William Carlos Williams, Passport photo, 1921
In 1927, William Carlos Williams and his wife, Florence, traveled to Europe, and enrolled their sons in a Swiss boarding school. Florence stayed on in Europe for an additional year (to be close to the boys), while Williams returned to America, resuming his medical practice. Joining Williams on his transatlantic journey (the setting of the below letters) was Sylvia Beach.
Morning, September 25, 1927, On Board S.S. Pennland
Dearest Monkey:
It’s a fine Sunday morning. The weather is just about as it was on the way over, the sea is fairly smooth and the air cool.
Just before breakfast I was surprised to see land, a tall lighthouse off to the north and a row of cliffs east of it. I don’t know which light it was.
The crowd on board is not bad, plenty of room for everyone. I am sitting between Miss Beach and a woman from the Canal Zone but originally from Kentucky, a woman of about my own age.
Most of the crowd seems Southern.
The old ship is pitching a bit but it rolls almost not at all—not yet at any rate.
I slept like a log from 9:30 last evening until 7 A.M. I was tired but today things have quieted down inside me and tho I think of my Bunny in Geneva it is not with that feeling of loss within me that we knew in Paris. I am eager to be on my way to be doing work and to be getting forward with the time when I shall see you again. Everything is forward now. The thought that I am leaving you physically behind has lost its force. Next summer will come faster only by my going west now.
There is a very cute little bellboy on this ship. He is English and about Paul’s age. He has the sunniest face and the quickest, readiest smile you ever saw. He seems just busting with pride at his brass buttons. Gosh! I didn’t think they let them out of school that young. It seems very sensible in a way. He looks so business-like and happy. I liked your hat. I wish I could have seen the dress. Take pictures as you promised and send them to me.
There is something else I wanted to tell you but it’s gone.
I’m crazy, more or less, to get at my writing again. This year I’m going at it differently than usual. I’ll write something every day but I’ll keep five or six things going at once. I’ll use carbon paper more than formerly and send you everything.
Oh yes, please write to Elliot Paul or Sylvia in about two weeks, or when this letter reaches you, and tell whichever one you write to that you want to get hold of my novel as soon as they are through with it. It isn’t so very important even if it is lost be but we might as well not be careless about the MSS.
You can picture me at table [sic] facing the very same menus we had coming over. I’m eating lightly though this time and watching my digestion. I weigh 165 lbs., a little heavy but not too heavy after all.
There is a gym on this boat.
My cabin is small and an inside one but the bed is comfortable, that’s all I care. [sic]
I have enough reading matter to last me for a trip around the world.
Now my mind is beginning to turn back to my practice a little. I begin to wonder if I’ll remember how to feed the little brats and what trouble has piled up for me.
I’m down to my last twenty dollars.
It was very thoughtful of you to make out my bills before leaving.
I forgot to buy a beret. Get me one. I wear a 7 1/8 hat.
Well, the old ocean trip has started anyway.
I think of you all the time and see you in definite scenes walking about the hotel, going out to Coppet and sitting on the benches on the Isle Rousseau. Isn’t the lake water marvelous. [sic]
An ocean of love
Yours,
Bill
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2 P.M., September 25, 1927, On Board S.S. Pennland
Dearest Bunny:
I probably shan’t keep up this pace of writing but I feel like it now, so I’m just going to give in.
It’s a glorious day outside. We’re south of Ireland and running into the face of a strong blow, but the sun is brilliant and the spray from the small waves is like a shower of white flowers. That sounds poetic and so the sea is always to me.
I’ve been out to the stern watching the rise and fall of the ship. She is a slow old tub, heavier than the Arabic in all her motions. But sometimes we like ‘em a little bit slow don’t we?
As I stood out there I was thinking and wanted to talk to you. Therefore this letter.
I was thinking that we are doing just what we want to do. And so it is good. We have broken up that staleness of schooling and experience which the boys had gotten into. It is a bad thing. We recognized it as bad, for them and for us, and so we did what we did. I am glad. It gives me a right feeling. The risks had to be faced or we should all have been less than we are.
Doing what we know we should do for the boys, who depend wholly on us to have a fair beginning to their young lives, we get some of the good we give them shed back on us.
We’ve got to go on of course and so this year we’ll be thinking what to do next. Whether to keep the boys in Europe another year, whether to keep them next summer at a French camp in summer and then come home—whatever it may be.
The thing is that we have ended a period as you say and now we are going on. It is good, I add. That’s what I was thinking and that is must makes us happy and thoughtful. You can do as much as I. Though I’ll be in America, I’ll be leaning on you for this and you on me—so we will be together in that, bless you.
Now I’m going to read some more.
Quite a few people are ill in spite of the weather.
Miss Beach took her cats into her cabin before dinner. The biggest one got scared and somehow got under her bunk and up between the woodwork and the walls. He wouldn’t come down, so they had to call the butcher, who has charge of such things, to go after him. They finally succeeded after much effort. She told me a good little story at lunch about an Englishman who upon seeing the Statue of Liberty on leaving New York: “Yes, in England we too raise monuments to our distinguished dead!”—Not bad, is it?
In spite of my resolve not to drink wine I have had to do so, since Miss Beach loves her’s [sic] and insists on my joining her.
Maybe in another hour I’ll write again.
Goodbye,
Bill
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