Letter from Edward Renouf to Anny Schey von Koromla

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New York, 12 November

Dearest Annerl!

Shortly after I wrote my last letter to you, Heinzl collapsed and almost died. He was in hospital for two weeks but he’s strong enough now to go back to the office and back to work. He was so incredibly brave. When I took him to hospital that night he was virtually in a coma with a high fever. The doctor said he couldn’t be absolutely certain that he’d make it through the night. And Heinzl sensed that. The following morning, as he lay there in bed, yellow and gaunt and pale, he laughed and pointed to the doctor and said to me: ‘This chap thought I was about to die! But don’t worry; I’ll be sticking around to make a fool of him for a while yet!’

In the first few days, various business associates came running to speak to Heinzl; everything was up in the air because he’s the only one (of the three partners) who has a real handle on the business, and it looked like his illness might have brought the whole undertaking to a premature end. But Heinzl was admirably calm and philosophical about his thoughtless associates and the peril his business was in. There was just one moment in those many weeks when, physically exhausted, he let himself go, saying: ‘If some goddam donkey hadn’t invented this insulin, I’d have been happily dead and buried by now!’ But his impatience soon passed. We were talking recently about the states of mind that lead to suicide, and Heinzl said to me, ‘Even if they take it all away from me, even if I have to watch as my hands and my arms wither and drop off, I’ll never lose my lust for life.’

Heinzl never talked about his illness and felt so strongly about not giving other people any sense of any sort of weakness that he’d stopped looking after himself and wasn’t keeping to his diet, just so no-one would worry about him. That’s why he collapsed.


14 November

While I was sat writing earlier some guests arrived and I was drawn into their chit-chat (on the twelfth I still didn’t have my own room; I was still camping out in the living room and had to put up with all the interruptions ¬– there was a table and a chair in Heinzl’s partner’s room, but even when he was away the awful smell he left behind made me nauseous after five minutes (this chap bathes every day and wears fresh clothes every day, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference – thank goodness he’s soon moving out!)). Heinzl was very glad to be back when I brought him home from hospital and wanted to make up for all the social engagements he’d missed in months of hard work. I did the housework, cooked three times a day and had to weigh up the nutritional value of every dish to the nearest gram. On top of that, Heinzl’s acquaintances kept coming every hour, right after I’d swept and washed up and finally sat down to my writing. I had to lie every time: ‘No, you’re not disturbing me at all! It’s wonderful to see you!’ But there were in fact two occasions when the words were coming so hot and fast that I was able to keep writing without interruption, despite the lively tea-time conversations going on around me. The novella I wrote at that time was the best and strongest so far. But its strength is brutal and cynical, its realism is abrupt, hard and naked, in a cold, unsympathetic light. I gave it to Heinzl and various other young intellectuals to read; they say it’s ultramodern. Heinzl even thinks it’s a foretaste of the art of the distant future. He wrote enthusiastically about it while he was away: ‘I think Etl will be a great success someday; he’s going to be a revolutionary and leading influence on American literature.’ Our other young friends said they’ve rarely read anything so strong, though there’s not an editor or a publisher in the whole of the USA who would dare to print it. I then sent the novella to Columbia, and the good teacher was so shocked that he fumbled his reply, which was littered with spelling mistakes. He said the novella was vividly written and quite overwhelming, but he simply couldn’t understand how and why this and that were necessary here and there and so on and so forth. In short, he couldn’t stand it. All the better!

But for the next novella I shall write something completely harmless; that will get him back on side and might even be marketable.


Afternoon

The telephone rang while I was writing. Pommerance! The old braggard again, this time without his girl. We went for lunch at a little automat. He’s had enough of love – more than enough – and doesn’t want to hear another word about it, not even in jest. He says wants to find a place in New York and take it easy for a couple of months. Take it easy! (It looks like he’s thriving, and I very much doubt this has anything to do with the girl I described to you.) Besides loving his poor little plaything, he’s seen and heard next to nothing of Chicago. He doesn’t speak a word of English (he says the next girl will be American). When I met him he had an umbrella on one arm and was cradling a wireless in the other, a little piece of luggage no larger than a shoebox; its narrow wooden panels somehow contain not just the loudspeakers but everything else as well. Pommerance’s cheeks were red, his eyes bright; he was so proud and pleased with his dainty little instrument that he could hardly keep himself from laughing. He really is a child. He now wants to take it easy for two months – and not have too much sleep. Then he’s going to Bermuda, and from there back to France. Why did he even come to America? When he gets home he’ll have splendid stories to tell about ‘his best friends’ the governor and senator so-and-so . . . . and all the fantastic and incredibly important things he had to negotiate with them – – – !

* * *

Our financial situation here is looking bleak at the moment. Heinzl’s partners wreaked all sorts of havoc while he was ill. The business won’t generate any income for another two to three months, and even when it does it won’t be enough to the pay the rent on the apartment. And good old Heinzl is already in debt. But since he’s so direct, heroic, gutsy, earnest and enterprising, and since he’ll doubtless make a success of it in the future, I’ve lent him half my money to pay some of the more pressing debts. I’ve tried to persuade him that he should move out of this expensive apartment, but he won’t do that until he absolutely has to. He loves this place above all else and calls it his ‘home’. He had all the furniture made to measure, to designs he drew up specifically with this place in mind. He feels at ease here, in this simple, refined and highly personal environment; he says he’s happier here than anywhere else he’s been in the world. By God, I want to preserve that happiness for him if I possibly can. But I can see that we’ll have to move out with all our worldly possessions at some point in the next few months. And it won’t be the end of the world if that does happen. Heinzl is a splendid chap and can’t be kept down, he’s adaptable and loves his home comforts, so I’m sure we can use his beautiful furniture to cobble together a home elsewhere. If things take a turn for the worse, I’m sure we’ll always be welcome at our grandfather’s place in Bermuda, and mama would receive us with open arms and rejoicing in her jungle, so there’s absolutely no reason for us to be seriously concerned. I’m also glad that Heinzl is so philosophical about it and still able to make light of the financial ups and downs. The way he’s changed in the last few years, I’m sure you two would get along like a house on fire. I really am an incredibly fortunate fellow: first the friendship between Clifford and Ellen, which never seems to falter and puts all else in the shade, and second having a brother whom I trust and love more deeply than I imagine any man could possibly love and trust another man. We did well to squabble and fight when we were kids; I think that’s why we get along so famously now.

Last night one of Heinzl’s friends came over, a young Turk called Sahib whose father is supposed to be one of the best authors in Turkey. Sahib is a gentle fellow and a real scholar with an incredible cultural compass. We talked for hours about immortality; about whether we should live according to self-imposed guidelines or whether life is more meaningful when we let fate lead the way and let come what may; about the ends and limitations of criticism; about Plato, Sappho, Shakespeare, Shelly, Keats and all sorts of other people and ideas that came up in connection with these. Sahid himself has no beliefs at all. He is an inquiring mind, tries every line of reasoning, currently lives in poverty, unemployed and barely subsisting, and has never found the faith that would give him the strength for anything more than an enjoyment of culture.

I’ve just seen your cutting from the Frankfurter Zeitung lying here on the table. I know neither Brave New World by Aldous Huxley nor Apocalypse by D. H. Lawrence, but I can recommend both books since both writers have a lot to say and are artists of high standing. I should also recommend Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers, and Huxley’s volume of short stories, Brief Candles, which might be translated as ‘Vergängliche Kerzen’ in German. You ask if I like Chekhov. Either Chekhov or anything by Dostoevsky would make the most wonderful Christmas present. You gave me a copy of The Idiot in Vienna (dedicated ‘to my dear idiot’), and it seemed to me, after Homer and Shakespeare, the greatest work I had ever read. And Chekhov’s stories are incomparable, even to those of Poe and Maupassant, and are certainly better than the best stories ever to have come out of the USA, though the English versions are not as good as the German translations.

This evening Heinzl and I are going to a musical reception, a little soirée where a small group of amateurs will be singing and playing piano and violin. I wonder whether it will be worth the effort. Interesting that you know George Antheil. He’s completely unknown to the vast majority of the public here, but he has an enviable reputation as a controversial figure among musicians and intellectuals. What is he like as a person? I’m a great admirer of Ezra Pound (Antheil’s friend and benefactor in Paris). He’s certainly one of the outstanding poets of these unlyrical times.

The music here in New York is very conservative. Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Haydn, Wagner, Bossi. Toscanini once ventured to play a little symphony by Waagener which no-one understood or enjoyed. Richard Wagner is very much in fashion! The first concert I went to here was a series of symphonic arrangements of Wagner’s operas, adapted and played by Stokowski. It wasn’t too bad, I thought. Technically impeccable, but so over-polished and over-refined as to leave nothing but the dazzling surface, no depth at all. All Wagner’s passion was reduced to little more than a sentimental, sensitive, sickly sweet, decadent romance. Later I heard Toscanini play passages from Siegfried. And Sapalott! For that demi-god I have not a word of criticism. Nothing but effusive admiration! Yesterday a new orchestra of two hundred of the ten thousand starving and unemployed musicians in this city gave a concert. They played Brahms’s fourth symphony, Weber’s Euryanthe Overture, a piano concerto by Tchaikovsky (in a hard, fine rendition by Lhévinne) and finally the prelude to the Mastersingers. For a malnourished and poorly rehearsed orchestra they actually played admirably well. I wished you were with me! Clifford sends kisses. Be kind to yourself and look after yourself. Be wise and calm. And as soon as I can —

Entirely yours,

Etl

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