Author: David Spiech Page 6 of 283

To Rosamond Thomas Bennett Sturgis
Via Santo Stefano Rotondo, 6
Rome. January 7, 1948

Your astonishing flowers came on Christmas eve, and for a moment seeing such profusion of roses and double carnations, I thought of sending them to the Chapel, where they would have on their five altars that night and the next morning a long series of Masses; for each priest on that occasion says three. But on second thoughts I selfishly kept them for my own decoration, because if I had sent them to the Chapel the whole Community would have begun to whisper that I was converted at last and they would have spread all sorts of rumours, which might even have got into The Rome Daily American, where one of the editors is a friend of mine, and thence would have flooded America with proofs that my wits were turned, and my whole philosophy invalidated as being that of a Jesuit in Disguise. Whether these fears were grounded or not, I can’t say; but the flowers meantime made a great show in my small room, and some of them lasted in good condition until New Year’s.

The box with mayonnaise, marmalade coffee, raisin buiscuits, glycerine soap, etc., has arrived also, and will be duly appreciated as the contents reappear gradually from Sister Angela’s pantry. But as I think I have written before, you mustn’t feel obliged to keep me in stock of all these things, because if I am really short of anything I can now order it, through an arrangement with Mr Wheelock of Scribner’s, from the “Vendome” grocery in New York, who send me as it is a regular monthly parcel with tea, coffee, cocoa and buiscuits, and I see by a list of delicacies they have sent me that they can also provide “bitter-sweet orange marmelade,” which is precisely the sort of “jam” that I prefer. However, I don’t mean to discourage your good habits; and if at any time you feel like sending me something there is a small but precious thing that I can’t yet get here again namely “Vapex,” which gives me pleasure and apparent relief whenever my catarrh threatens to become a cold in the head. Ordinarily my nose and eyes are quite dry, and it is only from the throat that I have to clear away the nasty sticky stuff. My doctor gives me preventive injections and a syrup called Bronchiolina which brings relief, although not immediately. But innocent girlish Vapex is an immediate help, and pleasanter than any scent I know of.

From The Letters of George Santayana:  Book Eight, 1948-1952.  Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2008.
Location of manuscript: The Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge MA.

To Daniel MacGhie Cory
Rome. January 5, 1939

Yesterday evening I had a visit from—Ezra Pound!

He is taller, younger, better-looking than I expected. Reminded me of several old friends (young, when I knew them) who were spasmodic rebels, but decent by tradition, emulators of Thoreau, full of scraps of culture but lost, lost, lost in the intellectual world. He talked rather little (my fault, and that of my deaf ear, that makes me not like listening when I am not sure what has been said), and he made no breaks, such as he indulges in in print. Was he afraid of me? How odd! Such a dare-devil as he poses as! I had just been reading his article, and the one about him, in the Criterion, so that I felt no chasm between us—“us” being my sensation of myself and my idea of him . . .

His beard is like a painter’s and his head of hair (is it a wig?) like a musician’s. On the whole, we got on very well, but nothing was said except commonplaces.

From The Letters of George Santayana:  Book Six, 1937-1940.  Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2004.
Location of manuscript: Butler Library, Columbia University, New York NY.

To Charles Augustus Strong
New York Hotel
Nice, France. January 3, 1923

Dear Strong,

Good weather seems to be returning after the wintry storms of the last fortnight, and I have now entirely recovered from my cough. The attack was not in itself so bad—not involving so much actual catarrh—as on some previous occasions, but it seemed to shake me more and to be so fatiguing that I called the doctor. . . . He said that I had a slight congestion of the lungs—légère pouscée pulmonaire—and that my heart was larger than it ought to be. For the latter he ordered some minute pills of a drug called “strophantus,” which is evidently the sort of “dope” which attracts the opium-eaters. . . . Anyhow, I seem to have completely recovered: but it is a warning that I am not so sound as I had supposed, and that the machine may behave any day, if I am not careful, like Dr Holmes’s one horse shay.

As you may imagine, I haven’t been making progress with the book; but perhaps by virtue of the strophantus my fancy has been working magnificently and I was never more entertained than during this enforced leisure. The result is that—yielding to force majeure—I have written (in pencil) the four last chapters of the novel, solving the problem of the dénoument in a way which I think satisfactory, and incidentally creating two delightful children, a boy of four and a girl of ten. The novel is not complete yet, and many episodes might be worked up to fill the gaps: but the outline is there, and I think it may not prove a bad thing for the Realms to have that more interesting matter practically disposed of. I hope you are progressing favourably; when you come here in February you will find the place very bright and gay.

Yours ever, G.S.

From The Letters of George Santayana:  Book Three, 1921-1927.  Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2002.
Location of manuscript: Rockefeller Archive Center, Sleepy Hollow NY.