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(But there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
I ’phoned Margaret from Madrid, a perfection connexion, which did much to enhance the sadness of the conversation, the apparent impossibility of ever managing anything, we; I don’t know, it’s still all the same, nothing has changed, and I upset her by calling, in high spirits because Madrid was so fine, and she was so splendid, and so unhappy. I don’t know; should I bother you with this? But it’s in my mind, a steady depressent.
Vamonos . . . it is not that I do not love you, but that your house is so far away.
Mujer.
Uno y uno, dos/ Dos y dos son tres . . . No sale la cuenta porque falta un chulumbes (that word is gypsy, I can’t spell it;)
I shall call you, as I said. It will take a little straightening up first. Fortunately I’ve along a good store of books, though they do, of course, present the temptation to read them. I liked the Argentine novel, and in spite of its shortness it stays with me. Thank you, thank you, unnumbered times, for everything. I shall try; it will take time.
I have a lot of messy notes, taken on the spot in Real Life, to go through before the ten-o’clock shout from Isabella, —Don Guillermo, a comer! heralds the evening oil treatment (how I shall always remember what came out of that roasted chicken.
love from the wounded surgeon,
W—
La Tani: or “Tani mi Tani,” a flamenco song about a young Gypsy bride. It was written ca. 1942 by Francisco Acosta (lyrics) and Gerardo Monreal (music), and is heard throughout R III.3.
La Cumparsita: “The Little Parade,” a tango composed by Uruguayan Geraldo Matos Rodríguez (1917).
But the faith [...] in the waiting: a line from part 3 of Eliot’s “East Coker.”
Uno y uno [...] chulumbes: lyrics from “La Tani”; as Sinisterra explains in R, “The bill [la cuenta] doesn’t come out right because there’s a kid missing. It [churumbel] means a kid” (813).
the wounded surgeon: from the first line of part 4 of “East Coker.”
To Edith Gaddis
Sevilla
12 Feb. 1951, Monday morning
dear Mother—
Things are certainly not as they were between Paris and New York. We are safely back to Spanish concepts of mail service and time. I had your card saying you were about to set off for Florida yesterday, and by now you must be almost back.
Did you have a letter from me giving this address (below) instead of consulate, and asking that you put the february money into N Y bank? I hope so, because I may have to cash it in Africa.
A telegram from Barney yesterday saying he and a man I met in London are setting off for a 4-week automobile trip through north Africa, to Tunis, and return—will pass through Sevilla, and could I join them. Of course one never knows how such projects as these work out—especially with Barney—but I telephoned him in London last night, and apparently they will be in Sevilla in about 10 days. I can’t really say whether I’ll go or not and probably won’t know until they appear here. And so if you’ll continue to write to this address until I tell you of something phantastically different. [...]
I had a letter from Atlantic Monthly, whom I’d written impatiently, saying that they planned to settle definitely on the piece on Friday (last), so I should know one way or the other fairly soon. If they should take it (oh lord, how that would save my life), I might have to ask you to look for a letter I wrote you some 3 months ago, mentioning parts of it that must be checked again.
Otherwise everything goes along quietly and cold here in Sevilla—and fairly wet these last few days. We were to go to a bullfight in a nearby town yesterday, but it rained all day, and still is this morning. This evening I am going to dinner with Eulalio at his house, since it is his saint’s day, celebrated here as we do birth days. But aside from that, there’s no big news from this place. [...]
I’m waiting now for Isabelle to bring a charcoal brazier in, so that I can warm my hands over it and get down to work. I’ll let you know about “Africa”—and I hope your Florida trip was a success. (Remarkable that Granga didn’t pile in?)
with love,
W.
To Edith Gaddis
Sevilla
17 feb 1951
dear Mother,
I just had your note re Atlantic Monthly, Player Pianos &c. I think that by now probably everybody’s had enough of the whole thing. And so I’m writing Morton that you’ll send along the excerpt (could you have it copied out?) and for him to either send payment to my account in NY or to you, that you could deposit it. I’m sorry it’s been such a chore all around. I must confess, this afternoon, to being somewhat disappointed in spite of myself, for I had let myself depend on a more favourable outcome, over all the time it’s taken. Well. Life is very long.
A wire from Barney this morning, saying he can’t make the African trip, but that the other fellow (David Tudor Pole) is leaving Monday, should be here toward the end of the week, and is depending on my going and being able to share the driving. The trip, I understand, will be from Tanger east to the frontier of Libya, and back. I see no reason now that I shall not go, if, that is (through three telegrams from London) I understand things fully. I should think, then, that we’ll leave here about the 23rd, though I’ll confirm by cable, that as I referred to in my last letter, simply the word SEND.
Hosts of unforeseen difficulties and disasters waiting, no doubt.
Love,
W.
David Tudor Pole: (1921–2000), son of British spiritualist Wellesley Tudor Pole (and father of musician/actor Edward Tudor-Pole), at that time employed in his father’s business of importing esparto grass from North Africa to Scottish paper mills.
To Edith Gaddis
Hotel Astoria
Murillo, 10
Tanger [Morocco]
25 feb. 1951
dear Mother,
Things are going quite quickly. We got over here last night and now have some visa difficulties about Spanish Morocco, but hope to be in Tripoli in 5 or 6 days. I trust you got my note asking that 100 dollars be cabled to NABIEF Algiers—address in Tripoli, for any mail—Uaddan Club, Tripoli (marked “hold until arrival”). This first part of the trip is quite rushed, but we plan to return with less haste, and within a few days I should be able to write you more at length. Many thanks in advance for cable.
love,
W.
To Edith Gaddis
Hôtel de l’Oasis
Alger [Algeria]
[28 February 1951]
dear Mother—
The draft arrived, and thank you so much for managing it so well and quickly—you can’t imagine how much such attention means.
The trip is coming on exceedingly well, though just now rather more rushed than I’d like, but we shall return more leisurely. Must be in Tripoli in 3 days—among other things, we are making some moving pictures.
Algiers is as excellent a place as I’d believed—and the casbah marvelous. I hope to spend more time here on return.
love,
W.
To Edith Gaddis
Uaddan Club
Tripoli [Libya]
5 March 1951
dear Mother—
Everything in order. At the Uaddan Club in Tripoli (a uaddan is an African animal resembles a Rocky mountain goat). For these few days things are quiet, with Mr Tudor-Pole taking care of some private concerns, and I spend the time going around the city—exciting in its old Arab part, but quite Italian for the rest. Wednesday I believe we are going to get hold of a couple of camels and go to an Arab town far enough from beaten track to make the car impossible. By the weekend we should be startling back, but this time more slowly, and a more southernly route, along the edge of the desert—it is that part of Africa that I look forward to, needless to say. Finally, we should be back in Sevilla by Easter Sunday.
Some of all this time and energy is devoted to a 35mm. motion picture camera, making background shots for
a documentary film—quite a business, trying to photograph an Arab with a camel train in the desert who isn’t quite sure what you’re up to. Otherwise it proves a quiet and fairly uneventuful trip—the desert. The camels, and Aunt Mabel’s burnoose 1000 times. [...]
with love,
W.
To Edith Gaddis
[Though WG apologizes below for not saying much about his month in North Africa, the experience resulted in an exotic passage on pp. 877–79 of R—not the kind of things one writes home about to mother.]
Algiers, North Africa
23.3.1951
dear Mother—
Arrived here last night, and very happy to find your letter. Apparently the confusion is my fault—but I was certain (and am) that I’d sent you the address in Tripoli before I left Spain.
At any rate now all rests easier. It has been an excellent trip, and I think that by now we’ve finished work on this documentary film which was the reason for it. Shall spend 3 or 4 days in Algiers, and I should be back in Spain by the end of the month. From there shall start figuring on coming home—either mid-April or beginning of May. Much depending on money.
I’ve just written Morton—Atlantic Monthly—to ask him to keep any “biographical note” as brief as possible—born in N.Y. in 1922, educated mainly in New England—mention this African film if he likes. In other things pending, I’ll hope for answers to questions in my last letter (my bank balance, your cable address, &c) in Sevilla.
As yet I haven’t much to say about North Africa—I am still too occupied sorting out the impressions I’ve had and as yet been unable to put in place. But for the moment Algiers is a fine city, worth spending a few days in certainly—though they say that people still get hit over the head at night in the Casbah. Not as warm here as it was—though coming as we have just up from the south, Biskra and Bou-Saâda, near the edge of the Sahara, it would seem cool. We have sand everywhere—the car coated and lined with it, and clothes pretty saturated, and eyes and lungs. But a clean shirt makes a great difference.
love,
W.
To Edith Gaddis
Sevilla
[3 April 1951]
dear Mother,
Safe at last, the harbour past . . . and coming back to Sevilla by now is much like coming home. But of coming home—well, you’ve got to take me in.
How glad I was to find your good letters (real Letters) from you waiting for me here. And I have put you through all sorts of difficulties there, and I’m sorry about it, I only realise what troubles you’ve been having when I read of your hectic businesses with American Express and West Union &c. Certainly alot was thrown off by your not having my Tripoli address, as we were there for two weeks (there and in the mountain beyond) working on this film which took more time than planned, so we’re late getting back here to Sevilla. David only stayed over for a day, then went on back to London, or rather set out for London, last evening. The trip and the work there were immensely worth while, in spite of having made this temporal dent in my ‘own’ work. As for that, the prospect of getting back into it, while at the same time trying to make arrangements to come back across that Atlantic, are rather involved, I’m still trying to work it out.
This is what I have in mind, though as yet I don’t know about a port for departure; but I’d think within about 3 weeks I should hope to be boarding something, in a western direction.
I don’t know if there is enough of this novel finished as I want it to be finished to show there in New York with any hope of ($al) encouragement. But I intend anyhow, when I return, to start immediately investigating the USIS, the American propaganda bureau, what Bill Haygood is working with in Madrid, for possibilities. I’ve had this in mind for some time, and on this trip have talked with a number of people about it. Just now I’ve also talked with it here, am to meet him for coffee later. And so, I’ve those two possibilities. Heaven knows, I’d like to come back and settle down to work again there in Massapequa, while this other thing is working out, if it will work out.
The money business on the trip worked out, because David’s company had blocked money in these countries we working in, and so I drew on that, through him, and trust that you’ve had my letter asking for 130$ to be sent to him in Paris American Express. Therefore the rest of the money which is floating or flying somewhere between me and you now, should eventually come to rest here. How good you are to offer me passage home. And I think I shall have to borrow some from you, though heaven knows if it could be managed how much I’d rather work my way back. But that seems about gone, those days, with Wim Boni on the cattle boat. Still I’m going to investigate. But the peril is getting into some big port, and wasting as much time and money, in Lisbon, say, waiting for a likely boat with an empty deck-hand’s berth, as it would cost to simply go down and buy a passage.
To tell the truth, I’m quite nervous at the prospect of coming back. When I returned to Sevilla there were 20letters waiting here for me, and each pointing to a world of rankest confusion. But I must come back, notably for Margaret, really, that most exquisite and wonderful girl. And also, to tell the truth, I think prospects look good, though it is easier said from this place than accomplished in that one. (Incidentally I told American Express in Algiers to forward to me here immediately the 100$ which hadn’t reached there before I left.)
Believe me, I thought about you and Margaret on Easter [25 March], —I’d never have thought—or perhaps I would—as we stood in Notre Dame, in Paris, that in the next Easter I should be walking through the raucous bazaars in Algier’s Casbah, spending the evening leaning over the baccarat tables at the casino (hastening to add here that I did not play nor lose even 100francs). So there is North Africa, accomplished for the moment. Cairo still distant . . . it is a long way off you know. From anywhere.
with my love
W
Safe at last: from the chorus of a nineteenth-century temperance song called “Anchored!” (1883; lyrics by Samuel K. Cowan, music by Michael Watson): “Then safe at last, the harbour past, / Safe in my Father’s home!”
home [...] take me in: another allusion to Frost’s dictum, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, / They have to take you in.”
this film: described later as a “documentary film on the background of fine-paper making” (8 March 1957).
USIS: U.S. Information Service
Wim Boni: unidentified.
To John and Pauline Napper
[While he was north Africa, WG mailed several picture postcards to the Nappers.]
Sevilla
5 april 1951
dear John and Pauline,
Have you been troubled by dancing girls and camels in the mail? Well, it will all be explained presently, I trust, if David Tudor Pole gets back to London alive. He left here headed vaguely in that direction.
The truth is, we have just escaped from Africa. Or, to go further back, he showed up here one day in late february bound for Libya in an Austin, and two hours later I had assembled what there was of myself at hand and we were gone. Unfortunately I can’t immediately give you my picture of Africa, still trying, here now, to sort it out for myself . . . the girl with the safety-pin in her ear in Bou Saada, the broken truck spring and tea in the Zintan pharmacy, the sick arab in the back seat and Saturday night in Sfax, the subterranean lunch with the sheik of Nalut, the Sudaness who served cognac as a beveridge with supper, and the Berber friend in Fes who shared his highly suspicious pipe, the Foreign Legion at Sidi-Bel-Abbes, the bacarrat table in the casino at Algiers, and Easter in the Casbah, the expensive beer-drinking party in Biskra, the twenty-some seat gentlemen’s lavatory at Leptis Magna . . . all this, and so much more.
I have never before realised how fond I am of Sevilla. And to have your letter waiting here, with questions about P. Sta Maria, was delightful; because only hours before, driving up from Cadiz, I had said I wanted to stop and look around at Sta Maria, which we did. I shan’t try to describe it here, because I’ve
asked David to look you up and deliver something, also to give you at first hand his description. It is a larger town than one would think at first look, and has always had a substantial English colony, largely because of the distilleries. It is different from Sevilla largely in that most of it seems to have been planned and laid out, with streets crossing at unsympathetic right-angles, not the haphazard maze that happened here. But I understand that the English colony has greatly dwindled at Sta Maria since the war, which (no offense) recommends it. I shall try to get hold of some post card pictures here, if any are available.
As I should have said first off, how splendid for you that the 1000gns is assured! That is one of the best pieces of news in another’s life I have heard in so long. For you cannot imagine the letters which were waiting here when I got back, all I believe except yours reflexions of disaster, most especially those from the US. And now for the most distressing, and absurd piece of news from me, simply that I am going to New York in about a month. Absurd; and if you could see Sevilla now you would understand; it is the most wonderful place I have encountered, and really sitting here with the rush curtain drawn down over my balcony, and the rattling of a bottle-cart on the paving stones below, the notion of Manhattan is an absolutely insane one. But I must go back, at least as we say here, years of living among the breakage, and those strained time-ridden faces distressed from distraction by distraction . . . I don’t know. But I’d hope to settle once for all.
Incidentally, did you ever receive 8 packets of Ideales sent from here in February? and 8 packets of Bastos Flor Fina sent from Algiers? Well, shoulder the sky, my lad, and pass the can (Malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man). How I wanted to send you a ham from here, but they were beyond me.