American Express
Rue Scribe
Paris, France

March 11, 1948

Dear Alice,

The above addres doesn't quite mean that I'm already in Paris, but it does mean that I'm leaving Rome soon and shall be arriving in Paris shortly.

The other day I had a short, sad note from Will Richards
telling me of the illness of his mother and of his immediate de-
parture for the States. My wife's sister died last year of cancer
on the lungs and it was very short. I hope Will gets to his mother
in time. He said she wasn't expected to live more than a year, but
I wonder whether it will be that long. He said you were so kind
and sympathetic when he went to say good bye to you.

Will says that he left my Marché aux Puces picture with you.
I'll take it off your hands directly I arrive in Paris. Though
what in heaven's name I shall do with it, I cannot say. Perhaps,
now that the franc has been devaluated, I shall think it worth
the expense to ship it to New Orleans. When I looked into the
matter before I discovered it would cost me more than twice what I
paid for it to ship it home.

My wife left for New Orleans a week ago Sunday and so I am
all alone again. Baudelaire got off to Harpers in January and
they have pronounced themselves delighted with it. Now if they
will prove their enthusiasm with a good advertising campaign, I
shall take them more seriously next time.

So now I've got my mind made up to do Santa Teresa de Jesús
and am off for Avila via Paris if the Spanish Consulate will give
me a visa. The American Embassy here has kindly agreed to request
it for me and so I'm daring to hope that they will let an American
into Spain - even an American writer, of whom Franco is said to be
afraid - not I, all American writers.

I haven't known really how long I was going to stay in Rome.
That is I haven't known since the date I got your letter. So I
haven't dared to say, yes, thank you, I'd love a copy of FOUR IN
AMERICA. Perhaps while I'm in Paris I could see a copy and then
order it for my wife in New Orleans. Then we'd have a copy at home
where it wouldn't get lost. I'm very much interested to see what
Gertrude said about Henry James in particular.

I can't say my feeling of irritation at the French has en-
tirely subsided, but I'm looking forward so much to seeing you again
that I find I'm rather inclined to think there aren't any French
in Paris. As soon as I'm "sistemato" in a hotel or somewhere, I'll
call you.

Much love,

1137 Chartres Street
New Orleans, La.

June 2, 1948

Dear Alice,

Last Spring, after quite some discussion with Harpers, I decided against St. Theresa for the time being and, instead of going to Spain, have returned to New Orleans to do a local courtyard book. I don't mean a book about the New Orleans patios, but one which takes place in one. So I didn't go to France on my way to Spain. I got as far toward Spain as having a Spanish visa and a fistful of letters for people there. Another reason I lost interest in going to Spain was that the American State Department got interested in seeing that I had no difficulty about a visa and I found myself on the way to being a sort of unofficial messenger of good will. To me that meant that I would certainly have a little man on my tail all the time I was in Spain because certainly the Spaniards would conclude I was a spy. I didn't care to have future visits to Spain compromised by seeming to be in the pay of the State Department. Nothing could be less official that my presence in New Orleans.

I've been back a little over a month. After leaving Rome I travelled about Italy a bit and then took the world's slowest boat practically to my own front door. It wasn't an unpleasant crossing by any means, but it was very long. My wife had left Italy about a month and a half before I had and everything was organized on this end. A most pleasant home coming. I don't remember having gone westward on the Atlantic so light-heartedly before.

Will Richards wrote me just before I left Rome that his mother was ill in Mississippi and not expected to live for more than a year. He said you were most sympathetic and understanding when he came to say good bye. He wrote me also that he had deposited chez vous a picture I bought one Sunday at the Marche aux Puces. I'm sorry you've been burdened with it. If you know some shipper who will take it off your hands and send it to me here, I will send you the receipt I got when I paid for it. I think they like to know how much it was and that it is not a part of the national treasure, as this picture certainly isn't. If this can be done without inconvenience to you, will you let me know how much the shipper proposes to charge and I will send you a check for that amount. Or if all this bores you horribly, do pitch the thing out and let the sanitation department worry about its disposal.

Do you know a young man called Simon Michael Bessie. He seems to be a great admirer of yours but I cannot discover, at least I have not done so, whether he knows you personally or not. I ask you this because he is my editor at Harpers and means to send you a copy of the book on Baudelaire for pre-publication comment, I think. I am not sure about this last. I said you must have a copy of the book and so it will come to you in some form. If it isn't a bound copy, I'll send you one properly inscribed a little later. They're bringing it out in August. When I realize I signed the contract for it last May (a year ago) and that, though it's a long book, it's already in print, I feel that it's all gone very rapidly and I wonder how it should have been instead of the way it is. Tant pis!

Has Mr. Richards' book about Gertrude come out yet? The local
book stores do not seem to know. I want to get it as soon as it ap-
pears. Also I'm getting Four In America and am looking forward to
reading it.

Are things better in Paris than they were last summer? I hear
the exchange is much better and that there is an open market on cur-
rency. I was saying last night to a young Frenchman who turned up
here that the French are trying too hard for civic virtue and that
they haven't the wit for it or the strength. The eighteenth century
was definitely their last time for being really French and I do not
think there is much use in their trying to be modern. The Balmain
show you so kindly took me to last summer was the only thing that
seemed at all alive. The pale young man who was with Berard that day
was in the train I took to Italy. We frowned at each other.

The Kazans did not go to Paris because there was the railroad
strike just at that time and so they sailed from Naples. My niece,
my wife's niece, to be exact, is in Europe now with a young woman called
Jane Griffin who has an agency for schools in Europe. She is acting
as a sort of chaperon for young Barbara Smith (our niece). I think
it not unlikely that Barbara will write you a note about coming to
see you. In August a young (not so very) Orleanian is coming over
and he would like to come and see you too. I know you like new faces
and can stand nearly anyone once. Did you ever see young Chanlis
again? I wrote to him in Paris but have not heard from him.

I'm quite excited about beginning the new book which is to be
called THE MAN WHO CARVED WOMEN FROM WOOD. I expect to start next
Monday morning at seven o'clock like an honest workman. And I wonder
what Harpers will say when they see the finished product. By the way,
I don't love the Baudelaire. To me it's terribly prosy in spots but
I do think it's true as a picture of Baudelaire.

Let me say again how nice it was seeing you frequently last
summer. I often think of those delightful summer lunches and of
you in your apartment. As you know I had never seen either you or
Gertrude at home before and I remember my first impression of you
the first evening I came to see you. Mr. Richards was there and
Basket barked at me furiously, as he never ceased to do. You wel-
comed me with great kindness and were unceasingly kind afterwards.
I certainly hope to return to Paris soon so that I can see you
many times again.

Will you remember me to Monsieur Schwab when you see him again?
If the Baudelaire comes to his attention one day, I hope he will
remember that when I said bad things about the French, I was echoing
Baudelaire's own feelings. Though it's true I was irritated by the
French last summer, I'm sure I could never learn to hate them as
Baudelaire did. I do hope you will give him a little paragraph on
this. I'm anxious to know what you think of the way I've done Jeanne
Duval in the book. Everyone's always said she helped destroy Baudelaire.
It must have been the other way round.

Do let me hear from you and be well.

Love,

4 Via Giovanni Sgambati

Rome, Italy

June 6, 1949

Dear Alice,

Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! Last year I became very discouraged about writing letters but this year my friends have indignantly persuaded me that I must mend my ways and I am trying. Yes, of course, I got your nice long letter and to this day know it by heart. And at least one each week I've been tempted to write to you but this dreadful epistolary lethargy, from which I've recently been jolted, has kept me from doing something about it. I acknowledge that I've been unpardonable but hope you will pardon me just the same.

Mike Bessie expects bound copies of my new book very soon and will send you one at once. It's dedicated to Gertrude and there's a little story about that. The dedication originally read: "To Gertrude Stein who knew and said that novels are true." Since the scene of the book is the place where I live in New Orleans, we had to take galleys to Harpers' libel lawyer to see that everything was all right. I answered many questions and it was established that no one in the book was taken from a living model. But then the lawyer said, "You've got to change that dedication. Do you know what you've done?" I said I didn't have any idea. So the lawyer said, "You've not only failed to say that any resemblance between the charters of this book and any persons living or dead is purely coincidental and accidental, you've gone out of your way to say it's all perfectly true." Mike Bessie and I hit the ceiling and said Gertrude's words meant just the contrary and were certainly not a matter of opinion. Laywer Zavin said flatly, "That's not what a jury would think. To a jury you've said this book is true. Take out the dedication." So meekly I've just said, "To Gertrude Stein." I think it's much the best book I've done and it's the first one I thought would really please Gertrude. I hope it pleases you.

A nice young couple called Leggett are about to descend on Paris and would like very much to see you. Remembering that you had said I might send you new faces, I've made bold to suggest to them that they write you a note when they get to Paris which will be about June 15th. He's doing some writing but I don't know that he will ever do anything very exciting but I do think he's going to be one of these pleasant people who know everyone and whom everyone likes. His wife is a charming fresh girl who was certainly born to be a wife.

Speaking of wives, I expect I should bring you up to date on my own marital affairs which are certainly not interesting to anyone but me but which, I expect, should be known about in the same casual way one realizes that this is Monday instead of some other day. My wife and I separated last July and, since I was working on the new book (which, by the way, is called THE MAN WHO CARVED WOMEN FROM WOOD) I refused to budge from the New Orleans place and so my wife budged off to New York and that is that. We were both very satisfied with the change.

I've been in Rome about a month, or rather three weeks. It's wonderful still this year and I am glad it is not Paris. I was must amazed to learn that things had finally got so bad in France that you were beginning to feel like crossing frontiers. A ce point c'est

grave. Does Italy tempt you this summer? I think it might seem a
little to you as it did many years ago. The Italians look a little
different but not Italy. I'm over to do a book on Venice in the
18th Century. Of course that's not the good century and they'd got
a little lacy and foamy by then but I think I can do a Tiepolo on
paper - at least, that's what I want to try for. I've said I won't
take any more known people and put them into books but I still like
to evoke times gone by when people were, of course, just as they are
now but when it showed a little more.

By the way, I read the Rodgers' book on Gertrude and was
more than a little shocked. It seems to me he hadn't understood a
word of what Gertrude was about. That's admissible I suppose but
then it should have been a book of mistaken devotion, or rather,
devotion for the wrong reasons. It was a very thin broth and probably
being a newspaper man has made him see things not with his own eyes
but as they look to the hurried passerby. Much as the subject fascin-
ates me, I couldn't finish the book. I don't feel though that it was
a deliberate betrayal, even though he may have wilfully altered facts.
I merely think he's been corrupted by the very thing Gertrude always
warned against, a sense of audience.

I expect to go to Venice about the 1st of July and don't yet
know where I shall be staying while there. I'm rather thinking of
holing up in Siena for the winter to do the new book and shan't, in
all probability, be coming to Paris, though Jenny Bradley's got some
money there for me that I have to spend in France. I'll certainly
turn up eventually.

Though I certainly haven't earned an early reply, I do hope to
hear from you soon.

Loye,

P.S. I much enjoyed the picture side of your card too. It is the
Pamplona bull run isn't it?