Some of these features are only visible when "plain text" is off.
Textual Feature | Appearance |
---|---|
passage deleted with a strikethrough mark | |
passage deleted by overwritten added letters | |
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 |
I know I’ve not written for a long time, but I did not mean to be neglectful.
I thought Daddy3 would tell you about
me and about how torn up my
apartment4 was. It has taken so much work to get it even a little
in order and the way I want it. You know I have no maid this year, and as
Edith5 is away from eight-thirty
in the morning until six-thirty at night, most of the housekeeping falls on
me. Father will tell you how we areboarding out for our meal dinners, and you
know I don’t like that. Josephine6 now
gets $80 a month; any good maid would now cost us $60 a month, and we would
have to send the washing out! With eggs at $1.00 a dozen, and butter at $1.04a pound, we simply can’t afford to entertain any more, and what a
servant would eat would be a very considerable item. Mrs. Winn7, that noble widow,of whom father
will tell you, comes three half-days a week and keeps us clean, but there
are so many, many other things to do, and I have been far from well.8
I am ashamed not to have written Elsie9, when she wrote me such a nice letter, and sent me
Marguerite10’s letter, too. But I hve simply been too tired, Bobby,-- the rush of the world has been too
hard. But I am coming home this
winter11, in February or March. I have waited to write until I could
tell you that. You see the expense of the trip is something one has to think
about, when the cost of living has increased here so enormously, and when I
have to go to France12 in the spring
in order to finish my book13 at all. I expect,
Mother, that I have a brother or two who would
to you both There, I had a burst of temper
at the bottom of the page, but I’ve cut it out. It seems extravagant for me
to go abroad now, but you know, Mother, that I always have known wghat
was necessary for my work, and that I have been right not to take advice of reprimand from any source about that.
I Have thought you were doing pleasant things with Douglass14, and would not need letters so much as last winter, and I didn’t want to write Elsie until I could write her a long letter, and tell her how much I rejoice to hear of Marguerite’s interesting life in California15. She deserved it, and I’m so glad she has it. Dear Bobbie, I don’t see how you did get on when you were teaching and cooking and thaking care of Margie16. Lord, my child, it’s a blessing I DID NOT go home then, for you’d simply have had another Margie on your hands.
In addition to painting the bathroom and doing the house work and trying to
write a novel, I have been becoming rather “famous” lately, and that is an
added care. In other years, when I was living like a lady, with an
impressive French maid, I could have been famous quite conveniently, but
then I had only to receive a few high-brows. Now the man in the street seems
to have “got onto” me, and it’s very inconvenient. The enclosed17, on the editorial page18 of the
Tribune19, is only one of a dozen articles that have come out in
all the New York2 papers in the last
fewtwo weeks.
People write furious letters to the
Sun20 to ask why their editor has not stated that I am the
“greatest living American author”; the Sun editor21 replies, give him time, maybe he will say that. I
have had nothing to do with this little
whirlwind of publicity, God knows! My
publishers22 have had nothing to do wo
with it. They are the most astonished people you ever saw. One of them came
racing down form
Boston23 to see me, and he kept
holding his head and saying, “but why should this book24, this one catch on? Anybody would have said it
could never be a popular book.” You see they advertised it hardly at all,
and I didn’t urge them. I thought it was a book for the very few. And now
they are quite stunned.
I’m like Roscoe25 when he said, if only
his twins26 had waited
till next year to come. This is such an awkward time to be famous; the stage
is not set for it. Reporters come running to the house all the time and fu finding me doing housework. They demand new
photographs, and I have no new clothes and not time to get any. Yesterday,
when I was washing dishes at the sink with one of Mother’s long gingham
aprons tied round my neck--I’ve never had time to shorten it-- I heard a
knock at the front doo door and didn’t stir.
Then a knock at the kitchen door; such a very dapper young man asked if Miss
Cather the Author lived here that I hesitated. He said, “tell herI’m from the N.Y. sun, and want to see her on very import and business.” I told him that Miss Cather had gone to Atlantic City27 for a rest! I simply
couldn’t live up to the part, do you see? He left saying there was to be a
big article28
bao about her on Sunday.
Now, at least, Elsie, you don’t have to wash dishes and be famous at the same time. Now, in other years, Josephine and I with our haughty French, thrown lightly back and forth when a visitor was brought in, could have made a great impression on reporters. We made a great impression last winter on the editor29 of the Chicago News30, who has been my passionate press agent ever since.
By the way, Elsie, you must write the Chicago News for translations of the
Swedish review31. They are
fine. The new Swedish edition32 of “O Pioneers”33 is one of the
handsomest books I have ever seen. I have ordered several from Stockholm34, and when they come I will send Mother one. The
Swedish looks so funny to me, Mother; like Petersons35’ newspapers I used to bring home from
Mr. Crowley’s36 in a flour sack, on
horseback. You remember? A very fine French translation37 is being made of Antonia24, some of the chapt chapters have been sent over to me for suggestions, and it
is simply beautiful French, clear as Latin. Miss
Herbek38 was here for dinner last week-- I got the dinner-- to
see about getting the rights for translation into Bohemian. You see the tide
seems to be coming in for me pretty strong. It won’t make me any richer, but
it makes me a great deal happier, dear Mother.
We have not been able to have our dear Fridays at home yet, but will begin
next week, and on our cards we have wrtiien
written that it is only in December and January that we will be at home.
That is because I want to go West later,-I mean home39, of course. The reason I could not go home for
Christmas was that my Publisher40 came
up to Jaffrey41 to see me and begged
me to get as far along with the
novel13 as I could before I broke off, for he is going to
England42 in March, and if he can
take about one-half or two thirds of the story in its final shape, he hoes to be able to make good terms for it there. You see Hugh Walpole43, author of the
“The Dark Forest”44, is lecturing
in this country now, and he talks about my books everywhere he goes, even at
dinner parties, “raves” about them the newspaper men tell me, and he says
the younger men in England are getting very much stirred up about me. So my
publishers thing this is the time to try for good contracts in England. I have got
about two-thirds of my book written through for the first time; next week I
begin to write it through from the first again. Some of it will have to be
done over four or five, or even six times, but there is good life and
movement through it. I hope I will be at home when it comes out, for it was
almost the greatest pleasure I ever had to be at home when Antonia came out,
and you and Father were reading it, both of you
at once, and I could see how much you really did enjoy it. Yes, I think that
was about the most satisfactory experience I ever had. It made me happy the
way I used to be when I was a little girl and felt that you were both
pleased with me.
I was at home the when “The Song of the Lark”45 came out, too, but you
and father were in Lander46, and
Douglass was at home, and he was cross about the laundry bill and the book,
and sore at Mr. Cotting47 because he
put the book in his window. That was an awful time and I cried every day and
was afraid to meet people. And, anyhow, I paid the laundry bill!
Why, Mother, your letter has just come, and I had completely forgotten that tomorrow is my birthday! You were so nice to write me. Please thank father for the interest check48 he sent me.
Mother, I am so sorry, so sorry, to hear about your eye. Do, do, be careful
of the other one! Oh, I am sure it’s come from reading lying down so much,--
and I do just the same thing. Don’t do that any more. Don’t read much; get
Father to read to you. Don’t fret about being a care to people. The last two
summers I have had at home with you and Father, were among the happest happiest I ever had in my life. I
wouldn’t give them up for anything. And I’ll always be gald to come and be with you. You ought to believe that, after the good
times we had last summer. I will come in February or March to see you, and
then I’ll come again as soon as I get back from France, and I will always be
glad to come. Of course, I almost have to have a place here, and if you have a place you have
responsibilities, and must keep up to them, but I will always be glad to go
home to be with you, and then Elsie can go away for a change. For didn’t we
get on nicely last summer, when we had nobody else to help us? I seems to me I can’t remember a single unpleasant moment, except
when I got cross about Mrs. Bradbrooks49 pan! You tell her for me, that I’ll never forget
her pan again.
Dear Mother, I send you such heaps of love. I think daughters understand and
love their mothers so much more as they grow older themselves. I find myself
loving to do things with you now, just as I did when I was a little girl,
and I used to ride up to Aunt Rhuie’s50
on the horse behind you and feel so proud that I had such a handsome young
mother. Oh, I don’t for getforget those things! They are all there, deep down
in my mind, and the older I grow, the more they come to light. Of course,
there was a time when I was “All for books” as Mrs. Grice51 says, and didn’t think much about people. I
suppose that had to be; but, thank God, I got over it!
Oh Mother, I would do anything if I could help your dear eye! If you’ll only be good to the other one I’ll come and help you any time.
So lovingly, WillieDear Mother, if you love your daughter, send her some of Margie’s dish towels for Christmas, and a WHITE APRON to meet reporters in!
I can’t send any presents to anyone this year, but I will try to find
something nice for you. I have no time at all, and not nearly strength
enough to keep all my engagements. You see, while this little flurry of
excitement about my books is on, I must see a great many people, and I
must answer their nice letters. I wish, sure enough, that it had waited,
like the twins.!