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

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)