October 7, 1946.

My dear Mr. Brown:

I have been delayed in writing to you by a whirlwind of repairs in this apartment house - repairs not requested by me and over which I had no control. Moreover, this is a difficult letter to write. It is hard for me to tell you in temperate language how deeply I appreciate your careful and sympathetic reading of my books.

The fact that I have not been writing much lately is largely due to the fact that I rather lost enthusiasm. Four years ago my brother Douglass, who loved the Southwest and with whom I used to knock about in that part of this country, died very suddenly of a heart seizure in California. Just one year ago this past September my brother Roscoe, who was in the sheep business in western Wyoming for many years, and with whom I used to spend long vacations in the summer time, died in his sleep at Colusa, California, where he had retired to escape the severe winter climate of Wyoming.

As for my books, I think I agree with your estimate in almost every instance. Of course, I know that "Death Comes for the Archbishop" is my best book. I was seven years in getting the material for it, but I never made notes because I did not expect to write a book about the Southwest. It was too big and too various. But it gave me more pleasure than any other part of this continent, and I made many trips down there simply as a matter of self-indulgence. You see, the story of the Southwest involved too many individuals - little related to each other. Strange: how long and pleasantly one can reach after a design, and how quietly and simply it comes to one at last. I shall always remember the late afternoon when I was sitting in a very gravelly, uncomfortable spot up by the Martyr's Cross, east of Santa Fé, watching the Sangre de Cristo Mountains color with the sunset.

M.S.C.

April 12, 1947.

Dear Professor Brown:

I can't give any definite plans as to where I will be in the early
summer, but I am now quite sure that I will not be going West in the middle
June. I expect, indeed, to go straight North to a cottage in Northeast
Harbor, Maine, where I have often been very comfortable and where I can work
a little.

I warmly agree with you about the benefits of our young people
going abroad, especially to France. But I am sure you will agree with me
that one has to choose the kind of young people. Once when I was in France
for a year, I had an opportunity to observe some of the young Americans who
flocked about Gertrude Stein. One couldn't very well tell whether they
were youths of promise or not; they certainly thought they were, and
fearlessly stated that opinion. But not one of them in the years that
have gone by has done anything that took hold of one very hard. One of
them, Steinbeck I think, wrote a play set in Norway, called "The Moon is
Down". I read that with great interest and felt a real throb of life in
it. I was a little disappointed when the last act and the climax of the
play was a long quotation from Plato. The quotation was very fine . . .
belonged where the American put it and was effectively introduced. But
to me it threw a backward shadow on the earlier part of the play. Perhaps,
if I were to read it again, I would feel differently.

What I mean is, that it takes the right kind of young American
to go to France. He must have character and depth, and a passion for the
things that lie deep behind French history and French art. I wish I

W.S.C.

could have had a comfortable boardinghouse near Chartres when Henry Adams
used to prowl about the cathedral. Young people who flocked about
Gertrude Stein were a rather soft lot. Some of them wore bracelets!!
I hope you have had better luck with your students who have gone over.

As soon as I have arranged my dates for Northeast Harbor, Maine,
and Nova Scotia, I will certainly let you know, Mr. Brown.

March 30, 1947.

Dear Mr. Brown:

The dictation of the enclosed
letter was interrupted and Miss Cather
hurried out of town without finishing
it. I have held the letter for her
signature, but think it should not be
delayed any longer. Your letter is
on Miss Cather's desk, and you will
hear from her very soon about future
plans, etc.

W.S.C.

March 23, 1947.

Dear Mr. Brown:

I am happy to have your letter telling me more or
less of your plans, and I shall write my plans to you as
soon as I have a clear head and plain sailing.

Yesterday this apartment was stormed by impetuous
and loving friends, who were to sail on the Queen Elizabeth
at one o'clock. Hepzibah, her Scotch husband, Lindsay, and
her two little boys arrived first. Soon after, Yehudi's
two children arrived. Later Yehudi himself - always a
quieting influence, even where there is a crowd of excited
children. Here we all were (the children only were new),
the rest of us were sitting in these rooms just as we used
to meet here every week ten and twelve years ago. Concert-
trained people have perfect relaxation. They never think
about what they are going to do in the next hour until the
present hour is entirely spent. At eleven-thirty my guests
quietly rose, got the children into their wraps, without
any flurry, dropped down in the elevator to the street floor,
where cabs were waiting, and drove to the North River docks
at 56th Street to have lunch before the boat sailed at one.
All their luggage had been placed on board, in the proper
stateroom, the day before.

Yehudi and Hepzibah are going over to give a series

M·S·C·

of concerts together, not only in London but in other large
cities throughout England as well - admission prices so little
that even poor people can hear good music again. For sixteen
years ever since they first came to me with letters of
introduction from old friends in France and England, the
Menuhin children have been one of the chief interests and
joys of my life. There is just an inherent beauty in their
natures that goes far beyond any "giftedness" - - - and yet
natural beauty of mind and heart is a very great part of the
"giftedness". I would rather have almost any other chapter
of my life left out than the Menuhin chapter which has gone
on so happily over so many years. That is why I find that
I cannot write any proper answer to your letter - cannot
write anything today except about the wonderful yesterday
with those dear children (as they still are to me) and their
children. Today these rooms seem actually full of their
presence and their faithful, loving friendship.

WILLA CATHER

BY Sarah J. Bloom
Secretary