39.
1925:
Rapid City, Man. Febuary 13, 1925
Dear Mr. Phelps,
Just a word that I got home safely with
no more than a slight cold which, I trust, will be cured - as
far as cold of mine are ever cured - within a few days. I
found everybody well; and even found myself welcomed home
by the local paper of last night. It is astonishing how much
a couple lines in a city newspaper will do. By the same mail
I am returning "The
Unheroic North". (I am going to buy the book).
I hesitate saying very much about it just
now. I am much impressed, though. Undoubtedly the man has
seen and has the courage of a protest against slush. Marsh
Hay is a powerful picture. But somehow I seem to miss something
redeeming which even misery usually has for me when I see
it in real life; and to that extent it seems to fall short
of such literature as the Russian writers give who deal with
misery (Tchechov, Gorky, etc.). I may, to that extent, be
a sentimentalist; but I have the sneaking idea that misery,
vice, etc., can be approached in literature - without being
repulsive - only
through the avenues of pity - pity transcendentalised into
sympathy. Still, I sincerely hope that out of this Unheroic
North other things will come, just as, in the Russian phrase,
out of Gogol's Cloak the whole modern Russian literature
was cut, with the exception of Tolstoi.
My last evening in Winnipeg was torture:
Winnipeg's brutal, beast-like plutocracy. By the way, I was
expected to pay for my dinner by reading or speaking, which
I refused to do, in spite of the fact that there were quite
a few buyers of my stuff present: but the kind of buyers
that I abhor.
Mrs. Travers Sweatman (a sterile woman out one of the worst
morbid poems of Baudelaire's) cornered me; she has written
a story and wanted me to read it. I refused point-blank,
but suggested that she ask you, Harvey, or Woodhouse. Would
you read it and tell her whether it is piffle, sack-cloth,
or grand music? She insisted on addressing an envelope for
me so I could tell her.
By the way, a sneaking suspicion came to tell me that you
are footing a lodging bill for me at the college. Now please,
if you do, tell me; for what do I want to pay my own way
and quit when that is no longer possible. You did not tell
me, either, what the charge for the wire was. You mustn't
do such things. Let me know, will you?
As for the impression which remains, it is this that I have
made a distinct step forward. I somehow feel that my book
will appear, now, one way or the other. Thanks for managing
all that so nicely. Thanks also to Mrs. Phelps for her patience
with me.
It will take me till next week before I get down to work
again. I am still somewhat exited.
Mrs. Grove, but the way, when I asked her whether she had
not been quite exited over the reception given me by the
Tribune, said, "Oh no; when we married, I confidently expected
that sort of thing and much more of it." It's a chore living
up to what one's wife expects of one. However.
Yours,
F.P.G.
