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#1639: Willa Cather to Laura Coombs Hills, September 23, 1943

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⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ Dearest Laura Hills1:

I know you hate typed letters - so do I - but sometimes it is necessary to write letters that way.

I was so grateful to you for writing me the interesting story of how Sam Cabot3 was overtaken by a blizzard when he was carrying home that wonderful picture, “Hurricane”4.

I wonder if you had in Newburyport5 such a rainy summer as I had on Mt. Desert6.? I broke away from New York2 after the terrible nineteen-day heat wave in June and fled to Portland, Maine7, where about fifteen years ago I spent a delightful week in a quiet, old-fashioned and very dignified American city. The place has become simply a Hell; thirty thousand workmen dumped down into it, and warships a-building on every one of the islands in the harbor. The ship building went on all night long, under electric lights of such power as made the whole harbor a sea of white fire. From Portland I arranged to get accommodations on Mt. Desert, at the Asticou Inn8, Northeast Harbor9. It was heavenly cool there. Miss Lewis10 joined me, and we had a lovely cottage and garden of our own. But the rain fell in torrents three or four days out of every week during all the six weeks we stayed there. Bar Harbor11, which used to be so gay, is an empty shell.; Aall the shops are closed. The main streets are simply rows of empty and very dirty windows. The big houses and grounds of the American Rich are inhabited by one watchman and cared for by one gardener. Bar Harbor has become a ghost of a town.

Hasn’t Mr. Hitler12 done a pretty wonderful job at smashing up the New World as well as the Old? There is no use beating about the bush. This war has managed to take the joy out of life for everybody except the very, very young. theyThey, poor things, have no beautiful past to regret.! I must confess that I get ⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ very low at times. However, my gay little niece13 is coming back from Colorado Springs14 to spend a few weeks with me in October, and that will be joyful. Then Yehudi15 and Nola16 will be coming along with their two dear babies17 in November. I know this is a dull letter, dear Laura Hills, but to make up for it I am enclosing a letter from Nola telling about their wonderful South American tour by air. I am sending an addressed envelope with it, so that after you have read it you can just mail it back to me without any trouble to yourself. I think you will like to know that some young people are getting big thrills out of life. Yehudi, you know, crossed over to England on a bomber last March, saw all our old friends and played for soldiers’ camps five times a week.

While aboard the bomber he had to sleep on the floor, of course. There is only one berth, the skipper’s. Now that skipper, without a word from the violinist, simply put the Stradivarius and the Guernarius18 in his berth (which was a hammock) and he, too, slept on the floor. I guess some of our air pilots are “gentlemen born”!

With love to you and Lizzie19, and many happy memories, dear Laura Hills, Willa Cather