Letter from Edward Renouf to Anny Schey von Koromla

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New York, 9 October

My dearest Annerl!

Guess who’s just arrived, fresh from Europe, virtually fresh from our place!? The telephone rings last night; Heinzl goes over, incomprehensible English; he calls me over, incomprehensible German; finally in French: Pommerance! À demain matin, dix heures, American Express Company! So that’s where I’ve been this morning: greeting the beaming schoolboy with a hearty handshake – or should I say greeting the young rascal? For the only schoolboys who are ever this excited and enthusiastic, curious and carefree, so entirely in their element, are either young rascals or schoolboys on holiday. From the shiny nosed stenographers at the American Express Company right up to the chairman in the Rockefeller institute, everyone is ‘My best friend’! The first thing he said (a secret, of course, between us men) – HE’S GOT SOMETHING INTERESTING! German girl, picked her up in Hamburg, secretary in Chicago, twenty-six, nice figure, lovely character! Travelled over with him. When in public or hotels here (where he’s never had to show his passport) he refers to himself and her as Monsieur et Madame de la Mar! Why not? He can’t live without a woman. All pleasure and no hard work, that’s my philosophy, he says. So he’s moving into her apartment in Chicago. He says he needn’t spend any money on her because she’s a German girl with a job. American girls are dangerous, always after money. . . . . . Perhaps he’ll bring her round for dinner this evening. But she mustn’t hear a word about his wife and child! He actually wanted to stay in New York, but now he has to go to Chicago because of this girlfriend! He actually had all sorts of important people to see in New York, but now he can’t because of this girlfriend! If he introduces this girl as his wife now, and then later, after two years, comes in with his real wife and child, what an awful scandal!! No, that won’t do! (But you should see how much fun he had just telling me all this, the rascal!) He’s here to do an American diploma in dentistry so he can work as a lecturer at the Université de Paris . . . . but before that he needs to take a break – because he worked so hard as head of clinic in Paris (five years ago).

Pommerance has all sorts of plans for me too of course. I’m to become an agent for a brand of Swiss watches that his friend in Switzerland wants to sell here. I’ll be the new agent for his brother, the biggest fur trader in France! Pommerance himself wants me to work as a journalist and translate his articles for the American newspapers: how you can choose to make children male or female, how to choose when to play poker, according to your state of mind, so that you’ll always win, and so on and so forth . . . . All marvellous! Absolutely splendid! He’s quite convinced that all this will make me a rich man. Apparently I’m also going to find people who want to finance my expedition to South America. And Pommerance, who can’t speak a word of English, tells me: You’re still thinking like a European. That’s no good. I’ll make an American out of you yet! You need to learn the art of the bluff. You’ve got to bluff to get anywhere in this world. You’re a European. Take a look at me. I’m an American! I’ll show you – – – – ! (He’s just telephoned to say that he and Mlle fiancée would love to come to dinner, and she wants to help us cook. Very well. Heinzl and I look forward to it. I’ll go ahead and buy a feast of fried chicken and tinned sweetcorn from the store.)

It’s now a quarter past eleven, and Pommerance and his girlfriend have just left. It was a lively evening. The girlfriend is the earnest German type, but badly Americanised. She has chubby calves, saggy breasts, several gold teeth and purple-brown rings under her eyes. She’s poor and badly turned out, as only a poor German girl could be, and she wears a sickly sweet vanilla perfume. Broad shoes with low heels, a crumpled, twisted skirt in a heavy grey wool, a thin white blouse hanging in long folds, with colourful embroidery in kitschy imitation Russian needlework. And wafting up from this sorry excuse for a limp, empty blouse: the nauseating aroma of sweet vanilla. I congratulated Pommerance as I imagined he would have liked me to, and he beamed with self-satisfaction. He was bragging all night, telling the most fantastic, implausible stories; he’s a fabulously entertaining show-off! Heinzl and I really enjoyed his company after all his colourful tales and his talent for telling them. He’s so enthusiastic and life-affirming that you just accept all the corny clichés, the swank and swagger, the Munchausen baloney. The only thing I find less appealing about the whole thing is the way he’s pulling the wool over his girlfriend’s eyes, pretending he’s still available and might marry her someday – if she’s a good girl. She believes all this and is pinning her hopes on it, of course. But who knows? For a mature, faded, aged maiden with centuries and generations of petit-bourgeois heritage, the mere experience of this fantastic man is in itself a gift of fate that requires no further justification and even excuses the minor discretion. There’s no love between them of course. She admires him, and so, too, in the reflection of her demeanour, he admires himself. And she seems happy to play the faithful housewife for him. And so the two of them just sleep together, marvel at his apparently limitless vigour, joke and laugh together and, without worrying too much about it, feel less alone than many others do in this wide, populous, unfulfilled world.


11 October

Your lovely letter arrived early this morning and filled me with the desire to be with you again. I took the elevated train to the German Consulate at South Ferry today and spent the whole journey making plans to come to Europe in the spring, in April or March, so I can take that trip to Spain with you and then bring you back to America with me (how wonderful it would be to do the Atlantic crossing together!) so we can see the World’s Fair in Chicago together. It was nice making these plans as the train hurtled along above the busy streets, over and under a confusion of steel bridges, through tight gaps in the ghettos, between hanging laundry and open windows, re-emerging into the open air and the cool blue shadows of the gleaming white skyscrapers. At the consulate I had my power of attorney drafted by a notary: Robert Schwarz, a sentimental chap, American but unamericanised, as only a German of the old school could be. Thick set, with white hair and a flamboyant silver moustache, he’s short-sighted and leans into his old typewriter, patiently looking for the right key with a broad middle finger. He laughs as he slowly goes about his familiar tasks, happy to live and die as a poor, humble, dependable notary. Day by day and hour by hour he listens to the wishes of all the people who pass through his office and translates them into circuitous legalese, laughing and really relishing his work, finding in it the fulfilment of a life well lived. When I show you around New York you’ll understand how grotesque and touching it was to discover that long moustache, the slow, methodical, searching middle finger and the patient, unambitious, affectionate laughter of Herr Robert Schwarz, here of all places, among all the sweat and commotion of the harbour area at South Ferry.

Having obtained my German power of attorney I took the subway to the other end of Manhattan to pick up the Italian certificate. With the wild screeching of steel wheels on steel tracks, the subway rushed along in the uncanny light of its long, cavernous corridors under the roots of the working factories and skyscrapers up above. Once again, quicker than the breathtaking speed of the subway, I dreamed you were here with me. I wanted to have you close beside me, to take your hand in mine, to look into your eyes, where I always find so much curiosity, appreciation and understanding of everything that’s going on in and around us . . . . . . . . . .

At the Italian Consulate there was another crowd of little people making the usual noise, laughing, gesticulating, and the walls were hung with pictures of Grandi, Mussolini, the King and Queen of Italy . . . . . and it all reminded me of specific moments in our journey: tax office, hotel room . . . . . the way the swallows would fly past the window of our room at the Victoria at dusk, and how the final notes from the singer next door ebbed away into the quiet starry night . . . . our little boat swaying in the lights on the sea . . . . . and those wide windows overlooking the port of Genoa . . . . . our tent . . . . . We haven’t ‘run our course’ yet, Annerl, not by a long way! The two of us! What untold riches lie before us; only together can we attain them . . . . . ! When I came home from the consulate I sat looking out of the window for a long time, indulging my homesickness for you. Outside, the East River bends around the city and extends into the distance, where the ships sail in and out. It’s like a gate at the beginning of the road to Europe, to Cagnes-sur-Mer . . . . and all my love and all my longing are flying through it, impatiently, at speed, on the long road over the ocean . . . . . . .


12 October

I was just making a drawing of our apartment for you and thinking that it would be perfectly suited to Clifford and Ellen. The west room with the large window could well be used as a studio and a study. The east room is big enough for two . . . . . . but until Ellen arrives it looks set to remain a bachelors’ apartment! Heinzl is single, too, and hasn’t had a girl for eight months. In all the ten years he’s been in New York he says he’s only once known a love that stimulated and fulfilled him, and that was a long time ago. Now he prefers to put all his energy into his work rather than spending it on a second-rate love that would only leave him cynically disinclined. Once he’s established his company and made a success of it he wants to travel to Europe to find a wife . . . . . but who knows what the good fellow will find there? For Clifford’s heart might beat faster when he speaks of the one divine coincidence that’s gilded his view of Europe with a golden glow, but this is no guarantee that someone other than Clifford would find the same thing there . . . . . .


12 October, afternoon

Today is Columbus Day, which is supposed to be a national holiday, though Heinzl and his partner are in the office all the same. The two of them work incredibly hard; it’s quite plausible that they’ll make a great deal of money someday. The construction phase of their business (automated heating systems for the bigger buildings in the city) is in full swing and actually almost complete. The only major concern now is financing: they need around $30,000 (there will be about six months of major expenses with no income at all). Last night Heinzl paid all the bills from the past month and reckons he now has precisely $26 to his name. This seemed odd to us both, since the monthly costs for the apartment, food, the office and so on are around $400. He and his partner are now having conferences with finance people every day, and in all probability everything will work out just fine. He also has all sorts of vague ideas about what he’s going to live on until the millions start rolling in. And so we carry on joking around, talking about art, cuisine, our friends and our futures, and we’re all in good spirits. Ben Norris, Heinzl’s partner, is still living here because the renovation of his apartment, just across the road from us on Beekman Place, is still not finished. So I’m still sleeping on the sofa in the living room, and my books and manuscripts and all my worldly possessions are still piled up in the corner. I’m working on a novella that I’m calling FEAR, which I’m hoping will be a huge success, even if I haven’t managed anything else yet. Various people have read my stories and poems and said they were great and that I should publish some of them soon. Heinzl and Edda want me to publish a collection of my poems, but I say it’s too soon for that; it would be idealistic because it wouldn’t bring any money in and might even end up making a loss. Still, I’m very glad that so many young people think my work is better than most of the books in the shop windows, which attract a lot of publicity and prattle.

I’m staying in New York after all; I’ll just spend the holidays at Waldfrieden. First, because my brother needs me here far more than my mother does in her contented solitude. Second, because I need the inspiration of the city myself, the lively discussions, the sense of ambition in the air, cultural affirmation, interests, modernism. Third, because there are a few people among those I’m going to see who could be of practical value to me. My mother has become quite eccentric after four lonely years in the country. She’s bitterly negative about every aspect of modern culture, especially American culture. She loves only the earth, the sky, the flowers and the birds, which bring her profound peace and joy, and she doesn’t like to be disturbed from this peaceful state. She’s a misanthrope with very little love for people and much less understanding. I don’t want to criticise her or disturb her way of life. Great pain and hyper-sensitivity have made misanthropy and the love of nature into a sort of ‘worldly wisdom’ that shields her from further disappointments. And that’s exactly why it would be bad for my work if I were to spend the whole winter with her.

But that’s enough for today. I want to hear everything, everything you have to tell me! I want to know everything – and more than that, I want to feel it! The aim of my work is to come back to you soon. There’s no-one else like you in the world . . . . . you, my ANNERL! – – – – – – – – !

Etl



[Annotated plan of the apartment]

West

sofa, electric radio and gramophone, books, armchair, deep armchair, armchair, lamp, sofa

Etl
desk, chair, Davenport, cabinet, cabinet

bathmat, shower, bath

Heinzl
* bed, chair, table, cabinet, bath

Water closet

Kitchen
table, dining table, crockery, sink, gas oven, cupboards and cabinets, refrigerator

Entrance hall
cases, boxes, vacuum cleaner and so on

* Edda’s dresser, purchased from Leopold Stokowski’s wife, with a 2.5 metre mirror and two doors and loads of nooks and drawers, built in the wonderful Corbusier style. At the moment that’s Heinzl’s room, for as long as Edda is at her school in Staten Island. The window in ‘my’ room is 2.5 metres wide and 2 metres high and overlooks the East River and various factories and skyscrapers.

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