Skip to main content

#1674: Willa Cather to Marie Belloc Lowndes, October 4, 1944

More about this letter…
Plain view:

Guide to Reading Letter Transcriptions

Some of these features are only visible when "plain text" is off.

Textual Feature Appearance
passage deleted with a strikethrough mark deleted passage
passage deleted by overwritten added letters overwritten passage
passage added above the line passage with added text above
passage added on the line passage with added text inline
passage added in the margin passage with text added in margin
handwritten addition to a typewritten letter typed passage with added handwritten text
missing or unreadable text missing text noted with "[illegible]"
uncertain transcriptions word[?]
notes written by someone other than Willa Cather Note in another's hand
printed letterhead text printed text
text printed on postcards, envelopes, etc. printed text
text of date and place stamps stamped text
passage written by Cather on separate enclosure. written text
⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ My dear Mrs. Belloc Lowndes1:

I am sorry, on my return from the North, to find here a letter from you which is already two months old. For the last four months I have been pretty well cut off from the world on a small island3 out in the Atlantic4, reached only occasionally by boat from the coast of Maine5. For the last year New York City2 has been so at the mercy of Committees and Bureaus, Organizations to Improve Foreign Relations, etc., etc., that one really had to get away from it, as far as possible, in order to possess one’s soul at all. The splendid old roads that I used to travel back and forth across the continent were practically closed to civilians, so I had to seek a little quiet out in the Atlantic. I had no mail at all forwarded to me, as the most obtrusive and unreasonable and pompous requests come through the post.

You ask about your old friend, and mine, S. S. McClure6. He lives at the Union League Club, New York City. I had tea with him there in June, the day before I left for my island. He is rather frail, but I have seldom seen anyone grow old so beautifully. He has really become very handsome,- and so gentle and dignified! You may remember that his face was always a singular, sympathetic one, with many shades of feeling. Occasionally his enthusiasms used to burst through it like a volcanic eruption. That volcanic activity is no longer there. As I sat and talked to him that afternoon four months ago, I thought I had almost never heard a voice that had so many shades of compassion and kindliness; a kind of forgiveness for all the wrong things in the world. Whatever faults Mr. McClure had came from his enthusiasms and nervous excitability. Now he is as calm as a harvest moon - when it shines over the wheat fields after reaping is over.

I hope that sometime after this war is over (if it ever is!) to be able to I may go back to London7, and that I may have the pleasure of meeting you. For a long while before this war broke out, my stays abroad were always in France8 and in Italy9, because in both places I had old and dear American friends. When we meet, I shall have a considerable personal background behind you. I read with great delight your volume of reminiscences10 - surely, so French a French childhood and so English an English childhood must result in double personality!

Most cordially yours, Willa Cather