Sinclair Lewis: A Postscript

by DOROTHY THOMPSON

DEAR PROFESSOR MILLER:—
May I express my appreciation of your penetrating and appreciative study of Sinclair Lewis in the current Atlantic — the more so because, as you observed, so many of the earlier articles utterly (it seemed to me) missed the point of his work and personality?
I think one of the most tragic facets of his nature was his disbelief in his own capacity to evoke love from others. He hurt others, very often out of this frustration. He was, unquestionably, one of the most “difficult” human beings who ever lived. But it was impossible ever to be really angry with him, because, in his case, the old parental saw was really true, “This hurts me more than it does you.” He was incorruptible!
I recall that, early in the Nazi regime, Klaus Mann (son of Thomas) started publishing in exile (as I remember, from Amsterdam) an émigré monthly. He wrote Sinclair Lewis describing the paper as a vehicle for young exiled German writers, and asking S.L. to allow his name to be used on the masthead as a “contributing editor.” Red refused on the ground that he was not “a young German writer,” was unwilling to sponsor a publication which he would be unable to follow, and believed that publications should stand honestly on their own feet. Klaus Mann, however, came out with the first issue before waiting for Red’s answer, with his name on the masthead — a fact which was first called to Red’s attention by a cabled protest from his German publisher, Ernst Rowohlt. Red’s books were still selling extremely well in Germany, and Rowohlt cabled him that the Mann publication was a “disgusting émigré sheet” and that his continued association with it would lead to the suppression of his books in Germany.
Now, it would have been simple and truthful for Red to have replied that Mr. Mann had used his name without his consent and despite his refusal — and Nazis or not, Red, as you know, wanted his books read. Actually, also, he was thoroughly annoyed with Klaus Mann. But his immediate reaction was that his relations with young Mann and his publication were none of Rowohlt’s (or the Third Reich’s) business! He cabled Rowohlt: —

DEAR ERNST HAVE YOU GONE CRAZY QUESTION MARK DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I WILL LET YOU OR YOUR GOVERNMENT OR ANY OTHER GOVERNMENT TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD WRITE OR WHERE I SHOULD PUBLISH

Now, Ernst Rowohlt (as his record has shown) is no tower of civil courage. But, right from the heart of Nazi Germany, he cabled back: —

THANK GOD THERE ARE STILL SOME MEN AMONG WRITERS

Red, I later heard (from Rowohlt), was the only writer among those whose names had been exploited on the Mann masthead, and whose works were still published in Germany, who did not yield under similar pressures from their own German publishers. And actually Red’s books went on being published and circulated until he wrote It Cant Happen Here.
His hunger for “culture” was really deeply moving. Like most writers he was a poor linguist. But there is something wholly admirable in his determination to learn Italian at the age of sixty. Until he was over fifty he had no interest whatever in music. Suddenly he “discovered” it, and thereafter, for years, the phonograph was playing the classics five or six hours a day — sometimes it could be maddening! He hated all games, until in his late middle age he determined to master chess. (This was after our separation, and I don’t know what kind of chess player he became.)
But the fanaticism you noted extended to everything. He never did anything for fun. He was a peripatetic self-improvement association — dragging his intimates with him, too, and insisting they share his earnest efforts, often until their nerves were screaming in rebellion!
He was, essentially, a terrific puritan — a legitimate descendant of that earliest recorded ancestor, one John Lewis, who arrived in America around 1680. Although he threw much money around (and was often shamefully exploited) he insisted that every bill be paid within ten days after its presentation. I am, myself, regarded as an excellent “credit risk,” but when he once found out that I was accustomed (by arrangement with one or two department store’s) to spacing payments of large bills (for instance, for a winter or spring wardrobe) over a few months, he berated me furiously. “It’s simply stealing!” he declared. An unpaid debt was a felony, if not a crime! He was formidably upright, though without the slightest religious instinct, which, of itself, would account for that really awful book The God-seeker. He was too stiffnecked to kneel — a fault, I think, of the Protestant spirit.
Despite all his rovings, he remained to the end, essentially, a small-town boy. I was deeply moved to learn that he had left instructions that his ashes were to be interred in Sauk Center, beside the grave of his father — that stern and crotchety man whom Red, with all his fame, had never managed really to impress. To explode, however, the sentimental note at once, my son (and his), who attended the service, described it so vividly that we were both, for a few minutes, helpless with laughter, as — if one may imagine Red’s ironic ghost hovering over the scene — he would surely have been! For he could have claimed to have written the script himself, in chuckling satire.
And, though reverently welcoming home to his last rest its most distinguished son, Main Street still had the last word. He left instructions that, nothing of a religious nature was to occur in connection with his funeral. But, standing in a blizzard by the grave, the citizenry of Sauk Center recited in unison the Lord’s Prayer. Famous son or not, they knew better than he what was befitting! And, again, knowing Red, I think that chuckling (or cackling) ghost aloft would, at that moment, have angrily and scornfully brushed away a tear.
I had not meant to write at such length. But expressing my appreciation of your article has afforded me relief.
Sincerely,
DOROTHY THOMPSON