Out of the Attic

Occasionally a literary biography will appear that is more interesting than any of its subject’s books. I imagine Ferber may be one of these—mainly because of the character of Ferber herself, an imperious, shrewd, and lovable woman; partly because of the skill of her great-niece, Julie Goldsmith Gilbert, who has expanded her fond memories of Aunt Edna into a full-scale portrait and has done the job with grace and charm. Miss Gilbert has worked her way backward, from the old lady who ruled the family at Sunday-night dinners at the Passy restaurant in New York, to the girl who squirmed her way out of Appleton, Wisconsin into newspaper work and almost half a century of eminence, writing short stories, novels, and plays in Chicago and New York. This method of biographical writing is eccentric (though not perverse); I would not recommend it to biographers generally, and I am not convinced of its success here. It is clear, however, that the early years interest Miss Gilbert least, and with good reason: we can collect stories of small-town, turn-of-the-century girlhood elsewhere. “Applying the phrase ‘When she was four’ to Edna Ferber seems puerile and a waste of time. Besides, I’m sure she was four very quickly in her eagerness to get on with it.”

The biography appears at an opportune time; ten years after her death, Ferber’s books are burdened with dust. I uncovered an old copy of American Beauty a few years ago in my grandparents’ attic. I had previously been aware of the name of Edna Ferber, probably through its association with the musical Show Boat; but I no more thought of reading her than I thought of learning to dance the Charleston. At least my grandmother could have helped me with the dance, but I would have had to sit with Ferber alone. Now I am giving the old lady a second thought, which might lead me to a first look. I am sure that there are others like me, and we have Miss Gilbert to thank.

MR

About the Author

Mitchell S. Ross

Occasionally a literary biography will appear that is more interesting than any of its subject’s books. I imagine Ferber may be one of these—mainly because of the character of Ferber herself, an imperious, shrewd, and lovable woman; partly because of the skill of her great-niece, Julie Goldsmith Gilbert, who has expanded her fond memories of Aunt Edna into a full-scale portrait and has done the job with grace and charm. Miss Gilbert has worked her way backward, from the old lady who ruled the family at Sunday-night dinners at the Passy restaurant in New York, to the girl who squirmed her way out of Appleton, Wisconsin into newspaper work and almost half a century of eminence, writing short stories, novels, and plays in Chicago and New York. This method of biographical writing is eccentric (though not perverse); I would not recommend it to biographers generally, and I am not convinced of its success here. It is clear, however, that the early years interest Miss Gilbert least, and with good reason: we can collect stories of small-town, turn-of-the-century girlhood elsewhere. “Applying the phrase ‘When she was four’ to Edna Ferber seems puerile and a waste of time. Besides, I’m sure she was four very quickly in her eagerness to get on with it.”

The biography appears at an opportune time; ten years after her death, Ferber’s books are burdened with dust. I uncovered an old copy of American Beauty a few years ago in my grandparents’ attic. I had previously been aware of the name of Edna Ferber, probably through its association with the musical Show Boat; but I no more thought of reading her than I thought of learning to dance the Charleston. At least my grandmother could have helped me with the dance, but I would have had to sit with Ferber alone. Now I am giving the old lady a second thought, which might lead me to a first look. I am sure that there are others like me, and we have Miss Gilbert to thank.