LITMIR.BIZ

      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

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