Under the Sun (55 page)

I'm sending a post-card to College Street, in case by any chance, you've left by the time this arrives. Our contacts are c/o the above: and there is an emergency phone no. 21161 Jodhpur for messages. Manvendra Singh speaks perfect English, as does his wife, who is usually there. There are times, though, when only the servants are in the house. A cable, in a garbled form, gets through, because we've tried it . . . I don't intend to budge until I see my way through towards the downhill slopes. If it gets too hot here, I'll take, as they always did, to the hills . . .

The peacocks are honking and the cymbals sounding in the Krishna Temple . . .

Much love XXXX

B

PS E. tried calling you from Delhi but was told the number was unavailable.

c/o Manvendra Singh | The Fort | Rohet | Jodhpur | India | 1 February 1986

 

Dearest Deb,

Who was it made the witticism ‘Any letter answers itself after six weeks'? . . . I'm completely out of touch, which is, as you know, the way I like to be.

I wouldn't mind going to Prague for my next effort (something quite small).

c/o Manvendra Singh | The Fort | Rohet | Jodhpur | India | 9 February 1986

 

Dearest Murray and Margaret,

Well, I have to say the Fort is a real piece of luck. We couldn't be happier here. There is just enough going on, either in the courtyard or by the lake, to arouse one's interest, and not too much to distract me. I have had the devil of a time, though, shaking off that cold – but it does now appear to be on the wane. E. is off to Bombay to see her friends for a week: but I refuse to budge. It is ironic that this book of mine, which is a passionate defence of wandering, as opposed to sedentary habits, should involve its author in a more or less limpet-like existence. The squirrels have got so tame that they crawl up on our chairs.

I feel so juvenile compared to these Indians. Manvendra Singh is one year older than me, almost to the day, yet he represents the male world of my father: in his absolute fairness and tireless, unostentatious work for others. It would also be ironic if India were the last refuge of ‘the gentleman'.

I have to say I did enjoy the Gadda. I'm not sure if it'll reach you with or without this letter. E. is posting a lot of things back to England by sea-mail, and she's going to see, whether it's not too exorbitant, whether she'll send it by air.

I don't know what it was about
The Awful Mess
. . . that made me like it so: even the sawn off ending I felt was right. If it had been written by, say, Nabokov, I wouldn't have endured the literary facetiousness for two seconds. But this one I felt comes off.

As for my own ‘Awful Mess' I've now got to the critical stage in which there is a sudden shift from Australia, in order to answer Pascal's assertion about the man sitting quietly in a room.
⁷³¹
If it comes off, then I'm on the downward stretch. If not, then there's a real crisis.

And as for plans, my aim is to get the whole book checked and edited, and then make a flying visit to Oz to check the language. It is strange how elusive ‘it' is as a written language, and how very different, in the subtlest ways, it is from English spoken in England.

I must stop, I'm afraid, because we have to go to the post-master for a tea-party: a 20-year old bachelor desperately in search of a fair foreign wife who is perpetually badgering us to swap our clothes for his, our watch for his, our pen, our radio . . . etc then she's off to spend the night in town before taking the plane tomorrow morning.

I wasn't really on best form on our little jaunt a. because of my cold b. the uncertainty of what I was doing. E. and I have the idea of moving here for 3 months every year. She sends all her love, and mine.

Bruce

c/o Manvendra Singh | Rohet House | Jodhpur | India | February 15 [1986]

 

Dearest Diana,

. . . I have been working like an express-train: I wouldn't say it is over yet: but what I have done is to compress all my material out of the files, notebooks, card-indexes (where it has been accumulating for 20 years) and have got it – nearly all – in the folder. Almost all the ‘Australian' part of the book is done: so it remains – and this is the hardest part – to weave in the outside stuff. More and more, I've been making the discovery that I can only concentrate if completely taken out of my surroundings. But this wandering uncertainty can't go on: it wastes so much time for one thing: so when I come back, I'm to sell the flat and look for a bolt-hole, somewhere in the Mediterranean, to work in: a place where I can lock the door and go in at any time of year. Easier said than done! I have a feeling that the fatal thing is to go for somewhere ‘unspoiled ' – as if one isn't a spoiler oneself – because it takes so much money and emotional effort keeping it unspoiled. I wonder whether those mountain villages in Majorca might not be bad . . . Not that I've ever been there! but I might go and have a look.

I've never felt more out of touch: not the least because Elizabeth insisted on having 3 months' worth of our post sent air mail to Nepal – despite the fact I told her not to – including cheques from American publishers, magazines and God know what else, and the whole lot's gone missing: apparently all foreign businesses there send all their mail by courier. So that may be that! A letter from my mother got through with a very good review of Emma [Tennant]'s book,
⁷³²
plus a profile [in the
Times
] by Nick Shakespeare: otherwise zero. I am reading, properly for the first time, Proust.
⁷³³
Just shows you where things have got to! E. goes visiting the village ladies, learns Hindi from the Brahmin school-teacher, and I've not seen her happier or more cheerful in 20 years (the time we've been married!) I think even she is coming round to the fact that those houses, and that particular way of life, are as bad for her as for me.

A post card takes about 5 days to reach here – and a trickle has already started. E has gone to Bombay to see friends for a week. Tomorrow begins the big push forward (with the book) – I hope! – so the evening I've taken off to write letters.

Love to Francis, George, Tom and Candy –

and, of course you xxx B

c/o Manvendra Singh | Rohet House | Jodhpur | India | 17 February 1986

 

Dear KAZ,

(
Kaz
– Turkic verbal root meaning ‘to nomadise ' or ‘travel': hence – Kazakh Cossack etc).

But what terrible news of G.
⁷³⁴
I'll write to them next, but Lord knows it's difficult enough when you can't assess the situation. My own view – and you should pass it on if – and only if – you think it would be helpful, is that they should give up going to New York. Whenever I've seen Grisha in America, he always looks fraught, fractious and ill. The whole business of getting into a plane, followed by that particular city, can, if you have a heart condition and a tendency to cancer, only be BAD. I was horrified by that whole ridiculous business of trooping round Middle America in search of Nabokov.
⁷³⁵
He should be in his study in Tuscany doing his own work: not playing to the American gallery, because ultimately his reputation in America is less important than anywhere. When the winter at Donnini gets too bad, then they should move into a hotel. There must be perfectly adequate doctors in Italy; or if not in Switzerland, to which he can go by car – but to be at the mercy of American medicine, however good it may
seem
to be, is a terrifying prospect.

Enough of that! I adore it here. Lunch yesterday, for example, consisted of a light little bustard curry, a puree of peas, another of aubergine and coriander, yoghurt, and a kind of wholemeal bread the size of a potato and baked in ashes. A sadhu with a knotted beard down to his kneecaps has occupied the shrine a stone's throw from my balcony; and after a few puffs of his
ganja
I found myself reciting, in Sanskrit,
⁷³⁶
some stanzas of the Bhagavad Gita.
⁷³⁷
I work away for eight hours at a stretch, go for cycle rides in the cool of the evening, and come back to Proust.

I envy you your talent for rug-dealing:
⁷³⁸
there's something in me that stops me doing likewise. I cannot explain what it is. But you will, I am sure, make far more money than you imagine with
Kaputt
.
⁷³⁹
I will, if you want, write a foreword.

But this peripatetic existence of mine must stop. I must have
mon bureau, mes fauteuils, mon jardin
(
pas des bêtes!
) (as Flaubert writes in a letter) – somewhere in a relatively good climate, which means the Mediterranean, and I must have it soon. God knows how I'll raise the cash, if it means the sale of my London flat + my art then
tant pis pour eux
! I have fallen, happily, on my feet here: but to be in the situation of Kathmandu just isn't on. I only like doing
my
work: not reviews, not articles, not commissions – and however eccentric or unsaleable it may get, I intend to go my own way. The latest development to ‘Australia' in which I take a world tour – and more! – is quite something! I've even squeezed in Luderitz!
⁷⁴⁰
XXX B

PS Maybe Uzès, too! Or Catalonia?

c/o Manvendra Singh | Rohet House | Jodhpur | India | 18 February 1986

 

My Dear Roberto,

Forgive the almost interminable silence. Things, as usual, got on top of me in England: and, as usual, I fled. First to China – where, in the remoter parts of, say, Yunnan, the world of Taoist gentleman-scholars, plant-hunters, poets, calligraphers – still very much exists.

I've had a terrible time with the ‘Australian' book: have torn up 3 successive drafts: only to find, borrowing a leaf from
La Rovina di Kasch
⁷⁴¹
that the only way is the ‘cut-up' method. Not that I can see the end – yet. But at least I
think
I know what I'm doing. You're the first person I want to show it to – as and if and when it's ready – even perhaps before. My friend Grisha von R[ezzori] has been horribly ill, heart-attacks and I don't know what, and I must come and see them. Possibly on the way back from here – end April, beginning May, but I'm not sure yet of the dates. Will you be there?

As always, Bruce

c/o Manvendra Singh | Rohet House | Jodhpur | India | 18 February 1986

 

Dearest Elisabeth,

Ay! Ay! News of Grisha – bad! I had a post card from our pal, Kasmin, who was with us in Nepal for Christmas and then flew straight to the bedside. Can't we/you/all persuade him
not
to go racketing around America. There must be proper doctors in Italy and there certainly are in Switzerland (to which he can go by car). He should stay in his study, in Donnini – or if Donnini gets too cold in winter, now that Southern Europe has its annual Scandinavian freeze, in a hotel. All that
Vanity-Vogue
life is
not
good for anyone's health, mental or physical.

News is that I've been beavering away for 2 months in a Rajput fort: overlooking a lake, flashing kingfishers, peacocks on roof, cool rooms with photos of maharajahs etc.. No comment on the book – except that, once again, it's unrecognisable. A third method now being tried – with, I think, greater success. We'll see.

I
may
appear in the U.S. for my favourite sister-in-law's
⁷⁴²
wedding mid-May. But not to N.Y. except for a second to see
you
only – if you're there. Can't tell yet, because I don't fancy leaving here without something to show for it. I've decided to
leave
England. As Richard Burton said: ‘The only country in which I do not feel at home.' E. is beginning to feel the same way: so we're going to look for a bolt hole: Has to be in Southern Europe. But nothing elaborate – like Donnini.

Don't bother to reply to this unless something crops up . . .

Much love,

Bruce

c/o Manvendra Singh | Rohet House | Jodhpur | India | [February 1986]

 

Monday 10am. 1 week after receiving yours.

Dear John,

What a nice, expansive letter! The first I have had in 3 months because Elizabeth, against my advice, insisted on having our mail sent AIR to Nepal, – and it has, all of it, failed to arrive: cheques for thousands of $, invitations, etc. – all, temporarily at least, gone.

First things first. The flat. I know you and I will not agree on the question of dead white. I suppose it's because I've lived at various times in the incomparably beautiful whitewashed houses of Greece and Andalucia that dead white walls, in England, always used to be just that: dead – because of the English light. I agree that the existing colour was too creamy: what I'd like is something the colour of milk (if there is such a thing) – and anyway it doesn't matter too much. I'm sure you're right: that the shower, all the minor repairs, and the painting should be done together – but what about hocking the books off the shelves – and the enormous labour of getting them back again? Elizabeth returns to England on March 15; and if the operations were to coincide with her arrival, she would make arrangements to have the books sent down to Homer End. If, on the other hand, the paint job could be done
around
then, I'd be a lot happier.

My only complaint vis-à-vis last time was that the venetian blinds were not sanded down, which made them a kind of dirt trap.