The tablecloth Else shall have for Christmas; the bag is ideal. All is spread out on the table before me and I do nothing but look and enjoy it all day! So much love in it all! I feel it so deeply and gratefully. May it shine into your own lives your thoughts of the old mother. I am looking forward to Else's coming back - how she will open her eyes.
I hope you are really comfortable somewhere and have good news of the horses and the ranch. The parcel has taken five weeks but all arrived safely. I hope you found my letters in Mexico. I can't thank you enough. I have not enjoyed anything so much for a long time and must always have another look at the cabin.
All luck to you - keep well.
With all my heart, your happy Mother
(Translated from the German)
Pel Monte Ranch Questa, New Mexico 15 April 1925
My dear Mother-in-Law:
Today came your two letters. So you went up the Merkur. Yes, you are younger than I am.
We have been at the ranch a week already. We found all well and safe, nothing broken, nothing destroyed. Only the mice found Mabel's chair and ate the wool.
In the second house we have two young Indians, Trinidad and Rufina, husband and wife. Rufina is short and fat, waddles like a duck in high, white Indian boots - Trinidad is like a girl, with his two plaits. Both are nice, don't sweat over their work, but do what we want. We still have the three horses but they are down with the Hawks, till the alfalfa and the grass have grown a bit.
We had three cold days - the wind can come ice-cold. I had a cold again. But now the weather is mild and warm, very beautiful, and spring in the air. All was washed very clean on the land, coming out of a yard of snow. Now the first anemones have come, built like crocuses but bigger and prouder, hairy on the brown-red earth under the pines. But everything is very dry again, the grass has hardly appeared, and yet it won't grow any higher. We hoped for rain or snow again.
Brett stays down on Del Monte, in a little house by herself, near the old Hawks. She wanted to come up here but Frieda said no. And so we are only two whites and two reds, or rather yellow-browns, on the ranch. Trinidad fetches milk and butter and eggs from Del Monte. I lie in the sun. Frieda is happy to be on her ranch. Friedel comes in May - writes very happily, very likely he will return to the Fatherland at the end of the summer. For September we also think to come to England and Germany. But the Lord's will be done. We bought a buggy and Trinidad will be coachman. I don't work this year, am cross that I was so ill. Mabel is still in New York, but Friday Tony came.
Tomorrow Frieda goes to Taos by car. We are nice and warm here and have all one needs.
Well that you have friends with you. I send you a little pin-money. Auf Wiedersehen.
D. H. L. (Translated from the German)
S.S. 'Resolute' 25 September 1925
Meine liebe Schwiegermutter:
This is the second day at sea - very nice, with blue running water and a fresh wind. I am quite glad to be out of that America for a time: it's so tough and wearing, with the iron springs poking out through the padding.
We shall be in England in five more days - I think we shall take a house by the sea for a while, so Frieda can have her children to stay with her. And I must go to my sisters and see their new house. And then we must hurry off to Baden-Baden, before winter sets in.
I don't feel myself very American: no, I am still European. It seems a long time since we heardfrom you -1 hope it's a nice autumn. In New York it was horrid, hot and sticky.
e Save me a few good Schwarzwald apples, and a bottle of Kirschwasser, and a few leaves on the trees, and a few alten Damen in the Stift to call me Herr Doktor when I'm not one, and a hand at whist with you and my kurzrockige Schwàgerin, and a Jubilaum in the Stiftskôniginkammer. The prodigal children come home, vom Schwein gibt's kein mehr, nur vom Kalb. à bientôt!
auf baldige Wiedersehen! hasta luego! till I see you!
D. H. L.
Going Back to Europe
At the end of the summer he became restless again and wanted to go to Europe. To the Mediterranean he wished to go. So on the coast, not far from Genoa, we found Spotorno, that Martin Seeker had told us was not overrun with foreigners. Under the ruined castle I saw a pink villa that had a friendly look and I wondered if we could have it. We found the peasant Giovanni who looked after it. Yes, he thought we could. It belonged to a Tenente dei Bersaglieri in Savona. We were staying at the little inn by the sea, when the bersaglieri asked for us. Lawrence went and returned. 'You must come and look at him, he is so smart.' So I went and found a figure in uniform with gay plumes and blue sash, as it was the Queen's birthday. We took the Bernarda and the tenente became a friend of ours. Lawrence taught him English on Sundays, but they never got very far.
My daughter Barbara, now grown up, was coming to stay with me. She was coming for the first time. I was beside myself with joy to have her. I had not waited in vain for so many years and longed for these children. But Lawrence did not share my joy. One day at our evening meal came the outburst: 'Don't you imagine your mother loves you,' he said to Barby; 'she doesn't love anybody, look at her false face.' And he flung half a glass of red wine in my face. Barby, who besides my mother and myself was the only one not to be scared of him, sprang up. 'My mother is too good for you,' she blazed at him, 'much too good; it's like pearls thrown to the swine.' Then we both began to cry. I went to my room offended.
'What happened after I went?' I asked Barby later on.
'I said to him: "Do you care for her?”
“It's indecent to ask," he answered; "haven't I just helped her with her rotten painting?"' Which again puzzled me because he would gladly help anybody. It did not seem a sign of love to me. Then my daughter Else came too. But evidently to counterbalance my show Lawrence had asked his sister Ada and a friend to come and stay, so there were hostile camps. Ada arrived and above me, in Lawrence's room with the balcony, I could hear him complaining to her about me. I could not hear the words but by the tone of their voices I knew.
His sister Ada felt he belonged to her and the past, the past with all its sad memories. Of course it had been necessary for him to get out of his past as I had, of equal necessity, to fight that past, though I liked Ada for herself.
Lawrence was ill with all this hostility. I was grieved for him. So one evening I went up to his room and he was so glad I came. I thought all was well between us. In the morning Ada and I had bitter words. 'I hate you from the bottom of my heart,' she told me. So another night I went up to Lawrence's room and found it locked and Ada had the key. It was the only time he had really hurt me; so I was quite still. 'Now I don't care,' I said to myself.
He went away with Ada and her friend, hoping at the last I would say some kind word, but I could not. Lawrence went to Capri to stay with the Brewsters.
But I was happy with the two children. The spring came with its almond blossoms and sprouting fig-trees. Barby rushed up the hills with her paint box, her long legs carrying her like a deer. We lay in the sun and I rejoiced in her youthful bloom. Then a picture arrived from Lawrence. There was Jonah on it, just going to be swallowed by the whale. Lawrence had written underneath: 'Who is going to swallow whom?'
But I was still angry.
Finally Lawrence came from Capri, wanting to be back. The children tried like wise elders to talk me round. 'Now Mrs L.' (so they called me) 'be reasonable, you have married him, now you must stick to him.'
So Lawrence came back. 'Make yourself look nice to meet him,' the. children said. We met him at the station all dressed up. Then we all four had peace. He was charming with Else and Barby, trying to help them live their difficult young lives. 'Else is not one of those to put the bed on fire, because there is a flea in it,' Lawrence said of her.
But for his sister Ada he never felt the same again.
Villa Bernarda Spotorno Prov. di Genova 16 December 1925
My dear Mother-in-Law:
Soon Christmas comes again: here the children have written 'nat
ale' on every door. But it isn't a great fact in Italy. I was in Savona today: but you can't buy much there, not much of interest. I bought figs and dates and raisins, these are good. Tomorrow we will make a parcel for you of such things, I hope you get it in time for Christmas.
We are having lovely weather here again. Yesterday it wanted to snow, but this morning no such thing, only beautiful sunshine. My publisher Martin Seeker is here, went to Savona with me. He is nice but not sparkling.
Now it is evening: we are sitting in the kitchen high under the roof. The evening star is white over the hill opposite, underneath the lights of the village lie like oranges and tangerines, little and shining. Frieda has devoured her whipped cream from Savona at one gulp, and now she moans that she hasn't kept any to eat with coffee and cake after supper. Now she sits by the stove and reads. The soup is boiling. In a moment we call down into the depth: 'Vieni, Giovanni, épronto il mangiare. ' Then the old man runs up the stairs like an unhappy frog, with his nose in the air, sniffing and smelling. It is nice for him to know that there is always something good for him to eat.
I am sending you a little money, you must always be the Duchess of the Stift. Be jolly.
D. H. L.
(Translated from the German)
Villa Bernarda Spotorno Riviera di Ponente Easter Sunday
My dear Mother-in-Law:
I am back. The three women were down at the station when arrived yesterday all dressed up festively, the women, not I. For the moment I am the Easter-lamb. When I went away, I was very cross, but one must be able to forget a lot and go on.
Frieda has a cold but Else and Barby have grown much stronger and Barby has painted one or two quite good pictures. I also feel much better, almost like in the past, only a little bronchitis. But they say, an Englishman at forty is almost always bronchial.
We don't know yet what we want to do. We leave this house on the twentieth and perhaps we'll go to Perugia between Florence and Rome, for six or eight weeks. I think I would like to write a book about Umbria and the Etruscans, half travel-book, also scientific. Perhaps I'll do this. Then we come to you in June when finally, in God's name, the weather is-fine. Here it's always grey and close, sirocco. I think it is boiling, but slowly comes the spring.
D. H. L.
(Translated from the German)
Villa Bernarda Spotorno Genoa 7 March 1926
Dear Else:
I got back here on Saturday, and found your letter. Frieda has a bad cold, but the two girls are very well. They are nice girls really, it is Frieda, who, in a sense, has made a bad use of them, as far as I am concerned.
Frieda thinks to bring them to Baden-Baden for a day or two, at the beginning of May. I shall stay in Florence presumably: and probably Frieda will come back there. I have an idea I might like to roam round in Umbria for a little while, and look at the Etruscan things, which interest me.
Thank you very much for offering us Irschenhausen. But I don't think now that I shall come to Germany till about July, so for heaven's sake, don't disappoint the young Ehepaar. I am leaving my plans quite indefinite. I sent you Knopfs Almanac, I thought it would amuse you. He was inspired to it by the Insel Ver lag Almanac... These copies must cost him three dollars each - and he just presents one to each of his authors. I also ordered you again 'The Plumed Serpent. '
I am glad you had a good time with Nusch - she is really very nice with me always. I am sorry she couldn't come here.
Will you go to the south of France with Alfred? I was at Monte Carlo and at Nice, but I couldn't stand it. I didn't like it at all. But it isn't expensive - pension at the Beau Séjour at Monaco was fifty francs. They say that Bormes, a little place off the railway, is very nice, with a very good hotel - not far from Toulon.
I shall be glad when this stupid and muddled winter is at last over. The weather is still very heavy and overcast, sirocco, not nice. It feels as if an earthquake were brewing somewhere.
We leave this house on the twentieth, presumably for Florence. I hope you'll have a good holiday. Remember me to Friedel, and ' Marianne. Brett is sailing for America, for the ranch, at the end of the month. Tante cose.
D. H. L.
Lawrence wanted to go further into the heart of Italy. The Etruscan tombs and remains interested him. But the ranch too called him.
However the idea of having to struggle with immigration officials, thinking of his tuberculosis, scared him. So he went to Florence, with Else and Barby. After a short time they went back to England.
Friends told us of a villa to let in the country about Florence. So we took a car and went out by the Porta Federicana through dreary suburban parts till we came to the end of the tramline.
It was April, the young beans were green and the wheat and the peas up, and we drove into the old Tuscan landscape, that perfect harmony of what nature did and man made. It is quite unspoiled there still. Beyond Scandicci we passed two cypresses and went to the left on a small, little used road. On the top of one of those Tuscan little hills stood a villa. My heart went out to it. I wanted that villa. It was rather large, but so perfectly placed, with a panorama of the Valdarno in front, Florence on the left, and the umbrella-pine woods behind.
'I do hope it is this one that's to let,' I said to Lawrence, and my wish was fulfilled; we could have the villa, we could live in the Mirenda. We were thrilled by the peasants who belonged to the podere... the Orsini, Bandelli, and Pini. The Orsini had a wild feud with the Bandelli. The Bandelli fascinated me; a loosely built, untamed father and easygoing mother, and two beautiful wild girls, Tosca and Lila, and three beautiful boys... My special favourite was Dino, who was so gently grey-eyed and angelic, but you knew perfectly well how he would laugh at you behind your back. So polite he was, carrying parcels for me, such exquisite manners at ten years old! Then I discovered that he looked very pale and ill at times and they told me that he had a rupture, and, with the brutality of boys, he told me the boys at school jeered at him for it. So I went with him to Doctor Giglioli in Florence and poor Dino was to have an operation. His sisters and I took him to the hospital, first decking him out with new shirts and vests. He was miserable, but chiefly miserable because they had put him among the women, him, a maschio. He was put to bed and, when we left him there, he crept under the sheets and shook with misery. Alas, next day, who appeared at home? Dino! He had crept about the place, seen a man under an anaesthetic, and fled. It was like putting a wild creature into a hospital. Then we persuaded him to go back, chiefly by telling him that, once operated, no one could laugh at him any more. So back he went, this time he had made up his mind. He was a plucky boy, and afterwards they told me at the hospital how they had never had a better, braver patient. It was a jolly hospital, this Florence one, so human and friendly, not at all prisonlike or too much white starch of nurses, white tiles, whitewash, white paint about, that one's very blood turns white. No, there your friends came to see you, everybody took a friendly interest in everybody else; well, such is life, here we are ever so ill, one day, then we get ever so well again, and then we die; 'Ah, signora, cost é la vita.' And after the operation Dino was a prouder and more important person than he had ever been in his life, with his chicken-broth and good foods, and his new vests and shirts and socks, and two hankies, and actually some eau de Cologne. And proudly he told his sisters, in superior knowledge, when they asked for the WC: 'There is a thing, and you pull, you must pull, see?' They not having seen such an arrangement before!
Then Dino came home and he brought me flowers and fruit and we were very fond of each other, although he never felt quite at ease with me.
Our servant was Giulia, from the Pini family. There was the Pini father, a zio, and a poor old zia, who had been buried in an earthquake and occasionally had fits, and pietro who also helped Giulia about the house, arriving each morning to feed the chickens and goats, and Stellina, the horse. Giulia had to cut the grass every day with a sickle to feed all the animals. In the morning she was barefoot and shabby, but in the
afternoon, when she heard a motorcar with visitors, she would appear at the Mirenda in high-heeled shoes and a huge bow in her hair. We loved Giulia. never was anything too much for her, gay and amusing and wise, she was.
For the first time, there near Florence, I got the Italian, especially the Tuscan, feel of things. In Florence, the ancient unbroken flower of a culture made its deep mark on me. The Misericordia, how deep it impressed me, the voluntary, immediate effort to help one's neighbour in distress. And when people pass it the youngest and the oldest take off their hats to it... To me this seems real culture... The Misericordia dates from the twelfth century and was founded by a facchino, an interesting story in itself.
Oh, the strange, almost ferocious intelligence of the Florentines!
What a pleasure it was to walk from the villa Mirenda, and take the tram in Scandicci to Florence! The handsome Tuscan girls with their glossy, neatly done hair in the tram I.. a chicken, sitting, tenderly held by its owner in a red hankie, its destiny either a sick friend or the mercato. Bottles of wine are hidden from the Dazio men, men friends embrace each other, somebody sees a relation and yells something about the 'pasta' for midday, and so on, while we sail gaily on for Florence. There we would rush to Orioli's shop, hear his news and all the news of our friends. We would each dash out and do our exciting shopping. Shopping in Florence was still fun, not the dreary large-store drudgery... There are the paper shops, leather shops, scent shops, stuffs; one glorious shop sells nothing but ribbons, velvet and silk, all colours and sizes, spotted and gold and silver. Another shop, all embroidery silks. Then to have your shoes made is so comfortable... the shoemaker feels your foot more important than the measuring. And then the '48'... what didn't we buy at the '48'!
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated) Page 1108
