B007RT1UH4 EBOK (33 page)

The note from M—Williams was sweet. I surely hope to see her, if I can get up to Paris. A letter from Jacob suggests we spend part of his 2month summer vacation on “a remote beach somewhere in Normandy or Brittany,” which sounds splendid. As I said, the news of Th. Spenser
and
Jim Osborne, together, “hit me right where I live”—

I trust you have got the note concerning my request that you call Don Congdon (CI6 3457) to ask if he received what I sent him. I am still uncertain about mails. And that is very important to me.

I shall write again soon enough, to let you know how the plan for brief retirement works out, and of any address change. —Oh yes. Your questions: my skin is fine—And though recently I had the grippe am all right now.

Love

Bill

Old Grunter: their dog.

Th. Spenser
and
Jim Osborne: both WG’s Harvard professor
and
this high-school friend died in 1949.

To Edith Gaddis

Monasterio Real de Guadalupe

Estremadura

10 March 49

dear Mother.

I write you from the Franciscan monastery of Guadalupe, in the mountainous country about half way between Madrid and the Portuguese border—a fantastic thing finished in the 14th century, appearing like a great fortified castle, with the medieval village grown up outside its walls, and towers like these: [
drawings
] &c.—indeed, except for a very few electric lights, and one or 2 trucks and buses, it is hard to say what has changed since 1500. (This letter will probably not be mailed for another week, when I return to Madrid.) And though I came as a guest, I expected to find something resembling a cell, and a harsh life—instead it is for me rather like a large cold country inn, my room overlooking the central square, where the women come to fill jugs at the fountain, and horses, oxen, cattle come to drink. The room is large, with brick floor and the well-blanketed bed set in a curtained alcove. The food nothing splendid, but very good for Spain.

This evening a long walk into the countryside, after rain—the first rain Spain has had in some time—among the olive trees, looking back on the village and listening to the peaceful country sounds of evening—someone chopping kindling, the bells of sheep, goats, cattle, the murmur of voices; and clouds just lifting along the mountainsides—great tranquility.

Lunch with a Franciscan father, and because of the cold we sat vis-a-vis at a round table with a brazier underneath, and floor-length cloth, which kept the warmth in around our feet and legs—a wonderful idea for the studio in autumn! In fact, as I often do, when far away, I have had many thoughts of the studio—wanting to
do
things to it. It may all sound foolish, considering that I spent
all
of last summer there and did
nothing
—but it was a summer of discontent which I hope and believe this trip, if sufficiently extended, will dispell. But such thoughts as this—after the white-painting is done—to buy enough straw mats (in Chinatown they sell them) to cover that Navajo rug—stitch them together and stitch around the edge of the rug—it would be a much cleaner, and more plain surface, which that room needs to accentuate its proportions—it is a room that should not be littered with small unsympathetic designs. Oh, the things one sees to buy, of course. I do want to get a pair of large wrought iron candlesticks for the fireplace. And I saw a beautiful lock—locks in Spain are quite fancy—and businesslike—this one with a key like this—[
drawing
]—well anyhow the number ‘3’ goes into the lock, whose opening is a number 3, quite handsome. And of course the ceramic ware, everywhere—especially the antiques in places like this. And so forth.

And so often I am angry with myself at being a remittance man, and wish I had worked hard since 1945 at getting money together to
do
this all—but then I would not have done the things I have done, and would probably be still working in N Y, having saved 300$, and married to some girl as dull as myself. And so I am really
very
fortunate to be doing the things I am doing—and do not complain—it is just that I wonder if I could have done it all better, as I suppose we must always wonder about all things. So do not misunderstand—I am not complaining for an instant about lack of money, it is only to myself that I complain, or question. But you know, what I want—first I guess is to be happy with my work, and if that can be writing so much the better—but then the idea of being happily married, in the studio of a summer is the nicest. (And so your mention of houses being built on all sides is awful, nauseating—) —But never again to spend another summer of inactivity like the last one—though it
was
necessary. A good Franciscan here has told me a lesson—one I knew, but have never
known
—to
do
what you are
doing
. And so go my, and the world’s, well-intentioned resolutions. But the studio should be a warm happy place, with wine at dinner, and music—it has been, and will be.

Always wine with meals here in Spain. Though the food is dull and not seasoned—many beans, fish, innominate bits of meat, tortillas—that is an omelette, often made with potatoes, which is filling. But I must carry pepper in my pocket if I want to liven things up. And so come the dreams at night—of food—on L I in the summer. Oh dear—will it ever come out even?

I hope to have my typewriter back before another letter—it is being fixed in Madrid. Then I think, by the time you get this letter, I shall be in Valencia, and on my way south, to see more of Spain before it is all over.

with love,

W.

Franciscan monastery of Guadalupe: the Real Monasterio de Guadalupe. In
R
it is called the Real Monasterio de Nuestra Señora de la Otra Vez, which both Rev. Gwyon and Wyatt visit. central square [...] jugs at the fountain: many of these details went into
R,
specifically III.5. summer of discontent: a play on Shakespeare’s “winter of our discontent” (
Richard III
, 1.1.1).

To Edith Gaddis

Valencia, Spain

21 March 1949

dear Mother,

As you see, I have the machine back, and marvellously cleaned and refurbished, thank heavens, ready to work if its master can.

At the moment I am in Valencia, a town I like a great deal, though plan to leave it tomorrow for Sevilla, in a nightmare 29hour trainride, not first-class either. The weekend has been fine; the ‘Fallas’, which is Valencia celebrating the arrival of spring—in every plaza, and there are many, a great statue affair is erected, cardboard sort of stuff on wood frames, representing aspects of current life which the people consider untoward, high price of food, dead state of art & letters (though of course those things they feel heaviest cannot be represented . . .); these things range 30 to 40 feet high, and include figures of people, ships, houses, anything; then the great night they set off explosives and burn the whole thing; insane, and Spanish. And the bullfight on Saturday was a very good showing. Now Bill has gone back to Madrid, and I recommence my peanuts-and-bread-and-oranges-in-the-pocket existence. No, it is I who have managed badly, and quite consistently so; so that it is my own fault if I must now sit on board seats for 29hours instead of stepping onto an aeroplane. And you say, what is right? what is best? let me know . . . Lord, I sometimes think robbing a bank sounds like an entirely reasonable gesture. One does make out; but often enough making out is little different than it might be in a town in Kansas. One may say, why don’t you get a job (enough do), but working in Madrid would be working in New York in Chicago in Emporia Zenith—no, as Walker Evans said, to not stay in one place but move around. And thank God now I am out of Madrid, for better or worse but out. I do think of people who could and would manage things quietly and well in my circumstances; which is maddening; the bad thing is to fall behind, and when the remittance appears to have to pay for what is past, and not have it for what is ahead; that is where I have messed things up; how we all cry out for a fresh start, spiritually, financially, sartorically—and the promises made, the resolutions. Well, I shall have about 50$ to go on until the next, and think I can manage, as one does in any circumstance. Dammit, I do want to settle down to respectable and gainly livelihood, but not to see Spain while in Spain is preposterous.

A remarkably wonderful letter from Barney Emmart, in London, to say that in a few days he is leaving northern France and cycling down to the Spanish border, plans to be in Spain for two or three weeks! If things do not get confused I hope to meet him in Sevilla around the beginning of April; and am of course quite excited about it, seeing a friend again. One imagines the things that might go wrong, I picture us both on the same train, having missed each other at one place, and riding hundreds of kilometres but never meeting because he is in 1st class and I in a 3rd class carriage . . . well. [...]

A very nice letter from Miss Williams, who is now in Nice and liking it all very much, tells me to come up if I am still sick (which I am not) and relax with them on the Mediterranean shore. Though no; at the moment I am too disgusted with myself for any company but one like Barney, who also spends time being disgusted with himself, pretending he weighs 300 pounds, similar productive pastimes.

When I came back from the monastery I had a note to call a Baroness Borchgrasse, she sounds like a real bloody fascist on the ’phone, had had a note from a friend (I suppose Mrs Fromkes) saying you were worried; and you know I am sorry for that; I had not realised too much time had passed since writing you; and I guess the flu would have gone away sooner under a doctor. [...]

I have three grey hairs. In front.

And so, quietly,

with love,

Bill