Steinbeck (48 page)

I am rushing this letter because I may have to stop it any minute. I'm so glad you like and understand my mother's ring.

It has poured rain and the country is soaked and wonderful.

 

 

November II
Friday 6 P.M.

Tonight I shall work by myself. Tonight is dialogue and I must do that alone.

I was so pleased with your news today. I knew Waverly would handle it well. It will bother her but not too much after a little while, particularly if there is any fun. Do you think you and she could come up here? It is going to be a long month otherwise. Of course I will see you before I leave [for New York] in any case and of course we will spend Christmas together. And we'll snag the boys for some part of Christmas even if we have to have an early, separate one. I'm going to have some kind of private tree for you and me and Way and the boys even if it is in a hotel. You know very well it doesn't matter where it is if there is love and happiness. And without these no place is any good.

God I wish you were here tonight. Stay close, very close.

J.

November 14
Monday

Honey—

Jack left this morning after a last flurry of fuzziness, discontent and bumbling. He managed to get on the train, or rather was put on the train by Neale because at the last moment he broke his glasses.

Letter from Kazan with a P.S. “I liked your girl friend.” From him that is a superlative. The fact that he remembered to say it. Neale is happy. He has had a chance to clean the house this morning. First time since Jack arrived.

 

 

November 15
Tuesday

Now it is Tuesday and two weeks ago today we started work here. Strong and active dreams and your special came this morning. Of course you should take things to New York. If you rent an apt. you will need blankets and linen, etc. Very expensive to replace as Neale and I found out when we came here.

I will be done early next week I am convinced. And then, of course, I could go anytime. I think it will be a good thing if I have Thanksgiving with Esther because probably Beth and Mary and all the nieces will be there. By the way, no word from Esther which means that she either didn't hear or is keeping her mouth shut. I've never discussed this with any of my sisters. We aren't that kind of family. They will automatically go along with me and then they will love you on your own.

When you get rested in N.Y. I am going to take you to a miraculous dinner—a real lulu. And
I'm
going to order every single item. You don't have any choice. It is going to be expensive and wonderful and I may even dress. I'm going to send my clothes on by express next week in my old foot-locker. I had it all during the war. I think it still has J. S. Herald Tribune, N. Y., Paris, London painted on it in case it got lost.

I like setting a time for telephone calls. Then one doesn't have to be afraid to go out to the post box or take a bath for fear of missing one.

Tuesday

My very dear:

We just finished all of the 4th Act pickups and inserts and worked out the whole last half of the last act and it is going to be good. And it's only 10 P.M. so I can have a little time to write you before I go to bed. Toby Street came over about six and had a couple of drinks—not me. I'm still virgin.

I thought today how I remember you or rather scenes that have become set. One is in the Pine Inn sitting in that room waiting for the phone to ring. One is in my house with the firelight on your body when you went to get cigarettes. One is lying on a beach towel reading and one is when I had the kids in the car to take them away and I looked back and you and Way were crying. It is strange. I have no picture of you when Zack was in the room. I remember him holding Way and sitting at the head of the table. But you aren't in those scenes. In the others, it is exactly photographic. Ohl yes, and a sharp one—you and Way half running from the N.Y. plane, you carrying the large square jewel box. How sharply some things register.

 

And at that moment you phoned. What a job you must be doing. Ours is pretty straight line, just pound through, but you are running in all directions.

I'll stop this now and go to bed. Good night dear. Were you irritated tonight or was it just other people in the room?

 

 

November 27
Saturday

My dear thing—

I called you in the night just because I was lonely for you and for no other reason. You are right—it is a very little time and we must be very careful. It isn't much to do. I think your mother's picking it up out of your letters is very strange.

Mary is going to take my begonia bulbs and plant them next year. That way they will be kept up. And some of my bulbs are very old and fine and it would be a shame to lose them.

My God, I'm glad that I'm going Monday. I'm all cleaned up here. It would be silly to wait around.

Your sister Fran sounds wonderful and I liked the letter from your baby sister [Jean].

Darling, of course I'm going to like your people. They are so sound about you. And my God how understanding. Maybe Fran can come up to N. Y. before too long. I hope they won't dislike me. I will try to make it so they won't.

 

 

November 28
Sunday

Darling—

This is the last letter from here. Hasn't it all been fantastic? I think when you get away you might go into a tailspin just thinking of all the things you have done in such a short time. I am constantly amazed at your courage. You can't lose with that and we'll keep it high, too.

Lord, I wish you were going with me. Then it would be such good fun. Of course I will write you from the plane. Then I will take the sleeping pills and awaken in the morning. And I hope I don't tousle any old ladies.

 

 

Sunday 7:30 P.M.

Darling:

I am all churning inside. It's the change—change of so many things. I'm excited as well. This is the last night in this house for a while. We must come back to it often. It has been a good house always. And this time it has really done its duty. It has made me well and strong again and I first was with you here. I feel very grateful to this little house.

I'll talk to you a little later.

J.

 

 

 

November 29 Monday

Dearest—

wouldn't you know I couldn't finish a letter that easily? It was a dreadful long night and a lousy detective story and now I am nervous because I have to wait until night to go.

Neale is buzzing around like a bloody bug being nice. I've done all of the things I can think of that needed doing. Covered the town. Taken a bottle of whiskey to the Chief of Police and one to the mail carrier. All of these thoughts in passing. You can see that my mind is a mess. Hurry—hurry. We've got to have a drink in the Plaza bar in the evening with the first snow falling.

Maybe there's something here I have forgotten but if there is it will have to wait. I've got a whole new beautiful life to look ahead at and I ain't going to worry about forgetting things.

Hurry, hurry; hurry!

I love you,
J.

Slem
“...the writer and his book...”

1950
Burning Bright
, novel published, play produced. Married Elaine Scott.

 

 

 

1951
The Log from the Sea of Cortez
published.

145 East 52nd Street
New York
[Christmas 1949]

Dear Bo:

Your letter reached me recently and saddened me, the more so because for the first time in a very long time I am filled with hope. I have a good girl now and work and energy again, so I guess I have healed over on the wounded places. I feel that I have much writing and much living to do yet and that I am ready to do it. I have taken a very tiny apartment at the above address and although it has so far nothing but a bed and a card table, I feel good in it. Right after the first of the year I shall start the first of three plays. I hope to have them done by summer. That would make a good spring of it, I think.

I wonder how this would be! If I finished two of my three plays by June—would it be feasible to bring my two boys over there for the summer? My girl would come too and maybe we could play in the archipelago?

I miss you all very much. I have put sad things on you and frustrated things and maybe this summer could be one of joy and play and laughing. I've still got a lot of that in me whether you believe it or not. And my girl is the best girl I have known. This one is on my side and it is a very strange feeling. It is a lovely thing to have a friend in the house.

New York is exciting now. The air is crisp and cold. I walk a great deal. Indeed, from my little apartment I can walk nearly any place in the town very quickly. And it's a good town for walking. Last Christmas was a bad one without my boys. But this year I will have them on Christmas eve.

Gwyn has all my books and all the money and the house and the pictures—except for your portait of me. And I have one little room and a tiny kitchen and a bed and a card table and that is all I need with yellow pads and boxes of pencils. This she cannot. nor ever will understand. But my new girl understands and likes it and so there we are.

Meanwhile a merry Xmas and a very good year to you.

[New York]
[Early 1950]

Dear Fran:

The first thing I must tell you is a very simple and unadorned fact. I love Elaine. This you must accept as true.

The second thing is that I want to be with her the rest of my life.

The third—that I am sorry there had to be disruption but I am not in the least ashamed and I surely would do that or anything else to be with Elaine.

The fourth and most important thing is that Elaine seems to be happy. Happy—hell, she glows in the dark!

Apart from the matters of affection, I am sure that she belongs here rather than in that despondent paradise of Hollywood. She strides along the windy street cutting a swath of light as she goes. She is excited all of the time and she is near to the people and work she loves best of all. It may be that there will not be quite so much in a material sense although I am quite solvent, but there will be, I assure you that there will be, many other things that will more than make up for that lack.

You and Elaine are so very close. I want to know you, and as soon as possible.

There—I think that's what I wanted to say—I know it's
what
I wanted to say. I wonder whether I have said it.

I hope to meet you very soon.

My love to you
John

[New York]
January 24 [1950]

Dear Bo:

Your good letter arrived at last and made me very happy. I have many things to say and ask so I will take a couple of days to write this letter so I will forget nothing. And you are right—my girl will and can take anything and love it if it is done in love. Gwyn always seemed to need more of everything than she was getting. Elaine is very different. A Texan with a soft accent but not the usual boastful Texan—the kind that can take care of itself—not like American women. She doesn't want to be a man. But you will see. She radiates warmth. I think you will like my boys. They are lots of fun and very handsome.

One thing has happened to me. I am not as shy and frightened as I was. I realize now what did it. Both of my wives were somehow in competition with me so that I was ashamed of being noticed. I am not a bit ashamed now. Elaine is on
my
side, not against me. The result is that I am more relaxed than I have ever been. And people meeting a train would not frighten me a bit. I would rather not speak because that requires preparation but I am not a bit afraid of interviews any more. You will see—after long sickness I am a well man. I am writing hard and my publishers say better than I have ever done.