101 - Edward Gordon CRAIG (1872–1966)

Edward Gordon CRAIG (1872–1966) A significant collection of about thirty handwritten letters and 15 postcards in English, addressed to Jurgis Kasimirovitch Baltruchaïtis (1873–1944), written between 1910 and 1914, but undated. The letters discuss his founding of a school in England with an international committee, as well as his Hamlet project with Stanislavski. During those years, the entire Craig and Baltruchaïtis families knew one another and met regularly in Switzerland and Italy. Craig also traveled to Germany, Russia, and France. -"Dear signor, I am very sorry to hear about Tarasof. It is extraordinary—so strange—so strange, so natural. I do not understand those things. But I understand your having been here, the great pleasure it gave me, which I cannot express properly.” Nikolai Lazarevich Tarassov (1882–1910) died in 1910. -"A young English diplomat is coming to Moscow with me. He speaks Russian, and he is doing everything he can to establish a school. He is very young, a very good and gentlemanly man, and very tactful. I think he will write the article on Hamlet for *The Times*. I’ll send you a telegram when I arrive (...) My books, papers, and letters are all packed away. That’s why I can’t answer your questions. Give my regards to Mr. Blackmann, Mr. and Mrs. Stanislavsky, Kalschalof and Mosquin, Madame Kniffer, and your family—a warm Italian greeting.” -"My dear B. It may be that I’ll be able to make it to Paris while you’re there. But I have an exhibition of 250 designs and 12 models in Manchester—at the Corporation Art Gallery—from November 11 through December 25; and I have to visit Liverpool and Stratford-upon-Avon soon. I have received the copy of the Russian edition of the book. I will write to thank your wife. It is very difficult—nerve-wracking work for me right now—and the people I work with make it more difficult, not easier. To find MEN and WOMEN. That is the secret. How rare they are. One looks for gods—people of order—and not even human beings can be found. I’m angry to hear that you have to do some stupid, mechanical work just to make money. My new book comes out in 30 days, and I’ll send you a special copy. It’s not good, but you’ll say it is—and that’s the equivalent of 60 strong coffees. My dear B, I don’t know if you realize how much I think of you and how often we speak your name.” -"You didn’t send me the promised letter to be read at the dinner. I was a success. - I have a book coming out, illustrated. - I have an exhibition here in September and another in the spring of 1912, God willing. - And possibly a book on ‘Hamlet.’ - And I am to write an article for the *Daily Mail*—a bad, wicked newspaper (drawing of a small demon)—but a major one with a large readership and another for the *S* Review. May I send you both? I’m afraid to disturb you where you are—physically, mentally, and morally. (...) I think you might prefer not to be disturbed. I often used to feel that way. I, who have to work amid noise, dust, and devils, won’t let you do so. What about Yeats? I saw him last week, and he said, “Tell your friend to do as he pleases, and that the agents—Mr. Watt, in particular—were merely the formal part of the nonsense. I spoke at length about you and explained! He really is a dear fellow.” -“When I see and think of you, my dear B.? I think and see only riches. Growing ever richer, heavy with enough richness to tip the scales and appall even Fate herself. —I noticed it’s been so long without a word from you. Even though I was extremely busy. I hope the next ‘mask’ will please you. Let me hear. And your poems? Why can’t I write poems too? This is sorrow. For I would find my heart lighter if only I could speak!—Cray!—Boom! For even I have a heart; I’m beginning to realize this through a feeling of thirst and a tight waistcoat. -Dearest B. Your English is splendid! It is more than correct— alas, soon it will be flawless—then, what a loss for me. I, who love that strange language that struggles through the mist. -I think Stanislavsky and Souler (cf. Sulerjitsky) are two people I can trust. One is the master and the other is his assistant, but both have warm hearts, if not wonderfully quick and delicate minds. Stanislavsky should have persuaded me to stay in Moscow for three or four more months to do the Hamlet work myself. That is the artist’s way. But he wants to do some of the work himself. He was always like that—and it is very natural, if rather childish. Last night I had a little epiphany. I believe I’ve found the subject for my play. I believe I saw its entire structure clearly defined. This is a play that will be eternally popular and eternally mysterious. I was excited. I found answers to all the questions of my life and resolved all my doubts. It is beautiful. Man plays one part in it, and God plays the other. If I can get a few months to work on it and get it into its initial draft, everything will be fine. I send you my warmest regards, EGC, and please don’t drink too much coffee, I beg you. -"You know, I’ve had to meet with 100 people myself and give each one half an hour of my time. Everything’s fine. But if only I could have (1) more money. (2) more