Letter from Edward Renouf to Anny Schey von Koromla

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New York, 4 December 1932

My dearest Annerl!

Today I spent a lot of time thinking about how to make our Spanish trip a reality. The hope of taking such a long and unhurried journey through Spain with you is so enticing that I will do everything in my power to make it happen in the spring if at all possible. For the time being I’m working hard, writing more novellas for publication, then I want to start learning Spanish (the Berlitz way), and I’m going to buy myself various books about Spanish history and geography and art. Then, as you suggested long ago, I shall try to get in touch with some newspaper or magazine or other, one that will publish my weekly travel essays. And then – hurrah! – I’ll be back at your side, and we can set off on our journey together!

After Spanish I’m going to learn Italian and Russian. I’ve set myself the goal of writing a constructive critique of my country with as broad a scope as possible, but from the point of view of an artist rather than that of an economic or political historian. To understand this America properly I’ll have to see it from the outside, from Germany, through German eyes, and in comparison to Germany, from Spain, through the Spanish press, from Russia, and in stark contrast with communism. Only then, once I’m familiar with the broad outline of my country, its significance and standing among all the other countries in the world, once I’m familiar with the mother nations that sent their offspring here, those who were bad or superfluous or impatient or just wanted to travel – only then will I feel equipped to study this country, to experience and understand its smallest details. Then at last I shall reveal and record the development, the countenance and the very soul of this country and its people, in a life’s work consisting of stories, poems, plays and novels. A grand calling! A distant goal! It will be a life of labour and love, curiosity and creativity! And you, having already helped me so much with new perspectives on life, with a new vitality and a new creative vigour, you’ll continue to help me as I strive for this goal! I believe in my own abilities. There are others, too, those friends and acquaintances who have read my work, who believe that over the years I will become a writer of the first order in this country. You need only stay healthy and happy for your Clifford. You should do and read whatever interests you. Spend time with the people who have something to give you. And you can expect your life – yours and Clifford’s – to be constantly enriched with gifts, that your horizons will keep expanding, that the impressions you receive will multiply into the thousands, that your broad interests and joyful curiosity will continue to grow and inspire, forever without end . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

About a week ago we invited our mother to come and stay. And she’s come and will be staying and keeping house for us for the foreseeable future, at least until the new year. She is small, weak and timid, clumsy and fearful of unfamiliar things; her long isolation has made all human interaction dreadfully difficult for her; every conversation is an effort because she’s now accustomed to indulging her own dreamy ideas and no longer reacts to other people. Often she mumbles away to herself with a concerned, absent, almost dilapidated expression on her face, as though any connection to reality and the present had long since been severed. And then, when you address her directly, she looks up in shock, as though whatever you’ve said might be an accusation against her, or as though the suppressed memory of her long, long dead parents had left behind a sense of some unsettled debt. Heinzl finds her so annoying that he often goes quite red in the face and says hateful and sarcastic things to her, to which she responds with silence and quiet sobbing. The whole situation is strongly reminiscent of the unhappiest days of my childhood, so much so that I barely know what to do with myself sometimes. When I come to her rescue, as I’ve had to do several times, Heinzl feels I’m attacking him, which is damaging and almost destructive of the great friendship and mutual understanding we’ve developed. The strength of feeling in Heinzl’s intolerance and anger is pure poison to her. And mother, our kind, poor old mother, came here despite her fear of New York, despite her hatred of the metropolis and American civilization, came here thinking she wanted to sacrifice herself to help her children, to keep house for them, to make a comfortable home for them. Heinzl is a good, generous person – until his nerves get the better of him. And mother loves Heinzl more than anything. And this comfortable home now has the air of coming storm . . . . . . . . .

10 December

The stormy atmosphere in our household is lifting and has almost passed. I’ve been talking to mother and Heinzl about it for days. I told mother she needs to be more assertive, more independent, that she mustn’t let people or circumstances get her down, that she needs to acknowledge the positives in life and stop playing the frightened martyr, that if she gets on Heinzl’s nerves its precisely because she’s afraid of him and because she actually presumes she’s going to get on his nerves whenever she lifts a finger. Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite! Do what you like, do what makes you happy, do what’s best for you! (In all seriousness, though, at table the other day mother was asking Heinzl if she could pour herself some more coffee, if she could have some more butter and so on – and didn’t seem to understand that it’s just that sort of over-anxious politeness that gets on his nerves more than anything. She was sitting in her chilly room, shivering away, and I asked why she hadn’t turned the radiator on. ‘I didn’t dare turn on the heating’, she said sheepishly, ‘because I’m a guest here and I was awfully worried I might break something.’ With Heinzl I talked about the fateful inevitability of mama’s helplessness and timidity and fear, and I assured him she’d get better with time, just as she’d gradually get used to us, how we think and how we live. And sure enough, these conversations, which began with dissection and criticism of mama’s disposition and, at the time, drove her to distraction and almost to tears, have not been for nothing. Initially mama behaved so pitifully that Heinzl went red and then white in the face, pulling his hair out and complaining that the whole thing made suicide look like the best course of action. Mama then withdrew, diminished and laid low, quietly sobbing and muttering away to herself, ‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand! . . . . I don’t understand what I’m supposed to have done! I gave mama books to read, took her to the theatre, introduced her to some nice people. In the evenings we’d sit at the window together, and as we looked out at the bridges, steamers, factories and skyscrapers I tried to show her that the metropolis, rather than something to be feared and scolded and bemoaned, is a marvellous symphony of power, industry and the onward march of civilisation, no less a creation of human genius than the best painting by Rembrandt or a Passion by Bach. Indeed, when you sit at our window in the evening the scene laid out before you really is a symphony, a painting, a Passion of absolutely unique power and grandeur . . . . . . . . and our little mama, bit by bit, is slowly starting to see, appreciate and understand it. Even now Heinzl and mama are getting along better than I would have hoped after a month of reconciliation attempts. And both of them are happier, more trusting, more enterprising and more enthusiastic about dinner!


12 December

I’ll do as much work as I can by springtime. But if the impossible does happen – that is, if I have not yet made a financial success of myself – could I not come and see you anyway? The unexpected green-and-white glow that appeared in Genoa beneath the cigarettes in the Russian tabatière will under no circumstances be spent on rifles, bows and arrows or cowboys’ toys of any kind; it will be carefully tucked away in a stocking for the sole purpose of buying a spring ticket to Marseille or Cannes. Could I come if I was entirely convinced that I could give at least as much I take from you? Could I not earn my keep as a chauffeur or a gardener (at the garden house in St Tropez!), perhaps even as a professor of English literature? That is, if I haven’t by then come into my inheritance or become a famous writer – for if the latter happens, I shall come whether you want me to or not – in a checked suit and travel cap, as the real uncle from Chicago. This is my present situation:

Today Heinzl came home terribly depressed. His company is being wound up. His partners have already found themselves the most pitiful little jobs, the sort of jobs he would never accept, not even to save himself from starving to death. Such jobs destroy the soul and sap one’s lust for life. He now has one last madcap idea before he gets really desperate. He no longer has a groschen to his name, and in fact he’s already heavily in debt, but he’s heard about an undertaking which, though insanely risky, may be his chance to make an absolutely huge profit. He doesn’t know where else to turn; could I not lend him the rest of my money? With it he could buy himself a stake in this business, and then maybe, maybe in a couple of weeks, maybe in a couple of months, we’d be RICH! Very well! But I won’t lend him all of it. I’ll put enough aside so I can move in with mama for the winter in Waldfrieden if need be, and I’ll also put some aside so I can come to Annerl in the spring. He can take the rest and try his luck with it; it isn’t all that much anyway, and that ticket to Europe is the only buyable thing in the whole world that I absolutely must have. Best of luck!

As for the writing, I now have a pretty good idea where I stand, and I’ll have an even better idea in the spring, by which point I’ll have made all the necessary contacts with agents, editors and newspapers. I won’t have to remain in America any longer. And if Ellen’s longing for Clifford is even a fraction of Clifford’s longing for Ellen . . . . . . . . . . then why would I stay?

What are your plans for the spring? Do you have any idea what you’re doing next year? Where you’ll be?

Most importantly, please be good to yourself, look after yourself properly and make it a routine until it becomes a habit and you no longer notice you’re doing it. If it would be better for you, please go to Munich right away and ask them to change your diet again. The days should never drag for you; it’s so much more genuine and true to your soul for you to greet the sun with gladness every morning. And you know how much a heavy nerve or a languid gland can bear down on the buoyancy of the soul.

Heinzl has here an excellent book about self-care and diets for diabetics. It was written by Dr Joclyn, the foremost diabetes specialist in America and, so they say, one of the foremost specialists in the world. Heinzl had the good fortune to be seen by this doctor initially. His only misfortune is that he has neither the wisdom nor the humility to accept that he needs to follow to these measures. It’s a shame God created so many people who insist on running headlong into brick walls, and it’s also a shame that he made the rest of us so weak and soft and sympathetic that we accept and sympathise with their madness. Dr Joclyn writes that if the diabetic can only make the right adjustments to his life and really internalise those adjustments and acknowledge them as natural law – something no more burdensome or avoidable than the law of gravity – once he has done all that, he can be as healthy and normal as everyone else. It’s all a matter of perspective, for we all have to make certain concessions in life anyway. We’re all very worried about Heinzl. I hope you’ll be kind and sensible for me; I want to find my Annerl in good health when I return!

I was deeply moved by the letter from Clemens and all his profound reflections. There is much poetry and truth in what he says, and the way he expresses it is so concise, vivid and characteristic of him that I shall treasure his letter as a little work of art in its own right; I’m becoming more and more glad to have the dear fellow as a friend. He just needs to steer well clear of the clichés and prejudices and bourgeois conventions (you’ve already helped Clifford to do away with that nonsense!), and then perhaps, with the help of your unsystematic but intuitively sound guidance and inspiration, both your boys might still become fabulously famous someday! I would really love to take Clemens by the hand and make a solemn pact: come what may, our WORKS will not go unnoticed, will not be left to rot in the cellars of this world; they will remain fresh, ever marching on to the sunlit uplands of victory!

My most recent ‘work’ has turned out surprisingly well. The table I was working on belonged to one of Heinzl’s friends, so it was abruptly taken away from me. Straight away I ran down to a hardware store to buy myself some boards, then borrowed a saw and a screwdriver and built myself a large table to a highly original design of my own making, a collapsible table that’s so strong and sturdy that all five of us could comfortably dance the hula-hula or the Charleston on it without eliciting so much as a squeak or a blink. I can hardly wait to get to St Tropez or Sicily or wherever you happen to be in the spring so that I can buy another set of boards and, with a little help from Clemens, build you the same table! That will be even more fun than building it alone in the dark back room of a hardware store on Third Avenue in New York, then carrying it home on my head through the elegant streets of this city, sweating all the way! People here don’t seem to have the time or the sense of humour to appreciate such things. And yet I enjoyed doing this job more and for longer than many a ‘cocktail party’ or movie sensation.


14 December

But just now I need to send these presents and this letter across the high seas so you all get a little piece of me in time for Christmas. The ‘Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ by Washington Irving, for Annerl, is one of the early gems of American literature. It’s a very easy read and it’s set in New York, on the Hudson River, not far from here. With a little help from the English lady you’ll certainly be able to read this book. ‘Green Mansions’, for Beaterl, was written by a man who was as distinguished a natural scientist and natural philosopher as he was a writer, and this book is one of the most beautiful, romantic books in the English language. The English girl will be able to tell Clemens much more about Robin Hood. And hopefully Ingerl will feel happy and at home with Aesop’s little creatures. Do think of me when you light the candles on the tree – you all mean the world to me! And perhaps the Christkindl will let me be a little candle on your tree so I can flicker and wink and look on and enjoy being with you all at Christmas. And if he does, I’m sure he’ll also let Clifford be another little flame – – .

New York was under snow a couple of days ago. Beneath a grey sky the city rested content, like a good woodcut. But this contentment was false pretence. Through the white roofs and the frosty window panes, along the damp, dirty streets that clatter and thunder between subways, electric trams, trucks and elevated railways, everywhere one goes, one always feels the eternally unmet need of this city – freezing, sobbing, hungry – for warmth, food, security, homeliness, human kindness. So it must be and so it shall remain. As I looked through the window at this peaceful woodcut, the snowy landscape seemed to open up and reveal all this to me – and as I stood at the window, Heinzl was messing around with a jocular girlfriend of his, laughing and hatching plans, saying how he’d like to spend more money than he or she will ever have; and mama was sat on the couch, drinking tea with a Russian lady, telling tales of the good old days in Munich and China, tales that the Russian can scarcely have heard or understood, immersed as she was in her own longing for her own snowbound land – when she spoke of it she was brought to the point of tears and could utter no more than a couple of words – –

On the banks of the East River, on the rubble-heap of the city, among old boxes and broken barrels, where rain falls and wind blows, where the rats live – this is the last refuge of the homeless unemployed, who flock here to live in the boxes and barrels, where they starve and freeze to death. In the Empire State Building thousands of warm rooms stand empty; they can no longer be let for the winter. But the people have to stay out there on the rubble-heap in their damp, dilapidated barrels. One insurance company wanted to offer its empty buildings to the city as a home for the unemployed, on the condition that the taxes they pay for the building be used to cover the cost of converting it. But the city administration wouldn’t allow a building to be used for charitable purposes until the owners had produced and signed God-only-knows what sort of legal mumbo-jumbo. And the people on the rubble-pile chatter and groan, patiently dying while their legislators sit in the grand dining rooms of gilded hotels, quaffing champagne, scoffing their food, puffing on expensive cigars until they themselves keel over and die, thank goodness, from over-indulgence and heart attacks.


15 December

The typewriter let me down when I was writing until four in the morning recently. It must have been tired. I’ve just read in the newspaper that the city administration yesterday decided to convert a number of empty administrative buildings for the benefit of the homeless. So I must apologise to the gentlemen from the municipal administration and let them live after all. Incidentally, there’s a new idea gaining ground here. This new idea is called TECHNOCRACY and was conceived about ten years ago, though it is only just starting to make sense. The aim of this idea – or the aim of a ‘technocratic form of government’ – is that improved organisation of production and distribution will make it possible to attain a level of national wealth where everyone will have an annual income of $20,000 (compared to the present average income of around $2000). Agriculture, manufacturing and trade will all be run by technical specialists employed by the state. People will only have to work four hours a day, five days a week. Goods intended for life’s pleasures and not required for further production will be private property. So it’s a form of communism where everyone gets rich! I’ll write to you again when I know more about this utopian idea.

It’s incredibly kind of you to want to present my novellas to James Joyce and Ezra Pound. Perhaps they could even help me find a publisher. But I’m hesitant. Famous writers such as these must be inundated with manuscripts from aspiring young writers, and I’d rather make my own way in the world, without protection (not out of humility or pride, but because I believe that absolute independence is the most reliable way to achieve anything, even when looking for a publisher). But if you do come to know these writers and could introduce me to them if ever we happen to be together in Paris at some point, you’d be doing me a really huge favour, because I have a great deal of respect for both of them and would like to be part of their circle in Paris. What you say about the professor at Columbia are words after my own heart, and if I do ever send him anything else it will be a letter in which I call him an uncultured old maid.

But I should sign off now. I’ll write again soon. A thousand Christmas kisses! Don’t forget Clifford – – !

Yours,

Etl

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