J. Powers - Suitable Accommodations - An Autobiographical Story of Family Life - The Letters of J. F. Powers, 1942-1963

Yes, this vale of tears is just that. I got some money in the mail this morning, enough to keep us another month. I was just beginning to wonder how you’d like to have me for the rest of the Lent, fearful that you’d have some prejudice against me during that time. No, not really; I wasn’t coming. We’ve had a hard winter of it. I keep seeing where Irwin Shaw, or Truman Capote, or James Michener, is doing this at Cannes, or that at London, and wonder if I haven’t missed the boat. I am in the textbooks, and they aren’t, but I’m not sure that’s important. After all, I have just the one life to live. I am not by nature cut out for this life, as it’s defined in these parts by the chamber of commerce and our bishop, who is devoted to Christian family living, as everyone knows.

The big thing is the new Cathedral High School development. A Mr Foley came to town, representing a fund-raising outfit, and made a sale. Gosh, he was edified at the spirit among us here in St Cloud. (Remember the old vaudeville characters who were always glad to get back to wherever they happened to be playing?) I explained the peculiarities of my income to a representative, and he was very understanding. Most people give on a weekly basis, so much out of the old paycheck, but there didn’t seem to be a category for me. But fortunately the representative was in the same boat with me (he’s a real estate man), and we worked out a plan whereby I would contribute as I got it, on an if-and-when basis. Sure, I feel okay. One of the communiqués from Mr Foley’s outfit asked how much we spent on playing the horses in a year’s time.

The girls are fine, show no effects of progressive education, nor do we.

Come and see us when you can. All for now.

Jim

HARVEY EGAN

509 First Avenue South

St Cloud

Ascension 1955 [ca. May 20]

Dear Fr Egan,

[…] Life goes on and on, and the mailman keeps doing me wrong. Last night, reading in Boswell’s Journal of Dr Johnson’s trip to the Hebrides, I came across this:

Yet hope not life from pain or danger free,

Or think the doom of man revers’d for thee!

There have been times, though not recently, when it has seemed to me that I might escape the doom of man. I think of those nice nights in Lexington Park, when I was on a Guggenheim, when Pat McGlothin and Phil Haugstad1 were young.

But I begin to see that I am cut out to be another Don Humphrey, frustrated and flailing at the air, the system eating away at me, the old body taking in more water, sinking, sinking …

How would you like me to handle a fund-raising campaign for you at Beardsley? I only want a fair share.

No word, no visits, from George. Idly, I wonder where he’ll go this summer. I have no trips, no lectures, scheduled. I am too heavy to ride on the flat, and the hunt season doesn’t open until November. I wish I could count on being in Ireland then. I don’t want much. Just a place on the rail at Leopardstown, a couple of bob down. Is that asking too much of life? Is it absolutely certain that one can’t go home again? […]

Ah, well.

Jim

What did you think of the Dodgers’ victory skein under Walt?2

HARVEY EGAN

509 First Avenue South

Sunday a.m. [November] 1955

Dear Fr Egan,

I’ve been contemplating your invitation3 hungrily but must not accept, I fear. Betty is with child, and it could come around Thanksgiving; probably not; but it could. I’m sorry I can’t make it. I have nothing else (but Beardsley) to satisfy my yearnings for the higher things. Very dull here.

Last night, however, Mary Humphrey threw a big love feast ( see Methodism, for my usage here). Fr Casey present with tape of Fr Hugo’s sermon. Many laypeople. The sermon holds up very well, I thought. […]

Accent (fall) not here yet.4 Commonweal soon, I understand;5 problem of story’s length, so (say I) why not make it an all-JF number? Introduction to my work by you; television ads from the hierarchy; reproductions of MS pages; and a garland of quotations from People Who Knew Me, headed by GGG.6 […] All for now.

Jim

Think of me if you have Bridgeman’s7 on Thanksgiving.

Hugh Wahl Powers was born on November 25, 1955.

HARVEY EGAN

509 First Avenue South

November 30, 1955

Dear Fr Egan,

Baby born on Friday,8 and so I’m glad I didn’t go to Beardsley. We call him Hugh Wahl Powers. I held out for Harvey to the very end, put up with remarks about rabbits,9 etc., but perhaps it’s just as well. You never know how anyone’s going to turn out, though I guess calling him Harvey would’ve paved the way for him.

I read your lines on how much better I am with each child with a jaundiced eye. Let’s just say — from what I’ve seen so far — I’m not long for this world, to say nothing of the literary world. With each succeeding child, I see better the wisdom of H. Sylvester, a prophet of yesteryear, who, however, committed hari-kari.10 You know he remarried — a woman with three or four kids of her own. It’s hard not to get confused. Yesterday, enjoying an hour at Gopher Wrecking,11 it occurred to me I really ought to speak to someone there about work.

I’m glad you liked “Blue Island,”12 since good news hasn’t come my way lately — hardly any response to “A Losing Game”13—and your approval has always been elusive when it comes to my work. I know you admire the man of family, but what of the artist, I sometimes think.

Latest on the local front is that the Bp14 refused to consecrate one of Don’s chalices — made for one of the Hovda-Fehrenbacher15 school. Too big,* the Bp said. Well, keep it to yourself. I gather Fr F. shouldn’t have told Don at all what happened, and came around later to undo what he’d said, to get Don to believe it in no way reflected upon him and his work. Of course Don is a great one for seeing the worst side in a matter like this. I counsel caution. Time, I say, cures all, and besides he hasn’t got a leg to stand on. Few of us have.

All for now. I’m interested in a few days around Christmas at Beardsley, and will let you know later how matters shape up here.

Speed.

(I sign my name as it is in religion.)

HARVEY EGAN

509 First Avenue South

January 10, 1956

Dear Fr Egan,

[…] I went to St Paul last Saturday for a party at Gene McCarthy’s house, at his invitation via long distance; down on train, back with Hyneses. Pretty good evening, lots of politicos, including the governor,16 whom I missed on purpose, and Miles Lord, the attorney general, an ex — Golden Glover, Gene said, who is having sleepless nights (Miles, I mean) over the bingo issue.17 Someone said if there’s ever an American pope, he’ll take the name Bingo I. Hey, what’s wrong with bingo? May it not be laudable and meritorious? […]

Yes, I have the D’Arcy and would like to keep it a while. I’m reading it now and would like to trap Hump into reading it (he has Black Popes 18 now). I don’t think Don has ever entered the Church intellectually — and now the word is going around that he’s left it because the Bp refused to consecrate that chalice (this rumor from St John’s, some monk or other), due no doubt to Don’s big mouth somewhere along the line. Then I think of what Joyce said, that he’d preserve his life as an artist through silence, exile, and cunning — and Don, in a place quite as stuffy as Ireland in 1900, unable to practice any of these things. Well, he’s wide open. Emerson wants me to make a move, as Don’s friend. But I am doing nothing. I have to see the whites of their eyes, and maybe even then I won’t shoot. […]

Jim