33. 1925:
Rapid City, Man. January 10, 1925
Dear Phelps,
I am sitting up for the first time in a
little over a week, feeling very exhausted and burnt out
with fever.
There would be no chance for me to read to you people on
Monday. It will take another week or two before I shall be
able to go on the train. In fact, I am disobeying doctor's
orders by sitting up now.
I am sending a parcel to you by the same
mail. The old Mss of the Search, and one more of the
three volumes which you loaned me. I found it highly amusing;
Mrs. Grove read it when I told her that it covered somewhat
similar ground as my Search. I am still retaining
the volume of Hardy's. If you need it, please let me know.
In a history of English Literature which they made me write
an exam on a few years ago, Hardy was mentioned in the same
paragraph with Charles Reade and several others. That stuck
in my memory. So, during our summer tramps, a year and a
half ago, wishing to probe into those who formed the subject
matter of that paragraph, I procured Reade's Cloister
and the Hearth (if that's the
title). Before I had reached page 60 or so, the author had
completely slain me. I vowed, No more reading out of that
paragraph for me! Well, my experience with the Return
of the Native is rather puzzling to me. I am making a
very careful analysis of the book - without writing it down,
of course. It is the absolutely first book which has compelled
me to do so in order to make clear to myself in what its
fascination and repulsion consist. I remember the time when
Ibsen greatly puzzled me. Hardy puzzles me in somewhat the
same way. Neither of them is quite fair to Life. And yet,
their misrepresentations are those of men of great and compelling
genius. In spite of the fact that I find much to hesitate
at - of the man
who thought of Hardy when he heard my kind of thing
is in many ways right, I cannot but feel tremendously flattered.
I have only one word to express what I mean: and it is a
French word. Hardy has more "envergure" than any modern author
I know of. No, I have another word, and it is a German word. "Schwungweite".
His is the greatest measure from tip to tip of his wings.
That is about what those words convey. And yet, every now
and then I am overwhelmed with the insignificance of the
characters. Even Eustacia; there is, for me, something unreal
about them; about all but the popular chorus which is marvelous
in its reality. Trifling things shock me through their triviality:
the Reddleman's kissing of Thomasin's glove: but perhaps
such is the stuff we are made of. Perhaps I am simply timid
in my most careful avoidance of such things. You will notice
that in the White Range House - as I am glad you are calling
it again - a kiss is used only satirically; as is everything
which would "film well".
However, enough; or this letter would become endless.
I mentioned that I have written a few things
to try magazines with: TRASH. I enclose two of them in that
parcel. Should you at any time have an hour to spare, read
one or both and tell me, whether you think that they could
be sold. I'd almost be willing to write a scenario, you know,
in order to make a step of some kind. If somehow I could
get fifty dollars for something I've written, it would encourage
me to go on.
Now one more word, and I've done.
That evening was something like a great event for me. When
I finished reading Lost, Harvey sat down by my side. I smiled
at him. I was a little shaken myself. He shook his head and
said, "I can't speak". That was one of the most touching
things that could have happened. And, back here, it all seems
so unreal. Surely it isn't I; it is nothing that has anything
to do with my share of the work that did it. There is the
material, you know. Anybody who happened to have the material
could have produced the same effect. I happen to have been
thrown into an environment where these things thrust themselves
upon me. I merely record them in the simplest way of which
I know.
However, if the C.A.A. wants me in February, I'll be glad
to go, expenses paid or not.
Remember me to Mrs. Phelps, please.
Yours,
F.P.G.
By the way, Osborne wrote me a really touching letter about
The Turn of the Year.
