6. 1923:
Rapid City, Man. May 29, 1923
Dear Mr. Phelps,
But really, I don't know. You are awfully good to me. Only it
makes me feel as if I were not doing enough. Honest, I don't
like that book: it is too talkative; and it talks about nobody
but myself. Now I should like to hide, to conceal myself. There
are so many things that need presenting. Why should I present
myself? And still, I can't help feeling a little glad when I
see that others do not dislike what I write. But, apart from
the ant-book, it all seems so irrelevant. Even the Pioneers on
which I have now been working since 1919. I have my troubles,
you know. My wife keeps saying, "If only these people will still
reverse their decision and close the High School!" She means
that I am to write next year. And of course, sometimes the temptation
is strong upon me. I am simply teeming at present with plans
and new ideas. I sometimes sit down of an evening and tell my
wife a dozen stories or so that should be written. I have never
spoken to you of that other book, so far written in illegible
pencil-writing, "The House of Stene" (pronounced Stane). A childhood
book. There are essays by the dozen or score. There is a boxful.
But how can it ever be published: not while I am alive!
And now you ask me about facts. There is so much that I care
not to reveal; and the rest is commonplace. What you find in
the Search is almost literally autobiography: shortened, sometimes
emasculated, but nothing added. When that period of my life closed,
the grind began: broken by nothing but occasional ecstasies in
writing; and by an Herculean labour in mastering English to the
point where I cared to use it as a medium of expression. I was
born 1872 and came to Canada in 1893. Returned to Europe. Came
back (as in the Search) 1896. Then the Search. And henceforth
monotony. At first, when I began to write, I tried Swedish, German,
French. Last, English. There are some anonymous publications
in various languages that I do not care to reveal: I deny them.
Finally came the great event: the appearance of "Over Prairie
Trails".
And that is all. But, whatever you do, don't give me away with
regard to the Search. If it becomes an open secret that that
book is autobiography, I'll never consent to its publication.
And yet I have been eager to bring it out. I believed it would
help certain people to find themselves. Possibly, quite likely,
indeed, that is nothing but vanity. I also have this one idea
that is Canada, if she does not fail her maker, can still serve
what I call God; can still become the salvation of the world:
because she is small. The United States have already betrayed
their trust, as I see it. The United States are becoming more
and more old-world: they are serving the devil instead of God.
Now this, too, I would not say in public. But there is a great
anxiety in me: and from it springs my Canadianism: I don't think
I make at all clear what I mean. Possibly it will become articulate
one day, if I live. Then I may have a message. But, at best,
I have a few years ahead. If I had never published, I might still
live the quiet life: the life of thought. In the "Turn" as it
now stands, I have inserted a little thing ("Love in Autumn")
which, I believe, says more than I can in articulate speech;
I cannot read that little thing without going to pieces. It may
not say anything to anybody else. But to me it says all that
I ever, in any book, care to say.
But, I suppose, this is all "Greek".
So, just give Mrs. Phelps my best regards.
Yours,
F.P.G.
