Had first session with Léon Bakst yesterday. He pronounces his name like "boxed," but if one insists on making it sound mid-western, it can be pronounced to rhyme with "waxed." Please tell the family to learn how to pronounce it, as his name will be associated with hers often. Bakst's studio is made up of large rooms filled with gorgeous, meticulously arranged objects from Asia and Europe. In those rooms, it seems as if one is in a church dedicated to all the world's religions. Bakst is the kind of person she has always loved—like Annie Sadilek and Joe Pavelik Sr. and other childhood friends. Though he doesn't speak English well, he is trying to read One of Ours using a dictionary. He uses French to speak to her, and has told her fairy tales from Russia. Thankfully, he did not ask her to dress formally and is painting just her head and shoulders. He picked a green shirt she had, reminiscent of a Russian blouse. Sittings remind her of the days listening to Mr. Ducker as he spat tobacco juice, she is such a student to the master. Time will go quickly in those wonderful, scrupulously neat rooms. [Pasted at the top of the second page is a newspaper clipping in French listing results in horse races, including a horse named Red Cloud, with a note written by Cather pointing out that Red Cloud is winning in Paris.] Willa
Does not lecture anymore, so must refuse his invitation. Has been meaning to write an extended letter to him about his book, which she read closely. Concurs with him generally, but feels he inflates the importance of many of the New York critics. Only Randolph Bourne and, to a degree, Mr. Canby had the essential innate sense of quality needed by critics. Consider, for example, Stuart Sherman (nothing personal to Sherman, as he always treated her well), who did not have such a sensibility. He could research a writer and say many valid things about him or her, but it was an external product of scholarship. To put it another way: if she mixed up a few pages of Nigger of the Narcissus with some of Joseph Conrad's respectable imitators (like Francis Brett Young), Sherman wouldn't know the difference. A critic must be more than idealistic and hardworking. In fact, a good deal of first-rate criticism was done by non-professional critics like Henry James, Walter Pater, and Prosper Mérimée (particularly his essay on Gogol). Not all good writers are good critics; Turgenev was not. That said, writers are the best at evaluating new writing and composers are the top critics of new music, or at least they are better than scholars. Since she wants to say this and so much more, she knows that his book was successful, as a reader's fierce engagement with a book's ideas is always a mark of accomplishment. P. S.: [dated January 20] After writing letter, was asked not to send it by secretary, who thought it would needlessly offend people. Secretary is now on vacation in Cuba, and has decided to risk sending it. Feels that he won't be indiscreet with the letter, even to his talkative publisher. Willa Cather
Apologizes if previous letter seemed lethargic, but it is hard to maintain energy when dealing with a lot of correspondence. Appreciates his kind words about Obscure Destinies. She has a very direct, intimate connection to those stories. Also, she wants American readers to better appreciate the long short story and not dismiss such works automatically. It is that prejudice which values Conrad's Arrow of Gold over his "Youth." The French have valued the genre for a long while, and hopes Americans can, too. Is not worried that a Baltimore man is writing a thesis, but hopes it is better that Mr. MacNamara's article in the Catholic World [McNamara, R., "Phases of American Religion in Thornton Wilder and Willa Cather," Catholic World 135 (May 1932): 641-649]. His sense that spiritual and intellectual advancement is linear is silly; it comes in bursts. Believes Catholicism is wise and humane enough to understand this about people. Willa Cather
Needs his advice on a sensitive subject. Her recent statement from Willard Crowell shows she has taken quite a loss on the property he manages, due to taxes and all. Doesn't have Crowell's letter handy—Mr. Knopf's kind secretary has it, as he keeps track of all her tax papers—but believes her loss was around $500 or $600. Crowell also said that he and his son took the boards from the destroyed chicken house on the old Henderson farm to build one at his place, and that he would take that lumber as his payment for looking after various properties! That's silly, of course, and so she sent him a $40 check. The check was cashed, but he did not remark upon it until the enclosed letter. Fears Crowell thinks that $40 was shabby recompense for his efforts. Doesn't remember how she settled on $40. At the end of a long letter-writing session, is often tired and makes poor decisions. Was it not a proper amount? Doesn't wish to be cheap with Crowell. The Nebraska property has been nothing but a hassle; should have given them up for the taxes. The energy drain of dealing with them is more than they are worth. Was pleased to get his recent note. Has just returned home after a rest at the French Hospital to regain her strength. Had promised Knopf the book by May 15, and still has several weeks of work to do on it. Circumstances not ideal for getting it done; Miss Lewis has been sick the last three weeks. Willie.
Is embarrassed by the crazy letter she sent him from Grand Manan. Apologizes and wishes it forgotten. At the end of a big project, one often questions oneself. Also, was dealing with a terrible toothache and couldn't see a dentist without losing a week of precious working time. Took codeine for sleep, but that drug makes her groggy. It was a trying time, but the book is done and seems to be good. Triumphs engender new difficulties, however, as the enclosed letter from Alfred Knopf indicates. Will receive payment from the Book of the Month Club at the end of January (the selection is still secret). Keeps a January 1 to January 1 fiscal year for income tax, which Mr. Lesser prepares for her. The book took four years of work, but all the money will come in one year, 1941, when the tax rates on "unearned income" are to increase. Seeing the problem coming, Alfred has volunteered to advance half of the Book of the Month Club money so it will be on the 1940 return—did it entirely on his own, she didn't say a word. Wonders if Roscoe could do the same with the check for her from Ocean Front Oil that he mentioned. He said he was holding onto it until the lawsuit with the State of California was resolved. If he could send it to her before December 1, it would be counted in her 1940 income. Knopf is making the largest first printing of his life on Sapphira; previously his largest was Shadows on the Rock, also a Book of the Month Club selection. The Club produces its own cheap copies of the book after purchasing the rights. Though this reduces Alfred's sales a bit, he believes the advertising is worth it. Plus, Book of the Month Club subscribers are people who probably wouldn't actually buy it otherwise; they just want reading material but don't know how to choose it. They aren't, as Alfred put it, her "natural audience." Doesn't understand it, but this subdued novel about times gone by has ignited the interest of the young members of Knopf's staff. Is proud enough of the book's overall design, but the brave epilogue (which she fears might put readers off) is what does it. Luckily, she wrote that part early on, as she likes to know ahead of time where her book is going. The epilogue is entirely accurate, down to the weather conditions. Has always felt the intensity of that real event propelled her out of infancy into awareness, and long wanted to put it down on paper, but did not see how to do it without writing a biography of herself—a dreadful idea! P.S. Is sending him a copy of a letter she wrote to Elsie, which explains a few other concerns of the moment. Is half done on page proofs. Willie.
Has been meaning to write about the delightful events of recent days. Finally had a luncheon with Margaret, Virginia, and Mary Virginia at Sherry's, and afterwards watched the full-color movie of the twins on Grand Manan that Edith took. None of the girls had seen the movie before, and it is absolutely splendid at capturing the atmosphere of the island. Had attempted to make room for a lunch date on fairly short notice with Margaret two weeks ago, but Margaret responded to her telegram with regrets that she had a bridge party, and that refusal was a little painful. Upon seeing Margaret, though, forgot the pain and enjoyed her company. After all, Margaret couldn't have understood her time constraints or what it took for her to clear that day. It is good to be humbled with a refusal now and then. Hopes nieces enjoyed the long lunch at Sherry's as she did. Loved seeing West Virginia again—such a personable young woman. Agrees with Mary Virginia in admiring her naturalness and self-assurance. Such attributes are unusual in the younger generation and will stand out more as Virginia matures. Margaret is as dear as ever and was wearing a hat that reminded her of the hats Grandmother Boak kept in her trunk. Appreciated Roscoe's letter from Grass Valley, which she stuck in her copy of A Lost Lady, even though she was not aware of Grass Valley when writing it. Thought Mrs. Garber was from San Francisco, and did not know until Douglass told her that her grandmother was Spanish. Glad she did not know that, for she might have been tempted, like Hergesheimer, to add a little exoticism to the novel, which would have revealed her immaturity as a writer. By just capturing Mrs. Garber as she knew her, though, she did provoke some French critics to remark that the character was reminiscent of Spanish women. Mustn't stetch this letter out any further as her right hand is wrapped in a sling from an injury to the thumb tendon: signed 500 de luxe copies of the novel in three days. May have to retreat to the French Hospital so the nuns can tend to her. Is going to Yehudi's concert on December 2, though, even if she has to wrap her hand in a white scarf. So long. Does love his daughters, especially Margaret. Willie.
