American poet, critic, and novelist Randall Jarrell writes to his lover Mary von Schrader, whom he met at a writer’s conference that summer. Jarrell divorced his wife and married von Schrader later that year.
[July 1952]
At last my translation’s done [“Requiem for the Death of a Boy”] and I send it to thee; I read it to Robert last night and he was overwhelmed—said hearing it was a mesmeric experience, or words to that effect. He said that after hearing it and seeing how like it was to the Rilke and how unlike [J. B.] Leishman’s was, he couldn’t understand how the Leishman could have had such an effect on him, and have seemed so good. Incidentally, almost always when mine’s different from Leishman’s it’s the same as, or much closer to, the Rilke.
Yesterday it was 103 but by swimming in the afternoon I survived. Last night I heard recordings of Don Quixote and some Beethoven and Mozart. I miss you so much when I listen to music. Oh, my best beloved.
Knopf said (in reply to my letter) that I could tell—since they were publishing my critical book which would sell decidedly less than the novel—that they’d almost certainly print the novel unless something went badly wrong. So I think I’ll just go ahead with them—let them give me the $500 advance on the critical book when i give it to them in late September, and then the advance on Pictures later. I haven’t managed to write any articles here. It’s just too hot and dormitory-ish; I got Partisan to postpone that one for two months, have made notes for the Frost one for Kenyon, and will write it out during the first ten days I’m home with my Mary.
Were there some good foreign car advertisements in the Times? Somebody wanted to sell that Bugatti we saw at the Auto Sports Show in New York for $3,000; and somebody in Somebody in San Antonio wanted to sell a ’49 TC (new tires, excellent engine, mint) for $950. I’ll put the whole page in my suitcase for us to read together.
Just think, this is the last letter and three days from now I’ll be there never to leave your side again, oh bliss. Oh, mermaid. I’m coming on TWA’s flight 17, the one leaving Chicago at 6 and arriving at Los Angeles Thursday at 11:00 P.M. Pacific Time. How I want my welcome kiss and to be in your arms again. You do know, don’t you, darling Mary, how different you are from everyone else? How different you’ve made me? All I want is to be with you and have the little girls with us. Be mine always. Don’t ever change. I think you and I had better burn our letters some Midsummer’s Eve when we’re about 102 and think we might die. People will be able to see the flames for miles.
FURTHER READING
To read Mary von Schrader Jarrell’s reflections on her fifteen-year marriage to Randall Jarrell, click here.
Read Delmore Schwartz’ review of Poetry and the Age, the book of criticism Jarrell refers to above, here.