20 September 1956
51 St. Albans Avenue
Bournemouth, Hants
To Freya Stark
My dear Freya,
How good to hear from you again. As usual I am bedevilled by women and babies and lack of money. I’m trying to get to France for a few months but I am saddled with Sapphy whole time at present and must take her too. Much as I enjoy her the strain of trying to write with a small child on one’s hands is v. great. I’m still waiting for news of a lodging near Paris where I can finish my Cyprus book: poor quality it will be I’m afraid and done at speed. How I would love to visit you—but alas! And of course I didn’t resent your letter. The Greeks are quite mad today. Politically they are parrots you know. Of course a lot of blame attaches to our original refusal to take the Cypriots seriously. But now it’s too late for parleys.
I’m living in dreadful confusion writing this on my knee and reading Sapphy Lewis Carroll as I go. Hence the dispersed and scrappy letter. I’ll write you at length from France.
Bless you and thank you.
Larry.
21 October 1956
Scone Cottage, Brookwater
Donhead St. Andrew,
Shaftesbury Dorset
To Freya Stark
My dear Freya,
I was just writing your name when your letter came—with its delightful invitation. How I wish I could accept it, but at the moment I am heavily encompassed by problems which can’t be easily solved unless I stay here for a few months. I should by now have been in France but my luck is at low ebb this year. Never mind, I have contracted to finish a book on Cyprus by Xmas and have been simply obliged to find a corner in which to do it. Hence this old thatched cottage near Salisbury, rented to me for a few months by a friend. Sapphy is with me, adorable as ever. A six year old is even more work than a baby in arms! And the questions. Daddy, what does God look like? Daddy, what is the moon? What is “a sake”? (For Jesus’ sake, Amen.) I am nearly driven wild by this cross-talk!
With any luck I shall be over the channel this Spring—and if S. is settled in London may venture down to Asolo for a week or so.
Good luck with the new book. Sapphy sends her love. She remembers the doll Lucia very clearly.
Love,
Larry Durrell.
[1952]
Villa Louis, Sommières
Gard, France
To Alan and Ella Thomas
Dear Alan & Ella,
I’m writing a short note in round robin form to give you our news. We are still camping in this villa trying to clean it up. It is still cold and windy up on this hill behind the medieval castle. We went first to Nice and Cannes but found them awfully like English seaside resorts and heavily geared to Tourism, not very nice; so we worked back to Marseilles, Toulon, and round the horn to Aries, Montpellier, Perpignan. All this bit is flat alluvial marshy with some pretty villages on the coast but again full of tourist shacks and villas. The odd thing is that three miles inland everything is deserted and ancient and quite quiet. We thought the best thing would be to find a place on a big river for summer quiet and bathing. This is a medieval town with a river flowing right through it; very pretty. The valley is vine-planted away to every horizon and is going to be delightful in a month. It has a single line railway to the biggest of the nearby towns, Nîmes, which is full of Roman ruins and where the Spaniards come to give bullfights every year. The villa we have taken provisionally for six months with a view to looking round the country; it is solid and modern but without internal water and lavatory so we are more or less camping for the moment. But in every direction there are small villages with houses for sale at between two to six hundred—huge rambling peasant houses built over curved doorways and immense stables. The rooms are twice the size of Margaret’s drawing room and very high. Palaces in fact, though without any sanitation and water except wells. But with electric light.… It would be wonderful to settle here if possible and try to nab a rambling old house full of odd shaped rooms. We shall see.
SOMMIÈRES, FRANCE
(water colour)
Love.
Larry
[1957]
Villa Louis, Sommières
Gard, France
To Sir Walter Smart
My dear Sir Walter,
… We have been here since February only; we had one week of teasing north wind and some rainy spots, but really marvellous weather since. And here on this river it smells good and healthy, better than Cyprus; not quite as douce as Rhodes. We don’t fear heat ourselves if it’s dry. The damp in Egypt and Cyprus got me down terribly, not the temperatures. I should think from a winter look along the littoral that summer was dank and marshy there, but inland not so. The part I haven’t examined is the Hyères side of Marseilles. You see we have been careless and rather poor, travelling by village bus, and tied by one serious consideration. If we went broke Claude who is French, and unbelievably resourceful for an Alexandrian, was prepared to work until I straightened out the boat. We had to be near a possible work-point, so we chose midway between Nîmes and Montpellier; tho I must admit I have seen nothing prettier than Sommières, and the river will offer us all the bathing we need. The most likely seaport we found (bearing our preoccupations in mind) was Sette, but as a free port it is already being exploited though I imagine that you could get a reasonable villa for twelve hundred there still. If you go to look at it call on a delightful estate agent we know and he will give you the form. M. De Brunel.
But while we were thinking of this year we were also keeping eyes open for the chance perhaps of buying, and now have the technique. All around here in the smaller villages there are enormous barn-like wonderfully solid peasant houses going. We have looked at two in the next village—Auchargues. They were shapeless and rambling and HUGE; water and light. But I think would cost between six and eight hundred to turn into the lovely houses they could be. No plan, no design, no doors in the right place etc. Marvellous high-ceilinged rooms with beams—grenier, écurie and God knows what else. They were four hundred each. Position not good I thought; but the man who showed them to us, a local lawyer called Negre, said he could find us dozens like that in almost every village. Of course had we had a car we could have ventured further afield—or money for that matter. In Nîmes there is a charming estate agent too who turned us up slightly more expensive ones with water laid on and light—his cheapest was one which, owing to other problems, we did not get round to seeing—at St. Bonnet. It was five hundred. I gather that the technique is to call at the Mairie in a promising village. They not only rent but sell houses of owners who die without heirs—seems quite a lot of people do. And this also goes for apartments, lodgings etc. We tried this out of curiosity in Sette and turned up two possible flats at 15 pounds a month in one afternoon. As to weather: I don’t know. It seems absolutely lovely country and I can’t believe the mistral is worse than the khamseen—but I have no direct experiences of it yet. I’ll ask Richard Aldington about it next week; he lives in Montpellier and has been years down here. I suppose all river mouth deltas are windy and unpredictable—
Of course no lavatories and salle d’eau a rarity. Even in this lovely villa we wash from a bucket and crouch among the vines à la Grecque. If my money affairs straighten out (hollow laughter) I aim to put one in. Is there any chance of you coming this way? Remember that we could put you up for a couple of nights but I’m afraid it would be Albanian fashion, washing in a bucket and trotting about in the undergrowth with a shovel! But a pleasant room and two little beds. It might fit in if you were doing a fighter sweep over this area. Do you know Aldington? He might be of use?
Love to you both
Larry
Later in May we’ll have children here alas so I’m trying to get this book finished as soon as possible.
[Postmarked 4 April 1957]
Villa Louis, Sommières
Gard, France
To Ella and Alan G. Thomas
My dear Alan and Ella,
/> … yesterday we went down to Montpellier to visit Richard Aldington. He is in a very bad state, sixty-five, and I think in bad shape owing to the terrible state of affairs arising out of his Lawrence book. He has pulled the whole house down about his ears and is virtually under a boycott. His sales have stopped abruptly; publishers and editors won’t print him—even letters to the press. Worst of all he seems to have undermined the readership which has been supporting him all these years at a single blow. It is no joke for a man of sixty-five, and he’s now under medical supervision for the usual writer s surmenage intellectuel etc., sodium amytal and so on. But it is clearly the moral effect of having ruined his whole career—even in the USA where his biggest public was. The demon of TEL has risen from the grave. I’m terribly sorry for him, although you know what I feel about the Lawrence book; but it has killed ALL his books stone dead, and publishers won’t put them back into print—a really frightful position for a man living by his pen and with a charming sixteen year old daughter to support; and in poor physical shape. I am doing what I can to help and have reviewed his Mistral book for the New Statesman, but with sinking heart—because what he has done can’t I think be repaired by a dozen good puffs. He has to win back his readership, write his way out of this mess, and I don’t feel that at the moment he has it in him. Would you ask Bill Woods when next you see him whether a film scenario—say a French or ancient Greek love-story under his name would appeal to anyone? Claude thinks the only hope—he obviously can’t write six more novels—is a film in the standard romantic Aldington style. But I know nothing about the market. Ask Bill, will you. The poor chap is sadly down and eager to grasp at any way of restoring his position; pity, he was a good scholar and in his robust slashing style a readable novelist. I am tackling several other people about him, but you see it’s not easy—as apart from the fury of Lawrentians every where the bloody public he had has been ruined. However I must do whatever I can.
Claude has finished her second novel and started her third; I must say it’s rather good, the second; and writing prevents her from talking too much. Which is healthy. I have no word from Gerry about the gorilla nuptials as yet; I fear that one of the party may get raped if they get too close with their camera. I hope it isn’t Jacquie or the secretary.…
Much love
Larry.
[1957]
Villa Louis, Sommières
Gard, France.
To Richard Aldington
Dear Aldington
I’m so glad the little thing passed muster. I hope they’ll carry it to tell a few people what a delightful book it is, and specially visitors to Provence. I have enjoyed it. We are getting on quite well—villa is nice but no bath and no lavatory—we have showers from a watering-can (weather somewhat cold for this): as for lavatory, I am of course a firm supporter of the Old English Humus group (Massingham) and believe in giving mother nature back as good as I get but—It remains to see how long the vines stand up to this Rupert Brooke treatment (“Corner of a foreign field which is forever England”). We are now having a marvellous correspondence with an earth closet specialist in Aries. Sommières is terribly funny—strongly touched by the spirit of Raimu and Fernandel; I can see a pancake novel forming in Claude’s mind on the pattern of Clochemerle with the Vidolade as the high spot. The flood stories are really a scream; we have collected hundreds of first person singular accounts. I do wish I had a tape recorder.
I am now trying to get the Treasury to baptize me “resident abroad” and the French to accept the idea; I know nothing about Income Tax etc. here. We have seen a number of lovely peasant houses for three and four hundred pounds and perhaps next year we might buy one and make it over; but conflicting ideas beset us. We might go seriously broke in which case Claude, who is a tremendous speed-everything-executive girl, would get a job in the nearest big town; so we should have to be within commuter’s distance of one. The seashore I begin to fear is out—and Perpignan way would be too far if C had to find a job in Toulouse. The best combination would be a house about five miles from Nîmes or Avignon on a swimmable river. (My daughter and Claude’s two will want to come out this summer—perhaps both my daughters: the elder by the way is nearly as old as yours and is on the way to becoming a ballet dancer.) Well, all these little beasts will have to be lodged and fed for the summer holidays—
VILLA LOUIS, SOMMIÈRES, LANCUEDOC, FRANCE
(water colour)
I mustn’t bore you with these problems. I never met Lewis alas; but of course he is great. Only with the Ape I felt the personal pleasure of the pejorative made the book good satire but somehow not on a “universal” plane—don’t know how to say it. It sinks under the weight of its own spleen. Will it outlive its subjects? And I felt this immoral because I always felt Lewis to have a greater equipment than Joyce, and he should have spent his time making some art instead of complaining about the lack of it! What a tremendous proser! I suppose the cultivated meanness that you write about is a sort of childish hangover—what children do if they feel unloved; be naughty and get slapped—that at least is some sort of attention. I knew someone awfully like that. I was told the humiliation of going bald worried him terribly. Just as the “small man worry” was the central Lawrence problem (T. E.). His brother told me: “He could never forgive himself for being tiny.”
Yours
Lawrence Durrell.
[May 1 1957]
Villa Louis, Sommières
Gard, France
To Alan G. Thomas
My dear Alan,
Thanks for a delightful letter full of good sense and good anecdote. Today is Labour Day dear fellow Marxist, and consequently an appropriate day for me to address an epistle to you. In France the Catholic Church, which in some curious way entirely missed Marxism as a potent form of absolutism which it could have used, is setting out to remedy the defect. For days the press has been full of exhortation to bring your tools, all ye who are heavy laden, and we will get them blessed. Consequently today there is going to be a regular turn out of tools, better I imagine than a flower show. The French peasant has a deep and reverent respect for his tool—as who hasn’t? Consequently he will not be slow to respond to the Church’s appeal. Incidentally the only reason for the French affection for Churchill is the pregnant phrase “Give us the tools and we will finish the job,” almost the only thing the great man said which translates directly into French without a circumflex, and which stirs the French heart to the echo. As for tools, in principle I have advised Claude to stay indoors after the blessing service as there is no tool like an old tool … And so fellow Marxist I take my leave of you.…
Roy Campbell dead! It sounds so silly. What a loss to us the old carbonaro and mischief banger. They won’t have no more joy of Roy in heaven—first thing he’ll do is to write an unpardonable epigram on the Holy Ghost and break up a prayer meeting; and what’s more he’ll eat garlic all the time to the intense annoyance of the angels who are all Maltese British subjects.
I am now on the last three or four pages of Justine II, which may not be as bad as one always fears; at any rate the form is really original—the same book written from a different point of view. By Xmas either I have the centre panel done (a straight novel) or I’ll be in a home or both.
Have you come across Zen and the Art of Archery? You ought to have a look at it.
Love to you both
Larry
[Received 3 July 1957]
Sommières, Gard, France
To Alan G. Thomas
Dear Alan,
… Claude left for England last night and doubtless you will have seen her before you get this; you can tell her I miss her. She warned me I would but I didn’t believe. Anyway I have been much consoled by seeing Lady Chatterley in French at the open air cinema—Avis Important: ce film ne recherche pas le scandale mais il traite d’un sujet délicat. But it is curious how they have rationalized the whole thing. Stripped of its highly pressurized prose it goes something like this: Autr
efois il y avait un certain bonhomme Chatterley qui se trouvait dans une situation affreuse. Il manquait des cuillons, le pauvre. Et sa pauvre femme a passé des jours entiers en se plaignant parce ce que—Eheu! Mais à la fin c’était beaucoup mieux parce ce qu’elle a trouvé un autre bonhomme qui en servait des couillons immenses, blafards, exfoliâtres etc. etc. The fat man’s cousin in front of me asked him: “Mais qu’est-ce qu’il a pour I’amour du del?” He told her once, but she didn’t get it; he told her twice, she was still puzzled. He told her thrice and she sat back with pleased amazement sucking a sweet—Ah! She understood! He had no balls! Down here in Sommières one wouldn’t make such a song and dance about it—So long as French film-lovers look like greyhounds sickening for distemper everyone is happy.
I agree with you about the French; it is the disparity between their character and the character of France itself which is so strange. It is a masterpiece by a grumpy man. But they have a far higher regard for freedom than we have, complete disregard for “face,” and a profound sense of values. I think Claude is right in saying it is because there is still genuine unfeatherbedded peasantry and the values of ordinary life flow from them—in food and similar things. Here one does not feel so bitterly about the mob getting all the gravy—because they spend it unerringly on whatever makes the heart glad. You should see the old workmen spend their wages—the care with which they select a good bottle of champagne—champagne at 12 shillings—or even an ordinary rouge at a shilling. You should see them going over a counterful of cheeses with their horny fingers touching them like Menuhin does his Strad. The intellectuals here are really outside ordinary life—nobody looks to them for physical values, only spiritual. It is taken for granted that nobody will do anything to seriously impair the quality of Camembert. That will go on. The rest is ideas—and they don’t care where the ideas go if they don’t get into the wine. Of course the motor-bike and telly barber-shop moronic world is catching up here—but very slowly; and somehow when any lout on a motor-bike can discuss wine and cheese in broken tones with tears streaming down his cheeks you feel less sad about the motor-bike. In England you feel everything is a cult, life itself is a sort of ritualistic cult, sex a fertility rite etc. One is conscious of the tabu. And much as I deplore the lack of lavatory sense here I’m convinced that their healthy attitude to ordure is the basis of their psychic balance; the balance in sex relations too. It’s good to get men and women using the same lavatory, getting used to the smelliest part of each other; it keeps the crops in perspective. Then there are two other things unique of their kind—the reverence for love and the devotion to artists. There isn’t anyone who doesn’t gaze admiringly at you if you say you are a painter or poet; even those who can’t read. I think these outweigh the bad qualities in a final judgement. I can’t think of another nation quite like them at their best. Anyway, this suits me fine; and ask Claude to tell you about income tax etc. It is damn civilized the way they go about things.
Spirit of Place: Letters and Essays on Travel Page 15