Chapter XI: Part II: is, of course, the DANCE and sensual culmination. It is also an (2)

Dear Charlotte: Your lovely letter came to me this morning ... I read it on the way to work. And I am full of happiness that you think of me as you do,--both you and Richard. Yes, it is my birthday and I must be a little sentimental,--especially as all my friends have recently left the city for places more cool and green and watery. It has been a frightful day, torrid and frying. And I have just come back from a lonely meal in Prince Street,--the place where Richard ate with me, and where I have been many times since he left. Ah, yes, _there_ is wine, but what is wine when you drink it alone! Yet, I am happy here in my room with the Victrola playing Ravel,--the Faery Garden piece which you and I heard so often together up in my room in Cleveland. When I think of that room, it is almost to give way to tears, because I shall never find my way back to it. It is not necessary, of course, that I should, but just the same it was the center and beginning of all that I am and ever will be, the center of such pain as would tear me to pieces to tell you about, and equally the center of great joys. _The Bridge_ seems to me so beautiful,--and it was there that I first thought about it, and it was there that I wrote “Faustus and Helen,” which Waldo Frank says is so good that I will be remembered by that, whether or not I write more or not. And all this is, of course, connected very intimately with my Mother, my beautiful mother whom I am so glad you love and speak about. Indeed it was fine of you to go over and see her as I asked you to do, Charlotte and Richard! And may I also say, in the same breath, that your letter was very painful? It really was,--because I have known all the things you said about her unhappiness for many, many months. _And_ there is really nothing that can be done: that is the worst of it. I am sure if you think a minute about my Grandmother’s age you will realize from that alone that my Mother could not possibly leave her to come here or anywhere else. And my Grandmother, at her age, cannot move. My mother has had her full share of suffering and I have had much, also. I have had enough, anyway, to realize that it is all very beautiful in the end if you will pierce through to the center of it and see it in relation to the real emotions and values of Life. Do not think I am entirely happy here,--or ever will be, for that matter, except for a few moments at a time when I am perhaps writing or receiving a return of love. The true idea of God is the only thing that can give happiness,--and that is the identification of yourself with _all of life_. It is a fierce and humble happiness, both at the same time, and I am hoping that my Mother will find that _feeling_ (for it need not be a conscious thought) at some time or other. She must _accept everything_ and as it comes (as we all must) before she can come to such happiness, glorious sorrow, or whatever you want to call it. You must never think that I am not doing all I can to make my Mother’s life as bright as possible, even though I do not always succeed. I am doing work of a kind which I should not choose to do at all except that it makes me (or will make me) more money in the end than the simpler things which would satisfy my own single requirements--and just because I want to provide for my mother’s future as much as I can. We shall be together more and more as time goes on, and this separation at present is only temporary. You don’t know how grateful I am that you have given her your sympathy and love, and that has been _real_ or she would not have confided in you the way she has. --/--/

I hope that I have not put you and Richard to too much trouble about those books. They will be fine here with me in my room. Mother sent me my trunk (that much debated question which you will remember!) this week, and it was full of all kinds of dear familiar things that you have seen and touched in my room. There is that ivory Chinese box, for instance, which is here before me as I write. It looks very charming on the black table next to the jade Buddha that Harry [Candee] brought me from China.

I have not written much this last week,--too hot for one thing,--and then there are always people dropping in in the evening. But I am sending you a copy (to keep) of the last part of _The Bridge_ which is all that I have done so far, that is, in a lump.[30] You will remember enough of what I told you a long time ago about my general ideas and the plan of the entire poem to understand it fairly well anyway. It is sheer ecstasy here,--that is, all my friends who have seen it, say that. It was written verse by verse in the most tremendous emotional exaltations I have ever felt. I may change a few words in it here and there before the entire poem is finished, but there will be practically the same arrangement as what you see. If I only had more time away from office work I should have made much faster progress,--but I am perfectly sure that it will be finished within a year,--and as it is to be about four or five times as long as the enclosed fragment when it is complete,--I shall have been working about as fast on it as I have ever worked in the past. I am especially anxious to finish it, however, because than I shall have all my best things brought out in book form, and with a jacket or cover by Richard Rychtarik, I hope. Waldo Frank is anxious to introduce me to his publisher when the right time comes, and so there is no doubt but that the book will come out eventually. In the meantime there is a long essay that I hope to write on the photography of Alfred Stieglitz. I ought to have about two weeks for that _away from everything_, when I could shut myself up somewhere and not have my mind taken away from it for a moment. In it I shall have to go very deep,--into, perhaps, some of the most delicate problems of art in the future. You see, I too, have my moments of despair,--for there is so little time for me to think about such things. I am succeeding in my position with the advertising agency quite well,--but all that means _more_ work there, and even _less_ time for what I want to do. I am forced to be ambitious in two directions, you see, and in many ways it is like being put up on a cross and divided. I hope to succeed in them both,--the reasons you will easily understand. This last week I got promoted to the copy department, and on Tuesday night I shall take the train for Chicago. Business of the company, of course, which will keep me out of New York for probably about ten days or two weeks. Being with the largest advertising agency in the world is giving me fine experience that will get me higher-paid positions in other places after awhile. In many ways I have been very lucky to get placed so well at my age, so I complain about nothing except that I would like to have the days twice as long as they are--for all I want to do. --/--/

150: TO ALFRED STIEGLITZ

[_New York City_] _Aug 11th ’23_

Dear Stieglitz: The imagination dwells on frangible boughs! For ten days now I’ve been travelling through the middle west on _business_ for the company. Investigating certain sales facts and figures among hardware and paint dealers on “Barrelled Sunlight,” a kind of white paint! My mind is like dough and _The Bridge_ is far away. Your card was a warm signal to me on the morning of my joyful return. I never saw the Venus in her sphere before--looking on the world with the wind from Delphos in her hair! How do you do it? You have the distinction of being classic and realistic at once. That, of course, is what _real_ classicism means. You don’t know how much I think about my essay on you and your work! Please don’t think me faithless. I fly in a rage when I think of the sacrifices I pay just to feed myself in the hope of time--a rightful heritage of all of us--and it takes time to say and think out the things I feel in your photographs. I’ll try and write you more soon, but don’t misunderstand any silences from me. _I am your brother always_--

151: TO HIS MOTHER

[_New York City_] _Aug 11 ’23_

Dear Grace and Grandma: --/--/ I came near a collapse near the middle of the week--the trip, hot weather, etc., certainly tested me and worries kept me from much sleep--as things are. N.Y. is bad in the summer anyway--takes all the vitality you have to give and gives you back nothing to build with or repair. I hope things are going better now. I’ll write maybe during next week--but worry about correspondence is a burden sometimes when I have so much new work to think about. You’ll understand me, I hope, in any case. I enjoyed your letter, Grandma, and it wasn’t too long. You write extraordinarily well!

152: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK

[_New York City_] _Sunday, Aug. 19th_

Dear Lotte and Richard: Not much has happened since I got back, but it will interest you to know that ---- came around for lunch one day last week--and we had a talk about the book, _Ulysses_! I didn’t openly accuse him of _stealing_ it, just “borrowing” it,--but he certainly revealed a very weak position, leaving me to think more than ever that he is dishonest. He denied that he had been up to my room at all until I reminded him that he had told me so himself just a few weeks before, and that, anyway, my Mother had mentioned that he had been up there and had spoken about “borrowing” the book himself. This seemed to throw him into great confusion. He said he would look around among his things in his trunk, then, and “see” if he had taken it and forgotten to mention it to me. Imagine! Anybody who takes a book of such a size and value DOES NOT FORGET ABOUT IT SO EASILY. It seems to me that in admitting a thing like that he has practically admitted all I suspected. I told him to go ahead and look for it,--but he has probably sold it, and he will also probably keep away from me until I go after him in earnest. It would not have been tactful of me to accuse him of stealing right away,--but if he has done that I think he is going to be sorry for it. Isn’t it hard to believe!!!!

I also talked to him about the way he acted about your pictures--and told him that I had agreed with you both in your attitude. It seemed to make him furious that you had spoken to me about it, and he said he was going to write you--evidently an angry letter. Maybe you have got it by this time. It is all too bad--it has really shocked me enormously to have discovered such crooked hypocrisy in such a good mind. I was anxious that you should know about my conversation with ---- because, if he does write you as he said he would, you will know that I have tried to be as honest as I know how to be. --/--/

It is a beautiful day here, but as usual, I am sitting in, reading and writing. Just had breakfast with Gorham Munson and Liza, his wife. You would really like Liza, Charlotte. She teaches dancing and is dark and quiet and beautiful. The Munsons are about the only friends of mine who are now in town--all the rest being away in the country. --/--/

153: TO HIS MOTHER

[_New York City_] _Aug. 24th, ’23_

Dear Grace: --/--/ But I didn’t accuse him of anything further at the time--and haven’t since,--hoping that he would possibly be able to get hold of the book and return it to me somehow, if he got frightened enough. However, I have a letter all written to him. It will be sent just as soon as I get time to type it out; probably this week-end. There’s nothing doubtful about what I say in it either. I’m only sorry that no action can be taken against him. We are both out of the state where the theft occurred--and the book has been banned by the mails, anyway, so I wouldn’t get much favor in the courts on that account. -- -- -- -- had the brass to come here the other day (this makes me think him almost nutty) and instead of having himself announced at the outer reception room--comes ranging around among the people in the office, inquiring for me, and then comes up and stands and chats at my desk without the least concern! AND--what do you suppose he wants of me. --/--/ Just think of such an idiotic project--to say nothing of assuming that I would care to risk my standing around here for such a project! Then he keeps asking me out to the -- -- -- -- with a kind of desperate insistence, as though he thought I could be recompensed for his defaulting by satisfying some “social aspirations.” He certainly is terrible, silly as well.

I feel one hundred per cent better since I got back to copy work. I’m up on the fourteenth floor now with a wonderful view out over the Murray Hill section and the East River right off the edge of my desk. I’m far from being dissatisfied, as you suggested. The plain fact was, and still is--that New York takes such a lot from you that you have to save all you can of yourself or you simply give out. I need a good bed, but it will be a long time before I can get one unless you feel like shipping that little brass bed on the third floor down here to me sometime. That would be fine, and could serve me always here, but you’ll probably think it is out of the question to send it. It doesn’t make much difference how early you go to bed if you can’t get to sleep--you know that. And that has been the state of things with me for some time here. However, I’m really feeling all right. It’s just tiredness--and worry that you are very, very unhappy--what to do--etc.

I don’t know what is wrong with Charlotte and Richard. They haven’t sent my books to me on the date they said they would, nor have I had a word from them since Cleveland. If they are going to get upset and offended about something that I don’t even guess having said to injure them--then, they, like a whole lot of other people who go around just aching to cut their own heads off, will have to do it. Perhaps they’ve just been very busy, though; it’s certainly too early yet to make any definite assumptions. --/--/

154: TO ALFRED STIEGLITZ

_New York City_ _Aug. 25th, ’23_

Dear Stieglitz: I am hoping that you have seen Waldo, as you mentioned in your letter, by this time. The idea seemed so sensible to me, knowing as I have, the uneasy frictions that have bothered both of you and having regretted so much the evident misunderstandings all around. It is very important for us all--that is, all who are trying to establish an honest basis for what work we get a chance to do. It isn’t, as you say, a matter of politics,--but something akin to our spiritual bread and butter. Not all our manna comes from the skies. And we suffer all-too-much from social malnutrition once we try to live _entirely_ with the ghostly past. We must somehow touch the clearest veins of eternity flowing through the crowds around us--or risk being the kind of glorious cripples that have missed some vital part of their inheritance.

It’s good to hear that you have been “at the camera” again and that you are recovering, with physical and nervous rest, that extremity of delicate equilibrium that goes into your best activities. I know what it is to be exiled for months at a time. They’re the usual things with me, and lately it has been especially hard to be cut up between the necessities of a readjustment at the office (they’ve put me into a new department and I enjoy writing copy again to some extent) and the more natural propulsion toward such things as _The Bridge_. I’ve been in such despair about this latter for some time!--not seeing my way to introduce it in the way I want (the end and climax, what you have seen, is all that’s done so far) and not getting the needful hours to ripen anything in myself. If I can once get certain obligations disposed of in my family, I shall certainly break loose and do only such simple labor for my room and board as will not come into my consciousness after “working hours.” Streams of “copy” and ad layouts course through my head all night sometimes until I feel like a thread singed and twisted in the morning. This has been, very likely, as strenuous [a] year and as wasteful a one as I shall encounter for a long time, although you can never foretell such things as long as you have a family and connections. But I am looking forward to a more equable program when winter comes, when people’s windows are shut, cats are quieter and the air more bracing.

Every once in a while I [get] a statement or so noted down in regard to my interpretation of you and your photographs. There are still many things in the lucid explanation of them that simply baffle me. To use a modern simile that occurred to me in that connection--it’s like trying to locate “the wires of the Acropolis”; indeed, I may call my essay by that name before I get through. A little recent study of Picasso and his Harlequins has been illuminating on the inner realities and spiritual quantities that both of you possess, and perhaps by the time you get back to town I’ll have some other comparisons ready for you to deny or substantiate. I certainly miss seeing you, now, and wish you might send me one or two of those prints that are otherwise committed to the waste basket sometime soon.

155: TO HIS MOTHER

[_New York City_] _Sept. 8th, ’23_

Dear Grace and Grandma: Both of your last letters have been so sweet and gratifying that I am very grateful. I am glad to think of you as located for the winter, putting in coal, and assured of the comforts that I know you ought to have. They have raised the rent on Gorham and Liza,--and they have been trying to locate a new place at a more reasonable figure, but they may not move at all--so discouraging is the search. That’s one of the banes of New York--one is on a moving cloud here most of the time, for, either the house you live in is being torn down for an apartment, or else the landlord is gouging you constantly for your last cent. I never want to have any of us without some property of our own--land and building--whether we live in it or not, but just so that “we have it” and are not entirely subject to the whims of fortune. If I ever get any money, I know that I shall attend to that investment before I travel or anything else. You’ve got to have an anchorage somewhere if you are ever to have any repose of mind.

Of this latter-mentioned article--I can’t say I have had much recently. Of all the abominable snakes I ever heard of -- -- -- -- is the worst. I got a letter on Wednesday from -- -- -- --. He had evidently feared my exposure of him to them--and to ward it off he took the pains to tell her that I was a venomous person, upset by the heat of the City, and trying to torture him for mere pleasure. She recommended a dose of pills, a swim, etc., as a means of clearing up my head--and otherwise insulted me. The next morn--comes a letter from -- -- -- -- himself--in which he denies that his letter constituted a confession at all, said that the money was sent merely out of consideration for my loss, etc., and other kinds of weak trashy statements. I shall not reply to him, but I wrote -- -- -- -- that if she had any interest in the truth or cared to alleviate her own responsibilities in imposing such opinions on me--she might come into town someday next week and take lunch with me. I mentioned that I hadn’t the time to write out the extensive evidence that I had, but that I should be glad to discuss them with her viva voce. The whole matter made me ill the next day--but the worst now is over, whether I ever get anything out of -- -- -- -- or not. I shall not press the claim further than the telling of the story to -- -- -- --; it isn’t worth it. There is absolutely no doubt about the confession in the letter, however, and I am keeping it well out of reach in my trunk.

--/--/ By the end of a summer in New York everybody is at the limit of endurance; there is no place to rest, get away from the constant noise and vibrations of trucks, etc., and there’s a kind of insidious impurity in the air that seems to seep from sweaty walls and subways. Next year I shall have at least a month in the open country or by the sea--I haven’t had a real vacation now for several years, you know. The time spent in idleness when out of a job was always a worse strain than the hardest kind of labor, so that hasn’t counted for much with me.

--/--/ I see much of Gorham and Liza--they are restful to me and always kind. I don’t think I should care to stay in New York long if they weren’t here. --/--/

156: TO CHARLOTTE RYCHTARIK

_New York City_ _Sept. 23rd, ’23_

Dear Charlotte: --/--/ I am planning to move myself, and shall probably share with the Munsons in their [new] apartment. That would enable them to get a better place and I should have hot water and good heat for the winter which the place I am in now does not provide. I am wondering if you and Richard could spare me a loan of fifteen dollars to help me over the expenses of moving my things. I have not yet received a raise in salary at the office, and I have been getting so little that I am kept down to the bare necessities of life all the time. When something extra is demanded I have nothing to fall back upon and the situation is really far from pleasant. If you could do this I shall be able to pay you sometime soon, I think, and I would be a thousand times obliged.

I am getting along very well at the office, but I intend to speak up for an advance in pay very soon. The wages they have been paying me have been much less than my capabilities are worth, and I don’t think I shall have much trouble in getting that raise if I speak about it to them. They are putting new responsibilities upon me all the time, and I am learning quite a good deal. But there is something necessary in life besides learning, as we all know. It is quite a stylish and almost snobbish set of educated people at J. Walter Thompson’s--they are very lofty and certainly seem to think that the social superiority of the place is enough to make up for low salaries. When they can pay one of their art directors 30,000 a year they can afford to pay some of their copywriters more than they do.

I am working still on _The Bridge_, but it is far from complete yet. In the meantime I am working on some smaller poems that crop out from time to time very naturally. The situation for the artist in America seems to me to be getting harder and harder all the time. Most of my friends are worn out with the struggle here in New York. If you make enough to live decently on, you have no time left for your real work,--and otherwise you are constantly liable to starve. New York offers nothing to anyone but a circle of friendly and understanding brothers,--beyond that it is one of the most stupid places in the world to live in. Of course, one’s friends are worth it,--but sometimes, when you see them so upset by the fever and crowded conditions, the expenses and worries--you wonder whether or not there is much use in the whole business. I am, of course, rather tired out when I say these things. I shall probably be in a different and better mood later on when the weather cools, and when there is some life in the air. I have been through the hardest summer in my life--the hardest year, perhaps, when you consider the developments I have been through and the material difficulties that I have encountered. I want to keep saying “YES” to everything and never be beaten a moment, and I shall, of course, never be really beaten.

--/--/ He is in a very strange state of mind now that is dangerous. He and his wife, -- -- -- -- have separated. I have heard them each tell their stories, and there is nothing nasty or petty about it at all--they have simply agreed that they have failed in establishing a certain deep relationship which they had felt was a part of the reason for their being together, and they are still very good friends. It is complicated for both of them, however, by the fact of their baby boy, which both are very attached to.

I have been making a number of drawings lately. One of Jean Toomer, one of Waldo, and one of an amusing young lady. They are all very interesting, and even Gaston Lachaise, who was in to see me recently, thought that they were worth while. If I had time I should do more, but it is really only when I am not doing what I want to in my writing that I am very much tempted to draw. So I shall probably not do any more drawings for a year or so. --/--/

157: TO HIS MOTHER

_New York_ _Oct. 5th ’23_

Grace, dear! I had just got my pajamas on last night when there was a rap on the door. I opened and in walked Waldo Frank--behind him came a most pleasant-looking, twinkling, little man in a black derby--“Let me introduce you to Mr. Charles Chaplin,”--said Waldo, and I was smiling into one of the most beautiful faces I ever expect to see. Well!--I was quickly urged out of my nightclothes and the three of us walked arm in arm over to where Waldo is staying at 77 Irving Place (near Gramercy). All the way we were trailed by enthusiastic youngsters. People seem to spot Charlie in the darkness. He is so very gracious that he never discourages anything but rude advances.

At five o’clock this morning Charlie was letting me out of his taxi before my humble abode. “It’s been so nice,” he said in that soft crisp voice of his, modulated with an accent that is something like Padraic Colum’s in its correctness. Then he, blinking and sleepy, was swung around and was probably soon in his bed up at the Ritz.

I can’t begin to tell you what an evening, night and _morning_ it was. Just the three of us--and Charlie has known Waldo quite a while--they’ve been in Paris together and have a few mutual friends.

Among other things Charlie told us his plans (and the story of it) for his next great film. He has a five acre studio all his own now in Berkeley, and is here in New York at present to see that the first film he has produced in it gets over profitably. He doesn’t act in it. But he wrote story, directed and produced it entirely himself. It’s running now for just a week or so more at the “Lyric” theatre to box prices. Then it will be released all over the country. _A Woman of Paris_ it’s called. I haven’t seen it yet.

Our talk was very intimate--Charlie told us the complete Pola Negri story--which “romance” is now ended. And there were other things about his life, his hopes and spiritual desires which were very fine & interesting. He has been through so much, is very lonely (says Hollywood hasn’t a dozen people he enjoys talking to or who understand his work) and yet is so radiant and healthy, wistful, gay and _young_. He is 35, but half his head is already grey. You cannot imagine a more perfect and natural gentleman. But I can’t go on more now. Stories (marvelous ones he knows!) told with such subtle mimicry that you rolled on the floor. Such graceful wit, too--O that man has a mind.

We (just Charlie & I) are to have dinner together some night next week. He remembered my poem very well & is very interested in my work.

There’s nothing else worth telling you about since my last letter. I am very happy in the intense clarity of spirit that a man like Chaplin gives one if he is honest enough to receive it. I have that spiritual honesty, Grace, and it’s what makes me clear to the only people I care about.

158: TO HIS MOTHER

[_New York City_] _Oct. 12th, ’23_

Dear Grace and Grandma: --/--/ It has been a very busy week. I have not seen Chaplin as I expected to, he has been under the weather up at the Ritz -- -- -- --. But Jean Toomer, Margaret Naumburg and Waldo Frank have been very much in evidence, and to the extent of a very fine home-cooked chicken dinner one evening at Margaret’s which almost left me gasping--I ate so much. Toomer and I are great friends. I want to send you a copy soon of his book of short stories and a play which has just come out. It may interest you to read the inscription which he placed in the copy of this book which he recently gave me:--“For Hart, instrument of the highest beauty, whose art, four-conscinal, rich in symbols and ecstasy, is great--whose touch, deep and warm, is a sheer illuminant--with love, Jean.--New York, 24th Sept 23.” --/--/

Since the weather cooled I have felt almost a new being. Having had the gas turned on in my radiator and tried it out several times, I am now confident that I shall be able to keep quite warm during the winter. Two friends of mine have offered me the use of their tubs and faucets whenever I want a hot bath, which I shall avail myself of, providing I cannot succeed in persuading the landlady to install a hot water heater here. I do not think I shall have to buy any more clothes before spring what with the suit you are sending and what I have on hand to use. This certainly is fortunate, as my present salary at Thompson’s just suffices for rent and food, really nothing more. I am waiting until the end of this month, the sixth month, to inquire about the possibilities of a raise. If I find that I am stalled off, I shall quietly investigate for a position elsewhere. --/--/ I have been working very hard this week on a stiff sort of proposition. So far they have given me only tough little nubbins to handle--jobs that didn’t pay them anything and could best be turned over to a cheap man,--these little left-overs are, however, very often the most uninspiring and difficult things to handle.

--/--/ I think of you a great deal, and you must not be lonely. We are all going on in the regular course of things toward a higher consciousness of life and what it means. We have no reason or right to suppose that it should be predominantly happy--seen completely, from end to end, however, I think it is a great happiness. We must keep on over-riding the details of pettiness and small emotions that dwarf it to keep on seeing it that way, and that can’t be done without a real conscious effort and vision. We know each other too well to let physical separations mar very much. Christmas is not so far away now, either, and then I shall see you for several days. --/--/

159: TO HIS MOTHER

_New York City_ _Oct. 20th, ’23_

Dear Grace and Grandma: --/--/ I’ve been feeling so altogether rotten lately that my energies are about reduced to their minimum. In fact I am seriously considering going to the Isle of Pines this winter for a thorough rest and recuperation from the strain of the last five years. This is no sudden idea in my head,--it is something I have reconsidered many times for several months, and always with the growing conviction that it is the thing to do. I think that in weighing the numerous reasons you will agree with me quite thoroughly.

In the first place--my state of nerves and insomnia here due to the mad rush of things, and the noisy nights around the place I am obliged to live in, makes it imperative that I get away before I have a real breakdown. I feel that this is certain to happen before the winter is over unless I get some relief. And, as there seems to be no prospect of a raise in my salary at the office, I cannot afford necessities here that make life bearable and sufficient to keep me in a state of health.

And then, besides all this, the Island needs some personal attention from someone in this family. You, neither of you, are able to go, and if you were, it would cost you three or four times as much as I will need to live there. (My expenses would be just the boat fare and after that about 5 dollars a week for board with the Simpsons.) I need absolutely no more clothes or equipment in any way than I presently have, so that needn’t be bothered about. I would have a chance to breathe in some clear air, swim and use my body a little freely. I could live very simply and constructively--and really make it pay besides by seeing the lay of the land, how things are being cared for, what marketing opportunities are developing in the way of cooperative fruit markets, etc.

I think this and other letters of mine have said enough about living conditions in New York as it has now become--to make it plain that you will never want to settle here. I have never accented these points in any particular relation to you--but I am more and more certain that you will never want to _live_ here. Rents are terrific, food very high and unless you have unlimited funds you have to content yourself with trying to keep clean in a dinky stuffy apartment without a porch or any of the outdoor privileges that go with the poorest shanty. I think we have been not fools, but fooling ourselves, to have worried so about selling the island place. That is the best place to live I know of,--the place where you will be far happier than ever tied up in an overcrowded city--paying out every month more money than your food would cost you for a year on the Island. Besides,--that grove is going to pay, and _pay well_ sometime. It will pay you well enough to afford a month’s change in New York every year. And that’s enough! I have learned that from plentiful experience.

After the winter I can come back here to New York and get plenty of jobs that will pay more than what I have now. I can come back with a fund of health and energy that simply couldn’t be gained here even if I weren’t working at all. I think I deserve this much assistance not only as a son--but as [a] man who has done his best to cope with all situations that have come up, and I have been faced with some hard ones. This isn’t a dodge--it’s a sane precaution, and if you really care for me in [the] right sort of way you will give it your approval, I’m sure.

Please don’t think that I’m flat on my back or anything like that--by what I’ve said. I have been at the office every day and doing my regular work. It’s the steady and growing strain of it all that I feel--without relief or rest, and I don’t want to disregard too many red signals--at least with the obvious means we have of checking danger of this seriousness. I don’t want you to waste a lot of money by coming down here in the belief that I need bedside attention, I only want you to know the facts as they are. If I went I should certainly spend a week with you beforehand. But, of course, I’ll never consider living in Cleveland again permanently--no matter what happens.

Write me soon what you think of my suggestions. I think we should certainly not let that island property slip away. It’s a clean home with beautiful surroundings and sunshine with quiet and tranquillity--compared to this metropolitan living with its fret and fever--it’s a paradise.

160: TO ALFRED STIEGLITZ

_New York City_ _Oct. 26th, ’23_

Dear Stieglitz: I hardly know how to begin--such confusion reigns at present. It’s the usual state, however, with the additional complication that my nerves are a little frazzled. In fact they got so on edge writing that damned advertising under the pseudo-refined atmosphere of the office I was working in that I had to resign the other day to save my mind. I have the prospect of coming back after a six week’s vacation if I want to--but I don’t want to, and as things stand at present, haven’t got the money to carry me through the rest and contemplation that I need. Rather wound up, you see!

Your mention of the “sky” pictures really excited me. The greatest beauty comes out of repose, and I knew that as certain disturbances settled (were fought through) you would recapture the basis (on a higher plane than ever) for new penetrations and syntheses of vision. I had hoped to go down to a plantation that my grandmother and mother own in the West Indies this winter, in fact that was largely the basis of my leaving the job. My intention was to get the unbroken time there to write the essay on your work which I have never had the opportunity of doing here. I was also expecting to finish my _Bridge_ poem (which, done, would complete the material for my first book of poems). But these things must evidently wait. It is certain that they cannot be undertaken while my mind is divided between them and an office job. They are both of them too large conceptions to be accomplished under such tour de force conditions. Now, my mother writes me that the place may be sold at any time and that it is out of the question for me to go at all. _If_ I can get somebody to lend me the money, however, I may possibly go right ahead, regardless. Both of my parents are interested in money only in connection with my actions, and I have never been persistent enough in the past to really clear that notion away.

Munson said that he had a fine letter from you, and he has probably answered it by this time, telling you a number of things about his present position with regard to _Broom_ and _Secession_. He is the noblest young man I know in this country. Experience seems only to sharpen a native integrity and an almost clairvoyant sense of spiritual values. He was obliged to leave the city for his health, and while I miss him a great deal, I hope that he will remain where he is for the rest of the winter. Waldo [Frank], as you know, leaves for Europe tomorrow. I am sorry that he couldn’t get time to make you that visit. I have seen him going through a good deal, both in work and experience, and there is no use of trying to write out any details of these things. We shall talk about it some time. Margaret [Naumburg] has also meant a great deal to me lately. Isn’t this little handful of us fighting though?!

161: TO GORHAM MUNSON

[_New York City_] _Oct. 28th, ’23_

Cheero, Old bird! I have just seen the “last” _Secession_! and I am in no position, I must admit, to quarrel with you about your decision to destroy the garbled pages of “Faustus and Helen.” A beautiful bit of business--“blues in your breasts,” and the two lines that our hero decided were inessential to the poem! That damned note at the end with its ill-advised quotation from your personal comment is still worse. But never mind, I don’t care at all if you will make the necessary clipping. Some few friends of W[heelwright]’s have probably already received copies to treasure as their vision may permit, but I should like to keep as many people in America free from misconceptions about me as possible. Why don’t you wire the consulate in Florence to stop W. from any further rape of _S._--it is a positive elopement that seems to have no prospect of termination. I am thinking of starting abroad with _The Dial_, calling it “The Pile,” hemorrhoid, or something like that! My cable, of course, failed.

Waldo left today in a better state of health than he was in when you were here. I don’t know whether or not it was due to evasion of certain difficulties. I have no right to make any judgments of that kind, after all, until his writing indicates it. I am always his enthusiastic friend and brother, whatever happens. We had lunch together day before yesterday and he was in thorough approval of my resignation and trip to the Isle of Pines. I have since heard from my mother, however, that the place is liable to be sold at any time, and as that would contribute to a feeling of real unease in going there, I have about decided to come up to Woodstock for awhile for a rest and air, and then come back to town for either free-lancing or a return to advertising. I might get something at Harcourt Brace now, if Smith warms up a little. Certainly I am not at all regretful for what I have done, it being a purely organic necessity. I should have been “flat” if I had tried to keep up that damned hypocrisy of advertising much longer--at least for the time being. I am going to exact some meager contributions from my family--and not be sentimental about it. They want me to come home, but that is, at present, out of the question. The money it would cost for train fare would more than pay for my recuperation at Woodstock. I wish you would ask Brown and Nagle if it would be convenient for them to have me stay with them for awhile, beginning about next Saturday. Underwood expects to come here for a month and asked me to look him up a room. If I can get him to take this at 45 Grove, I shall have my rent free. Jean [Toomer] may arrive any day, also, and he is sure to want it if Wilbur [Underwood] doesn’t.

This is a mad letter. I am trying to get it off--along with the transcription of the English equivalents of the Sayn quotations from Frank and the _Fugitive_ finales--in time to get a bath at Lisa’s and over to the Lights in time for a free dinner. Please don’t forget your vote on the _Fugitive_ prize, the extra hundred is worth having these days! I’ll tell you all that amounts to anything about the _Broom_ meeting when I see you. At present Cowley feels that you have broken relations with him by your last letter which he read the night I dined with them. He additionally feels that you may naturally presume that his presence at the Burke farm on the day that B. resigned had a good deal to do with Ken’s action--which he says is not the case at all. I didn’t say that you had all along been wishing that K. would resign! I wouldn’t make any compromises with C. I like many things about him, but he is still in his adolescence when it comes to certain reactions. We really have two groups to the former ONE of _Secession_, and there is no use trying to evade that fact,--as, obviously, you are not trying to do.

162: TO HIS MOTHER

[_New York City_] _Nov. 1st, ’23_

Dear Grace and Grandma: --/--/ Tomorrow afternoon I leave, stopping off for a couple of days at Ridgefield, Conn., as a guest of Eugene O’Neill (the author of _Anna Christie_, _Emperor Jones_, _Beyond the Horizon_, etc.). I met O’Neill at some friends last week end when he was in town. He likes my poetry very much and invited me to come to stay with him. He has a regular estate, I am told,--an establishment that is quite complete, and breakfast for guests is never served out of bed. If everything goes right they are to drive me up to Woodstock on Sunday,--about three hours through beautiful hills and foliage. My address from then on will be _Woodstock, N.Y. care-of Slater Brown_. --/--/

I am depending on you to help me some, as I said in my last letter. I think you will agree that a thoroughly out-of-doors life for a month is not only a sensible thing for me, but really due me after all the time I have denied myself such a natural privilege. If you don’t understand such a rightful desire on my part, then I can only say that your vision is warped. It was fine of you to ask me home, but I know you will realize that the atmosphere of Cleveland is anything but conducive to rest _for me_. The amount to which I am asking you to help me will not exceed the carfare to and from Cleveland--at most. Brown is poor and can only offer me the hospitality of the house he has taken,--and extra board he is unable to provide, so I am anxious to do my part and be decent about not stretching his hospitality unreasonably. So please send me fifteen dollars in cash or check at Woodstock sometime next week. Even if you have to pinch a little bit, I think that the things I am trying to do deserve a few sacrifices. I make as many as I can myself, and still keep sound and living,--and I hope you will [be] faithful enough--whether you see my complete ends or not--to lend me some assistance. I hope you are both well and happy. Don’t worry about me. I know damned well what I’m doing.

163: TO HIS MOTHER

_Woodstock_, [_New York_] _Nov. 8th, ’23_

Dear Mother and Grandmother: Felling trees and piecing them up for warmth is a new sport to me, but I have taken to it with something like a real enthusiasm. This is my fourth day here in the mountains, but already I feel like a new person. My muscles are swelling and blood simply glowing. It is quite cold, even snowed today and the top of the nearest mountain is hooded white.

Slater Brown and Nagle make wonderful people to live with. I told you how fond I was of B. when I was home last summer. I am made to feel not at all a guest, as to a large extent I am not, of course, but they want me to stay all winter here with them now. I may and I may not, depending on how I find I can manage to earn enough money by poems and articles. Certainly I should like to become a giant again in health, as I naturally am. And I have never had an outing like this before in my life.

We do all our own cooking. Brown has developed a surprising faculty for supplying tempting and enormous meals. You have no idea what an appetite is developed with wood chopping, sawing, and much walking in the brisk air. I have a heavy army shirt of wool and corduroy trousers. I got all this along with some woolen socks for surprisingly little in an army and navy store in New York before I came out here. It was a good thing, now, that you sent that heavy underwear of mine in the trunk when you sent it.

The house we are living in is, of course, already furnished by a family that lives here only in the summer. There are four bedrooms, a bath, dining room, large studio with a huge open fireplace where we burn our logs, and kitchen provided with an oil stove. There’s just enough furniture and not too much, simple and in pleasant taste. The town is about two miles away. Walking in for our provisions is very pleasant--over rolling land, set in a valley by low mountains on all sides around. We are quite set away from everybody--no people passing to speak of and in a quietness that is a tonic after the endless noise and reverberation of New York which you feel there even in your sleep.

I certainly am hoping that nothing serious has happened to prevent you from writing to me. I have been expecting a letter from you for several days now. -- -- -- --

164: TO ALFRED STIEGLITZ

_Woodstock, NY_ _December 5th, ’23_

Dear Stieglitz: Your fine description of the snow makes me glad that I’m going to stay here until January--by which time I am sure that I may see a few pure flakes myself. So far, we have only had a gentle sleet--once and at nightfall. Today it rains and rains, and our usual wood foraging is broken.

Slater Brown and Ed Nagle are my hosts here in the shadow of the mountains. They were kind enough to ask me up here after I had to give up the trip to the West Indian plantation because I found out that my mother was trying to sell it as soon as possible. We’re about a mile and a half from the village and very much by ourselves. My first taste of the country for years--and a month of it has put me in a steadier mood than I remember since childhood. But enough of this god damned autobiography! When I get back to town I may drive trucks, stevedore, steward on a boat or even go back to advertising. I shan’t be serious enough about any of ‘em to worry now. I’ll certainly be glad to see you again and peer at some of your new pictures if you’ll let me. We can have some walks in the snow, too, I hope. Winter in New York is stimulating, and most of our talks, so far, have been carried on under the torrid auspices of summer.