To George Sturgis
New York Hotel
Nice, France. April 20, 1923
Old age in my bones, or a very exceptional season, can alone account for the fact that, in winter clothes and often in an overcoat, I am still cold here very often. However, unmistakable signs of Spring, not to say summer, have appeared, the sun (when it shines) is dazzling and hot, and I walk daily up the delightful paths of the park into which the old castle grounds have been turned. There is abundance of water at the top (I don’t know how it gets there) which runs down in rivulets along the roads; and although these babbling brooks are only gutters, I find them very poetical, and babble poetry to them in response. The trees and flowers are also at their best, and I feel more secure in my health; and since my friend Strong left me (I suppose I told you he had come here for a week with his motor) I have begun to work again, and feel encouraged in that respect, as my vol. II is “getting together”.
I expect to return to Paris about the middle of May, and perhaps to go later to England for the end of the summer, but not for the winter, as I am afraid of relapsing into my dreadful bronchitis. Fortunately it doesn’t make much difference to me where I am, if disease and society allow me to philosophize in peace.
From The Letters of George Santayana: Book Three, 1921-1927. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2002.
Location of manuscript: The Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge MA.