PART FOUR

Mexico

(1931-1932)

1931

352: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _Jan. 10_

Dear Mony: --/--/ I got terribly run down with the worry of it all--and since my father had expected me out here for the holidays anyway I felt I owed him the courtesy of complying, especially since he had been so generous with me for some time past. Since the Teagle (Standard Oil) article proved to be a flop there wasn’t much use in persisting longer--in the face of the bread lines.

This humiliation, severe for awhile, doesn’t seem to have ruined me, however, and in view of certain recoveries and gains in poise, I don’t seriously regret my move. My father, of course, expects me to remain in this locality permanently. I of course keep all contrary plans very much to myself, including the secret of a bank balance sufficient at least to my carfare east again, whenever my return seems advisable. But enough of such explanatory details!

I’m anxious to hear from you--and what your plans are, etc. This is dull enough around here to encourage a good deal of reading--which I am enjoying. Spinoza (Einstein’s grandpop) furnishes plenty of discipline. Cleveland has one of [the] best libraries in the country, admirably conducted and with shelves practically wide open.

No writing is being done yet--or even in prospect. Can’t fool myself that way, as you know. An old thing of mine from my West Indian days in a forthcoming issue of _The New Republic_ which you may like, however. -- -- -- --

353: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

[_Chagrin Falls_] _January 16th, 1931_

Dear Sam: The Bridge photos were a joyous surprise! I can’t have it from too many angles! And the roof portrait of yourself with all the chimney pots! You are as generous and thoughtful a friend as ever.

Nothing much happens hereabouts. I haven’t even seen Bill [Sommer] yet, but I have a line out. Did I tell you that I called on D---- B. one morning? That was almost three weeks ago. He looked haggard, his complexion splotched, and thoroughly miserable; though he made an effort to be as suave as possible, I’m sure, it was evident that he _was_ making an effort. I made no further than a general allusion to his illness and as no details were proffered I left him as ignorant in such respects as I had come. There seemed to be no way of arousing his interests to any extent. He’s evidently in a hell of a state, physically and mentally--a combination of both interacting, I suppose.

You’ll be interested in the story of the enclosed card, I’m sure. I chanced upon it just the other day in one of the local news stores. Then someone told me a few anecdotes concerning the local blacksmith, named Church, who died not so very long ago and was regarded as a most “peculiar” individual by most of the townspeople. What struck me in the first place was the obvious coincidence of a parallel use of symbols, the serpent and the eagle, with my lines on Pocahontas in _The Bridge_.

“Time, like a serpent, down her shoulder, dark, And space, an eaglet’s wing laid on her hair.”

The serpent isn’t hard to locate, and you’ll see the rather dim outlines of the fore part of an eagle just below where I have indicated in the margin. This blacksmith aroused considerable conjecture by his midnight absences, until someone followed his lantern down to this rock where he was busy night after night on this frieze. I think it has a real aesthetic value, like other primitive sculpture--and I’m planning an expedition to the rock as soon as the snow melts a little.

The blacksmith’s character must have been rather Blakeian, for he also carved his own tombstone--a lion couchant beside a lamb and a figure of a man walking. And imagine the surprise of his survivors when on the occasion of his obsequies his own voice pronounced his own funeral sermon from the disk of a phonograph! Well, I guess Sherwood Anderson didn’t quite scoop up _all_ the characters of Winesburg!

My father and his wife have just left for a vacation in Havana, with extensive notes in their pocket from me as to what French wines to order, where to go, etc. Mrs. Crane #3 has never seen palms and sparkling waters and was deservedly rife with expectations. It’s the first real vacation either of them have had for several years and they will forget business for the time being, I certainly hope, and have a splendid time. They certainly have my affectionate wishes.

I’m going into town this afternoon for dinner with the Rychtariks, with a Bloch quartet this evening. Altogether I’m feeling much better, Sam, despite certain restrictions--which, however, may be good for me for a while. Nothing has been found yet in the way of work, but the tension on that subject has fortunately been temporarily somewhat relaxed. --/--/

354: TO LORNA DIETZ

[_Chagrin Falls_] _Feb. 10th ’31_

Dear Lorna: --/--/ As nothing more has been said about photography, I guess I’m to be spared the useless apprenticeship to the village baby tickler; instead I’ve been hammering, waxing, rubbing, painting and repairing--odd jobs--around the place, and work which is rather amusing. Once a week I generally go into Cleveland and spend some hours with my old friends, the Rychtariks (a Prague painter and his wife whom you must have heard me mention) who really “belong”--and are about the only people in this district that I enjoy seeing. I can be more or less myself with them, and that’s a great relief after the unmitigated rigor of the parental regime. (Poetry or anything like that is an offense to mention here, as something belonging in the category with “youthful errors,” “wild oats,” et cetera, and the “reform” that has been inaugurated has brought me back to just that pleasantly vegetable state of mind that can read Coolidge’s daily advice without a tremor of protest.) My father, you can visualize his type, is “enjoying” the depression, or at least his incessant howls about it. Despite the losses personally involved, I think he will actually be disappointed if matters improve in less than five years. From his standpoint at any rate, anything that disproved his doleful prediction would prove a calamity. His great reiteration being that every one has been spending too much money. He is willing to admit, however, that it hasn’t been spent on candy! (which is among the luxuries, too, if I am not mistaken). All of which makes very stimulating conversation, of course, especially when you are obliged to agree on each and every occasion and reiteration, ad infinitum....

The possibility of a Guggenheim keeps me restive. That failing, I may hike back east in March anyway. Too prolonged a stay here at my present age isn’t sensible, whatever the alternatives may be right now, and however generously my father might feel.

You’ve been awfully generous in writing. Sounds as though your winter were being rather pleasant after all. -- -- -- -- Partying seems to continue unabated as well as discussions of Communism. But Eda Lou Walton writes me that nobody is writing anything. Certainly I’m not either. Some reading, however. No wonder F---- liked _The Story of San Michele_ so much; it’s almost as full of dog sentiment as she is. But in some ways a marvelous book. A friend of mine on _Fortune_, Russell Davenport, has written a good book, _Through Traffic_, on a combined business and love theme. I’ll send it to you to keep for me and read. I’ve just gotten around to read _Jurgen_! Always resented the pow-wow about it, but rather like it. Dos Passos’ _42nd Parallel_ is good--as far as it goes. But Dos has yet to create a full portrait. What did you think of Mumford’s series of leaders in the _Tribune_, just concluded? I find myself agreeing pretty thoroughly with him. --/--/

355: TO WALDO FRANK

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _Feb. 19th_

Dear Waldo: --/--/ These are bewildering times for everyone, I suppose. I can’t muster much of anything to say to anyone. I seem to have lost the faculty to even feel tension. A bad sign, I’m sure. When they all get it decided, Capitalism or Communism, then I’ll probably be able to resume a few intensities; meanwhile there seems to be no sap in anything. I’d love to fight for--almost anything, but there seems to be no longer any real resistance. Maybe I’m only a disappointed romantic, after all. Or perhaps I’ve made too many affable compromises. I hope to discover the fault, whatever it is, before long.

Since you seem to have retired completely from any journalistic appearances I’m completely ignorant of your current opinions or reactions. Do write me soon and tell me what you’re engaged in. And such of your plans as you care to divulge. I’d like to have heard your recent lecture mentioning _The Bridge_, as I gather. Present day America seems a long way off from the destiny I fancied when I wrote that poem. In some ways Spengler must have been right.

On the water wagon two months now.... If abstinence is clarifying to the vision, as they claim, then give me back the blindness of my will. It needs a fresh baptism.

356: TO HENRY ALLEN MOE

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _March 16, 1931_

Dear Mr. Moe: My appointment as a Fellow of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation is appreciated greatly, not only as a welcome opportunity to continue my creative endeavors, but also as a distinguished honor conferred upon me as a poet. In accepting this Fellowship for 1931-32 I feel a stimulating sense of pride and gratitude. Needless to say, this evidence of trust in my abilities and character, alone and quite apart from my instinctive response to such good fortune, would prompt me to my utmost efforts to justify such confidence as the liberal terms and the generous conditions of the Fellowship imply. I fully subscribe to all these conditions as detailed in your announcement,--not, however, without realizing that I am assuming some serious responsibilities.

As I am at present among the vast horde of the unemployed--and with nothing of consequence to detain me, I should like to situate myself definitely as soon as possible in a favorable environment for constructive work and study. It will therefore be most gratifying to hear from you regarding the propriety and feasibility of taking up my projected foreign residence at an early date. To be specific, I should like to sail for France by the middle part of April, provided such proposal meets the unreserved approval of the Trustees of the Foundation. A statement from a local physician regarding my state of health will be sent you very shortly. --/--/

357: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK

_New York, New York_ _March 30th_

Dear Lotte & Ricardo: I am to sail to _Mexico_ (damn the gendarmes!) next Saturday. The change [in Guggenheim Fellowship plans] was made without any trouble and I am too happy at change to a _really_ (for _me_) creative locality to be anything but pregnant.

Have been having too wonderful a time to breathe--and it still goes on. Will write you more when I know my permanent address. First a week in Mexico City with my old and wonderful friend, Katherine Anne Porter (whom you will notice _also_ was awarded)--and then on to some country location. --/--/

358: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_México, D.F._ [_Mexico City_] _April 12, 1931_

Dear Sambo: Got here last night (I always seem to arrive in cities on Sat. nights) and have just had a Sunday dinner a la Mexicano. I begin to feel at home here already, despite my complete ignorance of the language. But kindly people and generous faces have a way of compensating for one’s lack of palabra. The peons are the marvel of the place, just as Lawrence said. So lovable, and although picturesque, not in any way consciously so. What faces, and the suffering in them--but so little evidence of bitterness.

We had one evening in Havana, and one night in Vera Cruz on the way, the latter not to be repeated if I can help it. I had better than usual luck by meeting on the second day out the great Dr. Hans Zinsser, of Harvard, who is probably the world’s greatest bacteriologist. And what a man besides! He arrived along with me last night with letters from the state and war departments and a half dozen rats in the hold loaded with the deadly typhus. He is to conduct some local experiments and then return to Harvard in two weeks, leaving his assistant, Dr. Maximiliano Castaneda here for 3 more months to complete the experiment. Castaneda, being a native Mexican and very much a gentleman, has and will continue to do all kinds of favors for me--and one thing is assured: I shall not lack proper attendance here if I ever get sick. “Max” as I call him, knows everyone from the president down.

Zinsser, a product of Heidelberg, the Sorbonne, Pasteur Institute and other places besides American Universities, knows and has more interesting ideas about literature than almost anyone I have ever met. What conversations we had!--He’s about 51, bandy legged from riding fast horses, looks about 40 at most, writes damn good poetry (which he claims he’d rather do than excel as he does in the scientific world) and in carelessness and largesse is a thoroughbred if I ever saw one.... But I could write ten books about him and his incredible adventures in the war and in various parts of the world. Next year he’s going to Abyssinia to fight hook worm and other complaints. Well--and what is the best of it--I guess I’ve made a friend who will be a perennial stimulus to the best that I can do.

The ride up from Vera Cruz was marvelous, not alone the scenery, but the country people all along the way who swarmed around the train selling fruits, cakes, tortillas, serapes, canes, flowers, pulque, beer and what have you! One rides up, up along incredible ledges over valleys filled with tropical vegetation, waterfalls, etc., for about 5 hours. Then in front of Orizaba everything suddenly begins to change. This is the great plateau that in some ways seems even more splendid. Very austere--and with the mountains rising in the distance on each side, here and there the feudal walls of some old rancho--and the burros and brown natives jogging along dry roads. How I wish you were here to witness it. But you will come sometime. I know. --/--/

359: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[_Mixcoac_] [_April 28_]

DEAR KATHERINE ANNE: HAVE GONE TO THE MANCERA[65] UNTIL THE FIRST. EXCUSE MY WAKEFULNESS PLEASE.

P.S. NO. HAVEN’T BEEN BUSY WITH “LOVERS.” JUST YEOWLS AND FLEAS. LYSOL ISN’T NECESSARY IN THE BATHTUB. HAVEN’T GOT “ANYTHING” YET. --/--/

360: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[_Mixcoac_] [_April 30_]

Dear Katherine Anne: This is as near as I dare come to you today. Shame and chagrin overwhelm me. I hope you can sometime forgive.

361: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[_Mixcoac_] [_May 1_]

Darling Katherine Anne: I’m too jittery to write a straight sentence but am coming out of my recent messiness with at least as much consistency as total abstinence can offer.

Your two notes were so kind and gave me so much more cheer than I deserve that I’m overcome all over again. God bless you!!! I’ve got myself in a fix with a hell of [a] bill at the Mancera--but I’ll get out of it somehow. My father is sending me some money--meanwhile Hazel Cazes is going to advance some.

This house is a love--and I’m glad to know that it won’t be ruined for me now by any absence on your part--and -- -- -- --. The recent cyclone is my last--at least for a year. Love and a thousand thanks.

When I get D.T.’s again I’ll just take it out on police.... They’ll have at least a cell for me--or a straitjacket.

362: TO MALCOLM COWLEY

_Mixcoac, DF_ _June 2nd, 1931_

Dear Malcolm: --/--/ Don’t expect much more from me about Mexico for awhile. Maybe it’s the altitude (which _is_ a tremendous strain at times), maybe my favorite drink, Tequila; maybe my b----s and the beautiful people; or maybe just the flowers that I’m growing or fostering in my garden ... but it’s all too good, so far, to be true. I’ve been too preoccupied, so far, with furnishing, from every little nail, griddle, bowl and pillow, to look around much outside the fascinating city markets and streets and bars. No chance to stretch pennies--just to spend them. Ran out long ago on my Guggenheim installment. But a house just can’t be lived in without a few essentials. And the main “standard American” essentials in Mexico cost like hell.

Lorna [Dietz] will have to relay to you the more complete details of my house, should such matters interest you. I found, by advice, that singly mozos weren’t apt to be much good. Pulque sprees three times a day, and the evenings never certain. Besides I needed a woman to cook. Consequently I have a delightful hide and seek combination--of both functions (page Mormon be sneezed BUnson) besides a new installation of electric lights with just enough “glim”--not to say Klim--to be pleasant.

Moisés [Sáenz] has been swell to me. His innate Aztec refinement; his quiet daring; his generosity (one should avoid an _et cetera_ in such exceptional cases!) has made me love him very much. He was very instrumental in my accidental possession of a real decoration: an ancient silver pony bridle (bells and all!) from the period of the Conquest, about my neck in a photo taken by Katherine Anne [Porter]--you shall soon see, like it,--believe it, or not!

I have a quilty, besides a guilty conscience! Haven’t yet even written to Waldo [Frank], whose letters gave me a wonderful send-off with certain writers here. But Latin American manners, I have discovered, are rather baffling. Great dinners are planned, but never come off! If Katherine Anne couldn’t explain it all away with references to certain previous experiences of her own, I’d feel quite crushed. As it is, I don’t mind in the least. Because ... Mexico has incredibly fine native painters. (You should see the new Diegos [Rivera] in the Palace!) But all her pretenders to poesy have just read about orchids in Baudelaire, apparently. I have my most pleasant literary moments with an Irish revolutionary, red haired friend of Liam O’Flaherty, shot (and not missed) seventeen times in one conflict and another; the most quietly sincere and appreciative person, in many ways, whom I’ve ever met. It’s a big regret that he’s Dublin bound again after three years from home, in a few weeks. Ernest O’Malley by name. And we drink a lot together--look at frescos--and agree! --/--/

363: TO WALDO FRANK

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _June 13th, 1931_

Dear Waldo: It seems to require much more determination to write a letter, so far, than to fuss around in my flower garden that skirts three sides of the house I have taken here in Mixcoac for a year. My long-suppressed passion for a few plants and a “philosopher’s walk,” however, is far from being the sole reason for my neglectfulness of you. The novelty and turmoil incident to the first few weeks; then locating a house; then furnishing it with the indispensables, from broom to teakettle, from mop to mattress; then “breaking in” a native couple to cook and sweep--all with my limited native vocabulary! Well, it’s been a good deal to have undertaken, freshly lifted, as I am, to this high altitude.

Despite this delay in getting down to work, I haven’t any regrets. You may remember that I spoke of establishing a headquarters as soon as possible on my arrival. I’ve had to squirm for money temporarily, but corresponding later savings and the creative advantages of having a place of my own--really for the first time in my life--ought to justify my action.

As for Mexico--I’m not frothing over quite so much as I did for awhile, but I’m still so fascinated and impressed by the people that I want to stay much longer than one year, if I can manage to. You were right, it’s a sick country; and God knows if it ever has been, or will be otherwise. I doubt if I will ever be able to fathom the Indian really. It may be a dangerous quest, also. I’m pretty sure it is, in fact. But humanity is so unmechanized here still, so immediate and really dignified (I’m speaking of the Indians, peons, country people--not the average mestizo) that it is giving me an entirely fresh perspective. And whether immediately creative or not, more profound than Europe gave me.... This is truly “another world.” There isn’t much use for the present in describing my reactions beyond saying that I find them all expressed in my emphatic agreement with nearly everything said by Anita Brenner in her _Idols Behind Altars_ which I’ve just finished reading. It would take me, I imagine, a long residence here to be able to contradict any of her statements, besides which I am so sympathetic to her attitude, reactions and general thesis as not to care to court divergencies of opinion.

A few days after my arrival I took a taxi and delivered the letters of introduction that you so generously provided. I immediately heard from Leon Felipe [Camino], and a few days later had an audience with Estrada. The former I saw a couple of times later--and was introduced to a flock of writers, doctors, etc., one afternoon at the Café Colon. Camino seemed very cordial, but suddenly “dropped” me. Latin-Americans, I’ve been told (and now I _know_) have a way of inviting you out on some specific day, and then “letting you down” most beautifully--without notice or subsequent apology or explanation. I’ve got so that I take it quite for granted, and if any other more tempting occasion offers itself in the meantime, I, too, humor my whim.

Estrada gave me two de luxe volumes of his poetry in response to the copy of _The Bridge_ (Paris edition) I brought up to him. I can’t read Spanish well enough yet to even attempt his books, nor any other “Mexican” poetry; but off-hand I’ve more spontaneous respect for him than for Camino, who, as soon as he heard I was about to call on Estrada, began to ridicule both the man and his work in high glee. What makes me rather indifferent to all of them is the fact that not one of them is really interested one iota in expressing anything indigenous; rather they are busy aping (as though it could be done in Spanish!) Paul Valéry, Eliot,--or more intensely, the Parnassians of 35 years ago. And they are all “bored”--or at least pleased to point the reference. Estrada spoke very warmly of you, and after what some of the others said, I should consider him a real friend of yours. In contrast to their general directions and preoccupations, however, I still (to date, at any rate) harbor the illusion that there is a soil, a mythology, a people and a spirit here that are capable of unique and magnificent utterance.

Moisés Sáenz, who has had me out to his place at Taxco, and who has treated me as hospitably and generously as anyone I ever remember, has the same conviction. And he says that Casanova, whom I have merely met, has a more natural attitude than the typical Mexican _litterateur_. I hope to see more of Casanova later; he’s been ill most of the time since I got here. I’ve not yet had a reply from Montéllano. Camino asked to do some translations from _White Bldgs_ for _Contemporaneos_. I gave him the book--and offered assistance. But since he found me out of the stiff black round-shouldered “elegance”--in fact in my usual household white sailor pants and shirt--he hasn’t been heard from--by mail or otherwise. One must appear in veritable Wall Street gear to impress the Mexican hidalgo!

He said that he was translating your new Latin Am. book, as I remember. Will you tell me something about its publication date, etc.--since I can’t get any reply from Camino? And now, how about your new work, your novel? And your plans for this summer, etc.? I hope you are having a smooth road toward some really individual expression. Hope you’ll approve of my reference to you in the enclosed interview, from _Excelsior_. _El Universal_ was also very kindly. Their feature writer, Rafael Valle, is a very decent and intelligent and constant friend of mine. -- -- -- --

Katherine Anne Porter and I are neighbors here in Mixcoac. You really ought to get hold of her book _Flowering Judas_. The title story, and another called “María Concepción,” are very profound comments on Mexico.

364: TO MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL

_Mixcoac, D.F., Mexico_ _June 20th, 1931_

Dear Mr. Zabel: The post (for books, etc. 2nd class) is apt to be very slow to Mexico,--at any rate unreliable. If this be not too great an impediment to either my reception or return of review books from _Poetry_--then let me ask for the two books suggested by you for review in your very kind letter of June 11th.

Further, I realize that my facilities for adequate reviewing of books are somewhat restricted here, there being no library handy for consultation on recent or even near-recent works on American poetry, etc. But if you are willing to take the risk--then so am I. And if you find the resultant estimates too biased or unfounded, you certainly need be under no compulsion to print them.

Didn’t Roy Helton compile an anthology, or rather a study interspersed with very good quotations, on Negro folk songs, spirituals, etc.? I suppose the jacket of his book will contain whatever reference to his earlier works are notable. But if not, please give me some word about the above.

Allow me to thank you and Miss Monroe for the copy of _Poetry_ recently received. I hope, and very earnestly, that I shall soon have something worthy to submit to you. Since leaving the pattern of _The Bridge_ the “new freedom” (call it rather a new restriction) has left me, at least momentarily, rather speechless. I’m too attached to the consciousness of my own land to write “tourist sketches” elsewhere. Mexico is well enough. But I’d rather be in my favorite corner of Connecticut. The first requirement of a scholarship, however, is to leave the U.S.A. It doesn’t matter much whither. It wouldn’t so much matter if the entire outside world didn’t positively hate us Americans so much. To create in such an atmosphere isn’t so easy however!

365: TO SELDEN RODMAN

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _June 20th, 1931_

Dear Selden Rodman: --/--/ I hope you will not forsake the Muse, or her pursuit. For in the light of your “Departure” it seems to me, you ought certainly to write that “Unwritten Poem” mentioned in the subtitle; for there are lines and passages in its “Prologue” that I like immensely. I hope I can mention a few points without offense; the first six stanzas, I think, present the longest solid stretch of sustained intention, some of the rest seeming to me diffuse in patches, or at least susceptible of condensation. But when I speak of condensation I am presumably alluding as much to my own craze or weakness for that characteristic. For I’ve carried that element to the extreme point of unintelligibility more than once, as I well know. Here are a few of my favorite lines anyway:

I must leave, said the traveler, everything behind me: The place that watched when no one else was by

The worth of life is the single shrill protesting Voice; come near, listen but do not learn, he said.

What has the flashing train in a gorge at midnight Carried from peace that a million years withstood?

Then there seems (to me) a rather blank or vague piling of lines until one comes to the splendidly concentrated lines beginning:

_Yes, for the ink_, etc., and continuing for 16 lines of real intensity that reminds me in the best sense of Rimbaud. And although you are still a long way from the ending, I can’t so far see that between there and the final stanza you gain much more than a few implications and the statement of a few opinions (which statements, etc., don’t seem to rise to the same level as the passages that I’ve already mentioned as being so good). Please take my opinions as lightly as thistle down, however, as I’m a cripple already to my own fetishes in style, and probably as blind as a bat in any broad sense of criticism. Beyond that, I’ll have to blame you, as you asked me for my opinion on that poem.

Hale’s article on the Future of the Novel is the only other thing in this number I’ve had time to read. Hale rather frightens me: he’s so declamatory and so sure. He must be a good sort to talk with; at least I’d like the chance sometimes. I agree so much with some of his statements, his keenness on the scent of such men as Thomas Wolfe, whose _Look Homeward, Angel_ was one of the real experiences of life. But I imagine that some of Hale’s very laudable intensity will have to take a less declamatory form of expression if he wants to exert the influence as a critic which is really his due. I don’t mean that this involves any compromises, either.

Are you taking up some special studies in Europe? I hope you have such intentions; for without such anchorage, I found that Europe had a very debilitating effect on me. Not that I could have been so privileged as to have had that chance, since I have never had a day in school beyond my junior year in high school; but the case is considerably different with you.

You mentioned MacLeish and the Conquistador poem in _The Yale Review_. I wish I had bought the copy of that--the one I hastily glanced at in Brentano’s basement months and months ago! I hope that he is well along with the rest of that poem, so fine was the opening. MacLeish has a more flexible literary genius than anyone writing in America today, and he’ll probably be the most noteworthy poet of our times. His sensibility isn’t as prodigal and startling as Cummings’; but then, Cummings will never take the trouble to prune anything or discipline his genius. --/--/

366: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER

[_Mixcoac_] [_June 22_]

Dear Katherine Anne: My apologies are becoming so mechanical as (through repetition) to savour of the most negligible insincerity. So I have to leave most of this to your judgment of the potency and malfeasance of an overdose of tequila.

Let Theodora[66] know--if I have any chance of talking with you and explaining. Otherwise I’ll know that you don’t want to be molested even to that point of endurance.

I spent the night in jail--as Theodora has probably told you. That was, in its way, sufficient punishment. Besides having made a fool of myself in Town.... However I was arrested for nothing more than challenging the taxi driver for an excessive rate. But if it hadn’t been for waiting for you--hour on hour, and trying to keep food warm, cream sweet, and my damnable disposition--don’t suppose I’d have yelled out at you so horribly en route to doom!

I don’t ask you to forgive. Because that’s probably past hope. But since Peggy [Baird] will be here in a few days--I’d rather, for her sake as well as mine, that she didn’t step into a truly Greenwich Village scene.

367: TO WILLIAM WRIGHT

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _July 15th, 1931_

Dear Bill: --/--/ I’m very glad that you spoke about the check I sent you early in April. I couldn’t figure it out any other way than that you had waited until the following month before turning it in; and if that wasn’t exactly the case I still can’t understand why it was returned as invalid. For my account, at least until the last of May, stood well in excess of the amount of your check. I was on the point of writing you an inquiry about all this when I was called north. The check enclosed, however, will not be at all questionable. I’m very sorry you’ve had to wait so long, and let me repeat my profound thanks to you for your very generous help.

As to my father’s business; certain branches and departments of it (that is, several of its corporate entities in which he had controlling interest) will undoubtedly be carried on. Inventories are now in progress, statements regarding the net estate, etc., are in preparation; and as yet it is, of course, impossible to know exactly what course will be taken. Mrs. Crane was left with the authorization of deciding practically everything. Which was right and proper, since I have never taken any active part in any branch of my father’s concerns. I am left in reasonably secure circumstances, at least for a few years, however, and if I so choose I can probably pursue my own literary studies with a somewhat free-er mind than formerly.

It is a real consolation to me now that I made the long stay here with my father that I did last winter. As you already know, our relations for many years, had been somewhat confused by general family disturbances which were most unfortunate and which resulted in a great many misunderstandings. Father and I had recently got acquainted all over again. It made both of us very much happier. And if my father had to go thus early in life--I’m very grateful that at least I am left with a fuller appreciation of his fine qualities and of his genuine love for me than might have been possible without the course of some recent events. I can say that his character and the impress of it that I lately received will be a real inspiration to me. That is the finest kind of bequest that one can leave, I’m sure. --/--/

368: TO LORNA DIETZ

_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _July 15th, 1931_

Dearest Lorna: To begin with the same subject which you did in your last--and to continue with what has been almost an obsession with me for the last month--I want to say a few words about Katherine Anne Porter. Not that I can possibly give even the outline of the whole queer situation, but since she has done so much announcing, just a hint at the circumstances.

Katherine Anne’s disposition, as I knew her initially in NY was considerably different than I found it to be since -- -- -- -- in Mexico. --/--/ Katherine Anne was quite lovely to me on more than one occasion, and since I have always liked her a lot, it was hard to relinquish her company.

The continuance, however,--and this is the only way I can put it--resulted in some very strained situations and outbreaks on my part--generally at times when I had had too much to drink. Since I have no very clear recollection of everything said during those times I presume I must have been pretty awful. Everything had been going very smoothly for some time, however; Katherine Anne frequently dropping into my place for afternoon chats, beer, etc., when the apparently decisive moment occurred.

I had asked them both to have dinner with me on a certain day at my house. It was well understood, etc. I made extensive preparations--and was left to keep things warm the entire afternoon, nipping at a bottle of tequila meanwhile, and going through the usual fretful crescendo of sentiments that such conduct incurs. Toward evening, having fed most of the natives in the vicinity and being rather upset, I went to town, where more drinks were downed. But in an argument with the taxi driver at my gate later in the evening I challenged him to arbitration at the local police station. Result: a night in jail; for feeling is so high against Americans in Mexico since the recent Oklahoma affair, that any pretext is sufficient to embarrass one.

K.A.’s place is just around the corner from the house I took, so on the way to the station I passed her gate. She and -- -- -- -- happened to be within speaking distance. I remember having announced my predicament and of having said, in anger at her response to the dinner engagement, “Katherine Anne, I have my opinion of you.” I was furious, of course, and I still have no reason for doubting that -- -- -- -- simply devised that insult deliberately. I haven’t seen Katherine Anne since, nor has she ever offered the slightest explanation of her absence. She told a mutual friend that I said something particularly outrageous to her that evening at the gate; but what it may have been beyond what I have just mentioned I don’t know. I wrote her a very humble apology a few days later, but there was no response.

It’s all very sad and disagreeable. But one imputation I won’t stand for. That is the obvious and usual one: that my presence in the neighborhood was responsible for a break or discontinuance of Katherine Anne’s creative work. --/--/ I’m tired of being made into a bogey or ogre rampant in Mexico and tearing the flesh of delicate ladies. I’m also tired of a certain rather southern type of female vanity. And that’s about all I ever want to say about Katherine Anne again personally.

My father was buried last Saturday. Mrs. Crane, despite the fact that the delay was really a great strain on her endurance, insisted on awaiting my arrival, which wasn’t until late Friday, as I couldn’t get airplane reservations beyond Albuquerque. She was so grief-stricken that I’ve been worried about her. I’m more impressed by her sincerity and dignity than I can tell you, however, and her feelings toward me make me feel that I have a real home whenever I want to claim it here with her. She had a room and bath all ready for me--and it’s to be regarded as permanently mine.

I’m glad that I’ve already been able to be of some help to her in matters of the estate. It will be some time before all inventories are taken of various departments of my father’s business and I’ll certainly be here beyond the time of your trip west, in August. You must plan on stopping over at least a day. You really ought to see this country place, for I think it’s worth more than a passing glance. And above and beyond such considerations, I have a great yen to look you over, as you might guess. Certainly you can “make it,” and I’m sure that a day’s break in that long trip would be refreshing. Let me know.

My father’s will left very modest provisions for me, but they are as good as an annual Guggenheim, anyway, and that is all I really require. Quite properly, Mrs. Crane was left with the direction of most of his property and concerns--along with two other executors. The chocolate business will probably be discontinued, as it should have been anyway, as soon as one or two expensive leases can be disposed of. I may or may not take a hand in the picture business--but probably not. Nothing can be definitely decided until we know more about the total status of the estate.

As I just wrote Bill [Brown]--who surprised me by writing a very thoughtful note--I’m increasingly glad that I had those three months with my father last winter. The enormous advance in mutual understanding and affection that was achieved has left me with a better and truer picture of my father than I had ever had before. It’s good to remember, too, that he was unusually contented and optimistic during the last few months, about his business and all other concerns. And when he went he had no more than a passing flash of recognition of the event before complete unconsciousness supervened. --/--/

369: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Sept. 11th, 1931_

Dear Sam: --/--/ I have had the pleasure to meet a young archeologist from Wisconsin, who is studying in the University here and who thinks he has discovered a buried Aztec pyramid right in the vicinity of my house. Yesterday we took pick and shovel and worked our heads off digging into the side of a small hill, itself on a vast elevation overlooking the entire valley of Anahuac. Except for a few flocks of goats and sheep the entire neighborhood has been abandoned since the Conquest. A marvelous stillness and grassy perfume pervade the district; one sees the two great volcanoes in the distance and a part of the horizon glazed by Lake Texcoco, seemingly below which floats, as in a dream, the City of Mexico. It was an arduous and rich afternoon. I have a lame back today, but also some very interesting chips and pieces of the true Aztec pottery picked up here and there on the surface and from our little excavation. The experience is haunting, melancholy too. But such “first hand” contact beats the more artificial contacts that museums proffer. We also ran across one of those incredibly sharp fragments of obsidian, part of a knife blade used either to carve stone and other materials or human flesh. It is still a mystery as to how they cut obsidian--but this shard was perfectly edged and graded as though it had been as conformable as wood. --/--/

370: TO WILLIAM WRIGHT

_Mixcoac, D.F. Mexico_ _Sept. 21, 1931_

Dear Bill: -- -- -- -- Vera Cruz was a hissing cauldron when I got there; in fact the last two days on the boat were Turkish baths. But once here on the plateau--I went back to my nightly blankets and recovered quickly. The aforesaid port has had a pretty little hurricane since my debarkation. I knew it couldn’t help but happen.

I felt awfully diffident about leaving the U.S., but I’m beginning to be entirely glad that I came back here after all. In the first place there was no settling down this time to be accomplished. I found my house in good order, the servants joyful to see me, and my garden a perfect miracle of growth and colorful profusion. I could begin “living” right away without a moment in a hotel, a blanket or kitchen implement to buy--having spent about three months in such preoccupations on my previous visit. The rainy season is lasting unusually long, but it keeps all the verdure so miraculously green that the countryside will hold its colors all the longer into the long months of drowth to come.

During the mere two weeks since my return I’ve already had the most interesting adventure that I think I ever remember. I came back with the resolution to get out more into the smaller cities and pueblos, to get as thoroughly acquainted with the native Indian population as possible. So when I met a young archeologist from Wisconsin who asked me to go along with him on a five days’ trip to Tepoztlan I didn’t linger. Though two books and a dozen articles have been written about Tepoztlan (see Stuart Chase’s _Mexico_ and Carleton Beals’ _Mexican Maze_) it has never been invaded by tourists. And isn’t likely to be, either, for some time. As there is nothing remotely resembling a hotel or lodging house in the place I went prepared to sleep on the floor of the Monastery. One can sleep soundly almost anywhere and be thankful for the limited diet of beans and tortillas if one has spent the whole day walking, scrambling over dizzy crags or hunting fragments of old Aztec idols, of which the surrounding cornfields of Tepoztlan are full.

The town is practically surrounded by cliffs as high as 800 feet, basalt ledges with a perilous sheer drop sometimes of 300 feet, covered with dense tropical foliage and veritable hanging gardens--with cascades and waterfalls galore. The descent begins about 3 miles from El Parque where the train leaves one--about 4 hours from Mixcoac.

(Distances in linear miles are so deceptive here, since mountainous country necessitates such inclines and devious windings. One can watch the engine from the rear most of the way.)

But I’m not going to give an exhaustive description of the town as you can read that, and better formulated too in Chase’s book, which everyone seems to be reading now anyway. The most exciting feature of our trip and visit was the rare luck of arriving on the eve of the yearly festival (fiesta) of Tepozteco, the ancient Aztec god of pulque, whose temple, partially ruined by the Spaniards and recent revolutions, still hangs on one of the perilous cliffs confronting the town.

Only a small fraction of the populace (they are all pure unadulterated Aztec) took part or even attended this ceremony; but we found those that did, largely elderly, the finest and kindliest of all the lovely people of the place. Aside from those who had climbed up to spend the night in watch at the temple, there were only about twenty-five. These, divided into several groups around lanterns (of all places!) on the roof of the Cathedral and Monastery which dominates the town, made a wonderful sight with their dark faces, white “pyjama” suits and enormous white hats. A drummer and a flute player standing facing the dark temple on the heights, alternated their barbaric service at ten minute intervals with loud ringing of all the church bells by the sextons of the church. Two voices, still in conflict here in Mexico, the idol’s and the Cross. Yet there really did not seem to be a real conflict that amazing night. Nearly all of these “elders” I have been describing go to mass!

And so kindly and interested in explaining the old myths of their gods to us! Fortunately my archeologist friend speaks perfect Spanish--besides knowing some Aztec and some local mythology. Meanwhile, if you can possibly imagine such a night, the lightning flickered over the eastern horizon while a crescent moon fell into the west. And between the two a trillion stars glittered overhead! It was truly the Land of Oz, with the high valley walls in the Wizard’s circle. Rockets were sent whizzing up--to be answered by other rockets far up and over from the lofty temple. After nine, when the playing stopped, we asked the “elders” to a stall in the town market and served them each with a glass of tequila. We were invited to join them again at 3 A.M. atop the church again, for the conclusion of the watch.

I’m sorry to say I didn’t awake until five. But it was still pitch dark. And to hear those weird notes of drum and fife in the dark valley, refreshed as we were with sleep, it was even more compelling. We rushed from the baker’s house (where we had found a bamboo bed and exquisite hospitality) over the rough stone streets into the church yard, stumbling up the dark corridors and narrow stairs of the monastery just as a faint light emerged over the eastern break in the cliffs. There was the same bundle of elders welcoming us and serving us delicious coffee, all the hotter for a generous infusion of pulque, straight pulque alcohol in each cup.

But most enthralling of all was the addition of another drum--this being the ancient Aztec drum, pre-Conquest and guarded year after year from the destruction of the priests and conquerors, that how many hundreds of times had been beaten to propitiate the god, Tepozteco, the patron and protector of these people. A large wooden cylinder, exquisitely carved and showing a figure with animal head, upright, and walking through thick woods,--it lay horizontally on the floor of the roof, resounding to two heavily padded drum sticks before the folded knees of one of the Indians. The people at the temple had played it up there the night before, and now someone had brought it down to be played to the rising sun in the valley.

Suddenly, as it was getting lighter and lighter and excitement was growing more and more intense, one of the Indians who had been playing it put the drum sticks into my hands and nodded toward the amazing instrument. It seemed too good to be true, really, that I, who had expected to be thrown off the roof when I entered the evening before, should now be invited to actually participate. And actually I did! I not only beat the exact rhythm with all due accents, which they had been keeping up for hours; I even worked in an elaboration, based on the lighter tattoo of the more modern drum of the evening before. This, with such ponderous sticks, was exhausting to the muscles of the forearm; but I had the pleasure of pleasing them so that they almost embraced me. They did, in fact, several of them--put their arms around our shoulders and walk back and forth the whole length of the roof, when at the astronomical hour of six the whole place seemed to go mad in the refulgence of full day. It is something to hear bells rung, but it is inestimably better to see the sextons wield the hammers, swinging on them with the full weight of their entire bodies like frantic acrobats--while a whole bevy of rockets shower into such a vocal sunrise!

Well, after that there was the whole series of tableaus and performances incident to the Mexican Independence Day celebration (Sept. 15-16-17) in which everybody took part. But of that another time. You can see how I am enthusiastic about Tepoztlan. I went bathing in mountain streams with a young Indian, gorged on beans and tortillas, found idols in the surrounding cornfields and finally, the morning I was leaving, met the Vicar at stool in the Cathedral. On the climb back to the station we visited the ancient temple. It still has fragments of remarkable relief and is staunchly and beautifully constructed. I may go back to Tepoztlan for two weeks in October. I never left a town feeling so mellow and in such pleasant relations with everybody in the place. --/--/

371: TO MALCOLM COWLEY

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Oct. 5th, 1931_

Dear Malcolm: --/--/ Yes, Peggy [Baird] must have been pretty close to danger for awhile judging by what she said about her symptoms. She stayed in bed for a week or so, but went to Puebla over last weekend and looked very well this morning when I called. I think she’s to keep pretty quiet, however, if relapses aren’t to be expected. Bill Spratling wired me to bring her along with me to Taxco tomorrow for a few days, and I think she’s planning on joining me since I’ve had no word to the contrary this afternoon. She was going to ask her doctor about it.... --/--/

As Bill [Brown] has probably told you, the Katherine Anne [Porter] upset accounted for my more than diffidence about seeing most of our mutual friends when I passed through NY. Sometime I may say more about it, but I’m sick of the subject just now; and since Mexico is proving to be so much more pleasant and absorbing to me during this second sojourn, I don’t want to stir up any more unneighborly dust here in Mixcoac this evening than matches a pleasant mood.

--/--/ I’m glad to be of any help I can to Peggy, love her as always, and enjoy her company (and we see quite a lot of each other) immensely. Old friends are a God-send anywhere! Especially when they’re as good sports as Peggy is.... She’s pretty fragile, but I think she’s happy here, possibly more so than anywhere else right now. --/--/

372: TO MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL

(Postcard)

[_Mixcoac_] [_ca. October 10_]

Your letter this morning--and now the books. Putnam is more surprising and magnificent than ever! Am glad to have such a challenge of a review.

373: TO SLATER BROWN

[_Mixcoac_] _Oct. 22nd_

Dear Bill: Please tell Malcolm that his article on the Munson-Josephson “debate” has delayed my dinner by two hours of sore sides! “Old Nick” (Jamaica) Rum _may_ have contributed a little to some pleasant distress, but I still owe a debt.... I wish I had the two previous articles of the series at hand; can’t you get Betty to sort them out and send them to me?

From cock-crow to sunset, here in Mixcoac, my life is extremely jolly. And then beyond.... How I wish you and Sue [Jenkins] were here sometimes! Guitars and _corridas_ galore. Even _I_ am learning how to sing! One thing I can’t seem to get around to do--and that’s the reviews I contracted to do for _Poetry_. Have you seen Putnam’s new book of poems, _The Five Seasons_? I’ve got to “do” that, and it’s almost too big a job.

“Old Nick” and Nicotine keep me too occupied.

PS--Allen’s note on Milton was one of the best things in modern criticism I expect to anticipate!

374: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK

[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 4, 1931_

Dear Charlotte & Richard: --/--/ Then there have been two rather extensive visits to Taxco, pictures of which you’ve seen. David Siqueiros, whom I consider to be the greatest of contemporary Mexican painters, is living out there. He’s painted a portrait of me that is astounding. When photographs are made I’ll have to send you one, and for heaven’s sake don’t lose it, whether you like it or not. I don’t know yet how I’m going to get the original up north. Siqueiros is the one who painted the picture of that train flying along, that we took particular notice of in the Carnegie exhibit at the Art Amusement last spring. Remember? But that wasn’t a fair example of his vast power and scope at all. He’s fundamentally a mural painter, and even his smaller paintings have a tremendous _scale_. I bought a small water color of his, a Mexican boy’s head, which you will be quite wild about. I’ve never seen anything of Gauguin’s which was better. Indeed the two have a certain plastic quality in common as well as the use of heavy pigments. Siqueiros, however, is always _most_ Mexican and himself. The very soil of Mexico seems spread on his canvasses.

The last two days have been important on the native Indian calendar: the Day of the Dead. All over the country, and right here in this metropolitan city, you will find the cemeteries full of dark-skinned men and women, whole families in fact, sitting on tombstones day and night holding lighted candles to the spirits of the dead. They bring their food and drink with them. Far from being sad, it’s very merry. They drink and eat much--and it all ends up by setting off firecrackers made in the image of Judas. You must remember some of the amazing skeleton toys and paper and clay skulls that we saw at that Mexican exhibition. Well, they are for sale everywhere right now--and such a variety of other beautiful trays, crockery, serapes, toys, etc., from all the provinces as would drive you wild. A certain park in the city is set apart for the _puestas_, or booths, that form this special market. A walk through there beats the excitement of any museum I’ve ever been in. --/--/

I’ve had some nice parties here in my house. I know more people than I did before, and as far as space goes I might have sixty here at a time. My servant plays the guitar and sings beautifully. Mexicans are always bursting into song and strum away for hours. When I have a party it’s easy to get him to bring in two or three of his friends, equally gifted, and the result is such music, my friends, as would make your feet dance and your eyes shine brightly all the night! The results were a little too lively, in fact, one day last week when I gave a party to two American boys who are touring down here in a big Lincoln car. One of them suddenly climbed up on my roof, drawing the ladder after him, and began pelting tiles down into the courtyard of my neighbor. I nearly had heart failure before we got him down, since my neighbor is a crack shot, and the provocations for shooting are much less here in Mexico than anywhere I know. The kid had just drunk about a quart of _tequila_, so of course it was only partly due to his response to the music! --/--/

375: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

(Postcard)

[_Mixcoac_] [_November 10, 1931_]

Haven’t heard since that long letter I wrote you. And wonder if you got it. Mail is sometimes opened here and not forwarded. I never know. If I’m tampered with any more I intend to object, to the Secretary of State who is a poet and knows me.

376: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 13th_

Dear Peggy: I don’t think you need bother to consider me a friend any more.

377: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Thursday [ca. Nov. 14]_

Dear Peggy: I don’t know why I felt impelled to write you that gracious note of yesterday, except perhaps on account of the heeby-jeebies--and the fact that when I called with Daniel[67] in the morning I was refused admittance.

Of course, if you really feel that strongly about it, for whatever causes I don’t know, then we’ll have to remain apart. Please let me contradict that note of yesterday, anyway.

378: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_Mixcoac, DF_ _Nov. 17th_

Dear Sam: --/--/ I haven’t been any too well lately. First a week’s spell of the grippe--then lately a kind of half relapse, bad cold, back ache, etc. All this in spite of heavenly weather, but not, I’m afraid, despite a strenuous program of dancing, _tequila_ and amor. I’m on the water wagon for awhile.... Meanwhile my house is in considerable tumult. David Siqueiros (who is certainly the greatest painter in Mexico) arrived Sunday night from his house in Taxco, with his wife and doctors--so deathly ill from malaria that he had to be carried into the house. No really expert medical attention being available in a town so small as Taxco--and after 8 days of mounting fever--there was nothing to do but rush to Mexico City. He contracted it during a long trip through the _tierra caliente_, or “hot country” which is the wild jungleland of Mexico near Acapulco along the Pacific coast. It is a marvelous trip, but very strenuous and dangerous, through native villages where a tax collector has never dared venture, and where the people wear the same Aztec costume that Cortez found them in, there being several towns entirely of Negroes (escaped slaves) who wear nothing but the slender loin cloths of Africa and who shoot with bow and arrows. It seems incredible, but Mexico is more vast than you can ever realize by looking at a map and more various in its population than any country on earth. Layer on layer of various races and cultures scattered in the million gorges and valleys which make the scenery so plastic and superb. Siqueiros is going to pull through all right, but I shall probably have him here with me for a couple of months. Malaria takes a long time. I’m glad to be of help in such a crisis, however, and since I had three rooms which I never used the house really isn’t crowded.

I bought two fine paintings of S. which I hope someday you will see. I guess I wrote you that he painted a portrait of me (about 4 by 2-1/2 ft) which is causing much favorable comment. Besides which I have a splendid watercolor of an Indian boy’s head. You have never seen anything better by Gauguin, which, however, doesn’t describe the originality and authenticity of these works. Then I have about a dozen small watercolors, mostly landscapes, painted by Mexican children none of whom are older than eight--these for about 20¢ apiece!

Of course the Siqueiros works cost me _considerably_, so much, in fact, that I’ve been worried about making ends meet until my next quarterly from the Guggenheims falls due Jan. 1st. For what was my great shock after buying them to be notified that none of the income that I had been assured of from the estate would be paid, and would continue unpaid indefinitely! This meant that the paintings had to be paid for out of the Guggenheim allowance--and in consequence I’m stranded excepting for a few dollars remaining in my personal N.Y. account--until January 1st. And it will be hard to cash personal checks hereabouts. And if business doesn’t pick up before next May it probably means that I can’t continue to stay in Mexico for awhile longer, as I had hoped to do.

Those masks that you bought last fall are undoubtedly Mexican. Even the neo-Greek mask that puzzled me so. I am sure about them all being Mexican because I’ve seen dozens in private collections and museums here that have the same variety of stylizations. There is a great tradition of masks here, and while those of yours may not be extremely old they are decidedly not new nor sold around in the shops here, and are really valuable. You have to go out to some of the most remote settlements to get that sort, and they’re seldom to be bought because of their religious significance.

I haven’t been able to resist buying some other things like serapes, giant hats, embroideries, lacquer trays and Guadalajara pottery. You’ve never seen such beautiful arts and crafts as the Indian element here has perpetuated. Wm. Spratling’s collection at Taxco is one of the best, and when his book comes out, called _Little Mexico_ (Cape & Smith), for heaven’s sake read it. Its illustrations are many and will give you more detail than I could squeeze into twenty letters.

This letter is becoming ungodly long--and I haven’t been able to tell one fragment of all there is to tell. I’m not upset about the Eastman and Mencken notices. There _was_ a quite serviceable editorial in _The New Republic_ on the former a couple of weeks back. And if it provides something for Burke and Cowley to write about--then so much the better. They’re bound to be fairly loyal to my _style_, even if not to my “personality.” It is even more consoling that a few people like yourself maintain a constancy to both.

379: TO HIS STEPMOTHER

[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 23rd_

--/--/ Last Friday the situation [Siqueiros’ visit] got so on my nerves that I bolted for Tepoztlan. It proved to be the best of all remedies. Long strenuous walks over rocks and mountains with my pack on my back, pleasant encounters with some of the natives who remembered me from my former visit, and baths in nearby streams--there’s really nothing like getting out in the wilds occasionally to clear one’s head. I was invited to a very sociable weekend party at a lovely house in Taxco, but I preferred to be absolutely alone for a change. Deciding to walk from Tepoztlan to Cuernavaca Sunday I got lost on a false trail through a dense forest and stumbled about, not knowing where on earth I was for hours. Thirsty!!! and blistered feet!!! Finally I came upon the railroad track, miles from where I should have been, but was so glad to find something _definite_ that I walked the ties for about four hours more until I came [to] a small station outside Cuernavaca, a filling station for locomotives. And there wasn’t much water left in the tank for future trains when I got through drinking there, I can tell you. I didn’t attempt any further exploits, but took the next train through to Mexico [City]. I must have walked about 35 miles at least that day. But I’ve felt swell ever since. Next time, however, I won’t carry so much in my pack!

380: TO EDA LOU WALTON

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Nov. 27th ’31_

Dear Eda Lou: I’m very glad to hear that you are applying for a Guggenheim. You certainly deserve it and would make splendid use of it. Mr. Moe, the Secretary, has sent me a copy of your proposed program (this being part of the usual routine regarding references) and I shall be greatly disappointed if you do not have a chance to carry it out. Naturally my response to Moe will be very warm in your favor. However slight your hopes may be there is evidence that at least you are being considered seriously.

These are dull times for poetry, even as Mr. Mencken says, and I must admit that with all my present salutary circumstances my impulses in that direction are surprisingly low. A beautiful environment and economic security are far from compensating for a world of chaotic values and frightful spiritual depression. And I can’t derive any satisfaction in the spinning out of mere personal moods and attitudes.

Meanwhile, I am, however,--or at least I feel I am--penetrating to a new kind of world in the psychology of the Indians, hereabouts, though it hasn’t taken on any real outline as yet. Everyone says that it takes a long time to make an adjustment here. The infinite variety of climate, vegetation, and the distraction of a new language as well as thousands of fascinating sights and speculations, all combine to uproot one and hold one in a strange suspension. At least I feel that I am living fully and absorbing a great deal, whatever else. And that, I suppose, is a considerably better state to be in than the dubious tenure some office job would provide, if such indeed were even accessible! I like Mexico and the Mexicans (Indians) so much that I’d like to remain here permanently. I’m even thinking of attempting some work like teaching (English Lit.) in one of the many private colleges if I can locate such work before my Guggenheim fellowship expires. --/--/

381: TO ----

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Nov. 30th_

Dear ----: The nature of the Mexican Indian, as Lawrence said, isn’t exactly “sunny,” but he is more stirred by the moon, if you get what I mean, than any type I’ve ever known. The fluttering gait and the powder puff are unheard of here, but that doesn’t matter in the least. Ambidexterity is all in the fullest masculine tradition. I assure you from many trials and observations. The pure Indian type is decidedly the most beautiful animal imaginable, including the Polynesian--to which he often bears a close resemblance. And the various depths of rich coffee brown, always so clear and silken smooth, are anything but Negroid. Add to that--voices whose particular pitch will make the welkin ring--and you have a rather tempting setting for an odd evening. Even Lawrence, with all his “blood-fear” of them, couldn’t resist some lavish descriptions of their fine proportions.

--/--/ I have a project of a poetic drama on Cortes and Montezuma, but the more I see the more I realize how intricate the subject is--and how much longer it is going to take me than I anticipated. --/--/

382: TO HIS STEPMOTHER

[_Mixcoac_] _December 12th, ’31_

Dear Bess: There is a distinct smell of powder in the air this evening. But that isn’t all! Rockets are whizzing up sporadically for miles around, and the sound of church bells far and near, has been incessant since dawn. All of which is to say that this is an important day in the Mexican calendar--nothing less, in fact, than the annual Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the particular Patroness of all Mexicans. This year’s celebration is all the more extravagant, as she is reputed to have “appeared” here (before a humble peon named Juan Diego) just four hundred years ago today.

For weeks the influx of Indians and pilgrims of all types from all the provinces and tribes of Mexico has been in progress. It is probably no exaggeration to say that there are two hundred thousand extra souls, pious and near-pious, who have flocked here to continue the _fiesta_ until New Year’s. But today--all of them, including the majority of Mexico City’s population of one million--went to the little town of Guadalupe Hidalgo, practically a suburb now, of Mexico City, where a great cathedral has been erected near the spot where the Virgin is reputed to have made her first appearance.

I engaged a cab the night before, and got up at four this morning to get an early start, arriving before the Cathedral just at dawn. Even then one couldn’t elbow one’s way into the church without waiting in line for an hour. I gave that up, having come more to see some of the native Indian dances that take place here and there throughout the town--some, in fact, right in front of the cathedral. The whole business is simply indescribable without ten reams of paper; but suffice to say that the dances were wonderful. Certain people are picked from each district or tribe for their marked ability--and there is quite a rivalry between districts in the excellence of their performance. There are from 24 to 45 in a group, generally in circular formation, with banners, guitars which they play as they sway and turn, and elaborate pantaloons, skirts, feather crests, etc. Death and the Devil weave in and out among them--and other masked figures, like wild boars and old man-of-the-mountain.

I pushed and prodded from one group to the other, until by 9:30 I was ready to come home; and did. I had taken Daniel along, and was glad of it, since I just missed causing a riot by attempting to photograph some of the dancers in action, which is, it seems, forbidden. The dancing is all very serious and very set and formal; it generally derives from very ancient tribal rites. It isn’t any sort of Mardi-Gras mood at all that the Indians express, despite the flamboyant colors of their costumes.

Well, when I consider that the Indians, all of those, at least, that I saw--had been dancing the same measure for practically all the night before--continued all day after I left and WILL continue on the same schedule for practically two weeks more--and ALL for the sake of a ritual and _not a cent of money_--I must say I admire their devotion to custom and tradition. The figure of the Virgin of Guadalupe miraculously unites the teachings of the early Catholic missionaries with many survivals of the old Indian myths and pagan cults. She is a typical Mexican product, a strange blend of Christian and pagan strains. What a country and people! The most illogical and baffling on earth; but how appealing! I enclose the authoritative portrait of this Virgin, who, I think, is quite beautiful. She is really the Goddess of the Mexican masses, and you will find her image or picture everywhere, even when you can’t see it--as for instance, inside the hat bands of wide _sombreros_. It is rare to escape the sight of her--on a postcard or stencil above the windshield facing half the taxi drivers of Mexico. For protection and good luck! I think I shall have to “wear” her around with me for awhile--likewise for “Protection and good luck” against the wiles and extortions of some of those same drivers!

I haven’t heard from you in a long while--no answer yet to my last. But I’m not complaining. I know the season, the other trials--and how filled your time is. Thank you very much, by the way, for having arranged the money payment for me through the Chase bank. It saved me many pesos on the “exchange.” I won’t need to bother you again this month--nor next. Matters go more smoothly with me as I get myself more acclimated to Mexico, its habits and the peculiar strain of the high altitude here. I’m feeling very well, and am even accused of getting fat.

As Christmas draws near I think much of the Season’s loss in all it can give to you and me this year. Christmas always probes the deepest memories, and the fondest; and I know what you will be thinking about this Christmas, and how apt it will be to make the hearth seem cold. I know your fortitude also, Bess,--and your natural, spontaneous response to all that is good and enduring. And I’m sure, therefore, that surrounded as you are by the loyalty and love of those whose names need no particular mention, you’ll still find many reasons for gratitude and even a bit of seasonal merriment. --/--/

1932

383: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _January 6th_

Dearest Peggy: I hope you got the $75. I sent yesterday afternoon. I went first to the Mancera where I ate like a horse; then rushed to the bank in time to get all I wanted. Daniel I found as drunk as usual when I got home, but he did manage to get me a hot bath before eight, after which I really began to enjoy my weariness. Slept fairly well--waking to find old Mizzentop flaunting the colors still in valiant dreams of you.

M---- was here, besides the family box of goodies and about a million letters. I’ll just never catch up, I’m sure. M., as I expected, is as settled as ever.... I can foresee a number of needs, or rather uses for him in the next fortnight.

Lesley [Simpson] is coming to lunch with me at the Mancera this noon. All things considered, I am hoping that he, rather than anyone else, will want to take over the house. For one thing it would mean that I could trust _all_ my belongings to the premises--and be freer than ever to move about as I took a notion to. I wouldn’t lose any more money in the end than storage costs and transportation otherwise necessitated.

I’m in such a hectic rush this morning that I can’t do more than remind you that you already know the depth of my love for you. The ride back yesterday was psychologically so strange and new a meditation to me that it seemed almost like sheer delirium. When I get more of the pressure of events eased and a moment for a little personal thinking, I’ll write you a more decent expression of my gratitude. I’m dying now to be off to Acapulco with you in two weeks time, and almost every moment must be bent to that end.

I’ll see Mary [Doherty] today or tomorrow about your clothes. Has Malcolm replied yet? Let me know when to write him if he hasn’t. DAMN that Putnam review! Of all times, now, to sharpen the critical blade! But that’s what I get for procrastinating. Mexico [City] doesn’t look any more tempting and reassuring than I expected. It’s cold, bloody cold, of course, too.

I’m expecting a letter from you tomorrow, and often afterwards, dear Twidget! Apply yourself well; don’t forget the toilet paper, the water wagon, your typewriter, nor your Hart. -- -- -- --

384: TO MALCOLM COWLEY

_Mixcoac, DF_ _January 9th, 1932_

Dear Malcolm: I’ve just returned Maddow’s poems to him with a brief note of appreciation, tempered by some objections to his chaotic structural tendencies, etc. It’s hard to say much against a person who has so obviously experienced one’s own temper and angle of vision. Furthermore, I suspect that he is no more obscure to me (at his _worst_) than I have been to hundreds of others. But what the hell! I don’t pretend to excuse myself for a lot of things. He has power and original vision, though--if he’s got the conscience and brains to channel them....

Peggy and I had the pleasantest Christmas and New Years together that I remember for ages. Peggy’s usual mixed crowd appeared for the former date; but I stayed long enough to enjoy a week alone with her. Taxco is so extremely beautiful--and the townsfolk still so affable--that whatever one has to say about the Yankee occupation (and that ultimately seals its doom) it’s still one of the pleasantest places to be. Peggy has probably written you about encounters with Brett, Bynner, King, et al. Lewd limericks were shouted from the rooftops--your collection being more than ever in demand. A mad crowd, though. -- -- -- --

I enjoyed your attack on Munson very much--that is, the initial broadside that appeared in _The N.R._ But having read answers and replies since then in _Contempo_, I’ve lived to regret those later readings--from both sides of the battle line. Of course it was a great mistake for Munson to have replied at all. No dignity could be saved that way--and in the end it put you, too, into a rather apologetic position. Your advantage rests--not chiefly, but partially--in the fact that you initiated the fracas--and in a journal of vastly greater circulation and weight than that little receptacle on Chapel Hill. Now people are beginning to accuse you of being a successful politician. But I hardly agree with that; I think that greater conquests are necessary for that title, even though Mr. Boyd lay flaccid under the same swipe. --/--/

385: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] [_January?_]

Dearest: In case I don’t get off tomorrow morning for Taxco--and hence anticipate this letter by kisses and much contentment--I want you at least to know that it won’t be long before we are together again, for I shall be with you certainly before Sunday.

Your letter of this morning makes me ache for you. Why is it you love me so? I don’t deserve it. I’m just a careening idiot, with a talent for humor at times, and for insult and desecration at others. But I can, and must say that your love is very precious to me. For one thing it seems to give me an assurance that I thought long buried. You can give me many things besides--if time proves me fit to receive them: the independence of my mind and soul again, and perhaps a real wholeness to my body.

Do you remember me saying that I would _not_ fall in love with you, or with anyone again? But I find that though I like to perpetuate that statement, I have really overruled it in a thousand thoughts and emotions.

(The period on that last sentence was accompanied by a convulsion under the table from Palomo. Rather horrible, in fact. I roused M----, we called a policeman; but though the dog has resumed all the appearances of his normality--we’ve relegated him to the shedroom in back of the kitchen. Rabies are common here, so M---- says, and I shouldn’t wonder if we’ll have to shoot the “dove.”)

Since there seems to be such a slight chance of renting the house, and since I really can’t welsh on Eyler Simpson (who is equally responsible, since he signed the lease with me) by just walking out--I’ve decided to pay the $70. odd dollars difference by just keeping it--wherever else I spend my time during the next three months. The family will just have to fork up a loan or something for me, and I feel sure they will. I’m going to try and avoid spoiling my remaining time in Mexico; and much more worry about the house and my few items of possession would succeed in doing so. Don’t you think I’m right?

Besides, M---- will be in on weekends, and will watch over the servant’s care of things, and forward my mail wherever I am. I want you to go to Acapulco with me--and after that I’m going to spend some time up in Michoacan, Morelia, Lake Chapala, etc. I may end up in Jalapa (which is very near Vera Cruz) but by that time I rather expect you’ll be with me. I feel serene and happy in your love today, mad dogs and convulsions notwithstanding!

386: TO ----

_Mexico, D.F._ [_January 15_]

Dear ----: --/--/ Your Christmas gift was a great surprise--and an inspiration. Lawrence never wrote a greater story, nor one which provoked less divided feelings. It was a great revelation to me, and I shall read “The Man Who Died” more than once again. In all honesty--it has more to tell me--at least in my present state of mind--than any book in the Bible. It was originally published by the same people in Paris who brought out my _Bridge_--under the title of, “The Escaped Cock”; but I never happened to have read it before. I remember that they had a terrible time with the customs, getting it into this country--and largely on account of that title! Imagine! --/--/

387: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

_Mixcoac, D.F., Mexico_ _Feb. 8th, ’32_

Dear Mony: As usual, I’m ignoring all the questions of your last letter.... Don’t know how long I’m going to remain here, etc. Hate it and love it alternately, but am not, as you surmise, in a constant Bacchic state. Not by any means. However, I happen to be in something approximating it at this present moment, since I’ve got to work on the first impressive poem I’ve started on in the last two years.[68] I feel the old confidence again; and you may know what that means to one of my stripe!

The servants are all asleep--and I’m in that pleasant state of beginning all over again. Especially as I’m in love again--and as never quite before. Love is always much more important than locality; and this is the newest adventure I ever had. I won’t say much more than that I seem to have broken ranks with my much advertised “brotherhood”--and a woman whom I have known for years--suddenly seems to “have claimed her own.” I can’t say that I’m sorry. It has given me new perspectives, and after many tears and groans--something of a reason for living.

So much for “Mexico.” I’m not able to write tourist sketches any more. They take too long--and are only the more incomplete. I’ve lots to tell you about all that some other day. And they needn’t be the less stirring for a little delay. Meantime let me say that you are one of the few heroes I know. I love your steadfastness and uncompromising attitude, Mony. Have we the patience to endure? I say YES! -/-/

388: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Feb. 10th_

Dearest: _So_ glad to hear from you this morning! I have been up late for the past two nights, writing countless letters--and with a little tequila (a very little!) walking back and forth the length of the room to the tune of the records that we enjoyed so together. I haven’t really seen anyone since you left; even M---- hasn’t shown up for 48 hours again. The version of the beginning of “The Broken Tower” that I sent you early this morning is probably to be changed a good deal yet. But you seemed to hanker for it--and so I let ‘er fly.

I could be doing a lot these days, since I feel so much like working, if the tension were less, around here. Sr. Daniel Hernandez is morose and very threatening indeed, despite the fact that I haven’t even reprimanded him for his recent drunkenness. Lisa is scared to death of him, and warns me that there may be all kinds of trouble in store if I fire him, since he knows about half the Police in Mixcoac, knows I have no firearms on the place, etc. Well, neither can I bring myself to endure his insolence and complete disregard of services much more. Sr. Lepine, my landlord, is going to try to corner and talk to him this afternoon, but Daniel won’t be around at the time, as Lepine, who called this morning when D. was out, told his wife the hour when he’d return this afternoon.

Oh Hell! I say. I’m getting so damned tired of the whole problem. Lisa thinks she won’t dare remain after Daniel leaves on account of his probably exposing her political affiliations. If you can’t find someone from Taxco I shall probably be left here a perfect prisoner--without even a telephone, and afraid to leave the place a minute. Well, don’t see how I’m going to get any work done _this_ afternoon, nor probably tomorrow. Damned outrageous, I think. Daniel will probably come lurching in about 8 tonight and begin to flirt a knife and pistol about. Such a quiet life in this pretty retreat!

It’s too bad you have to move so preemptorily--on the exact 15th. But those scorpions worry me--especially their generous numbers. That house will always attract them--being so on the side of a hill. I miss you a lot, dear. Somehow we have such a lot to talk about together. I am getting more and more serious and dignified day by day--getting maybe back into myself--as well as into you.

389: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 11th_

Dearest: I was so tremulous and distracted with the domestic situation as described yesterday to you, that last night I went on a mild tare with Lisa here in the salon. I finally came to the decision of packing up and leaving for the States within a week; there just didn’t seem to be any other way of proceeding. I certainly felt fed up! Lepine didn’t come round until this morning, and if he hadn’t offered me a new servant who he swears is reliable, I think I should be sending you the telegram I typed out last night, announcing my departure.

Lepine is sending me an old man he has known for 14 years, the most honest soul, he declares, he has ever met. Lisa will stay, she says, and cook. The combination will be perfect, and will result in little more expense than I have been under right along. Lepine says that Daniel has been wanting to work for “the general” for some time. I think they will leave within a few days--and without umbrage. Certainly they have no reason to resent my simple objection to constant drunkenness. Daniel came home stewed again last night, after working all day at “the general’s.” But I was too gay with Lisa and tequila and dancing--and my secret resolution to pull out, to mind very much. I have a notion that this rearrangement will be satisfactory. Certainly I’m lucky to have Lisa here--so intelligent, generous, neat and efficient in a thousand ways. She doesn’t ask for anything but her board and keep, but I shall try to induce her into some sort of salary.

These photographs, I think, are perfectly splendid. I especially love those of you with the goat! And you _ought_ to like the one of me. Remember, I was looking at you--and the expression seems to bespeak a lot of love and happiness. And what a scrumptious and monumental pose that is of Lisa’s! Siqueiros really ought to see it.

Of course I’m anxious about your plans after leaving Natalia’s. You know you’re welcome--more than that, my dear, to make this your future headquarters. I miss you _mucho, mucho, mucho_! But I don’t think that either of us ought to urge the other into anything but the most spontaneous and mutually liberal arrangements. I am bound to you more than I ever dreamed of being, and in the most pleasant and deep way. I think I have wandered back to some of my early idealism, and in the proper sort of way--without any arbitrary forcing or conscious reckoning. You’re a great little “rouser,” my dear! -- -- -- --

390: To Peggy Baird

[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 13th_

Dear Peggy: I just can’t make up my mind to go traveling or even visiting until I get through some real work here in Mixcoac. Somehow, it seems to me that the time is ripe even though circumstances are difficult; and if I can’t do any better I think I’ll just try to let the domestic situation here “ride” as best possible--so long as there is no pistol twirling. The place seems to run itself fairly smoothly with Daniel away until 7-8-or-9 at night, and for the moment, at least, relations are back again on a fairly friendly basis. I’m doing my best not to think or worry too much about it. Certainly I shall avoid any rows in the future. And it’s lucky--if I do finally dismiss Daniel--that he can immediately go to work at a place such as the “general’s,” where he has said for some time he wanted to remove, anyway. Under such conditions I don’t see how he can possibly harbor much resentment.

I had a very enjoyable lunch and afternoon yesterday with Lesley and Marion [Simpson]. She’s fundamentally very likable, I think. But I should imagine that Lesley would welcome a little warmer company. He seems more than satisfied, however, and is looking even better than usual. In the morning I had been to the glass factory with Anita [Brenner]. A very gratifying experience. I couldn’t resist buying a half dozen wine glasses, of a smoky rose-purple transparency that set one dreaming even when empty. Then some exquisite hand-woven textiles (table and pillow covers, cotton) in the afternoon from Davis’s--made in Oaxaca, and quite unique. I almost bought myself a turquoise and silver ring; but Lesley and Marion dragged me out in time. It’s dangerous for me to hang around town very long.

The strangest rumors circulate about Natalie’s house. She seems to have written someone, I forgot whom, that she hasn’t sold it at all, and doesn’t intend to. Then Davis, who seems to hear everything, reports to me that “the Kings are leaving Taxco and intend to settle somewhere up in northern New York.” I had to smile at this, recognizing the source, etc. But I didn’t know that the plan had ripened to such a decided and public extent as yet. If they aren’t coming in until Tuesday I wish they would wire me to that effect by noon on Monday. I’ll expect them overnight Monday otherwise. I want to have provisions on hand, too, and fresh at the proper time.

I’m going to make a stab again at the Putnam review this afternoon. I’m feeling shabbier and shabbier about my delay.... Must send up _something_ anyway. And maybe later I’ll catch up the creative thread of my poem again. After all I’ve been through lately, it just doesn’t seem to exist any more.

So glad to hear you’ve finished your story! Where do you intend sending it? Lots of love, dear! -- -- -- --

391: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 16th_

Dearest: I was in the mood for swearing last night that I wouldn’t write you for at least a week. My blast at the Kings, I felt, needed some very definite and concrete “substantiation”--such as a long, glum silence; which I hoped might worry you. But, really, I find daily communication with you quite irresistible. Especially when your reciprocation is so regular and--need I say? charming. And then, besides, the entire household has been in such a perfectly delightful mood all day,--I can’t really be sad or important.

True to my word last night, I got very lit. Daniel had come home that way anyhow, and I took the opportunity to talk to him about sobriety--meanwhile pouring him glass after glass of the Tenampa I’d bought for the Kings. The more he drank the more he talked of “his” or “our” Pegguié--accent on the penult;--but you will be able to pronounce that without the acquaintance of Quintilian anyway, I’m sure. You’re very popular around here, and I’m sure that if you care to come and stay with me for awhile you will be regarded as the pet of the place--since Elise and Conrada both dote on you--as well as myself. M---- just isn’t around for days and days any more.

Daniel is not drunk tonight; rather he appeared at 6 PM with a large bush of _buena de noche_, from the _jardine del general_, as well as a large bouquet of heliotrope. Judge what the sala smells like with a large bunch of tuberoses also, which I purchased yesterday in honor of the Kings! Some times I think this house is the nicest place in the world. It certainly could be--in a not ambitious way. My temperamental reversals of opinion regarding Mexico are a joke. I now regard myself as a confirmed idiot who can’t make up his mind about anything whatever any more.

I can’t yet figger how Tommy [Robert Thompson] could say we looked like “two waifs” sitting on a strange doorstep. Yes, that letter was distinctly below his usual level. Got a fine long letter from Peggy Robson yesterday, which hints at the same relations with -- -- -- --that you mentioned. Well, well, and _como no_! She also said that Malcolm (in long underwear) and Waldo left together in the same truck for the scene of action. Perhaps common suffering will weld a friendship there, after all. By the way, I don’t believe a thing of your wagon wagon, water wagon story. Especially with Luz around, who Lisa says is a great little tanker. I have my own ideas about the sobriety of those nights of yours in such company, and how “lonely” they are. Just as long as you don’t let your right hand know what your left hand doeth, as they say. I’ll keep the same code, at least with my index finger. --/--/

392: TO PEGGY BAIRD

[_Mixcoac_] [_Feb?_]

Dearest Peggy: Everything is very much at loose ends again since Daniel appeared dead drunk again yesterday afternoon--and I had to spend the rest of the day and evening cogitating and recogitating just what was to be done about it. I’m very near firing him (the case seems to be hopeless, and I just can’t stand being “run” by servants to such an extent). Also, I’ve lost a lot of confidence in him since Lisa has discovered that he has my watch and fob in his cabin, which Conrada unwittingly showed her the other day. Whether Filemon took it or not in the first place makes very little difference....

So, will you squint around--and ask Bill [Spratling] also to keep an open eye for a mozo for me there in Taxco. There are plenty of honest youngsters there who are known to be honest and would welcome the idea of coming to Mexico for a few months. Lisa (and everybody else) says that you’re sure to pick a thief no matter who you hire here in Mexico. I would never have a peaceful moment with one of them around; whereas a boy from Taxco [would] behave differently, especially if his family could be referred to there. I don’t say send anyone at present, but I wish you would be ready to immediately if I should wire you to one of these days. Maria Luisa’s brother (not the goblin midget), or Raphael, I’m sure, would be glad to come. Cleaning and gardening and errands--you know the slight requirements. I would pay them 10-15 pesos a month with board. I’m hoping to keep Lisa as cook, but she isn’t enough by herself on account of having to remain constantly with her child. She’s done more spontaneous cleaning around the place in the last two days than I can tell you. Ask Bill to find out if Santiago is satisfied at the Taxqueno. When I last talked to him he was very keen to come to Mexico--at almost any cost. If I should wire for immediate action I’m sure you wouldn’t mind advancing the bus and taxi fare, would you? You know this house simply cannot be left alone a minute. And I don’t see how I can possibly stand it much longer in its present equivocal state.

I worked late on my poem[69] last night despite all the disturbance, and willy-nilly shall get some work accomplished, at least correspondence, today. The enclosed was delivered by a man from Taxco last evening, and I think it’s the money from Leslie that failed of being enclosed in his letter to you of yesterday. M---- absent another night! --/--/

Clinton [King] wrote me a long letter of apology--which was more than sufficient. I haven’t much ground to stand on myself when it comes to drunken outbreaks and melodramatic abuse of my friends, so it makes it very easy indeed for me to forgive and forget. They are two very decent and lovable people and I’m glad they like me enough to speak as they do. If Clinton ever bombs and bombards me again in the same manner I’ll know better how to take it. I’m looking forward to some pleasant times together when they come to Town. Please convince them of my affection and hope of seeing them. --/--/

Don’t forget about my servant problem, dear. You know it’s yours in a way, too. I want things to be smoother than before on your next “visit” to Mixcoac, besides which I want to get my mind free for work as soon as possible. I’m really in extraordinarily good condition and do hope you also feel more settled and industrious.

I hope to send you more of the poem in a few days.

393: TO HIS STEPMOTHER

_Mixcoac, DF_ _Feb. 17th, 1932_

Dear Bess: --/--/ I get so aggravated at times that I swear I’ll pack up and leave for the States on the first available boat. Then the next clear and glorious morning comes around, with fresh flowers in the garden, good coffee on the stove--and the renewed vision that sleep brings.... Then I change my mind all over again. For I know that as soon as I go back I’ll regret it--and long and long for Mexico again. Not that I plan on staying here forever; but for the time being the business situation in the States is zero. There’s nothing I can really do there. And although I have found that living here is far from being as cheap as it’s cracked up to be, it _is_ less, on the whole, and when one learns--and how long it takes!--to wade around and learn one’s depth and altitude--one can make a good deal of a lame proposition. At least Mexico affords me time and space. I’m not so giddy as I once was about _all_ its features; but a very pleasant residue remains. And I’m just getting to know it well enough to get down to work on my poetry and other creative work.

Bess, you certainly have given a demonstration of real heroism in handling the factory rent problem as you have. I sense a certain amount of weariness in your letter; and I can well understand the causes and the justifications. The sheer day-to-day strain of management, complicated as it is, I know to be a burden--a real cross to bear. You’re one of the finest people I’ve ever met or expect to meet I’ve always been so glad that Father found someone at last who really took the pains to understand him; because he was certainly a difficult person to comprehend. He had many faults, too. I only regret that I was so late in realizing his many virtues. [The rest of this letter is lost.]

394: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_Mixcoac, DF_ _March 10th, 1932_

Dear Sambo: --/--/ Rather amazing things have happened to me since Xmas. Peggy Cowley [Baird], whom you certainly remember as Malcolm’s wife, and who is -- -- -- -- here in Mexico, is mainly responsible. You may have heard that we are now living together, and I must admit that I find conjugal life, however unofficial, a great consolation to a loneliness that had about eaten me up. Maybe I am fulfilling some of your theories and predictions. --/--/

Just about 20 more days before my scholarship is officially terminated. But I have my doubts about coming back before six months, and maybe not that soon. I can’t hope to find any interesting work in the States for some time, meanwhile the estate has guaranteed me at least a portion of the yearly allowance left me by my father, which will go farther here than in the north. Besides I’m just getting to work on a few things--and Peggy and I enjoy Mexico more than ever, being together.

How I wish you could step into our house here some afternoon! Week by week I’ve collected more and more beautiful Mexican serapes, leather work, pottery, embroideries, lacquers, etc. Fresh bunches of lilies, tuberoses, violets, nasturtiums, etc., every day from the garden. The white iris is just coming out, too. When my lease on this house expires--6 weeks from now--we’re going to do more traveling. There are at least twenty wonderful towns and places I haven’t yet visited. Last week we went to Puebla. I only visited 2 of its 365 churches and chapels (one for every day of the year) and what gold and decorations and carvings I saw defies description. We came back laden down with gorgeous pottery and serapes, etc., from the superb market there. --/--/

395: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _March 20th ’32_

Dear Mony: What a fine, understanding and spirited letter that was from you! Proving not only your friendship again but the clean and heroic attitude you hold toward life also.... Not that I have ever doubted either one, but fresh reassertions of that kind are always highly gratifying. --/--/

Peggy and I are still very happy together here. -- -- -- -- We’ve known each other for nearly 12 years, intimately--but never dreamed, of course, of our present happy relationship. How permanent that will be is far from settled; but we have learned to enjoy the present moment without too much romanticizing--which I think is wisdom.

Wish you could see--and smell--all the delicious flowers that surround our house: calla lilies, freesia, roses, calendulas, white iris, violets, cannas, a dozen colors of geraniums, pansies, feverfew, candy tuft, morning glories, etc. The days are getting warmer and all the deciduous trees are back again in fresh leaf. My fellowship is about terminated, but I expect to stay on here for several months longer if the income from my father’s estate seems to warrant. Am even thinking of making my permanent home here. Mexico gets into your veins. Beautiful people, manners, scenery, speech and climate.

The poem (“Broken Tower”) has undergone considerable change and extension since the version I sent you. I’m so glad that you liked it. I’m not sending any more of it to you, however, until it’s quite finished.

There is a small group of quite interesting compatriots here which gathers occasionally at one or the other of our houses--most of whom are Guggenheim fellows like myself. Carleton Beals and wife; Anita Brenner; Marsden Hartley, the painter, who has just arrived and who is wildly enthusiastic; Lesley Simpson (University of California) and wife; Pierre & Caroline Durieux, head of General Motors here; Wm. Spratling, whose book _Little Mexico_ (just out) you ought to read, etc. Plenty of good company, in fact, for one like myself who doesn’t care for a great many people.

A way, way back you asked me a question about what I thought of _Moby Dick_. It has passages, I admit, of seeming innuendo that seem to block the action. But on third or fourth reading I’ve found that some of those very passages are much to be valued in themselves--minor and subsidiary forms that augment the final climacteric quite a bit. No work as tremendous and tragic as _Moby Dick_ can be expected to build up its ultimate tension and impact without manipulating our time sense to a great extent. Even the suspense of the usual mystery story utilizes that device. In _Moby Dick_ the whale is a metaphysical image of the Universe, and every detail of his habits and anatomy has its importance in swelling his proportions to the cosmic rôle he plays. You may find other objections to the book in mind, but I’ve assumed the above to be among them, at least, as I among others that I know, found the same fault at first. --/--/

396: TO CARESSE CROSBY

_Mixcoac, D.F._ _March 31st, 1932_

Dear Caresse: --/--/ As I have not been near that Bank, c/o which you wrote me, for months and months until yesterday, your message and gift remained in complete limbo! Judge my surprise and pleasure at what appeared--practically from limbo!

The poems for Harry [Crosby] are an everlasting litany of chivalry and love. The whole collection achieves a power in repose, a renunciation-plus, that is very rare. I hope you are writing more and more, Caresse; for the sheer vision of your nature deserves an ever branching extension and expression. You really come up to the great themes of Love and Tragedy, as very few women can, at least in words.

My Guggenheim Fellowship terminates today. But I am remaining a while longer in Mexico on the modest income afforded me from my father’s estate, since his death last July. At that time I came North for two months, but was very glad to get back here again as soon as possible. Mexico with its volcanoes, endless ranges, countless flowers, dances, villages, lovely brown-skinned Indians with simple courtesies, and constant sunlight--it enthralls me more than any other spot I’ve ever known. It _is_ and isn’t an easy place to live. Altogether more strange to us than even the orient.... But it would take volumes to even hint at all I have seen and felt. Have rung bells and beaten pre-Conquistadorial drums in firelit circles at ancient ceremonies, while rockets went zooming up into the dawn over Tepoztlan; have picked up obsidian arrows and terra-cotta idols from the furrows of corn-fields in far valleys; bathed with creatures more beautiful than the inhabitants of Bali in mountain streams and been in the friendliest jails that ever man got thrown in. There is never an end to dancing, singing, rockets and the rather lurking and suave dangers that gives the same edge to life here that the mountains give to the horizon. Harry would have adored it--past expression--and I am sure you would. I should like to stay indefinitely.

My Spanish is still as lame as my French when I left France. Of the “Epic”--I haven’t yet written a line. Only a few lyrics. But then, what did I actually write while in Europe--an environment not half so strange and distractingly new-old curious as this? Besides I’m nearly two miles above you here in the air--at least while I remain in these headquarters of mine in the suburbs of Mexico City,--an old-fashioned Mexican residence of 8 rooms, 3 servants, a luxurious garden--with a goat, fighting cock, cat, Spitz dog and an occasional scorpion--all for $50. a month. But I’ve about made my adjustment now and am beginning to rap the typewriter a good deal lately. With the world all going to hell--what can one gather together with any confidence these days anyway? But I’m realizing responsibilities--or doubtless should have written quite a bit of trash, which might have been better mentioned than perused.

Do you see Kay [Boyle] and Lawrence [Vail] any more? Kay’s novel _Plagued by the Nightingale_ (and how they please over here!) impressed and delighted me immensely. --/--/

397: TO MALCOLM COWLEY

[_Mixcoac_] _Easter ’32_

Dear Malcolm: Peggy and I think and talk a great deal about you. That means in a very fond way, or it wouldn’t be mentioned. I’m wondering whether or not you’ll like the above poem [“The Broken Tower”]--about the 1st I’ve written in two years.... I’m getting too damned self-critical to write at all any more. More than ever, however, do I implore your honest appraisal of this verse, prose or nonsense--whatever it may seem. Please let me know.

And because I congratulate you most vehemently on your recent account of the Kentucky expedition--please don’t tell me anything you don’t honestly mean. This has already been submitted to _Poetry_--so don’t worry about that angle.

I miss seeing you a great deal. Peggy is writing you some sort of account of the Easter celebrations here. We’re very happy together--and send you lots of love!

398: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

[_Mixcoac_] _Easter ’32_

What a jolly long letter from you, Sam! I can’t get time to answer immediately, but here’s a poem [“The Broken Tower”]--about the first in 2 years--tell me if you like it or not. Happiness continues, with also all of the gay incidentals of a Mexican Easter--exploding Judases, rockets, flowers, pappas (excuse me, that’s the spelling for Mexican potatoes!), mammas, delicious and infinitesimal children wearing masks and firemen’s helmets, flowers galore and a sky that carries you ever upward! More anon, and soon!

399: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

_Mixcoac, DF_ _April 12th, 1932_

Dear Mony: So glad to hear that the lacquer box reached you--and I hope there wasn’t duty on it. Things often get through (small articles) I’m told--if not sent by registered mail. The cutter is awaiting me at the main post office. At least I take the notice just rec’d to indicate _that_ as the article, as I’m not expecting anything else of late. -- -- -- --

I’m in a dull mood today, trying to get back into harness after a couple of feverish weeks spent in running thither and yon every day or so to borrow enough money to keep us going until my check from the estate finally arrived. Somehow I can’t get people to understand that any break in schedule regarding remittances in a foreign country like Mexico is quite catastrophic, especially when, like myself, you’re asking for a mere minimum for all expenses, and when the first of each month finds you with less than a shoe string to meet all obligations. Finally after borrowing money for wires, writing a dozen letters, etc., the check arrived; but I hope for a little more consistent treatment in the future. After all, it isn’t like asking for a favor; the money was left me in the will, and the least the executors can do is to send it to me on the schedule agreed on.

Through the son-in-law of the President I’m acquiring a permanent passport; something damned hard to get here these days. Peggy and I shall probably stay here at least until next fall, and maybe longer. We like our isolation from mutual friends there in the north and our domestic life here with a house, servants, garden, pets, etc., proves more satisfying every day. If I can avoid drinking too much I’m expecting to get nearer solid earth than I have for several years. Sheer loneliness had nearly eaten me up. Peggy has sufficient sportsmanship, mentality, taste and sensuality to meet me on practically every level. And I think I’m learning considerable that would hardly be possible from any other person.

--/--/ Most all the letters we get from the north are pretty damned blue and dubious in tone. Well, no wonder, of course. I sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t go back and wail around the grave of capitalism myself, adopting sackcloth and ashes too, instead of the beautiful bright woolen serape worn around here on cold evenings. All my friends are turning at least a violent pink lately, and I’m almost convinced myself. In fact, by all the laws of logic I _am_ convinced. But it goes so against my native grain--seeing nothing but red on the horizon. --/--/

Speaking of music, did you ever hear any _real_ Mexican songs and dances? Some of the best of them are now on disks which can be ordered, if not in stock, at least from the factory through your dealer: _Las Mañanitas_ (Brunswick #40397) might have been composed by Bach. It’s a ceremonial song played to one or another Mexican in honor of his birthday. Very solemn and eloquent. _La Marihuana_ (Victor 46107-A), a wild jargon about the native drug of the same name (generally smoked in cigarettes) and its effects. _Capulin_ (Victor 30323-A). A wild and throbbing native canción that will set you prancing.

The Mexican singer uses a part of his throat or larynx never used elsewhere that I know of, except in the Orient or Arabia. It has great range, is generally shrill but capable of heart-wringing vibrations. Has the old Hawaiian gargling backed off the map. It is nothing to have four or five singers (masons, plumbers or pickslingers during the day) drop in here for an evening’s singing. And to my mind they’re generally preferable to all the trained and professional strummers and whoopers-up I’ve ever heard. Tequila is passed around; or beer; or coffee. And the corridas (endless ballads) and seranatas go on for hours and hours. There are endless corridas about “poor Pancho Villa,” Zapata and other dead revolutionaries. And then, if we’re drunk enough, someone dances a _jarabe_, a dance that is all vibrant gristle, emphasis and exhausting grace. -- -- -- --

400: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN

_Mixcoac, DF_ _April 13th, 1932_

Dear Sam: --/--/ Marsden Hartley, the painter, is here on his Guggenheim, as well as Andrew Dasburg. I don’t know the latter, but Hartley is delightful company and has brought a young nephew from Cleveland along with him who paints, on canvas, I mean.... Then I got a letter from Charlotte [Rychtarik] saying that she and Richard expected to motor down with some of their wealthy Cleveland friends--only to hear just yesterday, that a relative had died suddenly in Europe, money had to be sent--and therefore the trip had to be abandoned. Charlotte is philosophical enough, but I’m sorry not to see her refreshed by Mexico. Well ... maybe later. My biggest surprise in a long while, however, has been a note from dear old D---- C----. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our old Cleveland hero! Who is still trying to write novelettes and best sellers in Des Moines. At least he says he’s still trying. Is also the friend of some fellows who are trying to start up a quarterly, and wouldn’t I kindly send them some poems of mine.... I must write him a picture card at least in answer; but I’m damned if I want to continue any correspondence of that kind.

That last of yours was a bang up letter, Sam. Say what you will, you certainly haven’t lost your old good humor and sympathy. I love to think of my “Ka” as you and the Egyptians call it, still haunting my basement basinette on Col. Hts. Good lord, but how I jumped to my feet right into a perfect salute yesterday when suddenly--over the neighbor’s radio--I caught the chorus of that old favorite of mine, “The Navy Blues” ... which certainly you can’t have forgotten either. Which reminds me that I still haven’t heard from B---- S----since the recent fatal cyclones that swept right across his home town in A----. I wrote immediately for assurances of his welfare and safety. But no word yet. I can never forget that sweet boy; and his letters to me for the last two years have been so consistently affectionate and nostalgic that they sometimes bring tears to my eyes.

--/--/ Peggy and I have each of us written Tommy [Thompson] a letter today. I hope they cheer him up a little. He’s so shy he almost never writes any tangible news about himself. Just wise cracks, burlesque slogans, oblique hints: all very witty and amusing, but not quite explicit enough about himself to really fully satisfy. He’s probably having his worries these days. --/--/

Dos Passos has written a very important record of the war and the “war mind” in _1919_. Do read it, Sam. My old friend (though an “enemy for awhile”) Claire (Spencer) Smith, who wrote _Gallows Orchard_, and another friend of Peggy’s, Wm. Seabrook’s wife, barged in on us the other day on the way to Cuernavaca, and loaned me the book to read. Claire has just finished her second novel, which Hal Smith is bringing out in May. We had a great reconciliation and I’ve decided that I’m not the only one who has improved since our ancient misunderstandings. --/--/

401: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG

_Mixcoac_ _April 20th_

Dear Mony: Just a hasty note in the fever of packing and final arrangements.... My plans for staying in Mexico have been completely reversed by a suit against the estate which may cut me off from any income for years. Since I’m having to depend even now entirely on loans from my stepmother’s salary the only thing possible to do is return to Chagrin Falls and try to work some of it out in service to the organization, several branches of which are approaching bankruptcy. Not a very happy prospect....

Am sailing for NY on the _Orizaba_ from Vera Cruz on the 24th. Shall probably land in NY without a penny. Could you send me a small loan of some kind c/o Hotel Lafayette, University Place & 11th St.? It would be wonderful if you could happen to be in NY sometime during the three or four days I hope to be there before going into my middle western exile. This crash has prevented my collecting the cutter as yet, but I hope to get it before leaving if I have anything like the pesos to pay the duty charges. If not it may come back to you. I’ve had an awful time all round lately ... will tell you later. -- -- -- --

402: TO MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL

_Mixcoac, DF_ _April 20th, 1932_

Dear Morton Zabel: I’ve suddenly been called north on account of business. Sailing immediately and probably won’t return to Mexico. Will you kindly have my subscription address [changed] to my permanent residence; _Box 604, Chagrin Falls, Ohio_....

About a month ago I sent you a poem, for possible use in _Poetry_, but have not as yet heard from you about it. The letter may have gone astray for all I know, as service isn’t any too reliable here.[70]

I hope I may hear from you soon after my arrival in Ohio. -- -- -- --

403: TO _Contempo_[71]

_Mixcoac, Mexico_ _April 20, 1932_

Dear Contempo: Delighted to hear that you like the “Bacardi” poem and are using it.

I’m leaving for the States in a few days and can’t write you a decent response at the moment. But I hope you meant what you said about sending me _Contempo_ regularly. And I should like to do reviews when I get settled in the north again.

Please address me from now on at Box 604, Chagrin Falls, Ohio, where I shall probably be after May 10th.

P.S. I should love to review MacLeish’s _Conquistador_ for you if you haven’t already assigned it elsewhere.

404: TO HIS STEPMOTHER

_Mixcoac_ _April 22nd ’32_

Dear Bess: Pardon me for wiring Byron [Madden] about money, but so many difficulties came to a head at once here, and with myself weak from a fever and dysentery I had to use every way of impressing on you the urgency of my immediate needs. And I imagine that you may well have been too preoccupied to realize the situation here anyway--even in part.

Altogether I’ve had a terrible time lately. I can’t begin to write the details now in the finalities of packing. I leave for Vera Cruz tomorrow night and sail Sunday morning on the _Orizaba_ for New York. I was planning to return to Ohio even before the shocking news came about the W---- matter. But with that having happened I wouldn’t have thought of staying here another minute anyway. I may be able to be of some help to you this summer. Anyway I want to make the effort, especially since you must be quite crippled (at least at the Cottage) without Dorothy’s help.

You can’t imagine how difficult the Mexicans make it for any foreigners to remain here--comfortably. I love the country and the people (Indians) but certainly have had my fill of passport difficulties, servant problems and other complications for awhile. I have been not only ill--but frightened nearly out of my wits because I happened, in all innocence, to put my passport-renewal problem in the hands of a lawyer-crook. It’s all right; I have clearance papers; but it involved me in a lot of expense, consultations with innumerable people and just endless worry. Then at the last moment my servant got roaring drunk and left, and came back and shook the gate to its foundations, yelling threats against my life, terrorizing us for days, until we had to call on the American Embassy for special police service, etc., and so on. Do you wonder I’ve been anxious to get off as soon as possible. Thank God the lease on my house is already expired--and there can be no further complications that I know.

I hated to draw on you so heavily for money lately, but after all, I had no way of knowing how matters would turn out with the estate; and the expense of coming home now certainly seems justified in view of the possibility of economizing later on. There are many things highly important for us to discuss together, and besides that I am looking forward to seeing you and the rest of our friends and relatives again. I am bringing back a lot of very interesting things, some very beautiful, that you’ll enjoy seeing, I’m sure.

A case of books had to be sent collect (Wells Fargo) direct to the factory. Please be on the watch for it. The other things are all in a large hamper which will go with me on the boat and will be expressed to the factory later on from New York. I’ll be in New York a couple of days as I simply must see some of my old friends after so long a time. I’ll telephone you on the first night of my arrival around 10 o’clock when rates are reduced.

Please give my love to poor little Dorothy. I haven’t had a moment to write to anyone lately or I should have written her long ago. Had to spend all day yesterday running around trying to get the telegraphed money cashed. Wasn’t your fault, nor mine. Peggy nearly went crazy with hers, sent from her former husband, too. The telegraph office paid us off in six hundred and some odd “Tostons” (about like getting it all in dimes) and neither the Ward Line office nor the official Banco de Mexico would accept them.... It seems there’s a law against paying out any such currency beyond a certain small amount. But how should we know--and besides what does a government agency like the telegraph here mean by paying you in currency which the government itself, through its own official bank, turns around and refuses! We finally had to arrange a special interview with the president of the bank himself. I was all ready to complain to the embassy. So you see how slow things move here and what incessant obstacles one has to fight for the simplest sort of transactions. It certainly has about made a nervous wreck of me. But I’ll rest up on the boat.

405: TO MRS. T. W. SIMPSON

(Postcard)

[_Havana, Cuba_] [_April 26, 1932_]

Off here for a few hours on my way north. Will write you soon. Am going back to Cleveland to help in the business crisis. Permanent address--Box 604, Chagrin Falls, Ohio.

LIST OF CORRESPONDENTS

(_Numbers are those of the letters_)

----: 55, 103, 105, 121, 136, 245, 250, 267, 381, 386

---- and ----: 242, 273, 292, 300

Anderson, Sherwood: 54, 85

Baird, Peggy: 376, 377, 383, 385, 388, 389, 390, 391, 392

Baird, Peggy and Malcolm Cowley: 295

Brown, Slater: 216, 294, 298, 303, 323, 373

Bubb, Charles C.: 15

_Contempo_: 403

Cowley, Malcolm: 225, 237, 310, 311, 319, 328, 362, 371, 384, 397

Cowley, Malcolm and Peggy Baird: 255

Crosby, Caresse: 329, 331, 332, 333, 335, 396

Crosby, Harry and Caresse: 330

Dietz, Lorna: 334, 354, 368

Father (Clarence A. Crane): 3, 4, 8, 9, 173, 219, 221, 283, 286, 288, 291, 306, 307

Frank, Waldo: 119, 131, 137, 140, 182, 188, 211, 212, 213, 217, 228, 236, 244, 247, 248, 249, 253, 254, 257, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 265, 272, 296, 299, 304, 315, 320, 327, 337, 355, 363

Grandmother (Elizabeth B. Hart): 1, 2, 165, 209, 226, 230

Grunberg, Solomon: 346, 352, 375, 387, 395, 399, 401

Guggenheim Memorial Foundation: 344

Josephson, Matthew: 40, 57

Kahn, Otto H.: 222, 235, 289

Lachaise, Gaston: 231

Lachaise, Isabel and Gaston: 171, 258

Loveman, Samuel: 290, 297, 312, 313, 316, 322, 351, 353, 358, 369, 378, 394, 398, 400

Moe, Henry Allen: 356

Mother (Grace Hart Crane): 5, 6, 7, 10, 11, 12, 13, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 23, 25, 26, 146, 151, 153, 155, 157, 158, 159, 162, 163, 169, 174, 175, 176, 177, 180, 181, 183, 184, 186, 187, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 197, 198, 199, 201, 202, 205, 206, 207, 208, 210, 223, 227, 229, 238, 240, 243, 246, 251, 256, 268, 271, 278, 284

Munson, Gorham B,: 27, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 39, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 56, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 75, 76, 77, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 86, 88, 90, 91, 92, 94, 96, 97, 99, 101, 102, 106, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 122, 124, 125, 126, 128, 129, 132, 135, 138, 161, 167, 168, 172, 185, 195, 196, 233, 234, 239, 302

Porter, Katherine Anne: 359, 360, 361, 366

Rickword, Edgell: 270

Rodman, Selden: 341, 347, 365

Rosenfeld, Paul: 338

Rychtarik, Charlotte: 141, 143, 149, 156, 166, 170, 264, 309, 336

Rychtarik, Charlotte and Richard: 139, 145, 152, 179, 200, 203, 214, 215, 220, 224, 232, 241, 293, 308, 321, 357, 374

Rychtarik, Richard: 147

Schneider, Isidor: 274, 301, 325, 34 350

Schneider, Isidor and Helen: 305

Seltzer, Thomas: 204

Simpson, Mrs. T. W.: 266, 287, 405

Sommer, William: 144, 218

Stein, Gertrude: 318, 324

Stella, Joseph: 317

Stepmother (Bessie M. Hise): 379, 382, 393, 404

Stieglitz, Alfred: 142, 148, 150, 154, 160, 164

Tate, Allen: 98, 100, 104, 130, 133, 134, 178, 269, 275, 276, 277, 279, 280, 281, 282, 326, 343, 345

Walton, Eda Lou: 340, 380

Wiegand, Charmion: 28, 74, 98, 107, 113, 127, 314

Weinstock, Herbert: 339

Winters, Yvor: 285

Wright, William: 14, 21, 22, 24, 37, 38, 78, 87, 89, 93, 123, 252, 348, 349, 367, 370

Zabel, Morton Dauwen: 364, 372, 402

INDEX

(Asterisks denote works of Hart Crane)

“Abbott, Dorian” (J. B. Wheelwright), 125

_Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years_ (Sandburg), 272

_Aeneid, The_ (Virgil), 309

Aeschylus, 235

Aesop, 58

_Aesthete, 1925_, 196

*“Again” (“The Wine Menagerie”), 255

Aiken, Conrad, 69, 294 f.

Akron, Ohio, 23 ff.

Alden, Priscilla, 306

Aldington, Richard, 12, 341

_All God’s Chillun Got Wings_ (O’Neill), 177

Alleghany College, xi

_American, The_ (James), 41

_American Caravan, The_, 291

*“America’s Plutonic Ecstasies,” 120, 126

_Anarchism Is Not Enough_ (Riding), 321

Anderson, Margaret, 10, 30, 45 ff., 56-57, 61, 64, 70, 174

Anderson, Sherwood, 23, 26 ff., 34 ff., 37-38, 40, 47, 53, 56, 58 f., 62, 65-66, 69, 73, 75, 83 ff., 95 ff., 103, 187, 208, 287, 364

_Anthology of Magazine Verse_ (ed. Braithwaite), 104

Annunzio, d’, Gabriele, 41

Apollinaire, Guillaume, 84 f.

Apuleius, 36

Aquinas, Saint Thomas, 313

Aragon, Louis, 84

Aristotle, 139, 311

_Atlantic Monthly_, 75

*“Atlantis,” 268, 270

_Atlantis in America_ (Lewis Spence), 255

*“At Melville’s Tomb,” 218, 259

“Ave Maria,” 242, 268, 291 ff., 305 f.

*“Bacardi Spreads the Eagle’s Wings,” 315, 410

Bach, J. S., 408

_Back to Methuselah_ (Shaw), 66, 104

Baird, Peggy, 232, 330, 376, 383, 393-394, 396, 403 f., 406 f., 409, 412

Barnes, Djuna, 28

Barney, Alice, 325

Barney, Nathalie Clifford, 325

Barrie, Sir James, 25

Barrymore, John, 38

_Bartholomew Fair_ (Jonson), 71

Bartók, Béla, 177

Baudelaire, Charles, 56, 58, 67, 88, 91, 115, 213, 358, 371

Bax, Arnold, 177

Beach, Rex, 73

Beals, Carleton, 404

Beardsley, Aubrey, 105

Beethoven, van, Ludwig, 109, 316

Benét, William Rose, 243, 324

Berners, Lord, 177

_Better Sort, The_ (James), 41

Biggers, Earl Derr, 5-6

Binet, Jean, 66

*“Black Tambourine,” 54, 58, 60, 63, 70, 72, 77

Blair, Mary, 195

Blake, William, 39, 88, 90, 100, 115, 132, 138, 176, 260, 288, 291, 294, 301, 322, 324, 364

Bloch, Ernest, 66, 78, 82, 129, 177

_Blue Juniata_ (Cowley), 330-331, 343

Blume, Peter, 349

Bodenheim, Maxwell, 9, 75, 295

Boni, Albert and Charles, 254

Boni and Liveright, 14, 136

Boone, Daniel, 307

*“Bottom of the Sea Is Cruel, The” (“Voyages I”), 69, 96, 99

Boyd, Ernest, 75, 243, 394

Boyle, Kay, 321, 335, 341, 406

Bradley, F. H., 322

Brahms, Johannes, 316

Braithwaite, William Stanley, 104

Brancusi, Constantin, 70

Braque, Georges, 177

Brenner, Anita, 399, 404

Breughel, 314

*_Bridge, The_, vii, ix f., xviii, 118, 119-120, 123, 124-125, 127 f., 135 ff., 145, 147, 153, 178, 184, 191 f., 201, 222-223, 231-233, 236, 240-242, 248 ff., 254 f., 259, 261 f., 265, 267 f., 268-269, 269-270, 271 f., 273, 274-275, 276 ff., 280, 285, 293, 296 f., 302 f., 304-308, 309 f., 318, 322, 325, 334 ff., 338 f., 342, 343-349, 350 ff., 364, 366, 374

*“Bridge of Estador, The,” 55, 55n., 182

Brody, Alter, 40

*“Broken Tower, The,” viii, x, 396, 401, 404, 406, 410

Brookhaven, Long Island, 20 f.

Brooklyn Bridge, ix f., 181, 183, 232, 240, 261, 270, 283, 307, 334, 363

*“Brooklyn Bridge, To,” 267, 347

Brooklyn Heights, 181 ff.

Brooks, Charles S., 13, 56

Brooks, Mrs. Charles S., 13

Brooks, Van Wyck, 28, 47, 178, 195, 291

_Broom_, 76, 95, 101, 103 f., 106, 113, 117 ff., 123, 154 f., 161 f., 185

_Brothers Karamazov, The_ (Dostoievsky), 49 f.

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 67

Brown, John, 61 f., 241

Brown, (William) Slater, vi, 85, 133 ff., 155 ff., 160 ff., 167, 197, 205 f., 208 f., 214, 217, 226, 244, 268, 290, 293, 303, 321, 355, 379, 383

_Bruno’s Weekly_, xvii

Bullus, Leonard, 292

Burchfield, Charles, 56

Burke, Kenneth, 36, 63, 70, 99, 103-104, 106, 108, 135, 155, 158, 160, 162, 166, 185, 218, 388

Burleson, Albert S. (_Postmaster General_), 29, 47

Butler, Samuel, 98-99

Bynner, Witter, 37, 394

Byron, Lord, 67

Cabell, James Branch, 105, 108

_Cabinet of Dr. Caligari_, 65

_Calendar, The_, 259, 281

Calhoun, Alice, 14-15, 311

California, 311 ff.

Calles, Plutarco, 293, 319

Camino, Leon Felipe, 372 f.

Campbell, Roy, 342

Canby, Henry Seidel, 345

Candee, Harry, 29-30, 32, 43, 141

Cannan, Gilbert, 85

*“Cape Hatteras,” 308, 344 ff.

Casanova, 372-373

Casella, Alfredo, 177

Castaneda, Dr. Maximiliano, 368

Catel, Jean, 194 f.

Catullus, 29, 33

Cavalcanti, Guido, 67

Cazes, Hazel, 369

Cervantes Saavedra, de, Miguel, 17

Cezanne, Paul, 86, 342

Chagrin Falls, Ohio, 359 ff.

Chaplin, Charlie, 65 f., 68 f., 85, 149-150, 170, 311, 326

*“Chaplinesque,” 65 f., 68 ff., 74, 85, 195, 313

Chapman, George--_Homer_, 287

_Chartreuse de Parme, La_ (Stendhal), 39, 64

Chase, William Merritt, 7

Chatterton, Thomas, 67

Chaucer, Geoffrey, 17, 78, 299

Chekhov, Anton, 39

Chirico, de, Giorgio, 87, 251

Chopin, Frédéric, 59

Christian Science, xvii, 3, 12, 15-16, 33-34, 161, 180, 280

_City Block_ (Frank), 124, 128, 130, 132-133

Clarke, Donald, 292

Cleveland, Ohio, xvii, 30 ff., 45 ff.

Cleveland _Plain Dealer_, 12

Coburn, Alvin Langdon, 30

Cocteau, Jean, 72, 86

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 67, 215, 314, 343, 353

*_Collected Poems of Hart Crane, The_, v

Collioure, France, 339 ff.

Columbia Heights, Brooklyn, 181 ff.

Columbia University, 19-20, 21

Columbus, Christopher, 232, 234, 240 f., 268, 305

Colum, Mary, 6 f.

Colum, Padraic, 6 f., 14, 51, 63, 95, 149

_Commedia_ (Dante), 356

Comstock, Anthony, 30

Conrad, Joseph, 41, 187

_Conquistador_ (MacLeish), 375, 411

_Contact_, 51, 53

_Contempo_, 394

Coolidge, Calvin, 365

Copeau, Jacques, 85, 178

Copland, Aaron, 195

*Cortez-Montezuma epic, 276, 390, 405

Coué, Emile, 109

_Counterfeiters, The_ (Gide), 316, 322

Cowley, Malcolm, vi, 42, 75, 84 f., 97, 113, 135, 155, 160-161, 162, 166, 182, 184, 231 n., 244, 252, 256, 294, 321, 325, 327, 340, 384, 388, 393, 400

Craig, Gordon, 66-67

Crane, Bessie (aunt), 3

Crane, Bessie M. (stepmother, II), _see_ Hise, Bessie M.

Crane, Clarence Arthur (father), x-xii, xvii f., 3, 9, 18, 20-21, 22 f., 27 f., 32 f., 35, 41, 45, 48, 50-51, 55, 57, 82, 108, 167 f., 173-174, 175, 179 ff., 186, 207 f., 214, 219 n., 226, 284, 292, 296-297, 337 f., 360, 363 ff., 376-377, 378 f., 402-403, 404

Crane, Frances (stepmother, I), 173, 283-284

Crane, Grace Hart (mother), vi, x, xvii, 3, 7 f., 19, 24, 32, 33-34, 36, 48 f., 57, 82, 107-108, 110, 134, 140-141,

143, 153 f., 162, 169, 212, 214, 219, 226-227, 231, 234 f., 250, 252, 256, 276, 278, 303-304, 316, 320-321, 327, 337-338

Crevel, René, 341

_Crime and Punishment_ (Dostoievsky), 46

_Criterion, The_, 218, 308

_Critique of Humanism, The_ (ed. C. H. Grattan), 352, 354

_Crome Yellow_ (A. Huxley), 82

Crosby, Caresse, xviii, 340, 342, 348

Crosby, Harry, xviii, 335 f., 338-339, 340, 342, 344, 346, 348, 405

*“C 33,” xvii

Cummings, Anne, 310-311, 324

Cummings, E. E., 85, 96, 108, 120, 133, 167, 182, 213, 251, 307, 310-311, 321, 324, 349, 354 f., 375

Curtis, Charles, 188, 198, 224, 226, 243, 252, 284

*“Cutty Sark,” 268, 283, 294, 307, 346

Dadaism, 52, 70, 72

Daly, James, 123

Damon, S. Foster, 100

*“Dance, The,” 288-289, 292, 307

Dante Alighieri, ix, 67

_Dark Mother, The_ (Frank), 47

Dasburg, Andrew, 408

Davenport, Russell, 366

Davidson, Donald, 294

Davies, Sir John, 213

Debussy, Claude, 78, 108

_Decline of the West, The_ (Spengler), 267

Deming, Zell Hart (aunt), 14, 188, 226

_Democratic Vistas_ (Whitman), 354

Derain, Andre, 87, 90

_Destinations_ (Munson), 178, 323-324

Deutsch, Babette, 63

_Dial, The_, 27, 32, 35 f., 36, 40, 42 f., 47, 54, 55 f., 65, 70, 73, 75, 92, 94, 97, 101, 103, 115, 117 f., 124, 133, 135, 136-137, 154, 160, 162, 178, 180, 191, 218, 220, 289, 292

Dickinson, Emily, 213, 324

Dietz, Howard, 325

Dietz, Lorna, 370

D’Indy, Vincent, 129

Dio Cassius, 32

Dionysios, 91

_Dr. Transit_ (Schneider), 231, 287

Doherty, Mary, 393

Don Quixote, 261

_Don Quixote_ (Cervantes), 263

Donne, John, 25, 66 ff., 71, 73, 77, 86, 88, 176, 213, 301

Dos Passos, John, 213, 324, 366

Dostoievsky, Feodor, 46 f., 50, 52-53

_Double Dealer, The_, 58 f., 61 f., 66, 74, 87 f., 104, 115, 129

Douglas, Lord Alfred, 43

Drayton, Michael, 78, 86, 286

Dreiser, Theodore, 27, 69, 324

Duchamp, Marcel, 52, 177

_Duchess of Malfi, The_ (Webster), 90

Duncan, Isadora, 108 f., 322

Durieux, Caroline and Pierre, 404

Eames, Claire, 174

East High School, Cleveland, xvii, 4, 359

Eastman, Max, 388

_Egoist, The_, 91

Einstein, Albert, 311

El Greco, 114, 267, 333

_El Universal_, 373

Eliot, T. S., 24, 26, 28, 34, 36, 44, 66, 86, 88, 90, 102, 104 f., 114-115, 117 f., 121, 123, 261, 308, 311, 313, 323, 345, 351, 355 f., 359, 372

Ely, 3, 14

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 73

*“Emily Dickinson, To,” 277

_Enormous Room, The_ (Cummings), 96 f., 133

Enters, Angna, 349

*“Episode of Hands,” 37, 38-39, 40

Epstein, Jacob, 46, 95

_Erik Dorn_ (Hecht), 66, 68 ff., 73

Estrada, Genaro, 372

Evans, Walker, 347

_Excelsior_, 373

_Faust_ (Goethe), 94

*“Faustus and Helen, For the Marriage of,” 87, 89, 92-93, 96, 98, 100-101, 102 f., 113 ff., 120-121, 123-124, 125, 127 ff., 131, 135-136, 140, 154, 178, 181, 184, 195, 301

Fawcett, James Waldo, 24-25, 27

Fernandez, Ramon, 319, 322 f.

Field, Eugene, 29

Fielding, Henry, 300

Fisher, William Murrell, 107, 161 ff., 167

Fitts, Norman, 119 f., 126

Fitzgerald, Eleanor, 224, 303, 311, 354

Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 78

_Five Seasons, The_ (Phelps Putnam), 384, 393, 399

Flaubert, Gustave, 75

Fletcher, Herbert, 25-26, 63

Fletcher, John Gould, 63, 295

_Fleurs du Mal, Les_ (Baudelaire), 33

Florida land boom, 209-210

_Flowering Judas_ (Porter), 373

Flynn, Bina, 216 f., 248, 252

Ford, Ford Madox, 285, 341

_Fortune_, 357 ff.

_42nd Parallel_ (Dos Passos), 366

Frank, Thomas, 263

Frank, Waldo, vii, 26-27, 28, 34-35, 95 f., 98-99, 104, 107 f., 113, 118 f., 124, 128 ff., 132-133, 136 f., 140 f., 145, 149 f., 154 f., 162, 170, 178, 186 f., 193, 195 f., 199 f., 203, 206, 208, 218-219, 223 ff., 236, 251 f., 255 f., 269 f., 278, 284, 291, 312, 322 ff., 370, 400

Freeman, G. W., 204, 211

_Freeman, The_, 40, 58-59, 125

Freud, Sigmund, 268

Freytag-Loringhoven, von, Baroness Elsa, 23, 30, 52, 56, 62

_From Ritual to Romance_ (Jessie L. Weston), 314

Friedman, Dr. Paul, viii

Frost, Robert, 17, 27

_Fugitive, The_, 88, 123, 155, 161

_Fyodor Dostoyevsky_ (J. Middleton Murry), 53

Gale, Zona, 66

Garden, Mary, 65

*“Garden Abstract,” 31, 37, 39 f., 51-52

_Gargoyle_, 70, 79-80

Garman, Douglas, 281

Garrettsville, Ohio, xvii

Gauguin, Paul, 29, 36, 55, 385

Gide, André, 66, 85, 294, 317, 336

Gilmore, Louis, 290

Goethe, 240

Gogh, van, Vincent, 55

Gogol, Nikolai, 34

Gold, Michael, 357

_Golden Ass, The_ (Apuleius), 44

Goldman, Emma, 341

Gordon (Tate), Caroline, 225 f., 245-247, 283, 294, 341 ff.

Gorman, Herbert, 295

Gourmont, de, Rémy, 66, 73, 78 f., 123 _Marginalia_ on Poe and Baudelaire, 64

Goya, Francisco, 114

_Graechische Vasenmalerei_ (Ernst Buschor), 116

Grand Cayman, West Indies, 257-258, 264-266, 293

_Grandmothers, The_ (Wescott), 316

Graves, Robert, 333

Gregory, Alyse, 136, 160

Green, Sonia, 187

Greenberg, Samuel B., 162-163

Grey, Zane, 73

Gris, Juan, 341

Grosz, George, 87

Grunberg, Solomon, 331

_Guardian, The_, 215, 218

Guest, Edgar A., 73

Guggenheim Fellowship, xviii, 358, 365, 367, 374

Gurdjieff, George Ivanovitch, 174, 298

Habicht, Charmion. _See_ Wiegand, Charmion

Habicht, Hermann, 22, 131, 180

Hackett, Francis, 28

Hale, William Harlan, 357, 375

_Hamlet of A. MacLeish, The_, 343

Hampden, Walter, 44-45

_Harbor, The_ (Ernest Poole), 256

*“Harbor Dawn, The,” 283, 306

Harcourt, Brace, 155, 213

Hardy, Thomas, 289, 300, 357

_Harkness Hoot, The_, 356-357

Harris, Charles, 121

Harris, Frank, 50

Hart, Clinton (grandfather), 249

_Hart Crane_ (Philip Horton), v, 240 n.

Hart, Elizabeth Belden (grandmother), xvii f., 10, 14, 23 f., 34, 140, 162 ff., 188, 214, 219, 224 f., 227, 233, 243, 270, 303, 321, 328, 337

Harte, Bret, 23

Hartley, Marsden, 27, 30, 75, 342, 404, 408

Havana, Cuba, 10, 251, 275, 412

Hays, Arthur Garfield, 330

Heap, Jane, 46 f., 61, 64, 100, 224

Hecht, 69 f., 104

Heine, Heinrich, 59, 71, 117

_Heliogabalus_ (Mencken & Nathan), 32

Helton, Roy, 373

Hemingway, Ernest, 287 f., 294

Hertha, 305

_Hints to Pilgrims_ (Charles S. Brooks), 56

Hise, Bessie M. (stepmother, II), 364, 377, 378 f., 410

_History of American Poetry, A_ (Gregory and Zaturenska), v

_History of Ferdinand and Isabella_ (W. H. Prescott), 235

Hoboken, New Jersey, 286

Hofmann, Josef, 177

Hollywood, California, 324-325

Homer, 120

Hopkins, Gerard Manley, 317, 319, 340, 359

Hoppé, E. O., 30

_Hound & Horn_, The, 352

Howells, William Dean, 47

Huebsch, B. W., 85, 96-97, 115, 171 f., 175

*“Hurricane, The,” 316, 363

Huxley, Aldous, 72, 90

Huysmans, Joris Karl, 69, 78

Ibsen, Henrik, 9

_Idols Behind Altars_ (Brenner), 372

_Imperial Purple_ (Saltus), 32, 49

_Iliad, The_ (Homer), 81

_In Our Time_ (Hemingway), 219

_In the American Grain_ (Williams), 277-278

*“Indiana,” 307, 345, 357-358

_Instigations_ (Pound), 51

*“Interludium,” 166

_International Studio_, 30

Isle of Pines, Cuba, vii, xvii f., 10, 151 ff., 210, 234, 248-249, 251 ff., 293

Jacobs, S. A., 201, 202-203, 205

James, Henry, 17, 41, 90, 106

Jammes, Francis, 104

Jenkins, Sue, 135, 174, 182, 197, 205, 209, 217, 262, 384

Jimenez, Juan Ramon, 187, 212

_John Brown_ (Oswald Garrison Villard), 61

Jolas, Eugene, 293 f., 334, 336, 338, 341

Jolson, Al, 32, 290

Jones, Robert Edmond, 166, 177

Jonson, Ben, 71, 78, 88, 129

Jordan, Virgil, 53

Josephson, Hannah, 63, 330

Josephson, Matthew, 23 f., 26 f., 35, 37, 48, 63, 64-65, 71 f., 74-75, 78-79, 84 f., 87, 95-96, 97, 100 ff., 104, 105-106, 113 f., 118 ff., 135, 162, 166, 285, 384

_Journal of First Voyage to America_ (Columbus), 234 f.

Joyce, James, 47, 58, 61, 66, 69, 94 f., 99, 104 f., 108, 288

_Judge, The_ (Rebecca West), 102

_Jurgen_ (Cabell), 73, 366

Kahn, Otto H., xviii, 211, 225, 227, 232 f., 247 f., 250, 254, 259, 262 ff., 267, 274, 286, 310, 321, 351

Kafka, Franz, viii

Keats, John, 67, 353

_Kid, The_ (Charlie Chaplin), 65, 68 f.

*“Kidd’s Cove” (“O Carib Isle”), 259

King, Clinton, 394, 399 ff.

Kirkham, Hall, 292

Kling, Joseph, 25, 31-32

Knopf, Alfred A., 26, 125

Kreymborg, Alfred, 194 f., 244, 291

Kunitz, Stanley J., 353

Kuniyoshi, Yasuo, 107

Lachaise, Gaston, 135, 149, 159, 170, 205, 252, 258

Lachaise, Isabel, 159, 205, 252, 258

*“Lachrymae Christi,” 183

_Ladies Home Journal_, 75

Laforgue, Jules, 45, 67, 71, 85 f., 88, 90, 104, 123, 163, 261, 282

Landor, Walter Savage, 39, 73

Larbaud, Valery, 95, 294, 336

Lasky, Jesse, 325

Laukhuff, Richard, 12, 23, 277, 280

Laurencin, Marie, 87

Lawrence, D. H., 17, 52, 63, 390, 395

_Leaves of Grass_ (Whitman), 109

LeBlanc, Georgette, 174

_Leda_ (Huxley), 44

Leffingwell, 167

Leonardo da Vinci, 300

Lescaze, William, 56, 62-63, 66-67, 70, 77, 85, 91 f., 104

_Letters of Henry James, The_, 41

Lewis (Winters), Janet, 313

Lewis, Sinclair, 66

Lewis, Wyndham, 55, 196, 313, 319, 322 f.

_Liberator, The_, 31, 91

Light, James, 155, 166, 174, 213-214, 215, 224, 262, 267

Light, Sue. _See_ Jenkins, Sue

_Limbo_ (Huxley), 41

Lincoln, Abraham, 27

Lindsay, Vachel, 7, 295

Li Po, 67

_Literary Digest_, 68

_Little Mexico_ (Spratling), 388, 404

_Little Review, The_, 10, 12, 16-17, 18, 20-21, 23 f., 27 f., 30, 45-46, 47, 51, 56, 61, 64, 68, 70, 75, 117, 126, 191

Liveright, Horace, 125, 128, 171, 206, 218, 220, 254, 259, 262-263, 281, 292, 296, 340

_Lives of the Caesars_ (Suetonius), 49

*“Locations des Pierrots,” 87

Loeb, Harold, 113

London, 332-333, 338, 341

London _Times_, 295

Long, Haniel, 63

_Look Homeward, Angel_ (Wolfe), 375

Los Angeles, California, 314-315

Lovecraft, Howard, 187

Lovell, Wheeler, 267

Loveman, Samuel, x, 91, 100, 104, 106, 187 f., 190-191, 200, 201-202, 206, 331

_Love of Three Kings, The_ (Italo Montemezzi), 65

Lowell, Amy, 26, 89, 125

Lowenfels, Walter, 341

McAlmon, Robert, 53, 80

Macaulay Company, 291

MacCown, Eugene, 341

McFee, William, 256

Macgowan, Kenneth, 166

_Machinery_, 167

Mackenzie, Compton, 52

MacLeish, Archibald, 285, 294, 351, 357, 575

McPherson, Aimee, 314-315, 322

Macy, John, 105

Madden, N. Byron (uncle), 15, 411

Maddow, Ben, 393

Maeterlinck, Maurice, 174

_Magellan_ (A. S. Hildebrand), 235

Maillol, Aristide, 177

Mallarmé, Stéphane, 78

_Man Who Died, The_ (D. H. Lawrence), 395

*“Mango Tree, The,” 254 f., 259

Mann, Klaus, 341

_Many Marriages_ (S. Anderson), 103

_Marching Men_ (S. Anderson), 56

_Maria Chapdelaine_ (Louis Hémon), 81

Marichalar, Antonio, 313-314

Marin, John, 102, 177, 349

Marks, Harry L., 344

Marlowe, Christopher, 25, 67, 71, 86, 88, 300, 353

Marseille, France, 342 ff.

Martinique, West Indies, 310

_Masses, The_, 91

Massis, Henri, 313

Masters, Edgar Lee, 28, 295

Matisse, Henry, 87, 171

Maugham, W. Somerset, 29

Maupassant, de, Guy, 24

Maurras, Charles, 313

_Measure, The_, 64

Meleager, 100

Melville, Herman, 252, 331

Mencken, H. L., 26, 30, 32, 388 f.

_Menorah Journal, The_, 359

_Merchant of Venice, The_ (Shakespeare), 44-45

_Mercure de France_, 194

_Messages_ (Fernandez), 317, 319

_Mexican Maze_ (Beals), 380

Mexico, xviii, 368 ff.

Mexico (Stuart Chase), 380 f.

Michelangelo, 114

Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 67-68

Milton, John, 67, 384

Minns, Hervey W., 30, 46, 52, 54

Mitchell, Stewart, 182, 313, 321

_Moby Dick_ (Melville), 86, 258, 260, 404-405

_Modernist, The_, 22 f., 24-25, 27

Moe, Henry Allen, 389

Monroe, Harriet, 294, 374, 410 n.

Montéllano, 373

Moody, William Vaughn, 89

_Moon and Sixpence, The_ (Maugham), 29

Moore, George, 354

Moore, Marianne, 37, 85, 194 f., 215, 218, 220, 224, 255, 259, 275, 289 f., 294, 324

Moore, Thomas, 67

Morris, William, 333

Mumford, Lewis, 195, 366

Munson, Elizabeth, vi, 126, 133, 143-144, 146 f., 155, 166, 180, 184

Munson, Gorham, vi f., ix, 85, 88, 94 f., 97, 101, 106 ff., 117, 119, 127, 130 ff., 143-144, 146 f., 153-154, 158, 171 f., 176, 178, 180, 182, 184 ff., 201, 213 f., 224, 251, 270 f., 273-274, 275, 282, 298, 300, 330, 335, 353, 384, 394

Murry, J. Middleton, 75

*“My Grandmother’s Love Letters,” 22 f., 25 f., 32, 37, 39

_My Heart and My Flesh_ (Elizabeth Madox Roberts), 314

Nagle, Edward, 135, 155 ff., 159 ff.

Nathan, George Jean, 32

_Nation, The_, 49, 58-59, 283

_Natural Philosophy of Love, The_ (de Gourmont, trans. Pound), 73, 91

Naumburg, Margaret, 150, 154, 162, 166, 336

Negri, Pola, 149

Nelson, Ernest, 75, 93

_New American Caravan, The_, 351

_New Criterion, The_, 240

_New Masses, The_, 240

New Orleans, Louisiana, 303, 326

_New Republic, The_, 28, 40, 58-59, 108, 219, 290, 292, 388, 394

New York City, xvii, 4 ff., 130 ff., 165 ff.

New York _Evening Journal_, 24

New York _Times_, 36, 100

Newton, Sir Isaac, 238

Nietzsche, Friedrich, 67, 75, 93, 99, 358

_Nigger of the Narcissus, The_ (Conrad), 41

_1919_ (John Dos Passos), 409

_1924_, 185, 191 f.

_Noa Noa_ (Paul Gauguin), 39

_Nouvelle Revue Française_, La, 78, 85

*“O Carib Isle,” 283, 293

O’Flaherty, Liam, 371

O’Keeffe, Georgia, 114, 177, 195, 349

O’Malley, Ernest, 371

O’Neill, Eugene, 155-156, 166, 170, 174, 177, 180, 184, 190, 193, 203, 208, 211-212, 214-215, 216, 218, 220 ff., 224 f., 240, 254, 258-259, 262-263, 270

Orage, A. R., 282

_Ordeal of Mark Twain, The_ (Van Wyck Brooks), 28

_Oresteia of Aeschylus, The_ (trans. G. Warr), 235

Ornstein, Leo, 271

_Others_, 7, 9

_Our America_ (Frank), 26-27, 28, 34-35, 131

_Pagan, The_, xvii, 7, 12, 23, 31

*“Paraphrase,” 195

Paris, 333 ff.

Parker, Dorothy, 322

Parrish, Maxfield, 21

_Parsifal_ (Wagner), 35

Pascal, Blaise, 48

*“Passage,” 215, 218, 259

*“Pastorale,” 64, 69, 71

Pater, Walter, 108, 117, 161

Patterson, New York, xviii, 208 ff., 224 ff., 277 ff.

_Pavannes and Divisions_ (Pound), 24

_Pelléas et Mélisande_ (Debussy), 339

*“Persuasion, A,” 58, 64

_Petits Poèmes en Prose, Les_ (Baudelaire), 274

_Petrouchka_ (Stravinsky), 200

Phibbs, Geoffrey, 340

Picabia, Francis, 64

Picasso, Pablo, 55, 87, 146, 171, 177, 336, 341

_Picture of Dorian Gray, The_ (Wilde), 38

Pindar, 129

Pinski, David, 47

_Plagued by the Nightingale_ (Boyle), 406

Plato, 17, 238

_Plato and Platonism_ (Pater), 161

_Plowshare, The_, 34

_Plumed Serpent, The_ (D. H. Lawrence), 236

Pocahontas, 232, 241, 305, 307

Poe, Edgar Allen, 67, 231, 278, 290, 331

_Poetry_ (Chicago), 25, 51, 289, 373 f., 410 n.

Poetry Society of America, 7

Pollard, Percival, 44

Polo, Marco, 242

_Poor White_ (S. Anderson), 47, 53

*“Porphyro in Akron,” 40, 42 f., 51, 64

Porter, Katherine Anne, 367, 370, 373, 377-378, 383

_Port of New York_ (Rosenfeld), 202

_Portrait of the Artist_ (Joyce), 99, 313

_Possessed_, The (Dostoievsky), 46 f., 49 f.

*“Possessions,” 176

Potamkin, Harry Alan, 240

Potapovitch, Stan, 8

Pound, Ezra, 28, 41, 44, 51, 54, 61 ff., 64, 66, 70, 86, 88, 96

*“Powhatan’s Daughter,” 305

Powitzki, Mrs., 286

Powys, John Cowper, 136

*“Praise for an Urn,” 93, 104, 259

_Principles of Literary Criticism_ (I. A. Richards), 314

Proust, Marcel, 66

Provincetown Theatre, 40, 174, 177, 214

_Psychoanalytic Quarterly_, viii

*“Quaker Hill,” 345, 347

Quinn, John, 47

Rabelais, 30, 36, 56

_Rahab_ (Waldo Frank), 98-99, 108

_Rainbow, The_ (D. H. Lawrence), 43

Ransom, John Crowe, 100, 289

Rauh, Ida, 28

Ravel, Maurice, 66, 108, 129, 139-140

Ray, Man, 52, 94-95

*“Recitative,” 161, 176

Reeck, Emil, 84, 97

_Re-discovery of America, The_ (Waldo Frank), 318-319, 322 f., 326, 335

Rembrandt, 54

_Renaissance, The_ (Pater), 161

_Revista de Occidente_, 313 n., 314

Rickword, Edgell, 259, 281, 333

Riding, Laura, 217, 291, 294, 321, 333 f., 341

_Rimbaud_ (E. Rickword), 283

Rimbaud, Arthur, 43, 45, 85, 162, 213, 252, 260 f., 270, 272, 317, 359, 374

*“River, The,” 303, 306-307

Rivera, Diego, 371

Robeson, Paul and Essie, 333

Robinson, Boardman, 54

Robinson, Edwin Arlington, 89, 93

Robson, Peggy, 400

Rodin, Auguste, 46

Roebling, Washington, 293-294

Romains, Jules, 24

Rorty, James, 244

Rosenfeld, Paul, 75, 77, 95, 97 f., 102, 105, 126, 166, 178, 193-194, 202, 224, 291 f.

_Rouge et le Noir, Le_ (Stendhal), 64

Rousseau, Henri, 177

Russell, Bertrand, 240

Rychtarik, Charlotte, 106, 144-145, 247, 364 f., 408

Rychtarik, Richard, 106, 131, 132-133, 139, 141, 144-145, 147, 160, 247, 364 f.

_Sacre du Printemps, Le_ (Stravinsky), 200

_Sacred Wood, The_ (Eliot), 71

Sáenz, Moisés, 370, 372

Salmon, André, 66

Saltus, Edgar, 29, 44, 106, 187

_Salvos_ (Frank), 178

Sandburg, Carl, 69

San Pedro, California, 315, 319-320

Santayana, George, 240

Saphier, William, 70

Satie, Erik, 66

_Saturday Evening Post, The_, 284, 345

_Saturday Review of Literature, The_, 345

_Satyricon_ (Petronius Arbiter), 44, 105

Schmitt, Carl, 4 ff., 8

Schneider, Isidor, 231, 281

Schoenberg, Arnold, 177

Schopenhauer, Arthur, 41

_Science and the Modern World_ (A. N. Whitehead), 235

_Scientific American, The_, 271

Scriabin, Alexander, 63, 109, 129

Seaver, Edwin, 185, 218

_Secession_, 82, 84 f., 88, 94 f., 97, 100 f., 103, 105 ff., 108, 117, 121, 123 ff., 154 f., 178, 185

_Second April_ (Millay), 6

_S4N_, 120, 126

Seiberling, F. H., 30

Seldes, Gilbert, 70, 103

Seligmann, Herbert J., 195, 285

Seltzer, Thomas, 206

Service, Robert W., 73

_Seven Arts, The_, 9

Seltzer, Thomas, 206

_Shadowland_, 61, 63, 75

Shakespeare, 67, 129, 289, 299 f.

Shelley, P. B., 67

*“Sherwood Anderson,” 59-60, 61 ff.

Simpson, Eyler, 395

Simpson, Lesley, 393, 399, 404

Simpson, Marion, 399

Simpson, Mrs. T. W. (“Aunt Sally”), 152, 248-249, 251 ff., 286

_Since Cézanne_ (Clive Bell), 96

Siqueros, David Alfaro, 384-385, 386-387, 388

Sistine Chapel, 305

Sitwell, Edith, 44

_1601_ (Mark Twain), 26, 28, 30

_Smart Set, The_, 10 n., 25, 34

Smith, Captain John, 306

Smith, Claire. _See_ Spencer, Claire

Smith, Elizabeth, 172-173

Smith, Harrison, 17, 19 f., 22, 128, 155-167, 180, 224, 334-335

_Sodome et Gomorrhe_ (Proust), 316, 322

Sommer, William, 54 ff., 58 ff., 71, 75, 78, 83, 86, 89-90, 92, 95, 98, 101 f., 105, 107, 113-114, 115, 119, 137, 233, 363-364

Soupault, Philippe, 104, 294, 336, 341

_South Wind_ (Norman Douglas), 280

Spencer, Claire, 12, 17, 19 f., 22, 136, 180, 409

Spencer, Jessie, 12 f.

Spencer, Pat, 12

Spengler, Oswald, 158, 259 f., 267, 285, 293, 313, 319, 322, 357, 366

Speyer, Leonora, 67

_Spoon River Anthology_ (Masters), 28

Spinoza, Baruch, 363

Spratling, William, 388, 401, 404

Springhorn, Carl, 63

*“Stark Major,” 117-118, 121, 124, 126

_Starved Rock_ (Masters), 28

Stein, Gertrude, 121 f., 167, 294, 311, 321, 336, 341

Stella, Joseph, 335, 339, 345

Stendhal, 64, 79

Stevens, Emily, 43

Stevens, Wallace, 25, 37, 53, 71, 88, 289

Stieglitz, Alfred, 95, 107, 113-114, 128 f., 141, 166 f., 170, 177, 195, 202

_Story of San Michele, The_ (Axel Munthe), 366

Strand, Paul, 195

Strauss, Richard, 108, 129

Stravinsky, 200, 238

_Success_, 284

_Sun Also Rises, The_ (Hemingway), 286-288

*“Sunday Morning Apples,” 96, 195

Swann’s Way (Marcel Proust), 263

Swinburne, A. C., 332

Synge, John M., 71

Szold, Bernadine, 341

Szymanowski, Karol, 177

Taggard, Genevieve, 353 f.

“Tampa Schooner” (“Repose of Rivers”), 259

_Taras Bulba_ (N. Gogol), 80-81

_Tarr_ (Wyndham Lewis), 69

Tate, Allen, 87, 100 ff., 104, 107, 118, 121 f., 126, 131, 185, 195, 197, 211, 215, 224 ff., 237, 239 f., 244, 245-249, 267 f., 270 f., 273, 284 f., 296, 313, 321, 341, 384

Tate, Caroline. _See_ Gordon, Caroline

Teagle, J. Walter, 357 ff., 363

Teasdale, Sara, 67

_Tempest, The_ (Shakespeare), 317

_Temptation of Anthony, The_ (Schneider), 287

Tennyson, Lord, 67

Tepoztlan, Mexico, 380-383, 388

_Tertium Organum_ (P. D. Ouspensky), 124

Théâtre du Vieux Colombier, 178

_Their Day in Court_ (Percival Pollard), 105

Thomas, Edward, 72, 88

Thomas, Harold, 6

Thompson, Basil, 59

Thompson, Francis, 67

Thompson, Robert, 400, 409

_Three Soldiers_ (Dos Passos), 68

_Through Traffic_ (Russell Davenport), 366

Tiberius, 52, 63

_Time and Western Man_ (Wyndham Lewis), 317, 319

Toomer, Jean, 149 f., 155, 162, 166 f., 185, 195, 214

Torrence, Ridgely, 289

_transition_, 294, 334

_Tristram Shandy_ (Laurence Sterne), 91

_Triumph of the Egg, The_ (S. Anderson), 65, 73, 76

_Trois Poèmes Juifs_ (Bloch), 82

_Trans-Atlantic Review_, The, 185

Tschaikowsky, P. I., 109

*“Tunnel, The,” 274-275, 278

Turbyfill, Mark, 125

Turner, Addie M., 224, 242, 245 ff.,

255, 286, 292 f., 354

Turner, W. J., 330

Twain, Mark, 17, 26 f., 30

Tzara, Tristan, 84

_Ulysses_ (Joyce), 62, 69, 71-73, 94 ff., 101, 127, 143 f., 288

_Un Coeur Virginal_ (R. de Gourmont), 73, 79 f.

Underwood, Wilbur, 43-44, 155, 325

Untermeyer, Louis, 104, 107 f., 118, 244

Vail, Lawrence, 335, 406

Valéry, Paul, 195, 113, 300, 325, 372

Valle, Rafael, 373

Van Doren, Mark, 285

_Vanity Fair_, 61, 94, 345

Van Vuren, Floyd, 350

*“Van Winkle,” 290, 306

Varèse, Edgar, 177, 334, 341

Vaughan, Henry, 88, 301

Vedanta, 242

Verlaine, Paul, 239

Vielé-Griffin, Francis, 104

Vildrac, Charles, 37, 45, 60

Villon, François, 36

Virgil, ix

*“Virginia,” 272

_Virgin Spain_ (Frank), 235-236, 242, 274

_Vision and Design_ (Roger Fry), 57

Vlaminck, de, Maurice, 87, 90

*“Voyages,” viii, 187, 192, 215, 218, 224, 244

Wagner, Richard, 108, 135

_Waldo Frank_ (Munson), 104, 115, 119, 125, 128 f.

Walton, Mrs., 10

Walton, Eda Lou, 366

_Wall Street Journal, The_, 324

Warren, Ohio, xvii, 292

Warren, Robert Penn, 321

Washington, D.C., 42 ff.

_Waste Land, The_ (Eliot), 105, 127, 271 f., 350 f.

_Way of All Flesh, The_ (Samuel Butler), 39

Webster, John, 25, 67, 71, 86, 88, 129

Wells, H. G., 319

Wescott, Glenway, 125, 166, 316, 341

Watson, J. Sibley, 103, 136-137

_Whale Ships and Whaling_ (G. F. Dow), 235

Wheeler, Monroe, 125

Wheelwright, John B., 125-126, 154

*_White Buildings_, xviii, 199 ff., 202-203, 205, 213 f., 218 ff., 254, 258-259, 262-263, 267, 270, 277, 280 f., 284 f., 290-291, 292, 294-295, 340, 345, 353

White, Hervey, 34 f.

Whitehead, A. N., 321

_White-Jacket_ (Melville), 235

Whitman, Walt, 67, 73, 128, 184, 223, 241, 261-262, 284, 290, 308, 352, 353-354

Wiegand, Charmion, 131, 180, 333-334

Wilcox, Walter, 10

Wilde, Oscar, 38, 44

Wilder, Thornton, viii, 357

Wilkinson, Marguerite, 67, 104

Williams, William Carlos, 37, 51, 53, 102, 105, 114, 278, 294, 324

Wilson, Edmund, 195, 298, 301

*“Wine Menagerie, The,” 218, 220

_Winesburg, Ohio_ (S. Anderson), 34, 47, 75

*“Winesburg, Ohio” (review), 23

Winters, Yvor, 278, 284 f., 288 f., 294, 313 f., 317, 321, 348, 352 ff.

Wise, Herbert, 316, 318, 322, 324, 326, 331

Wolfe, Thomas, 375

Woodstock, New York, xvii, 154, 156 ff.

Wright, Cuthbert, 100

_Wuthering Heights_ (Emily Brontë), 316-317

Wylie, Elinor, 243

_Yale Review, The_, 375

Yeats, W. B., 86, 88, 95, 300

_Young Visitors, The_ (Daisy Ashford), 25

Zabel, Monroe Dauwen, 410 n.

Zigrosser, Carl, 158

Zinsser, Dr. Hans, 368

Zwaska, Caesar, 27, 96

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Christian Science.

[2] A Christian Science practitioner.

[3] Mr. Crane’s employee.

[4] “My novel about the Isle of Pines has been somewhat blown to pieces by that blasting letter of yours. However I am busy thinking up plots for _Smart Set_ stories. You see, I want to make my literary work bring me in a living by the time I reach twenty-five and one cannot begin too soon.” (Letter to his mother, Oct. 6, 1917.)

[5] Crane’s landlady. “Mrs. Walton and I are working out movie scenarios. She has had considerable experience and is of great help to me.” (Letter to his mother, Oct. 8, 1917.)

[6] “Mother, when you arrive, I hope you will take up the Noyes dancing and enter the movies. You will find it fun I am sure, and I shall help you too. I am really getting a reputation for poetry and can find space now in at least two magazines for most of my better work.” (Letter to his mother, Oct. 26, 1917.)

[7] Postcard. On the reverse side, over a photograph of Brooklyn Bridge, Crane wrote: “Knowing your predilection for bridges, I send you this!”

[8] “Garden Abstract”; see Brom Weber, _Hart Crane_ (New York: Bodley Press, 1948), p. 76.

[9] “Garden Abstract.”

[10] “Episode of Hands”; see Weber, _op. cit._, p. 384.

[11] “Porphyro in Akron,” together with the comment: “The last is so far the only satisfactory part. I include the first two sections merely as hints for direction of the theme.” See Weber, _op. cit._, pp. 89-90.

[12] See Weber, _op. cit._, pp. 91-92.

[13] “Black Tambourine”; see Weber, _op. cit._, pp. 95-6.

[14] “The Bridge of Estador”; see Weber, _op. cit._, p. 385.

[15] See Weber, _op. cit._, pp. 108-9.

[16] “The Bottom of the Sea Is Cruel.” Sent to Munson, Oct. 1, 1921.

[17] John Webster, _The Duchess of Malfi_, III, ii, 66-70.

[18] The rest of this letter has been lost.

[19] “Glad you really like my Silenus letter.” (Letter to Munson, June 28, 1922.)

[20] See Weber, _op. cit._, p. 176.

[21] “Sunday Morning Apples.”

[22] “The Bottom of the Sea Is Cruel.”

[23] It was accepted by Josephson.

[24] _The Double Dealer._

[25] _Secession._

[26] Sommer’s work was accepted by _The Dial_.

[27] “Faustus and Helen” III.

[28] “Stark Major.”

[29] See Weber, _op. cit._, pp. 426-28.

[30] See Weber, _op. cit._, pp. 428-9.

[31] See Weber, _op. cit._, p. 224. For line 13, word 2, read: alternating.

[32] “Interludium.”

[33] E. E. Cummings.

[34] Crane had written his father a six-line letter on Oct. 20, 1923 requesting that his father telephone him on the occasion of his next New York visit. Mr. Clarence A. Crane regarded this letter as an aggressive unaffectionate note after three years of silence on Crane’s part (Letter, Oct. 27, 1923, C.A.C. to H.C.). Crane replied on Nov. 13th, informing his father of his trip to Woodstock. His father’s letter acknowledged that he viewed the Nov. 13th letter as a sign of friendship, and stated that he would be in New York sometime in 1924 (Letter, Dec. 10, 1923, C.A.C. to H.C.). On account of business expansion and relocation problems, it seemed doubtful that Crane’s father would be in New York as expected. Accordingly, in a letter of Jan. 7, 1924, he offered his son a travelling salesman’s job. After three years of satisfactory performance, his son would assume control of the wholesale portion of the business. This letter of Jan. 12, 1924, is Hart Crane’s response to the offer. His father responded sympathetically; he sent his son a check, stated that he would continue to provide financial assistance, recognized the sincerity and wisdom of his son’s choice, and attempted to demonstrate a similarity between them by asserting that he (like his son) was primarily interested in “accomplishment” rather than “money” (Letter, Jan. 15, 1924, C.A.C. to H.C.). Hart Crane viewed his father’s letter of the 15th as a “sincere and cordial document” (Letter, Jan. 19, 1924, H.C. to his mother).

[35] “And there have been other complications which may afford you the pleasure of vindictiveness against my ideas and standards....” (Letter, Feb. 14, 1924, H.C. to C.A.C.) Crane’s father resented this remark, and denied ever being able to derive pleasure from such an attitude to his son’s life and work. He explained his attitude as a failure to understand how his son could ever hope to support himself unless he took his advertising work seriously, and stated that he would be more sympathetic if his son were to regard his writing as an “avocation” rather than a “vocation,” a hobby similar to the pastime of “golf.” (Letter, Feb. 21, 1924, C.A.C. to H.C.) In the letters which follow Hart Crane’s rejection of a place in his father’s business, the elder Crane appears bitterly hurt that his son doesn’t want to work with him. At the same time, he makes it quite clear that he has a genuine affection for his son, and reiterates that he does not question the devotion to poetry, only its inability to provide financial returns. Later, in a letter of Nov. 25, 1925, he introduces the point that he believes his son to be interested in “pleasure,” rather than in following his own example of a man who “worked strenuously.”

[36] See Weber, _op. cit._, p. 395.

[37] An early version of “Voyages IV.”

[38] Crane had visited Cleveland.

[39] A version of “At Melville’s Tomb.”

[40] Crane had asked his father for money in a letter of Nov. 4, 1925. His father responded with a check for $50, accompanied by a letter in which he expressed resentment at his son’s contemptuous tone and was himself sarcastic at his son’s expense. (Letter, C.A.C. to H.C., Nov. 17, 1925). Replying to this letter of Nov. 21, 1925, C.A.C. denied being uninterested in his son’s life, denied that “‘fate’” had caused their estrangement, and put the blame on his son instead. He reiterated his belief in the necessity for earning a living and putting writing on a subsidiary level, and expressed a desire for friendlier relations in the future. (Letter, C.A.C. to H.C., Nov. 25, 1925.)

[41] “The Flower in the Sea,” by Malcolm Cowley, dedicated to Crane.

[42] See Weber, _op. cit._, pp. 430-432.

[43] _The Oresteia of Aeschylus_, trans. George Warr (Longman’s Green: 1910).

[44] George Francis Dow, _Whale Ships and Whaling_ (1925).

[45] See Philip Horton, _Hart Crane_ (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1937), pp. 323-28.

[46] Early version of lines for “Ave Maria.”

[47] An early version of “The Mango Tree.”

[48] Thomas Frank.

[49] “Ave Maria” (_The Bridge_).

[50] “Cutty Sark” (_The Bridge_).

[51] See Weber, _op. cit._, pp. 437-40.

[52] If not a simple error, Crane has coined a combination of “petulant” and “pestilent.”

[53] An early version of “To Emily Dickinson.”

[54] “Ode to the Confederate Dead.”

[55] Review of _White Buildings_ in _The Dial_ (Feb. 1927).

[56] Marichalar had written on Crane in _Revista de Occidente_ (Madrid), February 1927.

[57] “Bacardi Spreads the Eagle’s Wings.”

[58] “The Hurricane.”

[59] Charlie Chaplin.

[60] Cowley’s _Blue Juniata_.

[61] Gorham Munson, at this time an editorial adviser for Doubleday, Doran.

[62] See letter 340, April 23, 1930.

[63] In a letter to Crane, June 10, 1930.

[64] Crane’s “Plans for Work” in his application for a Guggenheim Fellowship for 1931-32.

[65] A hotel. Crane had been living in Miss Porter’s home.

[66] Miss Porter’s cook.

[67] Crane’s Mexican servant.

[68] “The Broken Tower.”

[69] “The Broken Tower.”

[70] The manuscript of “The Broken Tower” alluded to here was apparently never received by Mr. Zabel or _Poetry_ (Chicago), of which he was an editor. A letter from Mr. Zabel, dated April 24, 1932, in response to this note from Crane, has been found; it explicitly states that the poem in question was not received either by Harriet Monroe or himself. It is of interest that Crane’s ms. copy of the poem is dated March 25, 1932.

[71] _Contempo_ (July 5, 1932).

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

impossiblity of shaping=> impossibility of shaping {pg xi}

my enthusastic “public”=> my enthusiastic “public” {pg 64}

wth potato and onion=> with potato and onion {pg 159}

without damage the drawings=> without damage to the drawings {pg 200}

much outdor exercise=> much outdoor exercise {pg 208}

would glady write=> would gladly write {pg 219}

advertising coypwriter=> advertising copywriter {pg 221}

Furtherfore, they are=> Furthermore, they are {pg 253}

he bane good company=> he made good company {pg 255}

answer my saluations=> answer my salutations {pg 273}

this vicnity=> this vicinity {pg 351}

metrooplitan area=> metropolitan area {pg 359}

do you inten=> do you intend {pg 399}