Review Night on Thursday at 6 p.m. in the Lee H. Edwards High School Auditorium. Tickets sold for twenty-five cents each, raising $45 dollars for the Asheville Library. The theme of the evening was, "Mexico Old and New."
Mrs. Herb Lutheridge, President, opened the program with the Pledge of Allegiance and introduction of speakers. Miss Harriet Boudreaux began the festivities with her review of "The Peacock Sheds His Tail" by Alice Hobart. The book concerns the love story of a Mexican girl and American diplomat in the turbulence of unrest in modern-day Mexico City. For her presentation Miss Boudreaux wore native dress of embroidered blouse and skirt brought from the Mexican continent by her aunt, who traveled there as a bride.
The second presenter was welcomed by many excited young ladies in attendance, Mrs. Violet Brown reviewing "Vassals of Majesty" by Harrison Shepherd. The novel tells the exciting conquest of Ancient Mexico by the Spanish Army. Events came alive under Mrs. Brown's retelling, followed by a lively discussion. Numerous questions arose concerning the author, an Ashevillean residing in the Montford neighborhood, which the speaker demurred at, claiming familiarity with the book itself, not its progenitor. In her forty-five minute presentation Mrs. Brown brought to the fore many themes that might be missed by the average reader, such as Man Against Nature and Man Against Himself.
Mrs. Alberta Blake, librarian, closed the evening by thanking the audience on behalf the Library Committee, noting all money raised would purchase several new volumes. She assured all those in attendance that duplicate copies of the two books presented will soon be on the shelves.
April 30, 1946
Mrs. Violet Brown
4145 Tunnel Road, Bittle House
Rural Free Delivery, Asheville North Carolina
Dear Mrs. Brown,
This message may startle you, please forgive a bolt from the blue. A telephone call to Mrs. Bittle yesterday confirmed that the former guild of lodgers remains intact, minus myself. (She may thus think it improved vis-a-vis her advertisement of "Only Good People Here.") And that you could therefore be reached by this address.
The purpose of this letter is to plant a request: against all odds, a man who can perform every secretarial duty himself from A to Z, including changing the typewriter ribbon, now seems to be in need of a secretary.
A startling ship of fortune has docked in this harbor on Montford Avenue, towing an unwieldy barge of correspondence, telephone calls, and attention from young ladies. It is a wonder, how others who become so blessed still manage to go forward with their lives. Mr. Sinatra receives five thousand letters a week, according to the Echo, and he still looks the picture of high spirits. Only a hundred or so come here each week, but they fall like mounds of autumn leaves, leaving the spirits damp and crawling with nervous beetles. What is to be done? An old friend who recently telephoned, a fellow who also worked at the National Gallery during the war, proposed: "Lace up your boots, jive cat, and requisition yourself a canary to be your stenographer." After translating this advice into my own tongue, the question remained: Where does one requisition such a canary?
Then on Sunday your name rose up boldly, Mrs. Brown, in the Asheville Trumpet. There you stood with my book in hand, facing down a riotous crowd at the Woman's Club gala. Applying the same calm efficiency you used for handling Mrs. Bittle and her everlasting muddles. Keeping your steady hand on the tiller, you guided the Book Night toward the deep waters of literary theme, quieting the commotion of Miss Boudreaux in her getup from the "Mexican Continent." The ladies pressed for details of the Author Himself, but you professed no knowledge of such person! Imagine the fracas, if you had revealed the truth: that you and the author had once lived under the same roof, with a landlady who sometimes mixed our laundry together.
Mrs. Brown, dear lady, your discretion is prodigious. You resisted the siren song of tattle. The seams of your character must be sewn with steel thread. If this letter delivers only my everlasting gratitude, that is a greater weight than three cents postage should allow. But it also contains an earnest query. Your conduct in the battle of Mexico Old and New has led me to think you may be just the amanuensis who could put a life to rights, and also help with typing a second book, now underway.
Naturally, you may have a different opinion. Let me sum up a few details and be finished, so you can consider the offer. Weighing in my favor, I hope: I am likely in a position to exceed your present salary. A drawback: my workplace is here where I live. Some ladies might find it awkward to work in the home of an unmarried gentleman. In this letter I have already used the terms cat and canary, not because I could ever think of a secretary in those terms, but because others do, evidently. Mrs. Brown, I have an odd impairment: the world paints its prejudices boldly across banners, and somehow I walk through them without seeing. It's a particular fault of mine, a blindness. I carry on walking down the street, dazed as a calf, with shreds of paper hanging everywhere. I hope in this case to be less naive.
A third point in my favor: I spent years as a stenographer myself, as I already hinted. In Mexico I worked for two different men, both greater than I will ever be. Oddly, the experience did not prepare me for public attention. But I understand the role of professional helpmeet, perhaps better than most men. I am not disposed to tyranny.
If anything about this request strikes you as unseemly, please ignore it and accept my high regard for our previous acquaintance. But if my suggestion holds interest for you, I would gladly schedule an interview at a date and time you suggest.
Sincerely,
HARRISON W. SHEPHERD
May 4, 1946
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
Your letter was what you said. A bolt from the blue. But not the first. At the Lending Library I saw your name on a book cover in January. My thought was, well sir, it's a coincidence there be two Harrison Shepherds in this world. Next, an article in the paper discussed the book, its author reputed to be living in Montford. The subject of Mexico I knew to be your familiar. Curiosity killed the cat for Mrs. Bittle, her niece said she'd spied on the fellow, reporting him tall as a tree and thin as a rail. Who else?
Imagine our surprise. For years we sat here like bumps on a log eating the cooking of a man who would shortly come to fame. Now old Mr. Judd says, "I had no idee what that young fellow was cooking!" (You remember his drear jokes.) Miss McKellar notes that "still waters run deep." Reg Borden still refuses to believe it's you, but wants to read the book anyway. He's had a long wait. The library has but one copy. I had to wait weeks myself, and I have an "In" with Mrs. Lutheridge since I joined the Library Committee, mainly to set the card files to rights, which were a disgrace.
Your book is good. This town hasn't had such a sensation since Tommy Wolfe came out with Look Homeward, Angel. And that sensation was not pleasing to most. Some in Asheville were disgruntled to be left out of the story, and all others dismayed to be left in, thus the scandal was entire. The library refused to carry it. I was already in the Woman's Club (recording secretary), and our meeting convened the week that book came out. I doubt if so many salts of ammonia have ever been used in our city, before or since. You had only to open the door of the meeting hall to get a mighty dose.
I couldn't guess how to write a book. But here is my opinion: people love to read of sins and errors, just not their own. You were wise to put your characters far from here, instead of so-called "Altamont" as Mr. Wolfe did. That "Dixieland" is his mother's boardinghouse on Spruce Street, and all here know it. Few were spared the jabs of Wolfe's pen, even his own father whom I myself can remember teetering into the S & W Cafeteria reeking of spirits be
fore noon of a Monday. Many feel there was no need to bring that kind of thing to the lime-light, especially by a family member.
This all pertains to the subject of your letter. Thank you for saying I am sewn up with steel thread, but I call it plain sense. Some writers get away with murder, using nice words and a mannerly story to bring misery on real folk. You did the other way, writing of murderous things but behaving as a gentleman in the civic sense. That's how I came to speak as I did at Book Review Night. Those girls were apoplectic to make your book into another hometown yarn. We've had that kind of yarn here, and it got itself wound up in a gorm of knots. Mr. Shepherd, you put your story in Mexico. Why not keep it there? That was my thinking.
I know you as a gentleman. Using your home as a place of employment is not unseemly. A lady in the working world all her life knows that tender manners have their place, sometimes less useful than a good cup of coffee. During the war secretaries sometimes emptied bedpans, and certain men will ask worse, even in peacetime. But knowing you as I do from Mrs. Bittle's, I've seen you show more kindness than most, even toward a hen you're fixing to put in the oven.
I will warn, I can be particular. I like a typewriter with an automatic margin and the type bar separate from the carriage. Preferably a Royal or L. C. Smith. These were used at the Selective Service office, and I got accustomed. I will come to your house for interviewing at half past six on Thursday. The neighborhood of your address is a short ride on the bus from my present employer. I'll go directly, after work. Sincerely,
VIOLET BROWN
The Lacuna Page 30