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I did escape, some of me, you see. I wasn’t utterly drunk up by the sand of
the desert. But when you are there you do feel as if you might very easily
be drunk up. I may still go back for Julio4. He would be lovely at Mrs. Fields5’. A mimosa tree is nothing to him. But Mrs. Gardener6 would snap him up and take
him to Fenway Court7 and he
would like that better than my
apartment8. The only cloud on my joyful horizon at present is the
news that you are no better, or not much better. Oh I wish, I wish you were!
Perhaps, after all, Julio would have y done you more good than Tryon9. I wish I could simply say “yes”
about Paris10. But I fear I wont be
able to get away. But as to Provence11. I know you can work at Avignon12, and if the mistral blows there go
to Lavandou13. A tiny fishing down on
the Mediterranean about forty or fifty miles east of Hyères14—it may even be nearer15. Sea, fine woods, a good
hotel, nothing else. No cottages. It is on the coast road to Italy16, and motors may have made a
difference. The hotel may be more expensive now, but eight years ago it was
something less than nothing a day. Trust me, the place is
just
right for work. And I know you could work in
Avignon. The Rhone does put it into one; and the Rhone is your whole life at
Avignon–the Rhone and the sun. The place is at its best in September. Oh I
wish I were to be with you! But perhaps you can go to Madre Mejicana17 with me sometime. Julio has a funny
song about “Oh bright-eyed Mexico18,
Oh golden Mexico!” I went to a Mexican dance19 with Julio the night before I left Winslow20, at that was a dance. They have a curious pantomime waltz which a man
dances with two women. It is certainly the prettiest dance I’ve ever seen. I was the only “white” at the ball;
such wine and such dancing. How can I write you about Julio? He is without
beginning and without end, and there is no place to begin. He really was
like all the things in the Naples21 museum, and having him about was
like living in that civilization. He had a personal elegance of which I’ve
never known the like. You see I use the past tense; I did get away. I made a
sort of translation22 of one
of his songs which may give you some ideas of his music, except that it is
sultry and he is not at all sultry, anymore than lightning is. And aside
from ⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ his lightning aspects he is a
very cool and graceful young man who carries his great beauty as lightly as
one could ask. This serenade, he explained carefully, is to be sung only by
a “married lady”, but she may with perfect propriety sing it to either her
husband or lover.
I’m so glad to to hear of Mrs. Peattie23’s daughter24, and that she is happy. Her mother was so kind to
me long ago. Do let me hear more from you soon. I wish I could give you
Julio’s serenade in the Spanish, with the stars and the desert and the dead
Indian cities on the mesa behind it. The English is clumsy. But don’t mind the accent on “but”; they have a trick of
accenting unimportant words with the guitar and voice,—as if, after
all, the words were more to a mere
convention, and the undertow was as apt to break through at the wrong place
as the right.