12.
1923:
Matlock, Man. July 27,
1923
Dear Mr. Phelps,
I'm writing lying on the beach, in the sand. So it's the
pencil again. I hope my vile writing won't give you too much
trouble.
I received your letter and 'foreword' last night.
I've just done my 'pension' on the Pioneers, so I'll see
whether any of my reaction will form into words. If we could
talk, it would be easier: the spoken word allows of a thousand
modifications.
I don't see that there is anything to be changed, to be
objected to, much less to be added. I've ventured to turn
the order of two words: "pioneer Herculean labour" into "Herculean
pioneer labour." It seems to me to improve the rhythm of
the phrase: also the words "pioneer labour" seem to convey
one idea qualified by an epithet. Perhaps I am wrong. "Born
in Europe " sounds vague: but I don't know whether I should
care to have it more precise. As a matter of fact I was born - by
mere chance my parents were traveling, and I came 2 months
before my time - at Moscow , Russia . At so I've been told.
But, as I said - does it matter? What do I matter? A few
more years and my substance will blow with the winds; possibly
it will not take as long. Not that I wish it, don't misunderstand
me. Life is still sweet to me though I can't understand it.
But I don't resent it, either. As I said, it does not seem
to matter.
For the last 35 years or so I have though that there was
something I wanted to say. I have tried to say it. I always
find that I have not said it. I don't really know what it
is, I'm afraid. It is a feeling, a reaction to life. I do
believe that that matters. I have always though it was unimportant
whether I succeeded for the moment or not in saying what
I wanted to say. I was young, and there was the plentitude
of years ahead. With each little thing that I wrote, I thought
I was getting a little closer to saying it. So, finally,
one day, there it could be; and then I would be willing to
go into dissolution. But the years piled up, and a feeling
came over me that it was getting to be the time, that at
last there was hurry. I have that feeling now. If I did not
have it, I should not consent to publication. I think it
was Wilde who said that the artist's work did not necessarily
convey the message which he meant to convey, and that it
did not matter (in his "Intention" if I remember right).
Perhaps that is so; and perhaps it is alright, but I find
it very disturbing. Recently I read a piece of my Pioneers
to a lady who, herself Icelandic, has worked among the people
as a Public health Nurse. I read to her passages dealing
with Lands, down to the man's mysterious disappearance. She
cried over them. And she said, "To think, that I have seen
just such people and have spoken harshly of them." And she
added: "That book of yours won't make me happier Mr. Grove." And
I replied "It isn't meant to; it is meant to make your more
thoughtful." But even that was wrong. For it isn't meant
to do anything of the kind. You say in your letter: "A vision
of a life is always worthwhile." And perhaps that is it;
it is to give a vision of life: the humble, sincere life
of the poor. As I work on with that book fragment after fragment,
rebuilding it out of the enormous material of the preliminaries
which I wrote in 19191 and 1920, I begin to be quite worked
up over it: I begin to think that possibly in it I shall
succeed in saying at least part of what I should like to
say. Of course, it is still quite in the making. I think
I shall be able to send you the balance of book I by October.
But then, when it does go out will say what I wanted to say
through it? It seems so doubtful.
I know that in this letter so far I have not succeeded in
saying what I wanted to say. Does it matter where and when
I was born? What I am, what I try to do? What am I? Four
fifths animal, one tenth man, and perhaps one tenth God?
And it is only what that one tenth does or says that matters:
so why not let me be born and die and not say a word about
it?
I have written a little book which I call "Interpretation". "Of
the Interpretation of History," "Of the Interpretation of
Science," "Of the Interpretation of Life" - those are the
three essays composing it. In them I pose these assertions:
(1) It does not matter what happens; only how it was interpreted.
92) It does not matter what "truth" is, only how that so-called
truth interprets things. (3) It does not matter how, where,
and why you live, only how you interpret your life. I don't
know whether that little book is still anywhere among my
manuscripts. I suppose so.
In its light, then, you are justified in
whatever you say. Still, it seems to me that there is too
much of "Grove" about
it. I don't know whether you see what I mean. This is, of
course, quite apart from its value for you, or for anybody
else: merely for myself: and I should like to hide. But,
of course, that is exactly what you are asked to do. As I
see it, it was largely a question "de vous tirer de l'affaire
le mieux possible." M&S would have liked you to open
the door to the hall and to say "Ladies + gentlemen, you
will be entertained." Then to pull me in and to call out "Now
watch the trained bear perform!"
Thank the lord you didn't do that. But, of course, I knew
you wouldn't.
Mrs. Grove was quite indignant at me the other day when
I said, "What are those books, the Drives, the Summer-Showers,
the Search? To me they are mere exercises in English Composition!"
Well, let me close with that laugh.
No, as I said, there's nothing I have to object to. And
there's at least one great compliment beautifully said, "Pebbles
under brook water, etc."
Remember me to Mrs. Phelps.
Yours,
F.P.G.
