December 2, 1953
Dear Cal,
Glad to have your letter. I want to thank you for your efforts in my behalf, with regard to the $3,000 grant from Iowa. I wish I could do something for you, someday. […]
I have looked up Duxbury on the Mass. map in my Britannica (1890), and I see it’s on the sea and that the “Telegraph Cable to France” is close by on the coast. I think your idea of going there and living and reading is wonderful. I know those 1937 Packards. I think they were the last cars—the following years got more and more away from the Rolls-Royce front—made in this country. I was going to buy one in 1949, having sold my car which you remember so vividly. It was a dark Pullman green and had a trunk rack in back and a mohair steering wheel, which showed that the previous owner was the careful sort, but I didn’t buy it. I hope to ride in yours and trust that Elizabeth does all the driving. I think you need a battery, a new one, if you’re not getting out these mornings, or maybe the connecting wires are afflicted with verdigris. You’ve got to live with your car, Cal, and whatever you do, don’t laugh at it, don’t talk against it. […]
Do write.
Jim
JACK CONROY
509 First Avenue South
St Cloud, Minnesota
March 17, 1954
Dear Jack,
[…] No, Jack, I’m not running a tavern here. I do keep a little Hamm’s in the house, though. If you ask me, it’s the best of the better beers. But I seldom drink anything. I mean that. I don’t know why. No proper company, I guess. I go down to the bus station and get the Chicago Tribune, for kicks, and it always reassures me that I was right in leaving Chicago. The local paper reassures me that I’d do well to leave here too. The truth is, Jack, that my heart is often in the highlands a-chasing a deer. By that, I mean I don’t see any future for me here. I think I’d do better in Ireland. Where I was happier—with the newspapers (London ones, which I subscribe to here), plays at the Abbey and Gate, which I could afford, and horse racing. Also, I didn’t feel so different from most people there. Here I sometimes look askance at the life I lead, wonder how long it’ll be before the system catches up with me. I find, too, as I grow older, I don’t care for the writers-project way of life, if you know what I mean; going around taking what’s left by my betters, the salesmen of this world, the food they won’t eat, the houses or apartments they won’t live in, the cars they won’t drive. I don’t want to get in and pitch with them, or against them. I just want to go away. I must say you would’ve enjoyed the sight of me in Ireland, having my morning coffee before the fire, unfolding my Irish Times, listening to music from the BBC and from my stomach, full of good bacon and toast and marmalade; or at Leopardstown Racecourse; or walking along the sea …
Meanwhile, we’re happy with this house, the oldest one in St Cloud, run-down though it is. It is owned by two maiden ladies who let us live here rent-free. We keep it up, heated, lighted. But when I leave the house—there’s quite a library upstairs—or turn on the radio, I don’t think I’m long for this world, Jack. Sometimes I think I should maybe give up entirely and install television. In Ireland a voice seems to be calling, though, and I think I should prepare myself to answer it ultimately. But how to live? I’ve thought on historical novels, but there’s nothing in my pedigree or early form to indicate I can go the distance, writing them; I can’t even read them. Sexy novels? What then would happen to this reputation I’ve built up over the years as America’s cleanest Lay Author—I wish somebody would do an article which would bring out that aspect of my work. You just may be the one, Jack, with your feeling for tracts, the eternal virtues so often sneered at in our modern day. Best to you and yours.
Jim
HARVEY EGAN
April 14, 1954
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] Nothing happens here. Well, two visitors. Ammon Hennacy2 a couple of weeks ago, and Sean O’Faolain (with George) last weekend. Ammon was interesting, I thought, and more impressive than I expected him to be. He reminded me of Fr Roy,3 his concern with sound doctrine (sound or not) and always counting the numbers who heard him and appeared to be very interested. He had a big meeting—Mary Humphrey’s word for it—at St John’s, thanks to Fr Emeric,4 I think, who has an idea of a university. Sean was here overnight, with George, and we had a good night of it, and a day among friends here, on the run: Doyles, Hyneses, St John’s. George brought Sean to Newman,5 you know, and next in line are Fr Hughes (the historian)6 and Fr John Courtney Murray.7 It seems to me Newman, under Fr Cowley8 and George, is doing more, is doing more to bring in worthwhile people than any of the colleges hereabouts. You know the creeps and Swiss bell ringers the Catholic colleges get. […]
Take it easy.
Jim
15
I had a very fine time—laughing as I hadn’t in years
April 23, 1954–July 14, 1954
Theodore Roethke, Yaddo, 1947
Jim accepted an invitation to travel to the West Coast to speak at the University of Washington, the University of Oregon, and Reed College in Portland. He chose the topic “reality in fiction.” (“The writer lowers himself into the pit of his experience and imagination, and for a time all is black and hopeless. Then the lines suggest themselves, just a little of themselves showing.”) “For this I’m getting $1,500,” he told Father Egan, “but I continue to doubt that it’s enough.” During the six-week trip he visited Theodore Roethke in Seattle and also traveled to Victoria, British Columbia; San Francisco; Fresno, where he saw Ted LeBerthon; Los Angeles; and finally Albuquerque to see his family.
BETTY, KATHERINE, MARY, AND BOZ POWERS
Hotel Edmond Meany
University District
Seattle 5
April 23, 1954
Dear Betty, Girls, and Boy,
[…] Seattle and the country around here remind me of nowhere else I’ve been. It is the sea, I guess, which makes for all flowers, vines, blooming trees. The grass is green as in Ireland. The homes, though this is a smaller place than Mpls, seem much better, and there seem to be more of them. It must be the sea. The sky has clouds; the green has depth. It is close to heaven, the look and feel of it, and I regret some that I wasn’t born here. Then, despite all the rawness of buildings and signs and streets—what you see everywhere, in every city—it might be a place to think of as home. I read one perfectly wonderful story while here and am asking the author—a doctor’s wife—to send it to Henry. I think she might very well be a real writer. I see The Captain’s Paradise is down the street and may go to it tonight. […] Love to you.
Jim
BETTY POWERS
Aboard Princess Marguerite1
Sunday, 10:00 a.m. [April 25, 1954]
Dear Betty,
I am sitting in a smaller, grubbier version of the lounge of the America. I am surrounded by my compatriots—playing cards, reading the Sunday papers, sleeping upright. […] I can’t remember seeing so many bad neckties in the past. I had thought the worst was over, but the science and industry patterns are very evident here. Out on the deck looking at the water, it’s easy to recall Ireland. […]
I got up at 6:30 this morning. I had dinner and quite a bit to drink at Ted’s2 place last night. I was drinking Jameson’s since he got it in for me (as I got it for Sean). His wife, Beatrice, cooked a very fine meal. Steak—the best I’ve ever tasted. It was very thick, but the steak sauce (Ted’s) is what made it. Beatrice had a sauce on asparagus that was very good—what asparagus needs to offset its wateriness. It is made out of ham fat or drippings. I had a very fine time—laughing as I hadn’t in years. […]
Much love,
James
Jim
DA
Buckeye
BETTY POWERS
Portland, Oregon
Sunday night, May 2, 1954
Dear Betty,
[…] The Pacific was really beautiful. I expected it to be inferior somehow. But the rocky coast reminded me of Ireland as you first (and last) see it. W
e saw the sea lions—at some distance and with a wind blowing, and still they stank like dogs—at 200 yards. I want to read about them sometime. They live 40–60 years. Most of them appear to be asleep, but there is a honking clamor just the same. Their only enemy—said a sign—is the killer whale. […]
I was happy to hear that your father has turned against [Joseph] McCarthy. I heard a snatch of it the other night = disgusting. I’d hear every word of it, if I could—so you’re lucky I’m not there. In these circles, everyone is convinced that homosexuality is at the bottom of it all. […] All for now. Much love to you—and the other people. XXXX
Jim
BETTY POWERS
Portland
Monday p.m. [May 3, 1954]
Dear Betty,
[…] I saw Portland from a high crest today. The country all around was shrouded in mist. It’s like Ireland, the weather, and texture of the air (and grass); the viny-ness. English ivy everywhere. Things—the way people live—seem more bourgeois than Minnesota. Food is much better. You buy very good breakfast rolls everywhere—and they are always served warm. That’s just one thing—but it’s significant. Things cost more, but you don’t get the atrocious stuff (rolls, hamburgers) I’m used to (in eating places, I mean). […]
Much love,
Jim
BETTY POWERS
Albuquerque
May 15, 1954
Dear Betty,
[…] I was naturally sorry to hear of KA’s falling in with the larger boys and trust you’ll not let it happen again; not that it was your fault. I don’t see why she has to play with boys anyway. I suspect it’s those kids who live in the Atwood house, on the alley, where the yard looks like a country fair all the time. You are right about letting the girls get some experience of other children. But I wouldn’t feel that we’re monsters, in the way we’ve brought them up so far. In this matter, most parents are wrong, and the situation they create is wrong. We must use discretion. There will come a day when the girls will see the point in our prohibitions—which don’t strike me as severe at all, not unless I consider them from a point of view which, in fact, I abhor, popular now and here though it is. And you know how many people are out to break down what order we have managed to establish in our house, where the children are concerned. They will not rest until they’ve made us like everyone else, you yelling pointlessly and me carrying a potty wherever we go.3 I guess, secretly, I’m preparing for the day when we can leave this country for Ireland or England, where, it seems to me, if we continue as we have with the children, it will be possible for them to make the change without too much trouble. So much for that. […]
Here the sky rumbles constantly with the noise of airplanes, mostly jets, like a sick stomach. All for now. Much love to you and the girls. XXXX
Jim
BETTY POWERS
Albuquerque
May 22, 1954
Dear Betty,
[…] I was glad to hear that you’re battling off the red squirrels. That was my constant fear, while away, that they’d get back in again, maybe while you were up the river. […] XXXX
Jim
I dreamed of Marilyn Monroe last night. Nothing serious, just amorous dalliance, when George and a couple of other people, males but not priests, came along and put a stop to it, using ridicule but insinuating that I was a family man. I ended up going down the street—seemed to be in London—with a faulty umbrella, in the rain. Interesting?
HARVEY EGAN
509 First Avenue South
St Cloud
June 5, 1954
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] George was here last weekend with Fr Philip Hughes, the historian. Good time. Refreshing to meet someone now and then, I mean, another human being.
Haircut today, and my barber (knowing my line of work) asked what was the bestseller now. Might have been the beginning of a stimulating discourse, but I had to tell him I don’t keep up with things anymore. […]
Jim
Jim gave a short creative writing seminar at the University of Indiana, stopping in Urbana, Illinois, to visit Charles Shattuck and Kerker Quinn. (“I had a good time,” he told Betty, “not too much to drink in case you think so.”)
BETTY POWERS
Indiana University
Monday, 1:00 p.m., July 12, 1954
Dear Betty,
[…] It is hot here. I had my first class this morning. It went all right. I have more MSS to read than I’ve ever had before. But have plenty of time, I guess. The big occasion today is an escorted tour through the Institute for Sex Research, with a good chance of hearing a few words from Dr Kinsey himself. If he looks my way, I’ll expose myself. Keeping the welfare of Stearns Co.—and its problems—in mind, I’ll inquire as to the work going on in the Bestiality Division. I get the impression we’re lucky to be taken behind the walls. […] Hope you are all well—and not fighting.
BETTY POWERS
Indiana University
Wednesday afternoon, July 14, 1954
Dear Betty,
[…] The visit to the Kinsey’s domain was interesting, and I rather liked the man. I’ll tell you (and everybody) more when I get home. I ought to be in some demand—even though most people don’t care a lot for me. “I spent 2 hours with Dr Kinsey” will be my tentative title. […] Love to you—the girls—Bozzer.
Jim
16
There have been times, though not recently, when it has seemed to me that I might escape the doom of man
September 2, 1954–January 10, 1956
Caricature of Jim by Jody O’Connell, mid-1950s
HARVEY EGAN
509 First Avenue South
St Cloud
September 2, 1954
Dear Fr Egan,
Thanks for the Orwell. Betty and I’ve been reading it. Amazing, I think, his power to be interesting. I’ll have to discount a lot of what he says against England. I wonder what he would’ve thought of this country if he’d had any real experience of it. England, he says, is a family, with the power in the hands of doddering aunts and uncles. America is a supermarket, where you’re at the mercy of the clerks and checkers, and just being in it is demoralizing.
I spoke to Don about your chalice, and evidently he has definite plans for it. More I’d like to do, but you know how it is. He doesn’t respond to strong treatment—like grabbing a handful of water. I didn’t understand him, or Mary, until I went to Ireland, which is full of such people. […]
Jim
Jim once again ducked a family Thanksgiving, spending it in 1954 with Egan in Beardsley.
HARVEY EGAN
509 First Avenue South
St Cloud
March 19, 1955
Dear Fr Egan,
Glad to hear from you. Have been about to write to you several times, but was never sure where you were. I heard some weeks ago that you were very sick after I saw you—embolism, I think it was—but this was hearsay from Mary Humphrey, and by that time evidently you’d recovered. I’ve been wondering—let’s face it—if I’m very high up in your will.
[…]
We’re expecting a visitation tomorrow from George, Caroline Gordon, and an unspecified number of interesting people. They are bringing their lunch.
Yes, this vale of tears is just that. I got some money in the mail this morning, enough to keep us another month. I was just beginning to wonder how you’d like to have me for the rest of the Lent, fearful that you’d have some prejudice against me during that time. No, not really; I wasn’t coming. We’ve had a hard winter of it. I keep seeing where Irwin Shaw, or Truman Capote, or James Michener, is doing this at Cannes, or that at London, and wonder if I haven’t missed the boat. I am in the textbooks, and they aren’t, but I’m not sure that’s important. After all, I have just the one life to live. I am not by nature cut out for this life, as it’s defined in these parts by the chamber of commerce and our bishop, who is devoted to Christian family living, as everyone knows.
The big thing is
the new Cathedral High School development. A Mr Foley came to town, representing a fund-raising outfit, and made a sale. Gosh, he was edified at the spirit among us here in St Cloud. (Remember the old vaudeville characters who were always glad to get back to wherever they happened to be playing?) I explained the peculiarities of my income to a representative, and he was very understanding. Most people give on a weekly basis, so much out of the old paycheck, but there didn’t seem to be a category for me. But fortunately the representative was in the same boat with me (he’s a real estate man), and we worked out a plan whereby I would contribute as I got it, on an if-and-when basis. Sure, I feel okay. One of the communiqués from Mr Foley’s outfit asked how much we spent on playing the horses in a year’s time.
The girls are fine, show no effects of progressive education, nor do we.
Come and see us when you can. All for now.
Jim
HARVEY EGAN
509 First Avenue South
St Cloud
Ascension 1955 [ca. May 20]
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] Life goes on and on, and the mailman keeps doing me wrong. Last night, reading in Boswell’s Journal of Dr Johnson’s trip to the Hebrides, I came across this:
Yet hope not life from pain or danger free,
Or think the doom of man revers’d for thee!
There have been times, though not recently, when it has seemed to me that I might escape the doom of man. I think of those nice nights in Lexington Park, when I was on a Guggenheim, when Pat McGlothin and Phil Haugstad1 were young.
But I begin to see that I am cut out to be another Don Humphrey, frustrated and flailing at the air, the system eating away at me, the old body taking in more water, sinking, sinking …
How would you like me to handle a fund-raising campaign for you at Beardsley? I only want a fair share.
No word, no visits, from George. Idly, I wonder where he’ll go this summer. I have no trips, no lectures, scheduled. I am too heavy to ride on the flat, and the hunt season doesn’t open until November. I wish I could count on being in Ireland then. I don’t want much. Just a place on the rail at Leopardstown, a couple of bob down. Is that asking too much of life? Is it absolutely certain that one can’t go home again? […]